Divinity by Meixia

When it's inevitable, and one knows it's inevitable, one complacently leaves it alone because it cannot be changed, deterred, or honey coated over to resemble something else. It's fate, and destiny, and all those blatantly life controlling words that people will fawn over if the outcome is good, or cringe over if things do not go according to plan.

Lex is kept in perpetual fear of his, of course. He'd seen someone die from merely glimpsing something in his future, something in his destiny that has an undoubtedly drastic effect to his world. Whatever it is, he is treading carefully now, even years after the event, after the first real hints of what his destiny is seeped through his consciousness, pooling like a slow burn in the pit of his stomach. It is always there, like peripheral vision, and if he examines it too closely, he'll loose his footing. He was never fond of loosing control, so naturally, he isn't fond of having his destiny pre-ordained. Though, if you ask him now, he'll tell you something quite different.

Because no matter how much Lex hates not being in control, he knows that there's nothing he can do about it. Clark, now, that was something he could've easily controlled, and yet somehow, by the skill of his deftly crafty hand, he still managed to screw that one up quite nicely. If your ex- best friend suddenly decides to don a cape and briefs outside of his tights, and comes after you like a bloodhound, you know you've fumbled badly somewhere along the line. But his destiny, however great it is, is nothing compared to the here and now.

Picture this: Superman, soaring above the smog polluted skies of Metropolis, while a young billionaire drinks a martini and watches from his balcony. The city below is in ruins, like much of what the known world that is still civilized is in, and something red and blue whisks to and fro trying to stop some new disaster from happening.

Lex has planted so many of the meteorites everywhere, scattered like crystals amongst shards of glass, the crumbling bricks of skyscrapers and in between cracks of cement, but he knows that they are too small to do much damage. But if Clark were to come anywhere near his building, Lex will see to it that they do great, irrevocable damage. Killing isn't as hard as it used to be.

When Superman drops by, the closest yet of ten yards, floating level with the balcony, Lex doesn't even bother to listen. It's always "Please stop this," and "Innocent people are suffering from the exposure, Lex!" but Lex Luthor was never one who had other peoples' interests in mind, at least not in a while. Besides, the rocks are God's great gift to man. They give the disabled strength and ability again, and the weak are made strong. Though sacrifices are made, and Lex has his prosthetic hand to prove it, there are always casualties when you're fighting a war.

Lex knows this, knows the feeling of anxiety crawling through his veins, the slow ache of familiarity whenever he sees green rocks in the earth, hidden by the soot and dirt and snatched up by grubby hands on the streets, hungry for their share of power. He can see everything from his balcony, and one day, when the sky is clear and the streets are clean, he will see Superman fall from the clouds.