This chapter revolves around the events of a subplot in the Teen Titans book, involving Superboy's genetic structure, and how Luthor plays into it. The chapter also contains semi-spoilers for some of DC's upcoming events, such as Villains United. It's all part of a larger grand scheme of mine to put this story into the larger coheseiveness of the DC Universe that's coming. Enjoy.
I remember. Something.
I'm Superboy, for Pete's sake. Not exactly the son of the World' Greatest Hero. More or less a weird aggregate (note to self, thank Bart for explaining what that means) of Superman and the snake to his mongoose: Lex Luthor. Or mongoose to his snake. Whatever.
How the hell does that happen? How does DNA from the Man of Steel get spliced in with Luthor's slime? Surely it had to be a glitch in the system. Right?
I remember…something. Breaking out. It was cold. Antiseptic. There was light everywhere around me, and strange men in white coats shuffling around the room, clipboards tucked under their arms. They didn't pay any attention to me: the one guy in the room who really should have demanded attention. Wouldn't you be staring at a naked me in a giant glass tank? Alright, unfair question.
I was hooked up to machinery. Machinery all around me, it was so new and…frightening. I didn't know what to make of it. So I freaked. Went, well, a little haywire and broke myself out. I hurt a lot of people doing it, but I got free. That's what matters. I got free, and I became Superboy. Even though Miss Lane wasn't so hot on the name.
The dream always begins the same. Naked me (eat your heart out ladies), breaking out of a giant water trap (eat your heart out Houdini) and escaping what I later found out to be Cadmus Labs. The glass shatters around me, and the water solution floods out of the tank, swamping the unsuspecting scientists.
Breaking out. Rummaging through one of the ditches outside Metropolis.
In my dreams, I feel a cold mechanical hand on my shoulder.
"Son," the grimly tenor voice says to me. "Come with me."
I look up, and beyond the smoke I see Lex Luthor, towering a good ten feet over me.
"You are my progeny," he says to me, like some snooty Harvard professor. I wrestle free of his grip. And start running. "You will be the namesake of my empire." His voice runs after me. I stop and turn back to him.
"What are you talking about, Mr. Clean?" I ask, using humor—like I always do—to cover my ass. But I always know what he's talking about. He might be more intelligent than a room full of chimps—which doesn't say much for him anyway—but he's still predictable.
I've got 50 percent of Luthor's genetic code inside me. The other half is Superman's. You'd think I'd be scared by that. I almost am. How do I balance the world's greatest hero with the world's greatest villain? Good question.
I went to Tim for answers. Tim Drake is Robin, the Boy Wonder. Third in line, actually. He's smart—for his age. One of the few people I can talk to about stuff outside of work.
But this Luthor thing…it transcends work. He's part of my freaking life. He's inside me. And I'm genuinely afraid that someday…the "Luthor" part of me is gonna explode and take some people with it. I don't want that to happen. So I went to Tim for…advice.
"How did you deal with it?"
"Deal with what?" He plays it off, like he always does.
"You hang around with Batman. You've got darkness around you 24/7, and that's putting it lightly. How do you do it? How do you get through the day without being afraid you're going to end up just like him?"
"I don't need to be afraid, Conner," Tim says in a half-patronizing voice. "I've got something working for me other than fear."
"Oh yeah?"
"Hope."
"Riiight," I say, skeptical at best.
"Like you said, I didn't become Robin to become Batman. That's not the life I want for myself. There's a reason I have the mask."
"Uh…"
"There's a person underneath it, Conner. I'm not just the Boy Wonder. I can't be. Not all the time. I need to have a life outside of the mask. If that makes sense…"
"It does."
"And there's a person inside you too, Conner. You might have Luthor's DNA, but that doesn't mean your hair's about to fall out and you go building suits of armor. You're your own man, Luthor be damned."
I remember. Friends. Tim was always the one I could take anything to, and he could always bring anything to me. Or so I thought the unspoken agreement went.
I was in San Francisco when the call came in. Boomerang had broken into the Drake's house.
"This is Oracle with a priority response—"
Whenever a priority reponse was issued, it usually meant something major was going down. And the list of parties called upon to deal with the issue oddly enough included the Titans. I didn't know why Oracle had decided to broadcast the call, but I guess I didn't need to. The audio feed came into the main chamber. Bart and I were on monitor duty that night as Jack Drake tried to explain himself to Oracle.
"Someone sent me a gun," Mr. Drake's voice rattles.
"Stay where you are, Mr. Drake. I'm calling him right now."
My eyes narrow and I listen closely. Sitting next to me, Bart's eyes shift back and forth between me and the monitor screens, though none of them had eyes on the Drake house. He shifts anxiously in his seat and starts tapping his fingers impatiently on the deskhe's anxious to help, to feel useful. Over the line, we hear three shots. Bart jumps in his chair, horrified by what just happened. We're both too dumbfounded to do anything. Bart speaks up, barely a whisper.
"Is he…?"
I don't answer…because I honestly don't know.
We sit for a few minutes; motionless, helpless. Bart shakes off his shellshock and puts in calls to New York—Nightwing and the Outsiders—and Wally in Keystone. No one's answering.
A choked call comes over the transmitter. It's Tim. "Get it out…please."
In a (literal) flash, Bart is gone. I look blankly at the empty seat next to me. After Jack Drake dies, Tim shuts up, keeping his thoughts to himself.A month later, I finally approach him.
"Are you ready to talk about it?"
"Yeah…I think I finally am."
He doesn't talk about it at any kind of length. Like Batman, he keeps that kind of stuff…inside. Part of me wonders if Superman ever has to deal with crap like this.
Tim's lost both his parents, albeit in different times and places—less dangerous ones than the one we're in now. But I never had parents. I never had a father who worried over me and asked me—pleaded with me to stay home. My mind jumps from rock to rock—like it usually does.
Is that what this is about? This Luthor thing? I can't help but wonder. He might be the scum of the earth, but what if he just wants what's best for…his son?
Tim had his parents. Yeah, he lost them both. But I never had real parents. Just the Kents, or Clark himself. I never had real parents.
Is that what I am? Is that how Luthor sees me? An orphan to be taken in?
Batman, Superman, Tim. We're all orphans. Looking for guidance.
I tell myself that Tim would understand what I'm about to do.
Somewhere outside Gotham City:
"Are you…sure about this, Luthor?"
"Are you questioning me, Noah?"
"No, it's just—"
"You think I'm incapable of a war on two-fronts?"
"It's just—"
"I remind you that we don't need 90 percent of our higher mental faculties or the Wisdom of Solomon to achieve our goals. There are other methods at our disposal. Reserve your judgments."
"Yes," the Calculator backed down. "I'm sorry."
"Right," Luthor dismissed.
He removed a small remote control from his jacket, and pressed the single red button on its sleek exterior. A small projector in the middle of the table lit up; a single shaft of emerald light coalesced into a revolving 3-D model of Superboy.
"Ability falls second to ambition, Noah. Time is of the essence."
Luthor leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, and stared thoughtfully at the image of Superboy before him
Continued...