In the innermost control room of my vast underground bunker—stretching the length of the main runway at Archie Goodwin Airport, a glowing a green image hovers in the air before me. Maxwell Lord, in three dimensions, talking to me. Lex Luthor. I get a certain shudder of electricity just saying it--after all its a simple name. But certainly one with a long resume behind it; many things to be proud of.

An election to the highest office in the land. Control over the largest multinational corporation this side of Microsoft. A hand in the creation of my very own progeny—a readily viable heir to be proud of. A tool I can use…for a secure society.

And the manipulation of Maxwell Lord's revamped Checkmate. It was a simple act. Once I had more elbow room after my impromptu impeachment…I was able to completely retreat underground. I could achieve more important goals out of sight and seemingly out of mind of the hero racket. And it worked.

Lord took his place in Checkmate after Task Force X—at the behest of myself and Secretary Waller—disposed of the previous Black King.

From then on, Lord knew he owed me. And I never let him forget it. Months after my purported disappearance, I sent Lord to Washington to speak with President Ross. And shortly after that, Ross came to me—distraught, broken spiritually—intent on saving his marriage. I told him everything about Superman…and he went along with it, to his benefit. And mine.

That was the beginning of the end. The road to ruin, as it were.

"I saw the damage to the Tower," Lord says with a hint of concern. His words bring me back to the present. "What happened?

"Superboy happened."

"Oh," Lord says quietly. "So Noah wasn't kidding."

"No," I respond. "He wasn't. Superboy is online now. An unstoppable force."

"You sound awfully confident, Lex," Lord says, testing the waters.

"It's what I do, Max, now what did you want?"

"To know where your little science project is headed."

"To the Watchtower," I say idly.

"That's insane. He can't storm the gate himself!"

Lord eyeballs me curiously. "You never worry about anything, do you Lex?"

"Oh, I have plenty of worries, Max." I say. I inspect my fingernails intently, grimacing at a hangnail. "I just keep them hidden."

"Better up the sleeve than on it, eh?"

I give Lord a curt smile. "We'll contact you when further information becomes available."

"Good," Max says expectantly and hangs up. Good, he says. Like he's waiting for us to keep him apprised. That over-inflated sense of entitlement. Moron.

Well…I won't have to put up with it much longer. I pull a remote from my jacket, press the red button at its center, and the LED projector in the floor emits a wide swath of green light, coalescing into an image of Black Adam. He's horizontal—airborne. Now that's good news.

"Teth-Adam," I say, proper-naming him. "Status report."

"We are over Spain," Black Adam replies in a resounding tenor. "We will reach the castle in a matter of minutes."

"Good," I reply. "And I wouldn't worry about making a discreet entrance. The three of you have enough firepower to overcome whatever Max throws at you. Report back when you've found the control room."

Black Adam nods once, promptly, and the image fades away.

Things are now in motion which cannot be undone. It's a vindicating feeling…a fascinating paradigm.

The thin mechanical voice of the Brother Mark computer system speaks to Maxwell Lord in a calming monotone. "Incoming object. Entering the upper atmosphere."

"Speed?" Lord asks.

"Unknown."

"Tracking?"

"Easterly."

"It's Superboy," Lord says quietly, coming to a realization.

"Do you wish to take action," the system asks.

"No," Lord replies after a pause. "It's headed for the Watchtower. Get me a visual on the Moon. All wavelengths. I want to see this from the best angles."

In his control room, Luthor stares intently at the green-colored viewscreen hovering before him. A small red dot traverses a grid system toward a larger red circle on the far side. Luthor presses another button on the remote in his hand, and tunes in to Superboy.

"That's close enough."

In the black vastness of space, Superboy's acceleration drops to a halt and he hovers above the blue sphere of Earth. His eyes lock on the Brother Mark satellite in the distance.

"I've had one of my trademark changes of heart, my son," Luthor says grimly. "Destroy the satellite."

Superboy's placid blue eyes light up instantly, burning a fiery red—the excess radiation carried away or dissipated in the emptiness of space.

In his control room, Max Lord watches the computer screen focus in on Superboy at the visual wavelength spectrum.

"What are you doing? I said the Moon!"

"Danger, Maxwell Lord."

"What?"

Luthor watches a single beam of red shoot from Superboy's eyes, heading straight for the Brother Mark One.

Luthor sees a beam of red strobe across space, pierce the satellite. The Brother Mark shatters and blows apart, goes nova and becomes a small star that burns brilliant for a moment before fading, leaving millions of burning pieces behind—suspended in weightless space. It's a spectacular sight…for its violence.

Some larger fragments are drawn towards Earth—attracted by tidal forces of gravitation. Still more linger in space like bored patrons.

In his control room, Max Lord watches red beams of light shoot from Superboy's eyes and pierce the satellite…and the picture goes blank. Static snow fills the screen.

"What the hell!" Lord says in an outraged bellow. He pounds both fists on the console in pointless anger and looks back at the screen. Still static.

"Report?"

Silence.

"Report, dammit!"

Silence.

Lord collapses into the chair behind him and wipes a gloved hand across his face.

"Jesus," he says to himself. "Gone. Just like that."

And Max Lord starts to worry—for the first time in a long time. The jig is up, Lord thinks to himself. The League, the Society…Batman. They're going to find him now. Especially Batman. The Brother Mark was Batman's to begin with; Lord just pirated it in a stroke of luck and genius. The Dark Knight won't be pleased—he never is, anyway, but this…this is just fuel to the fire.

And then it dawns on Maxwell Lord.

"Son of a bitch," he says in quiet anger. "They set me up."

"Yes," a calm tenor answers from somewhere behind Lord. Lord rockets around in his chair and sees the source of the voice. "But you will not live to prove it."

Black Adam, hovering in the air, his arms folded over the yellow lightning bolt symbol on his chest. Literally staring down his nose at Lord. But Adam isn't alone.

Flanking the ruler of Khandaq on either side…Zoom and Deathstroke.

And for a moment, the thought of another Black King being deposed enters Max Lord's head.

Continued...