"Red Museum"

*

Unkown to many but a select few, there is a long, gently-lit hall deep within the main center of Luthor Corp--one specially dedicated to the various Great Luthors of the past. Redundant, since... all Luthors are great, after all. Grandfather, great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather, and assorted cousins. Aunts, and uncles, and the many other relatives who sold their lives and souls to the vast mechanical body that encompassed all that is _family_.

Double row of paintings down a single curving hallway, hissing their dark whispers between themselves. The exit door is not viewable even from where he stands.

Lionel reaches out blindly, his nails digging into the fabric of his son's suit jacket. Double row of endless dower expressions, hawk noses, squinting eyes. Herein lies family. Herein lies blood and it's as dead as his wife.

He lets his hand drop and looks down at his son, bald scalp luminously white against the black of his clothing. Lex isn't quite 14 yet, but his bearing is already showing promise. His eyes are wide, fixed rigidly ahead as the workers struggle to lift the monsterous painting in place.

The artist hadn't been able to quite capture the color of her hair. Had turned it more brassy than vibrant, but it would do for now. Perhaps he will commission another.

Some other time.