TIME
Man of the Year 2000:
Lex Luthor
"…In a year when Bill Clinton did his best to save Gotham City, stave off an impeachment, and secure Al Gore as a successor to his eight years of deficit-reduction, attention-getting, and spirit-raising, it seems inevitable that someone like Lex Luthor would come along. Rather than see the electoral refusal of Mister Gore as a refutation of Clinton, we choose to see it perhaps as a contra-indication: more simply, voters wanted someone else. Mister Luthor rightly saw a void between what was, and what could be—a hoary normal contest between Democrat and Republican—and leapt into the arena.
"Certainly the argument was made that Mister Gore would continue the Clinton agenda, that his presidency would be more of a good thing. And yet: status quo is a four letter word anymore, and historically the electorate reacts predictably to it. In a sample by this very magazine on the eve of the 2000 Election, forty-six per cent of respondents said they would vote for a candidate other than either Mister Gore or Mister Bush, his Republican opponent, because a third party would "shake things up." And shake things up Mister Luthor has. His fossil fuel sunset bill is expected to head to the House within the first hundred days, an exploratory committee has begun lobbying to add his likeness to Mount Rushmore, and there are talks, however specious, of a Nobel Peace Prize for his humanitarian efforts in Gotham and for his efforts in Metropolis during the so-called Cadmus bombing and the Final Night.
"Yet all of this falls second in our estimation to his known criminal deeds in the past, crimes for which his predecessor pardoned him. A host of RICO violations, suspicious human resource issues from within LexCorp, and his contentious at best relationship with Superman and the Justice League of America, have cast no small pall on Mister Luthor's presidency-to-be. Now on the eve of assuming the highest office in the land, Lex Luthor positions himself as a superior recusant, a pilgrim supplicant, on the road to Damascus. For this reason, his capacity for good, Lex Luthor is TIME's Man of the Year."
And this, then, is how the Age of Superheroes comes to an end.
It does not end tonight in Washington, DC. Not in the Oval Office as Superman and Lex Luthor will, in about thirty minutes, try to discuss what's happening to their doomed world. Not out on E Street as Batman and Wonder Woman will, in about ten minutes, fight Mercy Graves, Richard Jenner, and John Corben. No. It ends, as most things end, in a whimper. In the slow realization of age and the recognition that the world you have is not the one you had. Or the one you want.
It's a response to age, really.
Tonight?
Tonight is the beginning of the end.
It ends twelve years from now on the roof of the LexCorp Tower, while Superman and Lex Luthor have another conversation about their doomed world. The last one they'll ever have.
It started fifteen years ago in Metropolis, when a nondescript flew out of a crowd and saved the proto-shuttle Constitution as it malfunctioned and veered toward the crowd. Eventually that nondescript came forward. He went public. He made a fool of Lex Luthor. He died fighting the desecration without name, a genetic relic of his home world, and rose again. He created the Justice League. An age of heroes began, and in it some of the bravest men, women, and children saved the world from monsters, dictators, evil gods, and themselves.
It was Lois Lane of the Daily Planet who gave him the name Superman. A response to the diamond sigil on his chest which was, as he explained, the crest of his house, as well as an ideogram in his native language. Hope was the lodestar of his world, his greatest wish, and his greatest legacy. Hope has carried Superman, Clark Kent, Kal-El, the immigrant from the stars, forward in life and has colored his every decision. The hope that the criminal, corrupt nature of the world he loved would not last. The hope that humans could overcome their baser instincts and accede to better choices, better living, so that one day, they may no longer need him. The hope to become a responsible shepherd for these people and this planet that had adopted him. The hope that even his enemies would one day overcome their hatred of him and learn to live better lives.
But even before that. Before his establishment here—
It started with a doomed planet.
With two murders in Crime Alley.
With the creation of an Amazon champion.
With the birth of an Atlantean king.
With a bolt of lightning.
With the finding of a ring.
And Dr Erdel's grand accident.
It started with so many things, really. And twelve years from now all those things will mean nothing
He closes his eyes. Superman does. Beneath him—all around him—he feels the quantum entanglements of this world. The impossible materials that allow this invisible jet to exist and to fly. He feels the strength, of Diana's bracelets. They are made of the Golden Fleece and stronger than he is. He feels the beats of her heart. Slow and purposeful. Without malice or hatred. With love and purpose and direction.
He feels the Kevlar lining of Bruce Wayne's suit. Feels the electrical impulses firing in the man's brain, the feverish workings of a brain trying to justify this action. Feels every scar on the man's body, the wages of a lifetime fulfilling a mission. To rid his city of the evil that took his parents lives. He sits there in his suit, shaped like a creature that frightened him as a child, and he does not move. Clark sees his eyes, shut behind starlite lenses in the cowl, and the rhythmic calmness in the man's heart.
Clark Kent is remembering.
This will be the last time he'll have the chance.
Father.
We're going to do it.
My god.
We are going to remove the sitting President of the United States from his position. A vile, evil man, who has killed and corrupted his way to power. Who has no intention of giving up that power. Who will destroy the world to maintain his power—
Because he feels it's owed to him.
And I, Father?
What of me.
What a selfish thought.
When has selfishness ever propelled human development.
He breathes.
He remembers.
Going to the Fortress as a young man. Finding it, really. And the hologrammatic image of his father. Jor-El.
Surely the greatest of his kind.
They can be a great people, Kal-El.
They wish to be.
They only lack the light to show the way.
He breathed.
And opened his eyes.
Clark Kent—
Superman—
Stands. He goes to one side of the cabin.
He waits.
For this reason.
Their capacity for good.
I have sent them you, my son.
He looks at the door, then turns and looks at Batman.
Even behind the cowl, he sees the lines, the worry, on Bruce's face. "What is it?"
Wonder Woman is there, then. She says, "The jet is on autopilot. It will return to the Watchtower after we jump. Lois is en route to the White House with Jimmy. I hope they arrive in time." Then she looks at Clark.
Father.
He's just a man.
The government will go on. Life will go on. And the Justice League's reputation will survive. And yet.
What does this world become if I assert my will?
"All these years," Clark said. "Fighting him. I fear what will become of us."
A silent moment comes and goes.
Batman says, "This is the only way now. And we have to live with that."
Superman looks up.
And—
His posture straightens. His face turns.
Because—
He looks at Batman and Wonder Woman. He flips the handle and the door blasts open. In the torrential furor and the night air screaming past, he yells over it and his voice is calm but powerful. Stern and affectionate. Like a father. Like a friend.
He says, "Thank you," and it's quiet. A whisper of gratitude.
Superman smiles.
And jumps.
But he doesn't fly. No.
For the first few minutes he free falls. He allows gravity to pull him down and enjoys the few moments of peace. He smiles as the night air, this far up, mingles with the radiant solar heat and he feels it flow over him like a supernova. He turns and looks at the Earth.
It is so beautiful, Father. Worth treasuring in every way.
He squints and sees Wally West in faraway Keystone. A lightning storm in the shape of man. Trying desperately save his rioting city.
He sees Dinah Lance in Starling: the high school explosion has spread to the star-shaped forest in the center city. She is with Connor Hawke, Oliver's son, trying to stop it.
He sees Tim Drake, and Conner, and Bart Allen, in San Francisco helping firefighters contain a blaze in a string of rowhouses.
He sees Carter Hall in St Roch, having a conversation with the Gentleman Ghost.
He sees Black Adam in far-off Shiruta.
He sees Ra's al Ghul in the charred desert of Bialya.
He looks back and sees Wonder Woman and Batman following him. She's in a dive, arms tight at her sides. Batman is too, his cape fluttering in the wind.
The earth comes toward them. Slowly.
Eventually Washington DC draws closer in his sight. And eventually they land.
The city is quiet. Too quiet. He frowns and squints. Guns on the roof of the White House, armed guards around the perimeter and inside the fence. All around the lawn. And they are looking up.
They know he's coming. That's okay. He's gotten used to being expected.
E Street runs east-west, north of the Ellipsis. It's quiet and empty but it shouldn't be. And it disturbs him. The last quiet street he landed on was—
The No Man's Land.
The last time Luthor held all the cards. The last time they spoke.
The skies are clear and since they are clear he takes the time to see the turn of the earth. A Christmas festival in Chicago. A football game in Cleveland. Shoppers in Montreal. Far north in Maine, Arthur Curry is having a conversation with Mera at Amnesty Bay. He makes a note of it all. Of life going on. Because he's fairly certain it's the last time he'll have the chance to do that, too.
He looks at the White House. And sees nothing.
My god.
He's covered this one in lead too.
Beyond the iron fence, the soldiers are pacing back and forth now. Staring at him. Waiting. He sees their hearts pounding in their chests. They're ready. Or lying and saying they are.
He cocks his head.
Something feels—
He looks to one side of the street.
A man walking towards them, his clothes shredded, dangling from him like some horror film monster. Bare arms that were human once, so very long ago, now metal and glinting in the twilight. They weren't human arms. They were chrome. Steel. Metal. All the synonyms. Part of his human face was gone too, revealing the steel jaw underneath.
This was John Corben. In a previous life, at least. Now he's a machine man with a poison heart. He's Metallo. Created by Luthor long ago, ten years if a day, but he's gone through so many iterations since their first meeting it was no longer the case that LexCorp hardware ran through him. He was in some ways what he always wanted to be. What he hoped years of mercenary work for the Kasnian royal military would make him. A self-made man.
"Corben," Superman says and shakes his head. "I am disappointed."
"Really," Metallo says. "I'm not."
"I saw the news," Superman says. "The vandalism at the Daily Planet. Your handiwork, I assume."
Metallo bows. "I was hired to fulfill a contract. Just like the old days."
"What do you need money for, John?"
Metallo shrugs. "Maybe I just wanted another shot at you."
"You've got it now." Superman cracks his knuckles and squares up.
It happens in slow motion.
Wonder Woman steps between them and hits Metallo so hard that he flies away from them. Up in the air. Back down the street in a high arc. Wonder Woman looks back at Superman. She says, "Leave him to me. You go."
Superman turns.
The gates on the South Lawn open.
And out comes Mercy Graves.
Luthor's most reliable accomplice. He's known her for years. She's driven, like Luthor. And came from nothing, like Luthor. She has a square reassurance to her, a grace that reminds him of Diana. But still. She is who she is. And she's stood by Luthor's side through all of this. Through all these murders and crimes and plain old lies. She stands there, arms folded over her chest, and she doesn't say a word. Just stares at him.
Jenner joins her, a miserable strong-man in a tacky blue suit. Of course Clark knows him, too. Richard Jenner was Lex Luthor's schoolyard bully. A bully turned servant. It was a long time ago. A journalist named Peter Sands came close to uncovering Luthor. Sands was killed. Clark was implicated and quickly cleared. Though it was also clear that Lex was behind the murder and the lazy frame-up. That was the start of the filing cabinet, really. Luthor's first testing of Clark's secret identity.
Looking back it all seemed so clear.
Everything that had happened. And everything that was going to happen.
And here now.
He realises the final horror.
Luthor's greatest scheme...
Was never becoming President.
It was...
Did you plan for this too, Lex.
Did you count on me coming here.
And if so.
If so.
To what end?
"You don't have to do this," Superman tells Jenner and Mercy.
And Mercy cracks her knuckles and says, "Yes we do."
And that happens in slow motion, too.
Jenner throws the first punch.
The Batman catches it. Throws it back in his face. And then—
The Batman is in his element.
Fighting criminals.
Superman leaves them to it.
He lifts himself into the air. Over the fence. Onto the lawn.
Among the Army and the national guardsmen in their beige and green BDUs, M-16s close in hand, there are DEO guards there in their customary brown and black riot gear. Translucent shields and riot batons, bandoliers of zipties and gas grenades up all their shoulders. He scans the lot of them. Especially the Army boys. Officers and enlistees. He reads their dog-tags. Boys. Barely men. He thinks of Conner. He thinks of Jimmy. And he thinks of his Pa.
At least the Army boys and the National Guardsmen are wearing helmets. At least he can see their faces. And they can see his. But the DEO guys, the more heavily armored ones. Their visors are the kind SWAT teams use, they cover their whole faces and DEO makes theirs the black-out kind. Anonymity, Clark well knew, was the perfect hiding place for the worst offenses.
He frowns.
He focuses his sight. And looks from one side of the crowd to the other. He takes the time to look each one of them in the face. This, too, happens in slow motion. Behind him he can hear Wonder Woman and Metallo screaming and fighting each other down the street. Mercy flipping around Batman with a series of impressive judo flurries. Jenner's right hook seems tame in comparison. But next to the Batman, they're nothing. The fight is over before it starts.
He focuses back on the men before him.
A few of them look among themselves. At each other.
Another moment comes and goes.
He tried to say something.
But.
What to say.
What not to say.
Father.
He closes his eyes.
And he is eighteen years old again.
He is in the truck with Pa and Ma. On the way to the prom. "They've never seen anything like you, Clark. And if they did a lot of em would be afraid." And Clark: "Is that why you're making me go? Pretend like I'm everyone else, when everyone else thinks I'm a loser?" And Pa: "No one thinks that, Clark. Where's Lana?" "Pete took Lana."
And Ma smiling: "Well, I'm sure Lana's saving you a dance."
"One day," Pa says, "You'll let the world in on your secret, Clark. And I'll tell you something, son, I cannot wait for that day. I really can't." It's a variation on a line Pa has used pretty much since the beginning. One day, you're gonna change the world, Clark. One day you're gonna show the world what kind of man you are. He agrees with Pa, like always, but lacks conviction. Maybe he has hope Pa is right. But in those days hope is a far-off thing.
He hears them in the truck. Later. Driving away. He is sitting on the bleachers and the gymnasium is an assault on his senses, it's so decorated, so loud and bright and obnoxious and all he wants to do is go tell Lana who he's pretty sure he loves the truth. He hears them. "Don't worry too much, Martha. He's never gotten so much as a paper cut. He can't be hurt." "But Clark's alone." "He has you and me." "And we won't be around forever." "I wish we could've given him more. A brother or sister." "Me too, Martha." "But this is God's plan—"
Pa never gets to finish that sentence. A drunk driver cuts a stop sign and t-bones the truck. Jonathan and Martha Kent die that night.
He opens his eyes. Here. Now. On the South Lawn of the White House.
They've moved to actually pointing their guns at him.
He says—
"You all know me. You know what I stand for. If you believe it's worth fighting for, too, help me change things. Help me send a message. Truth, Justice, and the American Way aren't just words or ideas. They're more than dreams. They're a promise."
It doesn't happen all at once. Some of them keep their guns on him the whole time—the whole time he walks from the wrought-iron fence up to the entrance. Still others drop their guns. Most of them let him pass. They part and it's like Moses before the ocean. Right down the middle. All the way up to the door. He walks. The whole way. Some of the soldiers bow their heads. Others nod. Some more just glare. He keeps walking.
When he reaches the doors, he stops.
And standing there in the threshold—
General Sam Lane, in his finest uniform, holding a Colt forty-five and pointing it right at Superman's face—
"That's far enough, Kent."
Continued...