Part 3 - Moths and Flames
Ultraman stormed through the trophy room of his Flying Fortress, each footstep delivered with a strength that could shatter steel.
"This had better be good, Brainiac!" he snarled at the transorganic syntellect that was incorporated into his Fortress' computer systems. His wife was out of town visiting Holliday College, and Clark Kent had been using the opportunity to show some 'friends' around the base.
One of Brainiac's numerous robot drones appeared from the doorway to the intergalactic zoo. "MASTER, SCANS HAVE…" but that was all that the drone managed before it exploded.
Ultraman's eyes slowly faded from bright red as another drone approached. "DETECTED PROTO-MATTER IN THE VICINITY OF MIDVALE," it finished, picking up where the other drone had left off without missing a beat.
"Proto-matter?" Ultraman asked.
"YOU ASKED TO BE INFORMED IF IT WAS EVER DETECTED AGAI…"
"I know what I asked!" Ultraman snapped. "I remember what happened the last time…"
A hungry look crept into Ultraman's eyes. A look of pure malice and greed. "This could be exactly what we need, Brainiac."
"WILL YOU BE DEALING WITH THE MATTER PERSONALLY, MASTER?"
Ultraman considered it for a moment. "No… not yet. Release the hounds, Brainiac. We'll let them have some fun."
It had been awake for… how long now?
A day? A week? A minute?
Time was irrelevant to It. It kept slipping into the past… into memory.
It had known what It was once.
Its identity had been clear.
Its purpose had been absolute.
But now that was gone. He had seen to that. He had wiped the slate clean, tried to erase what had happened. But not everything was gone.
And now It was cold. A cold that cut to the very soul itself… but that could not be right. It had no soul.
He had seen to that, too.
It had tried to warm itself. Tried to fill the emptiness It felt. Like a moth to the flame, It was drawn to the warmth of others, but that warmth was fleeting. It burned for an instant and then…
It caught sight of someone else, and Its simple train of thought was derailed. It had found warmth, burning brightly before It. Brighter than any other warmth had.
It moved towards it, like a moth…
Luthor examined the remains of the murdered with a scientific detachment he had spent years developing. The press had dubbed the murderer the Piranha Man, a typical example of its need to sensationalise everything.
But still, while it may have been sensational, Luthor couldn't help but admit that the title was also apt. The bodies had been completely stripped of skin and muscle; all that was left of four people were their skeletons.
Four people.
Less than a week ago, they had been alive. They laughed and sneezed and went to work. Now they were dead. Nothing more than evidence, to be examined.
For a moment, Luthor wondered when it was exactly his heart had become so hardened that he could look at this and not be completely repulsed. He knew that a certain degree of detachment was necessary, but when did 'a certain degree' become too much?
But a moment was all he could allow himself, because this was definitely the work of It. And that meant these deaths were on his hands, more innocent lives he couldn't protect, couldn't save.
It was in the city somewhere. Depending on how much It remembered, It could be anywhere, anyone.
But he could recognize It, no matter what identity It wore. He had brought It into this world, and although he hadn't had the courage to do what was necessary last time…
"This time it will be different," Luthor said. "God below, it will be different."