Superman:Man of Steel

by Mtle232

As a new era of heroes begins, follow Clark Kent's journey from small-town farm boy to becoming Earth's first public hero. While reports of Tony Stark's disappearance dominate headlines, Superman emerges in Metropolis, facing the brilliant but ruthless Lex Luthor and battling Metallo, a cyborg powered by fragments of his destroyed homeworld. Book 1 of the MDCCU

5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Clash of the Titans

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Hey everyone. Thanks for all the awesome feedback on Chapter 4. Let me share some thoughts on your comments:

• Dauthan2814, you make a really good point about other weapons manufacturers. Thing is, losing Stark Industries hit the military pretty hard. They weren't just the biggest contractor, they were light-years ahead of everyone else in terms of tech. Sure, you've got companies like Hammer and LexCorp chomping at the bit to fill that gap, but let's be real - none of them can match Tony's innovation. The military's basically watching their most reliable supplier walk away right when superhuman threats are emerging. No wonder they're freaking out a bit.

• Aztec 13, thanks so much. I had such a blast writing Metallo as Superman's first big bad. The way that kryptonite messes with him, not just physically but mentally... it really lets us dig into both characters. And seeing the criminal underworld scrambling for high-tech weapons is going to lead to some interesting situations. Batman and Iron Man might just find their investigations crossing paths sooner rather than later.

• atikchafik2004, don't worry, I definitely wanted that Superman/Metallo fight to feel like a real struggle. The kryptonite gives Metallo a serious edge, but it also lets us see Superman's real strength - his heart and determination even when physically weakened.

To our Guest reviewer:

• On villains dying, I'm totally with you. While sometimes the story might demand a meaningful death, I'm not looking to waste great characters. Most villains will stick around to cause more trouble down the line.

• Love your thoughts on Cap's shield. That proto-adamantium/vibranium blend is much more in line with the comics and gives us way more interesting possibilities to play with. Especially when I write about how Howard both acquired and helped forge the shield.

• For casting, while some of your picks are great choices, I'm going different directions with others. Adam Driver as Scarecrow and Bill Skarsgård as Joker feel perfect for the younger Batman I'm developing with Brandon Sklenar.

Keep these comments and suggestions coming - they honestly help make this universe and story overall better. Your excitement for this story means the world to me, and I can't wait to show you what's next.

And one more thing - I wanted to let everyone know that after "Superman: Man of Steel" wraps up, I'll be starting work on "Batman: Shadow of Gotham." Really excited to share more details about that project with you all soon.

---

Clark felt the last rays of sunlight against his skin as he descended into Centennial Park's central plaza. His enhanced hearing picked up the whir of news helicopters overhead, the nervous heartbeats of reporters in surrounding buildings, the subtle electric hum of countless cameras tracking his movement. But beneath it all was an unnatural silence where the usual symphony of city life should have been.

The plaza stretched before him, eerily empty after the evacuation. His cape settled around his shoulders as he touched down, the familiar weight a reminder of his mother's careful stitching. Through the gathering shadows, his enhanced vision caught glimpses of camera lenses glinting from distant windows. The world was watching.

The first hint of kryptonite radiation hit him before he saw Corbin - a wave of nausea that made his muscles tense involuntarily. He'd felt nothing like it since discovering his powers, this fundamental wrongness that seemed to reach into his cells. Then came the sound: servos whirring, metal joints flexing, and beneath it all, the crystalline hum of the kryptonite core.

John Corbin emerged from the lengthening shadows with mechanical precision. Clark's x-ray vision revealed the full extent of his transformation - a human brain suspended in a cybernetic cradle, surrounded by systems that shouldn't exist with current technology. Each footstep left hairline cracks in the concrete, and the 'M' on his chest pulsed with that sickly green energy that made Clark's stomach churn.

"Wasn't sure you'd actually show," Corbin's voice carried metallic undertones that hadn't been present at the gala. Even through the growing discomfort from the radiation, Clark's hearing caught the subtle wrongness in it - human speech processed through artificial vocal cords. "Thought maybe you'd keep playing the noble hero, above it all."

"We don't have to do this, John," Clark kept his voice steady despite the intensifying nausea. He could hear Corbin's organic brain firing irregularly, affected by the kryptonite's proximity. "Whatever the radiation's doing to your mind, we can help—"

"Help?" Metallo's bitter laugh echoed unnaturally, and Clark's enhanced hearing picked up the way it distorted through his mechanical systems. "Like you helped before? Where were you when I was bleeding out in Fallujah? When my unit was taking fire from weapons your buddy Stark built?" The kryptonite's glow intensified with his anger, making Clark's vision blur momentarily. "Someone had to step up. Had to show the world it doesn't need an alien savior."

"This isn't you talking," Clark took a careful step forward, fighting against the radiation's effects. Through his x-ray vision, he could see the kryptonite's energy spreading through Corbin's systems, affecting his neural patterns. "The kryptonite's affecting your thoughts, your emotions—"

"This IS me!" Corbin's mechanical voice shook the plaza, the sound hitting Clark's sensitive hearing like a physical blow. "They made me better! Strong enough to show the world it doesn't need some alien savior!"

Clark barely had time to brace himself before Metallo charged. Even after months of being Superman, he was still getting used to processing threats at superhuman speed. Everything seemed to slow down - the way Corbin's synthetic muscles tensed, the slight scrape of metal on concrete as he launched forward, the first hints of kryptonite radiation making Clark's stomach turn.

Clark pivoted around the first punch, feeling the displaced air rush past his face. The second strike he caught, more out of instinct than conscious thought. In that frozen moment of contact, Jor-El's combat training surged through his mind - countless hours spent in the Fortress, learning the martial arts of a civilization that had mastered power beyond human imagination.

"John, please—" Clark started, but the words died in his throat as Metallo's free arm began to transform. The sight sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the kryptonite radiation. Synthetic skin flowed like mercury, peeling back to reveal a blade of impossibly dense metal. The transformation wasn't just mechanical - it was almost organic, as if the machine parts had become a living thing.

"Stop calling me John like we're friends!" Corbin's mechanical voice carried equal parts rage and anguish. "Like you understand what they did to me! I'm what humanity needs - not some alien freak hiding behind that cape!"

The blade came at Clark in a series of precisely calculated arcs, each swing guided by combat algorithms far beyond current Earth technology. The kryptonite's proximity made his reactions sluggish, his normally perfect coordination feeling like he was moving through water. He could feel his powers fluctuating in ways they hadn't since those early teenage years in Smallville, when a sneeze might accidentally topple a barn.

A particularly vicious slash caught the edge of his cape, and something inside Clark snapped. The material - woven with symbols of the House of El, gifted to him by Jor-El in his final moments before Krypton's destruction - parted like ordinary fabric. In all his years on Earth, nothing had been able to damage that cape. It was more than just clothing; it was one of his last connections to a dead world, to the father he'd never truly known.

For the first time since the fight began, Clark felt real anger rise in his chest. Not the frustrated anger of trying to reason with Corbin, but something deeper - a primal response to seeing one of his few remaining links to Krypton desecrated. His eyes flared red for just a moment before he forced the heat vision back down, remembering his father's - Jonathan's - endless lessons about control.

"Fight back!" Corbin snarled, pressing what he thought was an advantage. "Show them what you really are! Show them the alien beneath that human disguise!"

Clark launched himself skyward, partly to put distance between himself and the kryptonite, but also to master his own emotions. The flight felt wrong - like trying to navigate through a thunderstorm with one engine out. His perfect equilibrium wavered, the radiation interfering with the connection between his mind and his powers in ways that reminded him uncomfortably of red kryptonite exposure.

But Metallo wasn't about to let him retreat. Those cybernetic legs compressed like industrial springs, catapulting him into the air with force that shattered every window in a hundred-foot radius. Clark's enhanced hearing caught the crystalline symphony of falling glass even as they clashed above the plaza.

The first real exchange was like nothing Clark had experienced in his years as Superman. Metallo's enhanced strength truly matched his own, every impact creating thunderclaps that he knew would be heard across the city. The blade-arm opened shallow cuts across his chest - the first time he'd felt real pain since his powers fully manifested. His counter-strikes dented Metallo's frame, but Clark still held back, Jonathan Kent's voice in his head reminding him that power without restraint was just another form of violence.

They crashed back to earth with devastating force, demolishing the plaza's centerpiece fountain in an explosion of water and marble. The spray created a momentary rainbow in the fading sunlight - a beautiful contrast to the brutal ballet they were performing. Clark found himself analyzing Corbin's fighting style with growing concern. This wasn't just enhanced human combat; this was something new - military precision augmented by computer processing that could calculate trajectories and force applications faster than thought.

Clark drew deeper on his own training, calling up forms and techniques meant for beings who could shatter planets. The Kryptonian martial arts he'd learned were beautiful in their efficiency - designed not to cause maximum damage, but to subdue opponents with minimal harm. He matched Metallo's mechanical precision with flowing movements that seemed to defy physics, using his opponent's power against him.

But the kryptonite was taking its toll. Each movement cost more energy, each block came a fraction of a second slower. Through his increasingly unreliable x-ray vision, Clark could see the radiation spreading through his cells, weakening the connections to his powers that usually felt as natural as breathing.

"You're holding back," Corbin growled, landing a punch that sent Clark sliding backward through the fountain's wreckage. The impact actually hurt - a novel sensation that Clark hadn't experienced since before his powers emerged. Even through the pain, his enhanced hearing picked up troubling changes in Metallo's voice - growing instability in the speech patterns, increasing distortion in the electronic undertones that made him sound less human with each passing moment.

"I won't fight you like this," Clark managed, tasting blood in his mouth for the first time in years. "Not while there's still a chance to help you."

"You can't hurt me!" The roar that emerged from Metallo's voice synthesizers was pure machine, and Clark's enhanced vision caught the moment his chest plate began to split. He had a microsecond to brace himself before concentrated kryptonite radiation flooded the area. "I'm not human anymore - I'm better! I'm what they made me!"

They crashed through trees, benches, sculpture installations - each impact adding to the destruction. Clark's senses caught everything in perfect detail: the way the concrete cracked, the pattern of debris spinning through the air, the subtle changes in Metallo's mechanical systems as the fight progressed. The very air vibrated with the force of their collisions.

But Clark's enhanced hearing picked up something else - growing instability in Metallo's systems. The mechanical precision was giving way to increasingly erratic movements. The kryptonite core pulsed irregularly, matching the deteriorating patterns in Corbin's neural activity.

"Why won't you just die?" Corbin's voice crackled with static-laced fury. "Why do you keep getting up?"

"Because someone has to show there's a better way," Clark answered, deflecting another series of strikes while his enhanced vision tracked the spreading instability in Metallo's systems. "Violence isn't the answer, John. It never was."

"Stop... CALLING ME THAT!"

The next attack was pure rage - powerful but uncontrolled. Clark slipped inside his guard and landed a precise strike to Metallo's face. His enhanced hearing caught the sound of tearing synthetic skin, and through his blurred vision, he watched a small patch peel away from Corbin's left cheekbone, revealing the gleaming metal skull beneath.

The effect was instant. Metallo froze, his hand reaching up to touch the exposed chrome surface. For a moment, Clark's enhanced hearing picked up nothing but the whir of news helicopters and the irregular pulse of the kryptonite core.

"What..." Metallo's mechanical voice wavered, and Clark's hearing caught the fear beneath the electronic distortion. "What am I?"

Clark watched through increasingly steady vision as Corbin found his reflection in a shattered window - the torn skin, the metal showing through, the utter alienness of his own face. The kryptonite core flickered erratically, matching the chaotic patterns of his neural activity.

"They said... they said I'd still be me..." Static crept into his voice, and Clark's hearing picked up the way his mechanical systems struggled to process the emotional overload of a man truly comprehending for the first time the shell he had truly become. "They promised..."

"You are still you where it matters," Clark said quietly, lowering his guard despite the kryptonite's effects. "Your mind, your choices—"

"My mind?" The laugh that emerged was pure anguish filtered through mechanical distortion, and Clark's enhanced hearing caught every painful note. "Stuffed in this metal skull, powered by rocks from your dead world?" His hands trembled as he stared at them, and Clark's vision showed him the way the synthetic muscles spasmed with uncontrolled emotion. "I can't... I can't even feel anything anymore. Can't taste food, can't feel the sun..." His voice cracked with bursts of static. "Can't even cry properly..."

Clark watched the fight drain from him, replaced by horror at what he'd become. Even through the lingering effects of the kryptonite, his senses caught every detail of Corbin's breakdown - the irregular firing of his organic brain, the chaotic energy patterns in his mechanical systems, the way his synthetic face tried and failed to form proper expressions of grief.

"What did they do to me?" The words came out as barely more than a whisper, but Clark's hearing caught the full depth of despair in them. "What did I let them turn me into?"

"Let us help you, John," Clark reached out, fighting to keep his balance as waves of nausea rolled through him. The kryptonite's effects were unlike anything he'd experienced in his few months as Superman. "There are people who can—"

But Metallo was already gone, launching himself into the darkening sky with a sound like tearing metal. The force of his departure sent debris raining down across the ruined plaza. Clark started to follow, then stumbled as another wave of weakness hit him. He'd never felt this drained, not even during those first confusing days of discovering his powers.

For a moment, he just stood there in the settling dust, trying to get his bearings. His enhanced senses were slowly returning, bringing with them the full scope of what their battle had done to Centennial Plaza. The place looked like a war zone - or at least what Clark imagined one would look like, having only seen them in news footage. Craters pockmarked the ground where their impacts had cratered the earth. The central fountain was completely destroyed, water still spraying from broken pipes. Trees lay uprooted, benches were twisted into modern art, and pieces of decorative stonework were scattered like autumn leaves.

The sound hit him first - dozens of rushing footsteps, cameras clicking, voices shouting questions. The media barrier at the edge of the evacuation zone had broken, and reporters were flooding in like a tidal wave. Clark could already pick out familiar faces in the crowd - Cat Grant from GBS pushing her way to the front, Ron Troupe from the Star with his ever-present notebook, even Summer Gleeson who'd flown in from Gotham for this.

"Superman!" Bill O'Reilly from Fox News shouldered his way to the front. "The American people want to know - was this a victory for human ingenuity or alien power?"

"Is this the beginning of a superhuman arms race?" Andrea Mitchell from NBC cut in, microphone extended.

"Are you concerned about collateral damage to public spaces?" That was Lawrence O'Donnell from MSNBC, already framing his angle.

Clark recognized faces from CNN, ABC, Inside Edition - reporters who'd flown in from across the country for this moment. But it was the familiar voices that hit him hardest.

"Superman!" Lois pushed through the crowd with the determined grace he'd come to know so well. Even after their weeks of dating, seeing her in reporter mode still made his heart skip. She had that look in her eyes - the one that said she wasn't leaving without her story.

Behind her came Ron Troupe and Steve Lombard, his Daily Planet colleagues jostling for position against reporters from the Star and the Globe. Jimmy somehow materialized near the front, camera already clicking away. The kid had a gift for finding angles no one else saw.

"Was Metallo's enhancement voluntary?" Lois's question cut through the chaos. Trust her to go straight for the heart of it. "Our sources suggest LuthorCorp's program had minimal oversight—"

"Did the kryptonite radiation have its expected effect?" Steve interrupted, always going for the sensational angle. "You seemed weakened during the fight."

Clark held up a hand, trying to focus past the lingering nausea. Police helicopters were approaching, their rotors a dull thunder in his ears. Emergency vehicles staged nearby, though thankfully the evacuation had prevented civilian casualties. Above it all, news choppers circled like hungry birds, their spotlights turning night into harsh day.

"Please," he managed, his voice rougher than usual. "One at a time."

"The public deserves answers!" Someone from Inside Edition shouted. "Was this truly a battle between man and god?"

Clark looked around at what their fight had done to Centennial Plaza. The fountain where he'd seen children making wishes just yesterday was rubble. Trees that had shaded generations lay uprooted. The walking paths where he'd strolled with Lois were cratered like the surface of the moon.

His cape, torn for the first time since he'd emerged as Superman, caught the helicopter spotlights. The damage felt personal - not just to the symbol it represented, but to the father who'd given it to him, hoping his son would inspire rather than intimidate.

"This wasn't about man versus god," he said finally, meeting Lois's gaze briefly before turning to the wider crowd. "This was about a soldier who needed help and got exploitation instead. About someone's pain being turned into a weapon."

"But you won!" Steve called out. "The alien beat the machine!"

"Nobody won here." Clark gestured at the devastation around them. "Is this what victory looks like? A public park turned into a battleground? Powers used for spectacle instead of helping people?"

He saw Lois scribbling rapidly in her notebook, that slight furrow in her brow that meant she was seeing past the obvious story. Jimmy's camera kept clicking, but his shots seemed focused on the human details - the broken fountain, the torn cape, the way Superman's shoulders carried an unfamiliar weight.

"What about LuthorCorp's claims?" Lawrence O'Donnell pressed. "That Metallo represents the next stage of human evolution?"

"Evolution shouldn't hurt," Clark replied, thinking of the horror in Corbin's mechanical voice when he'd seen his true face. "John Corbin served his country. He deserved better than being turned into a weapon."

The questions came faster now: "Are you suggesting corporate negligence?" "Will there be a military investigation?" "What about the classified nature of the kryptonite research?" "Could this technology be replicated?"

Clark felt the weight of every camera, every microphone, every eager face wanting their slice of the story. He'd only been Superman for a few months, still learning to balance his powers with the responsibility they brought. Nothing had prepared him for this - becoming the center of a media circus while a man he'd failed to help was out there somewhere, lost in his own transformation.

"Superman!" Anderson Cooper pushed forward. "CNN's sources suggest the kryptonite came from classified military installations. Can you confirm—"

"I've said all I can for now," Clark cut him off, hearing the approach of emergency services. "The police and rescue teams need space to work. This area isn't safe yet."

"Will you help with cleanup?" That was Jimmy, asking the kind of practical question most were ignoring.

Clark looked at his young friend, managing a small smile. "Of course."

He moved to a section of broken fountain, carefully lifting a piece that must have weighed several tons. The simple act of helping, of trying to fix what was broken, felt more important than any statement he could make.

The gesture seemed to shift the energy of the crowd. Cameras kept rolling, but the shouted questions slowed. Even a few reporters set down their equipment to help with smaller debris, though Steve Lombard made a show of brushing dirt from his expensive suit.

"You could clear this whole plaza in minutes," Lois said quietly, appearing beside him as he stacked broken concrete. She pitched her voice low enough that only his hearing would catch it. "Why work alongside everyone else?"

Clark thought about Jonathan Kent, about all the times his father had taught him that true strength wasn't in what you could do, but in how you lifted others up.

"Because this is everyone's city," he replied, loud enough for others to hear. "Having powers doesn't make me more important than the people who keep Metropolis running every day."

He saw Lois's slight smile - the one that meant she'd gotten exactly the quote she wanted. But there was something else in her eyes too, a warmth that made him grateful his powers didn't include blushing.

The cleanup continued as more news crews arrived - international outlets now, their reporters adding questions in a dozen languages. But Clark focused on the work, on each piece of debris carefully moved, each broken thing that could be fixed.

His enhanced hearing caught fragments of conversation all around:

"Daily Planet's going to own this story..." "Never seen anything like it..." "But where did Metallo go?" "Think this is just the beginning?"

A child's voice cut through it all: "Is the metal man going to be okay?"

Clark turned to find a young girl watching him work. Her mother, he noticed, wore a press badge from some local station, but the child's concern seemed genuine.

He knelt down to her level, aware of every camera catching the moment but focusing solely on her worried face.

"I hope so," he said honestly. "Sometimes people get hurt in ways we can't see. The best thing we can do is help them find their way back."

She nodded solemnly, then looked at his torn cape. "Does it hurt? When your special clothes get broken?"

The question caught him off guard. Trust a child to see past the spectacle to something more personal.

"Not physically," he said carefully. "But it reminds me that even things that seem unbreakable can be damaged. The important thing is how we repair what's broken."

---

He couldn't feel the wind. That's what hit him hardest as he fled across Metropolis - no sensation of air rushing past, no physical connection to the world around him. Just endless streams of data telling him about temperature, velocity, trajectory. The same way it told him about the tears in his synthetic skin, about the exposed metal beneath that shouldn't be there.

That one punch from Superman had done more than just damage his fake flesh. It had ripped away the lie he'd been living since they put him on that operating table. Since they promised to make him whole again.

Metropolis passed beneath him in a blur as he launched himself from rooftop to rooftop. Each landing should have hurt. Should have sent impact shocks through his legs, made his muscles burn. Instead, there was just... nothing. More numbers. More data. More proof that John Corbin was already dead, and this thing wearing his memories was just a hollow echo.

LuthorCorp Tower grew larger with each bound - that gleaming monument to progress and innovation. How many times had he stood in front of those doors? Back when he was still flesh and blood, still believing their promises about experimental treatments and cutting-edge prosthetics. Back when he could still feel hope as something more than an abstract concept.

He didn't plan the crash through the windows. Didn't calculate entry vectors or structural weak points. Pure animal rage carried him through the glass and into the cybernetics lab where they'd remade him. Where they'd turned a wounded soldier into their chrome puppet.

The impact sent equipment flying everywhere. Alarms screamed. Emergency shutters started dropping. He caught glimpses of his reflection in the scattered shards - the exposed skull where Superman's strike had torn away the lies. Chrome and circuits where there should have been muscle and bone.

Scientists scattered at his arrival - the same ones who'd hovered over him during the surgery, promising this would make him better. Now they ran from their own creation. Funny how that worked. Or it would be funny, if he could still feel anything close to humor. And the reminder only made him angrier.

"Fix this!" The words came out wrong, his voice box struggling with emotions it was never meant to process. Everything came out wrong now. "You promised I'd still be me!"

He saw Lionel Luthor standing at his observation window - the same spot where he'd watched them cut away John Corbin's humanity piece by piece. The old man didn't even flinch as a steel table crumpled under mechanically enhanced strength.

"John, please." That same condescending tone he'd used during the early tests. "You're damaging expensive equipment."

The laugh that tore from his throat sounded like breaking machinery. "Expensive equipment? Like what you turned me into? Another piece of LuthorCorp property?"

Lex appeared in the doorway, hands raised like he was calming a wild animal. Maybe he was. Anything would be better than being just a hollow piece of metal "What my father means is that we can help you. But you need to calm down."

"Calm down?" His fingers crushed a monitor without conscious thought. He couldn't even feel the sharp edges cutting into the synthetic skin. "Look at me! Really look!"

He gestured to his ruined face, to the places where one punch had stripped away months of careful deception. "This is what you did to me. What you turned me into!"

Dr. Hamilton approached with his ever-present tablet, still treating this like another laboratory observation. "Your neural readings are spiking. The kryptonite core's radiation levels are unprecedented—"

"The core?" Something broke inside what was left of his human mind. His chest split open on reflex, flooding the lab with that sickly green glow. "You mean this thing? The piece of alien rock you stuck in my chest to replace my heart?"

He remembered waking up after the surgery. Remembered them explaining how the kryptonite would power his new body. How it would make him strong enough to stand against Superman. They never mentioned how it would feel like ice in his chest where warmth used to be.

"To save your life!" Dr. Faulkner stepped forward, and for a moment he almost believed the concern in her voice. "You were dying, John. The IED damage, the experimental treatments failing—"

"So you turned me into this?" Another monitor shattered under his fist. He couldn't even feel satisfaction at the destruction. Each missing feeling was like a punch that not even Superman could match in it's devastating strength against his psyche "A puppet running on space rocks and computer chips?"

The memories flooded back - the endless pain after the IED, the surgeries that never quite fixed anything, the experimental treatments that only made things worse. But even at his lowest, he'd still been human. Still been a father who could feel his daughter's hugs. A husband who could hold his wife's hand. Now what was he?

"We gave you power," Lionel's voice stayed infuriatingly calm. "Made you stronger than Superman himself. Isn't that what you wanted? To show the world that humanity doesn't need alien saviors?"

"Don't pretend this was for me!" He moved toward Lionel, hearing the whir of joints that should have been muscle and bone. His own body was a stranger now, responding to programs instead of instincts. "This was about your weapons program. Your need to control everything. To own everyone."

Security teams had arrived, their weapons trained on him. He recognized the ammunition - custom-designed, probably just for him. They'd planned for this. Just like they'd planned everything else about his new existence.

But Lionel waved them back casually, like calling off trained dogs. "You're upset. The fight didn't go as planned. But we can upgrade your systems, improve the neural interface—"

"Improve?" He wanted to scream, to cry, to feel anything real. But the sense of touch was to him now nothing more than unreachable memories. And all that came out was static-laced sound. "You mean make me feel less? Take away what little humanity I have left?"

The worst part was remembering how to feel without being able to actually do it. His human brain remembered grief, remembered rage, remembered the simple pleasure of a warm cup of coffee. But his mechanical body reduced everything to data points. Equations. Programming.

"We can help you adjust," Lex said softly, stepping closer. "The synthetic skin can be repaired. The sensory systems enhanced—"

"Enhanced?" The word spilled from his artificial lips like poison. Without conscious thought, his arm transformed - that perfect synthetic skin flowing away like mercury to reveal the weapon beneath. Not an attachment or a tool, but part of him. It had always been part of him, from the moment they'd put him on that operating table. "Like this? Is this your idea of enhancement?"

The memory hit him with brutal clarity - teaching Sarah how to hold a baseball, her tiny hand warm in his as he showed her how to grip the seams. Such a simple thing. Such a human thing. Now his hands could transform into blades that could cut through steel, but they couldn't feel his own daughter's touch.

His reflection caught his eye in one of the lab's untouched windows. The chrome skull lay exposed where Superman's punch had torn away the lie, artificial muscles visible through shredded skin. Like a Halloween mask half-torn away to reveal the monster underneath. He reached up slowly, metal fingers touching metal skull, and felt nothing. No sensation. No warmth. No proof he was still alive.

"You said..." His voice caught, memories of their promises echoing in his mind. All those meetings before the surgery, all those careful reassurances that felt like acid now. "You said I'd still be me. That I'd still feel..."

The papers he'd signed flashed through his thoughts. Dr. Faulkner's patient voice explaining how they'd preserve his mind while enhancing his body. Such technical terms for such a simple truth - they'd stolen everything that made him human. The taste of fluffy pancakes, God, how much his daughter loved those. The warmth of sunlight on his face. Even the ability to cry when the pain became too much.

"The neural interface takes time to calibrate," Hamilton clutched his tablet like a shield, still treating this like a problem his precious data could solve. "With a few adjustments—"

"Adjustments?" He turned to face the wall of monitors displaying what they called his vital signs. What vitals? Lines of code scrolled past, marking him as just another machine to be programmed. His human brain - the only part of him still alive - was just another component now. A biological processor running on alien rocks and broken promises.

His fist went through the main display, but there was no satisfaction in the destruction. No release. Just more data feeds, more system reports, more proof that John Corbin had died months ago beneath surgical lights and corporate lies.

"Is that all I am to you?" He wanted to scream, but even his voice wasn't his own anymore - just electronic tones approximating human emotion. "Numbers on a screen? Code to be adjusted?"

"You're a breakthrough," Lionel's voice carried that same corporate pride that had seemed so convincing before. "The next stage of human evolution. But evolution requires refinement—"

"Refinement?" The sound that came from his throat was all grinding gears and broken dreams. He moved to the full-length mirror they'd used for his calibration tests, the one that had shown him his new "improved" form after the surgery. His reflection stared back - half-pretend human, half-exposed machine. "Like making me pretty again? Covering up what I really am?"

Hours spent in front of this mirror, practicing facial expressions like an actor learning a role. Teaching synthetic muscles to smile, to frown, to play at being human. All so he could pretend to still be John Corbin, loving father, devoted husband, American soldier. What a joke.

"John," Lex's voice might have carried real concern, if he could still believe in real things. "Let us help you. The upgrades we discussed, the improved sensory systems—"

"More lies?" His hand pressed against what remained of his synthetic skin, but there was no sensation. Just endless streams of data reporting pressure and contact. Like reading about touch in a book instead of feeling it. "More promises about making me human again?"

The memory stabbed through him - trying to kiss Angela after the surgery, seeing her flinch from his too-perfect lips, his too-cold touch. The divorce papers had cited "irreconcilable differences." How do you reconcile with a husband who isn't even human anymore?

"The upgrades are real," Faulkner insisted, like better programming could replace a soul. "We can enhance your neural processing, improve tactile response—"

"Make me a better weapon, you mean." His fingers dug into the artificial flesh of his face, synthetic skin parting without resistance. "A more obedient soldier. That's what this was always about, wasn't it?"

That's why they'd chosen him. The decorated veteran. The wounded warrior desperate for healing. The perfect test subject for their chrome-plated lies. They'd known exactly what buttons to push, what hopes to exploit.

"Make you whole again," Lionel corrected with that smooth corporate voice. "But first, you need to let us help you."

Whole again. The words echoed in what remained of his human mind as he stared at his reflection - at this thing they'd turned him into. The exposed chrome seemed to mock him, showing the truth beneath every pretense of humanity.

"It's all fake..." His fingers tightened, synthetic skin parting like tissue paper. All those careful calibrations, all those perfect imitations of life, tearing away to show the death beneath. "Everything you promised. Everything you made me believe."

"John, please—" Lex started, but he wasn't John anymore. Maybe he never had been, not since they'd put that alien rock where his heart should be.

"A FRAUD!" The scream emerged as pure electronic distortion as he ripped away more of his artificial flesh. Each tear revealed more truth - pistons instead of muscles, hydraulics instead of tendons, circuits instead of veins. Everything that made him look human falling away like autumn leaves, leaving only chrome and cold purpose behind.

The scientists backed away as he systematically destroyed their carefully crafted illusion. Security teams raised their weapons again, but Lionel remained still, watching with that same calculating interest he'd shown during the original surgery. Like this breakdown was just another phase of the experiment.

"It's all I am," his voice grew more mechanical with each word, humanity bleeding out with his discarded skin. The pretense of being John Corbin falling away with each strip of synthetic flesh. "It's who I am!"

His fist shattered the mirror, chrome knuckles spraying glass across the lab. The impact registered as pure data - force applied, resistance encountered, structural damage achieved. No pain, no satisfaction, no feeling at all. Just numbers proving that John Corbin was truly gone.

"Metallo!"

The name hung in the air like a death knell. Behind him, Lionel smiled slightly, the expression of a man who'd gotten exactly what he wanted. He'd wanted a weapon, after all.

Now he had one.

"If that's what you want to be," Lionel Luthor's voice dripped honey-coated poison, "we can help you embrace it. Make you even stronger. Remove those... inconvenient human limitations."

Human limitations. Like compassion. Like remorse. Like the ability to feel your daughter's hand in yours or your wife's lips against your cheek. The memories burned in the human brain they hadn't quite figured out how to fully control.

He turned to face them, chrome skull catching the harsh lab lights. The kryptonite core in his chest - his mockery of a heart - pulsed with sickly green energy. They thought the radiation made him stronger. Really, it just made the hatred burn colder.

"Do it," he heard himself say, voice stripped of its last human overtones. Let them think they'd broken him. Let them believe John Corbin had died in that mirror, leaving only their obedient machine behind. He played the obedient soldier before with all those ungrateful politicians, wearing that mask again came effortlessly "Make me what you always wanted me to be."

The next hours passed in a haze of surgical violations and cold calculation. He watched through cameras that had replaced his eyes as Hamilton and Faulkner worked their "improvements" into his systems. Their hands moved with practiced efficiency, installing new neural interfaces that would supposedly make him better. More stable. More controlled.

Every touch of their instruments reminded him of that first surgery. The promises about preserving his humanity while enhancing his body. The carefully worded explanations about becoming something greater than human. Such pretty lies, wrapped in technical terms and corporate jargon.

He knew what they were really doing - installing controls, fail-safes, ways to make their weapon more predictable. Part of him wanted to laugh. They still thought they were dealing with John Corbin, the desperate soldier who'd believed their promises. But John Corbin had died in that plaza, when Superman's fist had torn away the lie they'd wrapped him in. What lay on their operating table now was something else entirely. Something born of chrome and circuitry, powered by alien radiation and a hatred that burned colder than space.

Lex watched from the observation window, and something almost like guilt crossed his features. The younger Luthor had always been different - maybe he'd actually believed they were helping. But Lionel's eyes held only satisfaction as he observed his creation being "refined." A proud father watching his child learn to kill.

Let them think they'd won. Let them believe their "refinements" would make him docile. The kryptonite core pulsed with his carefully hidden rage, but outwardly he remained still. Mechanical. The perfect patient. They wanted Metallo? He would give them exactly what they deserved.

He thought about Sarah as they worked. His little girl, who'd stopped calling after the first time she'd tried to hug him and felt only cold metal beneath fake skin. He thought about Angela, who'd filed for divorce when she realized her husband had become a thing of chrome and wires. He thought about his unit in Iraq, about brothers in arms who'd died while he lived on as this mockery of life.

"How do you feel?" Hamilton asked when they finished, still clutching his precious tablet of readouts and data points.

He flexed his upgraded systems, testing the new neural pathways they'd installed. Everything felt sharper, cleaner, more precise. And more hollow. Like they'd scraped away whatever traces of humanity had survived the first transformation.

"Like what I am," he replied, modulating his voice to perfect neutrality. Let them hear the machine they wanted. "A machine."

"The sensory improvements will take time to integrate," Faulkner explained, her voice carrying that false compassion he'd once believed. "But you should notice enhanced tactical processing, better motor control—"

"Better everything," he cut her off, remembering how she'd promised the first surgery would let him feel again. "Except what matters."

He turned to Lionel, keeping his chrome face as impassive as the mask it was. "When do we begin the next phase?"

"Soon," Luthor smiled, pleased by his apparent acceptance. The smile of a man who thought he'd won. "First, we need to ensure these upgrades are properly calibrated. That your systems are... stable."

That you're properly controlled, he translated silently. That your weapon won't turn against its makers. As if they could control what they'd created. As if their programming and fail-safes could contain the cold fire burning in his kryptonite heart.

"Of course," he replied with mechanical smoothness. "Whatever you think is best."

He caught Lex's slight frown, the younger Luthor perhaps sensing something beneath the perfect obedience. But Lionel only nodded, already turning to discuss the next stages of his precious project with the team. Already planning how to use his new weapon.

They'd given him everything they'd promised - strength beyond human limits, power to match Superman himself, freedom from physical weakness. Everything except what he'd really wanted. What they'd never intended to give him. His humanity. His soul. The ability to be more than their chrome puppet dancing on radioactive strings.

He flexed his enhanced systems, testing the improved response time, the faster processing, the deadlier capabilities. They'd made him better, stronger, more lethal. And in doing so, they'd given him exactly what he needed.

The perfect weapon. Just not for them.

The kryptonite core pulsed with steady rhythm now, its radiation perfectly regulated by his upgraded systems. On the surface, he was everything they'd worked so hard to create - their chrome soldier, their mechanical warrior, their answer to Superman. Their obedient slave.

But beneath that polished exterior, in the human brain they couldn't quite control, John Corbin's last gift to Metallo burned like pure radioactive fire:

Patience. Purpose. And the perfect understanding of what he had become.

Let them think they'd won. Let them believe their weapon was properly calibrated, their monster safely caged. He had all the time in the world now to plan their downfall, to nurture the cold hatred that the kryptonite made stronger with every pulse.

After all, machines could wait forever. And in the end, Lionel Luthor would learn exactly what kind of monster he'd created. They all would.

---

Morning sunlight streamed through the windows of Clark's apartment, but for once its warmth brought little comfort. His hands shook as he tried to steady himself against the kitchen counter, each wave of nausea worse than the last. The fight with Metallo had left him feeling wrong in ways he'd never experienced before - like his cells were slowly tearing themselves apart.

He managed three unsteady steps toward the coffee maker before his legs threatened to give out. The room spun sickeningly as he gripped the counter, his usually invulnerable skin clammy and oversensitive. Even his enhanced senses felt wrong - sounds too sharp one moment, muffled the next. The effects of prolonged kryptonite exposure, he realized grimly. Something he'd have to learn to deal with in this brave new world of weaponized fragments of his dead home.

A knock at his door made him jump, his usual grace completely absent. "Clark? You in there?" Lois's voice carried clearly through the wood. "Perry's looking for our story on the fight..."

"Just a second," he called back, wincing at how weak his voice sounded. He made it to the door through sheer stubbornness, trying to compose himself before opening it.

Lois took one look at him and her expression shifted from professional focus to genuine concern. "You look terrible." She pushed past him into the apartment, reporter's instincts momentarily forgotten in favor of touching his forehead. "And you're burning up. What happened?"

"Just a bug going around," Clark managed, though the lie felt bitter on his tongue. After three months of dating, deceiving her had only gotten harder. "Nothing serious."

"Right," Lois said skeptically, steering him toward the couch with surprising gentleness. "Because you've never been sick a day in your life that I've known you, but somehow you caught something the morning after Superman's fight with Metallo?" Her eyes narrowed. "The fight that's all over the morning news?"

Before Clark could respond, she grabbed his remote and turned on the TV where GCN was replaying helicopter footage of the confrontation. Even through the grainy quality, the brutal exchange was clear - Superman and Metallo trading devastating blows across Centennial Park until both disappeared in a cloud of dust and debris. The anchor's voice carried clearly:

"Sources say neither Superman nor the LuthorCorp cyborg known as Metallo have been seen since their confrontation late last night. While property damage was extensive, no civilian casualties have been reported thanks to Superman's efforts to contain the fight. LuthorCorp representatives declined to comment on Metallo's current status or the apparent malfunction in his systems that witnesses say caused him to attack without provocation..."

"Malfunction," Lois scoffed, muting the TV. "More like Luthor's pet project going exactly as planned. The whole thing was a setup to test that green rock of theirs." She turned back to Clark, her expression softening as she took in his pallor. "Which is exactly why you're going to rest while I finish the story. We've got more than enough to expose what they did."

"Lois, I can't just-"

"Yes, you can," she cut him off, but there was real worry beneath her usual brusqueness. "Clark, you can barely stand up straight. The story's practically written - I just need to add the fight details and send it to Perry."

He wanted to argue, but another wave of nausea hit him hard. The room tilted alarmingly as Lois guided him to lie down on the couch. "At least let me help with the edits..."

"Nope." She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead that made his heart skip despite everything. "Doctor Lane's orders. You're going to rest." She paused, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "I... I need you to take care of yourself, okay? This thing between us... it matters to me. You matter to me."

The simple honesty in her voice made his chest ache. Here was this brilliant, fearless woman who had somehow fallen for Clark Kent - farm boy, reporter, partner. Not knowing he was also the hero she admired from afar, not seeing the lies he had to tell her every day. In that moment, watching her worry about his wellbeing, something shifted inside him.

"Come to Smallville with me," he said suddenly.

Lois blinked, clearly thrown by the non sequitur. "What?"

"This weekend," Clark pressed on, pushing himself up slightly despite his swimming head. "Come meet my parents properly. Not just as my colleague or friend, but as... as someone special to me." He swallowed hard. "They should know the woman who matters so much to their son."

"Clark..." Lois's voice softened as she sat beside him. "Are you sure? Meeting the parents is kind of a big step..."

"I'm sure," he said firmly, reaching for her hand despite his trembling fingers. "And maybe... maybe we could visit your parents too? I know things are complicated with your father, but..."

"That's putting it mildly," Lois snorted, but her fingers tightened around his. "Dad's still processing his star military correspondent daughter dating a 'civilian journalist' instead of a nice Air Force captain." But there was a warmth in her eyes that belied her words. "Though Mom's been asking to meet you properly."

"So... is that a yes?"

A slow smile spread across her face. "Yes, you impossibly sweet farm boy. I'll come meet your parents." She squeezed his hand. "But only if you promise to actually rest today. Deal?"

"Deal," Clark agreed, relief washing through him. Maybe he couldn't tell her everything yet, but this was a start - bringing her fully into the parts of his life he could share.

"I'll call Perry on my way to the Planet, let him know you're sick." Lois gathered her things, pausing at the door. "Try to actually sleep instead of working from home?" Her tone made it clear she knew his usual habits.

"Yes ma'am," Clark managed a weak salute that made her roll her eyes fondly.

"I'll bring soup later," she promised. "And Clark?" She paused, hand on the doorknob. "Thank you. For wanting to share your family with me."

After she left, Clark sank back into the couch, his body finally giving in to the bone-deep exhaustion he'd been fighting. The kryptonite's effects still pulsed through him in sickening waves, but somehow the ache felt more manageable now. He had something to look forward to - a chance to share more of himself with the woman he loved, even if he couldn't share everything yet.

He dozed fitfully, dreaming of green fire and metal hands reaching for his chest. When he jerked awake hours later, the sun had shifted to stream directly through his windows. The warm rays helped, slowly rebuilding his depleted strength. His hands had mostly stopped shaking, though his stomach still churned unpleasantly.

His phone buzzed with a text from Lois: "Story's filed. Perry loved it. Made sure to emphasize the 'accidental' nature of civilian evacuation before the fight. Rest up, Smallville - can't have you sick for our big weekend. P.S. Called your mom while fact-checking a quote. She's thrilled we're visiting. Thanks for the warning."

Clark groaned, imagining his mother's excitement at finally getting to properly meet Lois. He could already picture the family photos coming out, the embarrassing childhood stories... But underneath his mock horror was a warmth that had nothing to do with the sunlight healing his cells. His worlds were finally starting to merge - the human family that had raised him, and the woman who made him feel truly seen as Clark Kent, even if she didn't know all of him yet.

He needed to call Ma, warn her properly about this weekend. And maybe... maybe it was time to talk to his parents about eventually telling Lois the truth. The thought made his still-queasy stomach clench with anxiety, but also relief. One step at a time.

His phone rang as if summoned by his thoughts. "Clark?" Martha Kent's voice carried that particular tone of maternal concern that transcended distance. "Lois just called about fact-checking, but honey, you sound awful. What happened? Is this about that fight on the news?"

"I'm okay, Ma," Clark assured her, though he couldn't quite hide the weakness in his voice. "Just... that green rock they used. It takes a lot out of me."

"Jonathan's watching the coverage now," Martha said, worry clear in her tone. "That horrible machine they built... using pieces of your home world against you like that." She paused. "But that's not why you're calling, is it? Lois mentioned something about visiting this weekend?"

Clark smiled despite everything, hearing the poorly concealed excitement in his mother's voice. "Yeah, I... I asked her to come meet you and Pa. Properly this time, not just as my work partner."

"Oh sweetheart," Martha's voice softened. "You really care about her, don't you?"

"I do, Ma," Clark admitted quietly. "More than I've ever cared about anyone. That's why..." He took a deep breath. "That's why I think maybe we should talk about telling her. Not right away, but eventually. About everything."

A loaded silence fell. "Your father and I trust your judgment, Clark," Martha said finally. "We've seen how you look at her, how you talk about her. If you think she's someone who could handle knowing..."

"I do," Clark said firmly. "But I wanted to talk to you and Pa first. Face to face."

"Well then," Martha's smile was audible. "I guess we better get your old room ready for visitors." She paused. "And Clark? Get some rest. You sound exhausted."

"Yes ma'am," Clark smiled. "Love you, Ma."

"Love you too, sweetheart. Feel better."

He ended the call feeling lighter despite his lingering physical discomfort. This weekend would be a first step - bringing Lois further into his life, letting her see where he came from, who had shaped him into the man she knew. And maybe, eventually, he could share the rest of who he was with her too.

Another wave of nausea hit, but this time he rode it out with something like hope. The kryptonite's effects would fade, but what he felt for Lois only grew stronger. It was time to start bringing his worlds together, one careful step at a time. Starting with introducing the woman he loved to the family who had taught him what love really meant.

The drive from Metropolis to Smallville took just over three hours, but to Clark it felt both longer and shorter than usual. Longer because his powers were still recovering, making him actually feel every bump and turn of the road. Shorter because watching Lois take in the gradually changing landscape - skyscrapers giving way to suburbs, then to endless fields of corn and wheat - filled him with a nervous excitement that made time slip by.

"So this is where Clark Kent became Clark Kent," Lois mused, watching golden wheat fields roll past her window. The late afternoon sun caught her hair, creating a halo effect that made Clark's breath catch. "I always wondered what kind of place could produce someone so..." she gestured vaguely at him, smiling. "You."

"Disappointed it's not more exciting?" Clark asked, only half-joking. After Metropolis's constant energy, Smallville's peaceful fields might seem dull.

"Are you kidding?" Lois turned to him with genuine interest. "This is fascinating. I mean, look at this place - it's like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. No wonder you're so..." she paused, searching for the right word.

"Corny?" Clark supplied with a grin.

"I was going to say genuine," Lois swatted his arm. "But now that you mention it..."

As they passed the "Welcome to Smallville - Creamed Corn Capital of the World" sign, memories washed over Clark. The bridge where the bus accident had changed everything, Miller's High where he'd edited the school paper with Pete Ross, even the old Fordman's Department Store where he'd worked summers. Each place held its own story, though many of those stories he still couldn't share with Lois.

"Oh my god," Lois sat up straighter, pointing at a faded billboard. "Please tell me that's baby Clark Kent in the Smallville Harvest Festival parade."

Clark groaned. The billboard, somehow still standing after fifteen years, showed him at age ten proudly driving a miniature tractor in the children's parade. "Mom promised they'd taken that down years ago."

"This is amazing," Lois was already taking pictures with her phone. "Perry's going to love- Clark, look out!"

A white blur shot across the road, causing Clark to slam on the brakes. Before either of them could react, an enormous white dog bounded up to Clark's window, tail wagging furiously.

"Krypto!" Clark laughed as the dog tried to climb through his window. "Down boy! Let me at least park first!"

"You have a dog?" Lois asked, watching the massive white shepherd dance around their car with obvious joy.

"Family dog," Clark corrected, pulling onto the long dirt drive that led to the Kent farm. "Though he's always been especially attached to me. He's been with us since I was little."

The moment Clark stepped out of the car, Krypto nearly knocked him over with enthusiastic greeting. "I missed you too, boy," Clark scratched behind the dog's ears, feeling the last of his kryptonite-induced weakness fade under the combined effects of Kansas sunshine and unconditional canine love.

Krypto suddenly noticed Lois emerging from the passenger side. His tail stopped wagging as he studied her intently, head tilted in that particular way that had always made Clark wonder just how much his faithful companion understood.

"It's okay," Clark said softly. "She's family."

As if understanding perfectly, Krypto trotted over to Lois and sat at her feet, tail resuming its happy rhythm. He looked up at her expectantly, somehow managing to combine dignity with puppy-dog eyes in a way that made Clark's heart swell.

"Well aren't you handsome," Lois knelt to pet him, earning an immediate face-licking that made her laugh. "I can see where Clark gets his charm."

"Clark?" Martha Kent's voice carried from the farmhouse porch where she stood wiping her hands on her apron. The smell of fresh-baked pie drifted down the drive.

"Hi Mom!" Clark called back, grabbing their bags from the trunk. "Hope you don't mind company!"

"Mind?" Martha was already hurrying down the steps. "I've been waiting all day!" She pulled Clark into a fierce hug before turning to Lois. "And you must be Lois. I'm so glad to finally meet you properly."

Something in Lois's usual confident demeanor softened as Martha embraced her just as warmly. "Thank you for having me, Mrs. Kent."

"Martha, please," Clark's mother insisted. "Now come inside before the pie gets cold. Jonathan's just finishing up in the barn - he'll be so pleased you're here."

As they followed Martha up the porch steps, Krypto staying close to Lois's side as if appointed her personal guardian, Clark felt that familiar ache of homecoming. The screen door's familiar creak, the worn wooden boards beneath their feet, the way the setting sun painted everything in gold - it was all exactly as he remembered, yet somehow made new by seeing it through Lois's eyes.

"The place isn't much," he found himself saying as they entered the kitchen, suddenly aware of how modest it must seem compared to Metropolis. "But-"

"It's perfect," Lois cut him off, taking in the warm kitchen with its checked curtains and well-loved furniture. "Clark, it's absolutely perfect."

Before he could respond, the back door opened and Jonathan Kent entered, still wiping grease from his hands. "Thought I heard voices!" His face lit up at seeing Clark. "Son! And this must be the famous Lois Lane."

"Famous?" Lois smiled, shaking Jonathan's offered hand.

"Well, when your boy can't stop talking about someone every time he calls home..." Jonathan winked at Clark's reddening face.

"Dad..." Clark groaned, but couldn't help smiling as his parents exchanged knowing looks.

"Now, now," Martha intervened. "Let them at least get settled before the embarrassing stories start. Clark, why don't you show Lois around while I finish dinner? The guest room's all made up."

"Actually," Lois said carefully, "I was hoping Clark could show me the town first? While there's still some light?"

"Of course!" Martha beamed. "Dinner won't be for an hour yet. Just be sure to work up an appetite - I might have gone a bit overboard with the cooking."

"A bit?" Jonathan chuckled. "Martha, you've been baking since dawn."

As Clark led Lois back outside, Krypto following faithfully, he caught his parents exchanging another meaningful look. He'd seen that expression before - when he'd first told them he wanted to use his powers to help people, when he'd decided to move to Metropolis. It was their "our boy is growing up" look, and somehow seeing it now made his chest tight with emotion.

"So," Lois threaded her arm through his as they walked down the drive, "show me where Clark Kent became the man I..." she paused, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "The man I care about."

Clark's heart skipped at the almost-confession. "Well," he managed, voice rougher than he'd intended, "how about we start with Main Street? There's an ice cream parlor that hasn't changed since 1963..."

The next hour passed in a blur of memories and shared laughter. Clark showed her everything - Miller's High where he'd edited the Torch with Pete, the baseball diamond where he'd learned to love the game (though he'd never made varsity), and finally to Miller's Bridge. He paused there, the memories washing over him.

"I read about the accident in the old Torch archives," Lois said softly as they stood on the bridge, watching the water flow beneath them. "Must have been terrifying."

Clark nodded, remembering that day with perfect clarity - the chaos, the cold water, and afterward, Lana finding him outside the ambulance. Both of them wrapped in scratchy emergency blankets, shivering but alive, when she'd kissed him. "Changed a lot of things," he said simply. "Made me realize what matters most."

As they walked down Main Street, Clark noticed the lights still on at Ross Law Offices. Through the window, he could see Pete hunched over his desk, coffee cup precariously balanced on a stack of legal briefs, tie hanging loose around his neck. Some things never changed - Pete still threw himself into his work the same way he used to attack their high school debate prep.

"Would you look at what the tornado dragged in!" Pete's face lit up when he spotted them, and he practically bounced down the steps to meet them. The hug he gave Clark was pure small-town warmth, the kind you can only get from someone who's known you since you were both fighting over the last chocolate milk at lunch. "Man, how long's it been? Three months?"

"Too long," Clark grinned, patting his back. Some things never changed - like how Pete could still make him feel like that kid from kindergarten sharing a lunch table.

Pete stepped back, looking Clark up and down. "Metropolis must be feeding you well. Though I gotta say, they haven't completely city-slicked you yet." His eyes shifted to Lois, and his grin somehow got even wider. "And you've got to be Lois Lane. I've heard so much about you I feel like we're already friends."

"Oh really?" Lois raised an eyebrow at Clark, who suddenly found his shoes fascinating.

"Are you kidding? This guy..." Pete shook his head, laughing. "You should've heard him the night he finally got up the nerve to ask you to Bella Notte. Calls me at some ungodly hour, all 'Pete, I'm gonna do it, I'm really gonna ask her.' Sounding like he was about to defuse a bomb or something."

"I did not sound like that," Clark protested, but he was smiling too.

"Bro, you made me Google the restaurant's menu so you could practice pronouncing everything. In Italian."

"That was just... thorough research."

"You rehearsed asking her out in three different languages!"

"Okay, that part might be true," Clark admitted, rubbing the back of his neck while Lois tried not to laugh.

Jamie stuck his head out the office door, fighting back a grin. "Sorry Mr. Ross, but your four o'clock is here. The Johnson case?"

"Duty calls," Pete sighed. "But hey - you're coming to the harvest festival Saturday, right? Ma's entering her apple crumble, and I know she'd love to see you both. Plus, Sarah's helping run the pie contest this year."

"Sarah Jenkins?" Clark's eyebrows shot up. "The same Sarah you've had a crush on since ninth grade?"

Now it was Pete's turn to look embarrassed. "Maybe. We've been seeing each other. Taking it slow, you know?"

"That's great, Pete. Really."

"Yeah, well." Pete smiled, softer now. "Sometimes the right person's been there all along, you just need time to figure it out." He glanced meaningfully between Clark and Lois. "Seems like I'm not the only one who figured that out."

"Get back to work, counselor," Clark laughed, but there was real warmth in it.

"Hey, save us spots at the bonfire Saturday?" Pete called as he headed back inside. "Like old times?"

"You got it."

After Pete disappeared into his office, they walked through the town square where workers were stringing lights between lampposts for the festival. Clark pointed out all his old haunts - the gazebo where the high school band still played concerts, the bench where he'd done his homework, the movie theater that somehow kept going despite the multiplex one town over.

"Hard to believe this place is real sometimes," Lois said, taking it all in. The streets were lined with mom-and-pop shops, their windows full of handmade signs. A group of kids rode past on bikes, calling out "Hi Mr. Kent!" as they went. "It's like stepping into another world."

"Too quaint?" Clark asked, and there was just a hint of worry in his voice.

"No," Lois shook her head, threading her arm through his. "It's beautiful. I mean, look at this - people actually know their neighbors here. They leave their doors unlocked. They wave to strangers on the street." She smiled up at him. "No wonder you turned out the way you did."

The setting sun painted everything in shades of amber and rose, casting long shadows across the square. They stopped by the old courthouse, its white columns glowing gold in the evening light. Lois leaned against one of the pillars, watching him with an expression that made his heart race.

"What?" he asked softly.

"Just... seeing you here. In your element. You carry a piece of this place with you in Metropolis, you know? That fundamental decency, that belief in people." Her voice grew quieter. "I used to think it was an act sometimes - nobody could really be that genuine. But being here, seeing where you came from..."

Clark stepped closer, drawn by the vulnerability in her voice. She reached up to touch his face, her fingers tracing his jaw with a tenderness that took his breath away. When their lips met, it felt inevitable - like everything in his life had been leading to this moment, this woman, this perfect Kansas twilight.

The kiss deepened naturally, speaking of shared stories and future chapters yet to be written. Clark pulled her closer, overwhelmed by how right this felt - showing her his world, sharing these pieces of himself. When they finally broke apart, the sun had nearly set, painting the sky in dramatic purples and golds.

"We should head back," Clark said reluctantly. "Mom's probably got dinner ready."

"Just... give me a minute," Lois murmured, not moving from his embrace. "I want to remember this exactly how it is right now."

Clark understood perfectly. The way the fading light caught her hair, the warmth of her body against his, the perfect quiet of a small-town evening broken only by distant crickets and Krypto's contented sighs - it was a moment he wanted to preserve forever too.

"I love you," he whispered, the words slipping out naturally, inevitably. They hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning and promise.

Lois went very still in his arms. For a heart-stopping moment, Clark thought he'd ruined everything. Then she looked up at him, and the vulnerability in her eyes took his breath away.

"I love you too," she whispered. "God help me, Clark Kent, but I do."

The walk back to the farm passed in comfortable silence, their fingers intertwined, both of them processing the weight of what they'd just shared. Even Krypto seemed to sense the moment's importance, padding along quietly beside them instead of his usual boundless energy. As they approached the warm lights of home, Clark felt something settle in his chest - a certainty that whatever came next, this was right.

Martha had indeed gone overboard with dinner. The kitchen table groaned under the weight of every comfort food Clark had ever mentioned enjoying - golden fried chicken, mashed potatoes with his favorite gravy, fresh rolls still warm from the oven, at least three different vegetables from the garden, and what looked like both apple and cherry pie for dessert.

"Martha, this is amazing," Lois breathed, taking in the feast. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble..."

"Nonsense," Martha smiled, pulling out chairs for them both. "It's not every day we get to properly meet the woman who's made our boy so happy."

As they settled in to eat, Jonathan poured everyone fresh lemonade – Martha's special recipe that Clark had missed in Metropolis. "So, Lois," he said, passing her a glass, "Clark tells us you grew up an Army brat?"

"That's right," Lois nodded, accepting the glass. "Moved around a lot. Germany, Japan, different bases across the States. Complete opposite of Clark's upbringing."

"Must have been hard, all that moving," Martha said sympathetically, passing the mashed potatoes. "Though I imagine it helped make you the intrepid reporter you are now."

"It definitely taught me to adapt quickly," Lois agreed. "Though I have to admit, there's something appealing about having roots like this." She glanced around the warm kitchen. "About knowing exactly where you come from."

"Oh, speaking of where Clark comes from," Martha's eyes sparkled with mischief, "has he ever told you about his fourth-grade science fair project?"

"Mom," Clark groaned, recognizing that look. "She doesn't need to hear—"

"Now this I have to hear," Lois leaned forward eagerly.

"He was determined to prove that chocolate milk came from brown cows," Martha continued, ignoring Clark's embarrassed protests. "Spent weeks researching it, even convinced Mr. Peterson to let him interview him about his dairy herd."

"I was nine!" Clark defended himself as Lois dissolved into laughter.

"The presentation was very thorough," Jonathan added, clearly enjoying himself. "Had charts and everything. Even brought in chocolate milk samples for the judges to taste."

"What happened?" Lois asked, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

"Got honorable mention," Martha smiled. "The judges said his scientific method was excellent, even if his hypothesis needed work."

"That's our Clark," Jonathan chuckled. "Even when he's wrong, he does it thoroughly."

The conversation flowed naturally from there, moving between childhood stories and current events. Martha told Lois about Clark's first attempt at baking, which ended with flour coating every surface in the kitchen. Jonathan recalled teaching him to drive the tractor, how seriously young Clark had taken every lesson.

"He's always been like that," Martha said fondly, getting up to refill water glasses. "So determined to do things right, to help people." She squeezed Clark's shoulder as she passed. "Even as a little boy, he'd bring home injured animals, try to nurse them back to health."

"Still does that in Metropolis," Lois smiled. "Last week he spent three hours helping old Mrs. Rodriguez from the corner store reorganize her stockroom. Wouldn't take a penny for it either."

The pride in her voice made Clark's heart swell, even as he tried to deflect the praise. "It wasn't a big deal. She needed help, that's all."

"That's what makes you special, son," Jonathan said quietly. "You never think it is a big deal. You just help because it's right."

Lois watched this exchange with soft eyes, and Clark could see her understanding something deeper about him, about where his values came from. The way his parents had shaped him wasn't just in the stories they told, but in these quiet moments of affirming what mattered most.

"These rolls are amazing," Lois said after a moment, clearly trying to lighten the emotional weight that had settled over the table. "Clark mentioned you made them from scratch?"

"Family recipe," Martha beamed. "Been in the Kent family for generations. Though I had to modify it a bit when Clark was young – that boy could eat his weight in bread if we let him."

"Still can," Jonathan chuckled. "Remember that county fair when he was fifteen? Eight corn dogs and then asked what was for dinner?"

"Growing boy," Clark shrugged, making everyone laugh.

As Martha served the pies – "You have to try both, dear, they're different experiences entirely" – Krypto raised his head from where he'd been dozing at Lois's feet. The old dog had taken to her immediately, which Clark knew meant more to his parents than they let on. Krypto had always been an excellent judge of character.

"I have to say," Lois said, savoring a bite of apple pie, "this beats any restaurant in Metropolis."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Martha smiled. "Especially if it's about my pies. Though I'm sure you must miss the city's variety sometimes, Clark?"

"The food's good there," Clark agreed, "but nothing compares to home cooking. Especially yours, Mom."

"Smart answer, son," Jonathan winked at Lois. "We taught him well."

After dinner, they moved to the living room, where Martha insisted on showing Lois the family photo albums. The old leather-bound books were well-worn from years of handling, with fading photos telling the story of Clark's life in Smallville. Some corners were bent, others marked with Martha's neat handwriting noting dates and occasions.

"Oh no," Clark groaned as his mother pulled out the elementary school album. "Not those years."

"These are exactly the years I need to see," Lois said, settling next to Martha on the couch. The lamp cast a warm glow over the pages as they turned them, revealing a young Clark in various stages of growing up.

They found his unfortunate bowl cut phase ("Every boy had that haircut!" "In what decade, Smallville?"), his first newspaper article for the Torch about the cafeteria's mysterious "mystery meat" that had actually led to the school changing their menu, and his high school graduation where he'd somehow managed to trip on his own gown.

"Someone definitely stepped on it," Clark insisted as Lois studied the sequence of photos capturing his ungraceful descent from the stage.

"Nobody was within three feet of you, son," Jonathan chuckled from his armchair. "Some things even your mother's hemming couldn't prevent."

"Oh my god," Lois suddenly sat up straighter, pointing to a particular photo. "Is that you in the school play?"

The image showed Clark at seventeen, decked out in full cowboy regalia - boots, hat, and what he'd thought at the time was a convincing frontier swagger. His ears reddened as Lois leaned closer to study it.

"Oklahoma," he admitted. "I was Curly."

"He had such a lovely singing voice," Martha said proudly. "Still does, though he won't admit it."

"Really?" Lois turned to him with newfound interest. Her reporter's instincts were clearly kicking in. "I didn't know you could sing."

"Mom..." Clark warned, seeing the familiar glint in his mother's eye.

"The whole town talked about it for weeks," Martha continued, ignoring his protest. "Especially after that opening number. What was it called, Jonathan?"

"'Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin','" Jonathan supplied helpfully. "Used to practice it out in the barn. Gave the chickens quite a shock at first."

Lois was already pulling out her phone, trying to be subtle about it. "You have to sing some. Just a tiny bit."

"Absolutely not," Clark said, though he couldn't help smiling at her enthusiasm.

"Please?" She fixed him with her best puppy-dog eyes. "I showed you my junior high photos with the braces and the unfortunate perm."

"That's different," Clark protested. "Those were cute."

"The perm was not cute," Lois countered. "Come on, Smallville. One verse. For me?"

Clark looked between her hopeful expression and his parents' amused faces. Even Krypto had perked up, head tilted expectantly.

"One verse," he sighed in mock defeat. "And no recording!"

He saw Lois press record anyway but decided to let it slide. Standing up (because if he was going to do this, he might as well commit), he cleared his throat and began:

"There's a bright golden haze on the meadow,

There's a bright golden haze on the meadow,

The corn is as high as an elephant's eye,

And it looks like it's climbin' clear up to the sky..."

His voice was warm and clear, the familiar lyrics bringing back memories of rehearsals in the school auditorium. He'd forgotten how much he'd actually enjoyed it, before self-consciousness had taken over.

"Clark Kent," Lois said when he finished, her eyes wide. "You've been holding out on me."

"Not exactly front-page material," he shrugged, sitting back down.

"Are you kidding? Wait until Perry hears about this-"

"You wouldn't dare," Clark made a playful grab for her phone, but she held it away, laughing.

"Oh, I absolutely would. This is going in my special blackmail folder, right next to your coffee maker disaster from last month."

"There's a lot of hidden talents in this one," Jonathan said, watching their banter with obvious approval. "Though some should maybe stay hidden – like that brief attempt at growing a mustache senior year."

"Dad!"

"Now that I have to see," Lois said eagerly, turning back to the albums.

"No, we can definitely skip-" Clark reached for the page, but Martha was quicker.

"Here!" she pointed triumphantly to a photo Clark had hoped was lost forever. His teenage self stared back, sporting what could generously be called an attempt at facial hair.

"Oh, Smallville," Lois pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. "That's... quite a look."

"I was trying to look older," Clark defended himself. "Everyone was doing it."

"Everyone was trying to look like Tom Selleck?" Lois raised an eyebrow.

"More like trying to copy his father," Martha said fondly. "Jonathan had quite the mustache when we first met."

"Still say I looked distinguished," Jonathan touched his now clean-shaven face.

"You looked like a young Kevin Costner," Martha corrected with the smile of a long-running joke between them.

The evening wound down naturally after that, comfortable silences mixing with easy conversation. Clark noticed the little ways his parents had accepted Lois - his mother's casual touches to her arm or hand when making a point, his father asking her genuine questions about her views on everything from politics to farming subsidies.

Later, as his parents insisted on sending them home with leftovers ("You're both too skinny, working those long reporter hours"), Clark caught his mother's eye. The look they shared said everything - about love, about approval, about seeing your child find happiness with someone worthy of them.

"You'll come back soon?" Martha asked as she hugged Lois goodbye. "Maybe for the harvest festival next month? The whole town turns out for it, and I could teach you my pie crust technique."

"I'd love that," Lois said sincerely, and Clark could tell she meant it. This wasn't just politeness – she genuinely wanted to be part of this world, his world.

As they loaded the leftovers into their car, Jonathan pulled Clark aside. "She's special, son," he said quietly. "The real deal."

"I know, Dad," Clark smiled, watching Lois laugh at something his mother was saying. "Trust me, I know."

---

The stars were coming out as they pulled away from the Kent farm, the Kansas night spreading vast and beautiful above them. Lois had insisted on driving back to Metropolis, claiming Clark needed rest after playing tour guide all day. But they both knew the real reason – she wasn't quite ready to leave yet, to break the spell of this perfect evening.

"Your parents are amazing," she said softly, eyes on the dark road ahead. "I can see where you get it from."

Clark smiled, watching the farmhouse grow smaller in the side mirror. "They loved you, you know. Mom's probably already planning what to teach you at the harvest festival."

"About that..." Lois glanced at him. "Would you... would you want to meet my family too? I mean, properly? Not just the awkward run-ins with Dad at press conferences?"

Clark reached over to take her hand, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her palm. "I'd love to."

"Really?" She sounded almost surprised. "Because Dad can be... intense. And Mom tries too hard sometimes, and Lucy will definitely try to embarrass me with childhood stories..."

"Sounds perfect," Clark said sincerely. "When?"

Lois was quiet for a moment, chewing her lower lip in that way she did when working up to something. "What if... what if we went tomorrow? For dinner?" She rushed on before he could respond. "I mean, we're already halfway there, sort of. And my apartment's closer to their place than yours, so you could stay over tonight and—" She stopped, a blush creeping up her neck. "I mean, if you want to. Stay over. With me."

The implications of that suggestion hung in the air between them. In their month of dating, they hadn't taken that step yet. Not because they didn't want to, but because everything had felt too precious to rush.

"I'd like that," Clark said softly, meaning both staying over and meeting her family. The way her hand tightened on his told him she understood.

"I should probably call Mom," she said after a moment. "Give her some warning. She'll kill me if I just show up with you unannounced. Mamá gets intense about dinner guests." She fumbled for her phone, then remembered she was driving. "Would you...?"

Clark found her mother's number and dialed, putting it on speaker. The phone rang twice before Eleanor Lane's warm voice, touched with a familiar accent, filled the car: "¿Mija? Es muy tarde. Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Mamá. Better than fine, actually. I was wondering... would it be okay if I brought someone to dinner tomorrow? Someone special?"

There was a pause, then: "Clark Kent? ¡Por fin! Finally!"

Lois shot him a surprised look. "How did you...?"

"Ay, mija, por favor. The way you talk about him? Every time you call, 'Clark wrote this' and 'Clark said that.' I've been waiting for this call." Eleanor's smile was audible. "Of course he's welcome. I'll make sure your father behaves himself."

"Mamá..."

"And I'll call your sister. Lucy's in town this week, ¿sabías? Working on some big case. She'll be thrilled to meet him."

"That's not exactly the word I'd use," Lois muttered, but she was smiling. "What time should we come?"

"Seven? That'll give me time to make something nice. Voy a hacer tu favorito - my special enchiladas verdes." There was a rustling sound, then: "Clark, mi amor, any food allergies I should know about?"

"No señora," Clark answered smoothly, his accent perfect from his time in Mexico. "Me encanta la comida mexicana."

There was a delighted gasp from Eleanor. "¡Ay, habla español! Lois, why didn't you tell me? Sam! Sam, ven aquí – Lois is bringing Clark to dinner tomorrow! And he speaks Spanish!"

They heard the General's gruff voice in the background: "Kent? The civilian?"

"Dad..." Lois's warning tone was met with rapid Spanish from her mother: "¡Samuel Lane, no empieces! He's a good boy, you'll see."

"Don't worry, mija," Eleanor switched back to English. "I'll handle your father. You two drive safe now. Te quiero."

"Te quiero también, Mamá," Lois replied softly before hanging up. She let out a breath she'd been holding. "Well, that's happening."

"They seem nice," Clark offered. "Your mom reminds me of Doña Rosa from Mexico, with the same warm energy."

"They're... complicated." Lois was quiet for a moment, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. The Kansas night spread vast and dark around them, broken only by their headlights and scattered stars. "It wasn't always complicated. Before Mom got sick, we were almost disgustingly normal. Well, as normal as you can be with General Sam Lane for a father."

Clark watched her profile in the dashboard lights, seeing the tension in her jaw that always appeared when she was working up to something difficult. "Tell me?" he asked softly.

"It was at one of Dad's bases in Germany," she began, the words coming slowly at first. "Mom was teaching art at the base school. She loved working with kids, sharing her culture through painting. She'd have these amazing classes where she'd teach them about Mexican artists, show them how to mix colors to capture sunset over the Sierra Madre." A smile touched her lips at the memory.

"Then she started getting these headaches. Really bad ones. The base doctors kept saying it was stress, or maybe migraines. But Mom knew something was wrong. She'd never been sick like that before." Lois swallowed hard. "Finally, one of the teachers noticed her hands shaking during class. Made her go to a real hospital off base."

Lois fell quiet for a moment, lost in memory. Clark waited, giving her space to continue.

"Stage three brain tumor. Just... there, growing all that time while doctors told her to take aspirin." Her voice cracked slightly. "Dad went full military mode. Started pulling strings, calling in favors, getting her transferred to the best hospitals. But you can't fight cancer with rank or orders."

Clark reached over, taking her hand. She squeezed back hard, drawing strength from his touch.

"Lucy was thirteen, right in that rebellious phase anyway. But watching Mom go through chemo, losing her hair, being so sick she couldn't even hold a paintbrush... Lucy started acting out. Staying out late, picking fights. I think maybe she thought if she caused enough trouble, it would somehow make Mom better. Like the universe would trade one problem for another."

"And you?"

"I went the other way. Perfect grades, perfect behavior. Started taking care of everything at home. I was sixteen, trying so hard to be the strong one. Like if I just didn't make any mistakes, didn't cause any problems, somehow it would fix everything." She laughed softly. "God, it was exhausting."

"You were trying to help the only way you knew how."

"Yeah, well. Mom saw right through both of us. Even when she was so sick she could barely sit up, she was still... still such a mom, you know? She started having Lucy sit with her during her good days, teaching her to paint again. The art therapy was supposed to help Mom's recovery, but really... really, she was helping Lucy find a way to process everything."

"What about you?"

"She'd send me on these elaborate errands. 'Mija, I need these specific chiles from that Mexican market across town' or 'Can you find that special paint I used to use?' Took me forever to realize she was making me take breaks, forcing me to step away from trying to be perfect all the time."

The highway stretched empty before them as Lois continued, "The hardest part was watching Dad. General Sam Lane, who'd faced down enemy fire without flinching, completely lost when faced with something he couldn't fix with military precision. He'd just sit there during her treatments, holding her hand, looking so damn helpless."

"How long was her treatment?"

"Fourteen months. Surgery, radiation, chemo, more surgery. But she fought through all of it. The doctors called her their miracle. Five years cancer-free now." Lois smiled, real joy breaking through the old pain. "She started painting again during recovery. These incredible scenes from her childhood in Mexico. Bright markets, her abuela's garden, the street where she grew up. Like she was filling our house with color again when everything had felt grey for so long."

Clark could picture it clearly, teenage Lois with that same determination she carried now, trying so hard to hold everything together. And Eleanor, even while fighting her own battles, finding ways to help her daughters through theirs.

"She still gets checked regularly," Lois said softly. "Every time there's a headache, every scan... we all hold our breath a little. But she refuses to live in fear. She taught art classes through her whole recovery, started a support group for other military families dealing with cancer. She's actually stronger now, in a way. We all are."

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, hands linked, both processing the weight of what she'd shared. Finally, Clark spoke. "Thank you for telling me."

"Thank you for wanting to know," she replied. "Most guys run when the family complications come up."

"I'm not most guys."

"No," she smiled, squeezing his hand. "You definitely aren't."

It was past midnight when they reached her apartment. The elevator ride up felt charged with possibility, both of them acutely aware of what staying over meant. When they reached her door, Lois fumbled with her keys, suddenly nervous.

"We don't have to..." Clark started gently.

"I want to," she cut him off, finally getting the door open. She turned to face him, backlit by the soft glow of her apartment. "I really want to."

The door closed behind them with a soft click. For a moment they just stood there, the air heavy with anticipation. Then Lois reached for him, and everything else fell away.

Their first kiss was gentle, tentative, like learning each other all over again. But then Lois made this soft sound against his mouth, and Clark felt his careful control waver. He pulled her closer, one hand tangling in her hair while the other spread across her lower back.

"Clark," she breathed when they parted for air. Her eyes were dark, cheeks flushed. "Stay with me?"

He followed her down the familiar hallway, past her wall of achievements. Framed articles and awards mixed with family photos. He caught glimpses of their story: Eleanor teaching young Lois and Lucy to paint, their faces spotted with bright colors. A teenage Lois accepting a journalism award, the General actually smiling with pride. Lucy's law school graduation, the whole family together and happy.

Lois' bedroom was exactly like her. Organized chaos with flashes of hidden softness. Case files shared space with romance novels on her nightstand. A silky robe hung next to her most professional blazer. And there, propped against her pillow, was the small stuffed bear he'd won her at the carnival last week.

She turned to face him, and for once, Lois Lane looked uncertain. "I haven't... it's been a while."

"Me too," he admitted. His hands trembled slightly as he cupped her face. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything," she whispered, rising up to kiss him again.

They came together slowly, learning each other by touch and taste. Clark kept his movements deliberately gentle, terrified of hurting her, but Lois seemed to sense his hesitation.

"I trust you," she whispered in the darkness, her hands guiding his. "Completely."

That trust undid him more than anything else. This fierce, independent woman who never backed down from a fight, who faced down criminals and corrupt politicians without flinching, trusted him enough to be vulnerable. To let him see all of her. Not just the star reporter, but the girl who'd grown up too fast, who still painted with her mother on Sundays, who kept a stuffed bear in her bed.

Later, tangled in her sheets, Lois traced lazy patterns on his chest while Clark played with her hair. The city sounds drifted up from below. Traffic and distant sirens and all the normal chaos of Metropolis at night. But here in this room, in this moment, everything felt peaceful.

"You're thinking too loud," Lois murmured against his skin.

"Just thinking how lucky I am," he replied honestly. "How amazing you are."

She lifted her head to look at him, her hair falling like a curtain around them. "Pretty amazing yourself, Smallville." Her eyes held so much warmth, so much trust, it made his heart ache. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For wanting to know all of me. The complicated family stuff, the hard parts... for not running when things get messy."

He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I love all of you, Lois Lane. The complicated, the messy, all of it."

When sleep finally claimed them, Lois was curled against him like she'd always belonged there, her breath warm against his neck. Clark stayed awake a little longer, just watching her, marveling at how this incredible woman had chosen to share not just her bed, but her whole self with him.

The next morning found them still tangled together, sunlight streaming through her bedroom window. Clark woke first, marveling at how perfectly she fit against him, her hair spread across his chest. The night's memories washed over him. Every touch, every whispered word, every moment of perfect trust.

Lois stirred, mumbling something about coffee. Her eyes opened slowly, finding his. A smile spread across her face, soft, unguarded, just for him. "Morning, Smallville."

"Morning," he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Sleep well?"

"Mmm. Though someone kept hogging the blankets."

"Me? Never."

She laughed, stretching like a cat. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten."

"What?" She sat up, suddenly alert. "We're late for work!"

"It's Sunday, Lois."

"Oh. Right." She settled back against him, tracing patterns on his chest. "So we have all day before facing my family."

"About that..." Clark chose his words carefully. "I was thinking maybe we could stop somewhere first? Pick up dessert or wine?"

"Already trying to bribe them?" She grinned. "Smart man. Mom loves tiramisu from that little Italian place near the Planet."

They spent the day in comfortable domesticity – sharing Lois's tiny shower (which led to being even later getting started), picking up the tiramisu, stopping by Clark's apartment so he could change. By the time they pulled up to the Lane house in the suburbs, the sun was just starting to set.

The Lane house stood exactly as Clark had imagined from Lois's stories. A neat colonial with carefully tended gardens that somehow balanced military precision with warm touches that could only be Eleanor Lane's influence. The roses climbing along the front path were her pride and joy, their wild beauty a stark contrast to the perfectly manicured lawn that screamed Samuel Lane's need for order.

"Ready?" Lois asked, squeezing his hand. The tiramisu from Bella Notte balanced carefully in Clark's other hand. "I know things were tense at the gala with Dad and Corbin..."

"Your father has good reasons to be protective," Clark said carefully. After seeing the General's reaction to Metallo at LuthorCorp, he understood the man's concerns about power and control all too well.

"Dad's always protective about something," Lois sighed. "But Mom will love you. Just nod when she offers seconds and laugh at Lucy's terrible jokes."

Before they could ring the bell, the door flew open to reveal a tall blonde woman who could only be Lucy Lane. Her smile held that particular mix of mischief and warmth that Clark recognized from Lois's stories.

"Well, well," Lucy drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "If it isn't the famous Clark Kent. Gotta say, sis, those photos you sent don't do him justice."

"Lucy..." Lois' warning tone just made her sister's grin wider.

"¡Lucy Maria Lane!" Eleanor's voice cut through as she appeared behind her younger daughter. "¿Qué te he dicho about embarrassing your sister? Especially in front of su novio!"

"Sorry Mamá," Lucy didn't look sorry at all. "Just making sure he's good enough for our Lois. We all saw how he handled himself with Corbin at the gala."

"Por favor, mijita..." Eleanor gently moved Lucy aside, her whole face lighting up. "Come in, come in! Sam! They're here!"

Clark found himself enveloped in a warm hug that smelled of cilantro and sofrito. Despite being at least a foot taller than Eleanor, he felt somehow small in her embrace, like being wrapped in pure maternal energy.

"Clark, mi amor," Eleanor beamed. "Lois tells me you speak Spanish?"

"Sí, señora," Clark responded with a smile. "Though I'm sure my accent needs work."

"Better than Sam's after thirty years of marriage," Eleanor laughed. "Still can't roll his Rs properly, even when he's trying to sweet talk his way out of trouble."

Heavy footsteps announced General Lane's arrival from his study. Even in civilian clothes, he carried himself with military bearing. His expression was guarded, remembering their tense encounter at the LuthorCorp gala.

"Kent." His handshake was firm, testing. "Interesting development with Corbin at LuthorCorp. Your coverage has been... thorough."

"Sam," Eleanor cut in smoothly. "No work talk tonight. Besides, Clark brought tiramisu from Bella Notte."

The kitchen smelled amazing, garlic and chilies mixing with something that made Clark's senses dance. Eleanor had clearly been cooking all day, the counters covered with dishes that blended her Mexican heritage with American comfort food.

"Help me set the table, Lucy," Eleanor directed. "The good china! Clark, please, make yourself comfortable. Sam, perhaps you could offer our guest a drink? And behave yourself this time."

The General's study was exactly what Clark had expected. Military honors displayed with meticulous precision, books arranged by height and subject, everything angled to maximize efficiency. A worn leather chair behind the desk spoke of long hours spent working.

"Whiskey?" The General was already pouring from a crystal decanter.

"Thank you, sir."

They stood in weighted silence for a moment, both aware of their confrontation at the gala. The General took a slow sip before speaking.

"Kent, about what happened at LuthorCorp..."

"Sir," Clark said carefully. "I understand your concerns about Metallo, about the changing world. But maybe tonight we could focus on family? This means a lot to Lois."

Something shifted in the General's expression. "Thirty-two years I've been married to Eleanor," he said unexpectedly. "Still can't win an argument when she starts rapid-firing Spanish at me. Especially when she's right." He glanced toward the kitchen where Eleanor's voice carried, giving instructions to Lucy. "The women in this family... they see things differently. Clearer, sometimes."

"Lois certainly does," Clark agreed softly.

"She talks about you, you know. Not just the work stuff. Says you see things other reporters miss. The human stories behind the headlines."

"Lois is the real star," Clark replied honestly. "I just try to keep up."

"My daughter thinks very highly of you."

"I think very highly of her, sir."

"Hmm." The General took a slow sip. "You know, when she first mentioned dating a civilian journalist, I had my doubts. Expected some soft city boy who'd never worked a real day in his life."

Clark waited, letting him continue.

"But I've read your work. Not just the Superman pieces – the stories about corruption in low-income housing, the expose on veteran healthcare failures. Good, solid reporting. Shows you understand what really matters."

"Thank you, sir. Though Lois deserves most of the credit – she's the one who taught me to dig deeper, to see the human side of every story."

Something in the General's expression softened slightly. "She gets that from her mother. Eleanor always said the most important stories are the ones about people, not politics."

Before Clark could respond, they heard Eleanor calling everyone to dinner. The dining room table was set with what was clearly the good china, Eleanor's famous pot roast steaming in the center.

"Clark, come sit by me," Lucy patted the chair beside her, ignoring Lois's glare. "I want to hear all about how you convinced my workaholic sister to actually take dinner breaks."

Dinner was... surprisingly wonderful. Eleanor's cooking lived up to Lois's praise, and once the initial awkwardness faded, conversation flowed naturally. Lucy told embarrassing stories about teenage Lois ("Remember when you tried to sneak out to that concert but got stuck in your window?"), while Eleanor shared childhood photos she'd apparently been keeping ready for this exact moment.

"Mom!" Lois protested as her mother produced a particularly adorable shot of five-year-old Lois in her first reporter outfit – a too-big blazer and a notebook bigger than her head.

"What? He showed you his childhood photos, didn't he?"

"That's different..."

"How?" Lucy grinned. "Oh! Did you see the one where she tried to interview the neighbor's cat?"

Even the General relaxed as the evening went on, sharing stories about Lois's determination to get her first real press badge. Clark watched her with her family – the way she bickered affectionately with Lucy, how she helped her mother clear plates despite Eleanor's protests, the soft way she said "Daddy" when her father started one of his longer stories.

"More wine, Clark?" Eleanor offered as they moved to the living room for dessert. "Sam, don't start with the war stories. Tell Clark about Lois's first attempt at the Army obstacle course instead."

"Mom!" But Lois was laughing, curled against Clark's side on the couch.

The tiramisu was a hit, though Eleanor insisted Clark call her Ellie after he complimented her coffee. Lucy produced a photo album she'd apparently been saving for maximum embarrassment potential, and soon they were all laughing at pictures of teenage Lois's attempts at punk fashion.

"I was going through a phase!"

"A phase that lasted three years," Lucy corrected gleefully. "Remember that time you tried to dye your hair purple but it came out orange instead?"

After dinner, as Lois and her father became engrossed in a spirited debate about military funding, Eleanor beckoned Clark to follow her into what was clearly her art studio. The converted sunroom was filled with canvases, both finished and in progress, the walls decorated with photographs and sketches spanning decades of family life.

"Sam insisted I have this space when we first bought the house," Eleanor explained, moving to uncover a large canvas. "Said every artist needs their own sanctuary. Even if he doesn't always understand my work, he understands what it means to me."

Clark studied the painting she revealed a vibrant street scene from her childhood neighborhood in Mexico, every detail infused with warmth and memory. His enhanced vision caught subtle touches that others might miss the way she'd captured light reflecting off worn cobblestones, the exact texture of ancient stucco walls.

"This is incredible," he said honestly. "The way you've captured the light..."

Eleanor's face lit up. "You see it? Most people just notice the colors, but it's the light that tells the story. This was my abuela's street in Mexico City. Every morning, the sun would hit those walls just so..." She gestured to another painting. "And this one I did when Lois was small. Look at how she's watching Sam read the paper: always studying, always wanting to understand."

The painting showed a young Lois perched on her father's knee, her tiny hand reaching for the newspaper while the General pretended not to notice her stealing sections. Clark could see hints of the reporter she'd become in the determined set of her small shoulders.

"She hasn't changed much," Clark smiled. "Still stealing my newspaper sections at work."

"Some things are in the blood," Lucy said from the doorway, carrying three cups of coffee. She handed them out before settling on a worn art stool. "Though Mom's the real journalist in the family. She sees everything."

Eleanor laughed softly. "I just paint what I see. The stories people tell without words." She pulled out a sketch pad. "Like this one I did at the gala last week. See how Lois keeps looking at you, Clark? Even when talking to others?"

The sketch captured a moment Clark remembered vividly Lois in mid conversation with a diplomat, but her body was subtly angled toward where Clark stood across the room. Eleanor had somehow caught that unconscious gravitation perfectly.

"You've got her essence exactly," he said, understanding now where Lois got her gift for seeing past surfaces.

"Mom did all our baby portraits," Lucy added, pulling down a framed sketch. "Look at tiny terror Lois, already trying to escape her crib."

The afternoon light painted warm patterns across the art studio floor as Eleanor shared more of her work. Each piece seemed to tell a story the General in his early days as a young officer, his face softer but still carrying that core of strength. Lucy's first day of school, clutching her sister's hand. Lois receiving her first press badge, pride radiating from every line.

"I had such plans for a gallery show once," Eleanor mused, carefully replacing a portfolio. "But then life happened, in the best ways. Still, I kept painting. Sam made sure I always had supplies, even during the lean years when he was just starting out."

"He'd drive three hours to Mexico City to get her special brushes," Lucy told Clark. "Said the PX art supplies weren't good enough for her talent."

Clark helped Eleanor reorganize some canvases, noting how each was dated and catalogued with military precision. The General's influence, showing love in his own way.

"Tell me about your mother's garden," Eleanor said as they worked. "Lois mentions her flowers, her vegetables. Another artist, I think, just working in different colors."

"Mom would love to hear you say that," Clark replied warmly. "She's always said gardening is just painting with living things."

"Smart woman. We should exchange recipes sometime. My mole sauce for her famous pie?" Eleanor's eyes twinkled. "Though Sam might object to sharing state secrets."

"Mom's pie recipe is pretty classified too," Clark laughed. "But I think an exchange could be arranged."

They spent another hour in the studio, Eleanor showing Clark her technique for capturing light and shadow. She even had him try a few brush strokes, praising his steady hand. Lucy contributed running commentary on family stories behind certain paintings, her legal training showing in how precisely she remembered details.

When they finally rejoined Lois and her father in the living room, Clark noticed the General's small smile at seeing paint smudges on their hands. Clearly, Eleanor sharing her art studio was a significant gesture.

"Making trouble in the studio?" the General asked, but his tone was fond.

"Teaching Clark about proper light and shadow," Eleanor replied in Spanish, making her husband shake his head fondly.

"Thirty two years," he told Clark, "and she still thinks I don't understand when she talks about art in Spanish. As if I haven't learned every word for every color just to keep up."

The rest of the evening passed comfortably, with Eleanor insisting they take home leftovers ("La comida es amor, Clark. Take it with love.") and Lucy extracting promises about future family dinners. The General even unbent enough to show Clark his collection of military histories, pointing out ones that gave good context for understanding current defense policies.

As they prepared to leave, Eleanor pulled Clark into another warm hug. "You see her," she said softly. "Not just Mad Dog Lane the reporter. You see my Lois."

"She makes it easy," Clark replied honestly. "Everything's clearer when she's around."

Eleanor studied him for a moment, then nodded as if confirming something to herself. "Love isn't always simple, mi amor. Especially not with Lane women. But it's worth every complicated moment."

The General pulled him aside while Eleanor fussed over Lois's coat. "Kent."

"Sir?"

"What I saw at the gala. How you handled Corbin, how you write about difficult subjects. That shows judgment." He clasped Clark's shoulder. "You're good for her. Different from what I expected, but good. Just don't make me regret approving of you."

"No sir," Clark said sincerely. "I won't."

Lucy caught him in a quick hug before they left. "Thanks for letting Mom share her art," she said quietly. "Not many people really get it, you know? But you saw what she was showing you."

The drive back to Metropolis was quiet, both of them processing the evening. Finally, Lois spoke: "So... that was my family."

"They're wonderful," Clark said honestly. "Complicated, like you said, but wonderful. Your mom's artwork..."

"She doesn't share that with just anyone," Lois said softly. "Dad says the studio is her soul room. For her to show you those paintings, especially the family ones..."

"I loved seeing your story through her eyes," Clark replied. "The way she captures moments, feelings. Like that sketch of you stealing your dad's newspaper."

Lois laughed. "I forgot about that one. God, I was obsessed with the Daily Planet even then. Poor Daddy, trying to read the sports section with this tiny terror climbing all over him."

"Your mom really caught your determination though. The way you were reaching for that paper like it held all the world's secrets."

"Still feels that way sometimes," Lois admitted. "Chasing the truth, trying to understand everything. Except now..."

"Now?"

"Now I have a partner who sees the stories I miss. The human angles I sometimes overlook when I'm focused on the bigger picture." She squeezed his hand. "I love you, Clark Kent. For seeing the people behind the headlines, for understanding my crazy family, for being exactly who you are."

"I love you too," he replied, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "Every brilliant, complicated, amazing piece of you."

When they reached her apartment, Lois turned to him with that determined look he loved so much. "Stay?"

Clark pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, the lingering traces of her mother's studio paint, the essence of everything that made her Lois. "Always."

That night, tangled together in her sheets, Clark listened to Lois's steady heartbeat and thought about family.

---

Malibu, California

The holographic displays cast ever-shifting patterns of light across Tony's workshop as he studied the latest kryptonite radiation data. His fingers moved through the air with practiced precision, manipulating three-dimensional molecular models while JARVIS ran calculations in the background. The new arc reactor in his chest hummed quietly, its blue glow mixing with the sickly green of the kryptonite readings on his screens.

"The cellular degradation patterns are fascinating," he muttered, more to himself than to JARVIS. "It's not just radiation damage - it's like the mineral is actively rewriting biological systems at a quantum level."

"Indeed, sir," JARVIS replied. "Though perhaps we should focus on the flight stabilizer calibrations? The Mark II components are ready for testing."

Tony's eyes lingered on the kryptonite data for a moment longer before he turned to where the silver components of his new suit waited. Day eleven of testing, and he still hadn't achieved stable flight. But then, revolution never came easy.

He slipped on the arm thrusters and boots, their weight already feeling natural after so many iterations. "Alright J, test thirty-seven, configuration two-point-zero." He glanced at DUM-E, who hovered nearby with the fire extinguisher at the ready. "And you - if you spray me one more time when I'm not actually on fire, I'm donating you to MIT. Let them deal with your over-enthusiastic safety protocols."

The robot ducked its arm slightly, managing to look chastised despite lacking any actual facial features. Tony couldn't help but smile - for all their quirks, his robotic assistants were family. Even if they did occasionally try to drown him in fire suppressant foam.

"Okay, let's keep it simple this time." He settled into position, knees slightly bent, arms out for balance. "Starting with one percent thrust capacity. Just enough to get a feel for it." His heart raced slightly despite his casual tone - every test brought him closer to something revolutionary, but also carried the risk of spectacular failure. "In three, two, one..."

The repulsors hummed to life, and Tony felt the familiar weightlessness as he lifted off the ground. Three meters up, hovering steadily despite a slight sway to the left. The stabilizers in his hands made minute adjustments, compensating for every small movement. This was what he'd been working toward - controlled flight, not just wild leaps and crashes.

"See?" he called down to DUM-E as he gently descended. "No fire extinguisher necessary. Though I swear I can feel you hoping for an excuse."

The robot lowered its extinguisher arm slightly, but Tony noticed it hadn't actually released its grip. "Seriously, stand down. If something catches fire - which it won't - then you can play hero. Otherwise, just watch and learn."

He settled his stance again, already calculating adjustments for the next test. "Let's push it a little - two-point-five percent thrust. Three, two, one..."

The increased power lifted him higher, but also made control more challenging. He drifted toward his collection of cars - very expensive, very crashable cars. "Nope, not that way," he muttered, adjusting the hand stabilizers. Papers went flying as he passed over his workbench, scattering designs and calculations across the floor.

"Note to self - clean up workspace before testing experimental flight tech." He managed to redirect himself back to the designated testing area, though the effort left him breathing harder than he'd like to admit. "Could be worse," he reminded himself as he touched down. "Could be wearing the Mark I and trying to escape terrorists."

DUM-E immediately raised the extinguisher, earning an emphatic finger-point from Tony. "No! What did we just discuss? No foam unless there are actual flames. Which there aren't. And won't be. Probably."

The robot lowered its arm again, somehow managing to convey disappointment in its mechanical movements. Tony shook his head, but couldn't completely suppress his grin. "Yeah, I can fly. Not gracefully yet, but we'll get there."

He moved to where the rest of the Mark II waited, its silver surface reflecting the workshop lights. This wasn't the crude survival suit he'd built in a cave - this was the future, taking shape one component at a time. As robotic arms began attaching pieces of armor, Tony felt that familiar mix of excitement and trepidation that came with pushing boundaries.

The mask was the last piece, sliding into place with a soft click. Inside, displays flickered to life as JARVIS initialized the heads-up interface. "Good evening, sir. Shall I begin the standard diagnostic sequence?"

"Let's do a full systems check first," Tony replied, watching information scroll past his field of vision. "Import all preferences from the home interface - I want this to feel natural."

Data streams painted his world in shades of blue and gold, every surface tagged with information. Distance measurements, structural analysis, temperature readings - a constant flow of data that should have been overwhelming but instead felt like an extension of his own senses. This was what he'd been working toward, even before Afghanistan - perfect integration of human and machine.

"Fully uploaded and online, sir," JARVIS reported. "Shall I begin the virtual walk-around?"

"Do it. And let's check those control surfaces while we're at it." Tony flexed his hands inside the gauntlets, feeling the suit respond like a second skin. Plates shifted and adjusted from his feet up, each piece moving in perfect synchronization. This wasn't just armor - it was a symphony of engineering, every component working in harmony.

The arc reactor in his chest pulsed slightly stronger, as if responding to the suit's power demands. He'd solved the palladium core degradation issue that had plagued his early designs, but something still nagged at him. The kryptonite radiation patterns they'd been studying - there was something there, some potential he hadn't quite grasped yet.

"Test complete," JARVIS announced. "Shall I power down and begin detailed diagnostics?"

Tony's lips curved into what Pepper called his 'about to do something reckless' smile. "Yeah, about that. Run a weather and ATC check instead. And start monitoring ground control."

"Sir," JARVIS's tone carried that particular note of AI exasperation that Tony was quite proud of having programmed, "there are terabytes of calculations needed before an actual flight is attempted. The structural dynamics alone-"

"JARVIS." Tony cut him off, already feeling the familiar rush of anticipation. "Sometimes you got to run before you can walk. Or in this case, fly before you thoroughly analyze every possible variable. Ready?"

He could almost hear the digital sigh in JARVIS's brief pause. The AI had learned that particular tone meant its creator had already made up his mind. "Very well, sir. Though I feel compelled to point out-"

"Three," Tony began his countdown, repulsors already humming to life. "Two. One."

The workshop erupted in blue-white light as Tony rocketed forward. He shot through the garage exit like a silver bullet, every system responding perfectly to his slightest movement. The cool night air rushed over his armor as he climbed higher, executing a tight spiral that would have been impossible in any conventional aircraft.

"Handles like a dream!" he whooped, the pure joy of flight washing away months of tension and trauma. This wasn't the desperate escape of the Mark I or the calculated tests of the components - this was freedom in its purest form.

Banking past the Santa Monica Pier, he caught sight of the Ferris wheel's lights reflecting off his armor. His HUD tagged two kids in one of the cars, their ice cream forgotten as they stared at the impossible sight streaking past them. Tony couldn't help showing off a bit, executing a perfect loop that sent their dropped ice cream spinning in his wake.

The city spread out below him like a circuit board made of light, and Tony felt that familiar urge to push further, higher, faster. "Hey JARVIS, what's the SR-71's record?"

"The altitude record for fixed wing flight is 85,000 feet, sir." JARVIS managed to make the number sound like a gentle warning. "Though I feel compelled to point out that the Mark II hasn't been tested for-"

"Records are made to be broken, J." Tony oriented himself straight up, pushing the thrusters to maximum. "Let's see what this baby can really do."

The suit rocketed skyward, city lights falling away beneath him as the air grew thinner. This was different from his earlier test flights - this was pure ambition, pushing both himself and his creation to their absolute limits. His HUD displayed rapidly climbing altitude numbers while environmental warnings began to flash in his peripheral vision.

"Sir," JARVIS's voice carried genuine concern now, "there's a potentially fatal buildup of ice occurring on the exterior of the suit."

Tony watched frost patterns start to form across his view screen. "A little ice never hurt anybody. How high are we?"

"Passing 60,000 feet and still climbing. Sir, the ice accumulation is approaching critical levels. The suit wasn't designed for these conditions-"

"Keep going!" Tony urged, both to JARVIS and himself. Each foot of altitude felt like a personal victory, a middle finger to everyone who'd ever tried to contain him - arms dealers, terrorists, even his own board of directors. "Come on, push it!"

The suit groaned around him as ice continued to build. Warning indicators screamed across his display, but Tony kept pushing higher. He was so close - just a few thousand more feet and he'd break the record. Just a little further...

Then everything went dark.

The HUD flickered and died as power failed across all systems. Tony's triumphant grin vanished as he felt the suit begin to tumble. "We're iced up, JARVIS!" Only silence answered him. "Deploy flaps! JARVIS?"

Reality hit him with the same brutal force as the increasing gravity - he'd lost all power. No JARVIS, no thrusters, no control surfaces. Just a very expensive, very heavy metal coffin in freefall.

"Not how I planned to go out," he muttered through gritted teeth as the earth rushed up to meet him. The suit spun wildly, giving him alternating views of stars and city lights that made his stomach lurch. He had seconds, maybe less, to solve this or end up as a very expensive crater.

Think. Think. The ice - had to break the ice. His hand found the manual release for his leg flaps, twisting it desperately. "Come on, break damn you!"

The flaps deployed with a crack of shattering ice, stabilizing his fall enough to get belly-down. Wind howled through gaps in his armor as the ground grew terrifyingly close. Just when he'd started calculating the odds of surviving a water landing, the HUD flickered back to life.

"JARVIS!" Tony had never been so happy to see scrolling data in his life.

"Online, sir. Deploying emergency power."

The thrusters roared back to life mere feet from the ground. Tony pulled up hard, nearly clipping a car as he shot skyward again. His heart thundered in his chest, adrenaline making everything razor-sharp. He'd done it - pushed to the edge of space and lived to tell about it.

"Maybe," he admitted as he turned back toward home, "we should work on some cold-weather upgrades."

"A prudent suggestion, sir," JARVIS replied dryly. "Though perhaps we could test them at a lower altitude next time?"

Tony chuckled as his house came into view. "Where's the fun in that? Kill power."

The suit's systems shut down instantly - exactly as ordered but perhaps not exactly as intended. Tony had just enough time to think 'poor choice of words' before gravity reasserted its dominance.

The roof of his mansion proved about as sturdy as tissue paper. He crashed through it, then through his prized grand piano on the floor below (and he was definitely blaming Pepper for insisting he needed one), before finally coming to rest on top of his vintage Cobra in the garage.

Car alarms wailed in protest of their owner's graceless return. Tony lay there, staring up at the new skylight he'd just installed, and couldn't help laughing. Sure, he'd destroyed a few million dollars worth of property, but he'd flown. Actually flown, not just controlled falling like the test flights.

A familiar whirring sound made him turn his head just in time to see DUM-E approaching with determined purpose, fire extinguisher raised.

"Don't you dare-" was all Tony managed before being thoroughly doused in foam. He let his head fall back against the crushed roof of his car, still grinning despite everything.

"Note to self," he muttered as foam dripped from his armor, "add 'landing protocols' to the upgrade list. Right after 'ice protection' and 'better dialogue choices than kill power.'"

Hours later, Tony sat at his workbench pressing an ice pack to the impressive collection of bruises he'd acquired during his impromptu home renovation. Every muscle protested the day's adventures, but he couldn't stop smiling. He'd flown - really flown, not just the controlled hops of testing. The Mark II had worked, mostly. The crash landing was just... an unexpected design opportunity.

He reached for his coffee, the motion making his shoulders remind him exactly how many times he'd tumbled through his own house. His eyes fell on the brown paper package Pepper had left earlier, sitting innocently among the scattered tools and holographic displays. The simple note on top read "From Pepper" in her precise handwriting.

Curious despite his exhaustion, Tony set down his ice pack and began unwrapping the package. Inside was a glass display case, elegantly simple in design. But it was what the case contained that made his breath catch - his first arc reactor, the one he'd built in that cave, mounted on a small stand. The one he'd told Pepper to destroy.

She hadn't destroyed it. She'd turned it into... this.

Metal text encircled the reactor's base, catching the workshop's lights: "PROOF THAT TONY STARK HAS A HEART"

Tony tipped the case back slightly, a slow smile spreading across his face. Trust Pepper to take something he'd seen as trash - as a reminder of his lowest point - and transform it into something meaningful. She'd always seen more in him than he saw in himself.

His eyes drifted to the screens still displaying data from his flight test, now alongside footage from the confrontation in Metropolis. Superman and Metallo's battle played on a loop, their movements analyzed and broken down by JARVIS's combat algorithms. Two beings with godlike power, throwing each other through buildings while the world watched.

"JARVIS, overlay the structural analysis from the Mark II test flight with Metallo's cybernetic readings." Tony set the display case carefully beside his original design sketches. "Focus on power distribution and thermal management."

"Analyzing, sir. Though I feel compelled to point out that comparing your suit to beings of their capability level might be considered... ambitious."

"That's because you lack vision, J." Tony enlarged the holographic display, manipulating data streams with practiced ease. "Look at Metallo's joint servos - the way they compensate for Superman's strength. We could adapt that for the Mark II's stability control."

He pulled up another screen showing the kryptonite core's energy signature. "And this radiation pattern... it's not just affecting Superman. It's enhancing Metallo's systems, pushing them beyond what should be possible with current technology."

"The mineral's properties are unlike anything in our database," JARVIS noted. "Though the cellular degradation in Sergeant Corbin's remaining organic tissue is concerning."

"Yeah, they didn't think that part through." Tony's expression darkened as he studied Metallo's increasingly erratic behavior patterns. "They're so focused on matching Superman's power that they don't care what it's doing to the man inside the machine."

He glanced at the arc reactor display case again, remembering how it had felt in that cave - being unmade and remade, but on his own terms. Not this perversion of science and desperation that LuthorCorp had created.

"Run another simulation of the high-altitude test," he ordered, returning to his screens. "This time factor in what we've learned from their fight. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. No shortcuts, no unstable power sources that destroy the user. Just pure engineering and..." he smiled at Pepper's gift, "...a little heart."

As data scrolled across his screens, Tony's mind was already racing ahead to improvements for the Mark III. He'd show the world there was another way - that humanity could reach for the stars without sacrificing its soul in the process. And maybe, just maybe, he'd help save a good soldier from the monster they'd turned him into.

But first, he really needed more ice for his head. And probably someone to fix that hole in his roof.

---

The cave's darkness pressed close, broken only by scattered work lights that cast harsh shadows across scattered pieces of metal. Two men worked with barely contained frustration, trying to reassemble what remained of Stark's escape vehicle. Their hands moved with the careful reverence of archeologists piecing together a precious artifact, though their rough handling betrayed their lack of true understanding.

Raza watched them from the shadows, cigar smoke curling around him like a serpent. His burned face had healed enough to stop requiring bandages, though the scars would never fade. In his right hand, he gripped something that pulsed with sickly green light - a fragment of the mineral they'd used to power Stark's initial escape. The stone's glow seemed to intensify when he squeezed it, as if responding to his barely contained rage.

His eyes moved from the stone to the crushed helmet his men were examining. The connection was there, written in scorch marks and twisted metal - how the mineral's strange radiation had enhanced Stark's crude power source, giving him the strength to escape. The same radiation that now flowed through his own veins, the fragment's power seeping into him with every passing moment.

"Sir," one of his men called out hesitantly, "we've found something in the power coupling. Some kind of modification to the mineral housing..."

Raza's grip tightened on the green stone, its glow casting his scarred features in an alien light. Stark hadn't just escaped - he'd unlocked secrets that could reshape the world. And now those secrets were being reproduced in labs across the globe, powering things like Luthor's metal soldier.

The helmet's empty eyes stared back at him, as if mocking his failure to contain what he'd helped create.

---

The holographic displays cast ever-shifting patterns of light across Tony's workshop, multiple screens showing parallel analyses - his flight test data alongside footage from the Metropolis confrontation. His fingers moved through the air with practiced precision, manipulating three-dimensional models while JARVIS ran calculations in the background. The new arc reactor in his chest hummed quietly, its blue glow mixing with the sickly green of the kryptonite readings on his screens.

"Notes," Tony spoke, adjusting the ice pack on his shoulder while studying the parallel data streams. "Main transducer feels sluggish at plus 40 altitude. Hull pressurization is problematic. I'm thinking icing is the probable factor."

His eyes tracked how Metallo's systems had adapted to extreme conditions during the fight - something his own suit would need to match. The cybernetic soldier's performance data offered insights he couldn't ignore, even if Luthor's methods made his skin crawl.

"A very astute observation, sir," JARVIS replied. "Perhaps, if you intend to visit other planets, we should improve the exosystems."

Tony focused on a particular sequence where Metallo's exterior had reconfigured itself mid-fight, its molecular structure shifting to absorb impact. There were lessons there, if he could crack the underlying principles without resorting to unstable power sources.

"Connect to the sys. co. Have it reconfigure the shell metals. Use the gold titanium alloy from the seraphim tactical satellite. That should ensure a fuselage integrity while maintaining power-to-weight ratio. Got it?"

The screens filled with comparative analysis - his suit's performance data next to Metallo's capabilities. The kryptonite readings they'd gathered provided another layer of insight into how to enhance his systems without compromising stability or the user.

"Yes. Shall I render using proposed specifications?"

"Thrill me."

While JARVIS worked, Tony's attention caught on the TV news. "Tonight's red-hot red carpet is right here at the Disney Concert Hall, where Tony Stark's third annual benefit for the Firefighter's Family Fund has become the place to be for L.A.'s high society."

"JARVIS, we get an invite for that?"

"I have no record of an invitation, sir."

Tony picked up the prototype mask, studying the mathematical diagrams etched across its surface while the reporter continued: "...hasn't been seen in public since his bizarre and highly controversial press conference. Some claim he's suffering from post traumatic stress and has been bedridden for weeks. Whatever the case may be, no one expects an appearance from him tonight."

His eyes moved between the mask and the footage of Metallo. Both represented attempts to enhance human capability, but where Luthor had sacrificed the man for the machine, Tony was determined to find another way.

"The render is complete," JARVIS announced.

The new design rotated on screen, gleaming gold in the workshop's light. Tony cocked his head slightly. "A little ostentatious, don't you think?"

"What was I thinking? You're usually so discreet."

Tony's gaze drifted to one of his cars - a classic hot rod, matte black with flame details in brilliant red. Behind it, the screens still showed Metallo's increasingly unstable behavior during the fight. A reminder of what happened when power came at the cost of humanity.

"Tell you what. Throw a little hot-rod red in there."

"Yes, that should help you keep a low profile." The design shifted, red panels appearing alongside the gold. "The render is complete."

The new color scheme wasn't just aesthetics - it incorporated everything he'd learned from both his test flight and studying the battle in Metropolis. A design that could match superhuman power while protecting the person inside, not consuming them.

"Hey, I like it. Fabricate it. Paint it."

"Commencing automated assembly. Estimated completion time is five hours."

Tony checked his watch, already reaching for his keys. "Don't wait up for me, honey."

The silver Audi R8 purred to life, its license plate - STARK4 - gleaming in the gathering darkness. The drive to the benefit gave Tony time to think, to prepare himself for his first real public appearance since Afghanistan. Since becoming something more than just the Merchant of Death.

The venue appeared ahead, red carpet already crowded with LA's elite. Tony pulled up smoothly, tossing his keys to the valet with practiced casualness. As he straightened his suit jacket, he caught sight of Obadiah giving an interview nearby.

"Weapons manufacturing is only one small part of what Stark Industries is all about, and our partnership with the fire and rescue community..." Obie was saying, his silver-tongued charm in full effect. But his practiced speech was interrupted as cameras swung toward Tony's arrival.

"Hey, Tony, remember me?" A woman approached him eagerly.

"Sure don't," Tony replied smoothly, moving past her. He spotted a familiar face in the crowd. "You look great, Hef!"

"We're going to have a great quarter," Obie called out, trying to maintain control of the situation.

Tony made his way to where his mentor stood. "What's the world coming to when a guy's got to crash his own party?"

"Look at you," Obadiah's surprise seemed genuine enough. "Hey, what a surprise."

"I'll see you inside."

Obie caught his shoulder, voice dropping low. "Hey. Listen, take it slow, all right? I think I got the board right where we want them."

"You got it," Tony assured him. "Just cabin fever. I'll just be a minute."

Inside, he headed straight for the bar. "Give me a Scotch. I'm starving."

"Mr. Stark?" A man in an immaculately pressed suit appeared beside him.

"Yeah?"

"Agent Coulson."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. The guy from the..."

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

"God, you need a new name for that."

"Yeah, I hear that a lot." Coulson's expression remained professionally neutral. "Three months ago, you disappeared in Afghanistan. Since then, we've had an alien in Metropolis demonstrating impossible powers, LuthorCorp unveiling military-grade cybernetics powered by an unknown mineral, and now your remarkable return. Listen, I know this must be a trying time for you, but we need to debrief you. There's still a lot of unanswered questions, and time can be a factor with these things."

"Let's just put something on the books."

"How about the 24th at 7:00 p.m. at Stark Industries?"

But Tony's attention had already drifted. Across the room, a vision in blue had caught his eye. Pepper stood with her back partially turned, her hair falling in elegant ringlets down her bare shoulders. The dress - his unconscious mind reminded him he'd bought it for her birthday - clung in ways that made focusing on government agents entirely impossible.

"Right, yeah," he said vaguely, shaking Coulson's hand without looking. "I'm going to find my assistant, we'll set something up."

He moved through the crowd toward Pepper, drawn like a compass finding true north. "You look fantastic," he said when he reached her. "I didn't recognize you."

Pepper turned, surprise and something else flickering across her features. "What are you doing here?"

"Just avoiding government agents." He studied her face, noticing how the lighting caught the red of her lipstick. "Are you by yourself?"

"Yes." She smoothed her dress self-consciously. "Where'd you get that dress?"

"Oh, it was a birthday present."

"From you, actually," she added when he raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I've got great taste." The music changed to something slower, and Tony felt an inexplicable urge to keep this moment going. "You want to dance?"

"Oh, no. Thank you."

But he was already guiding her onto the dance floor, ignoring her token protests. They fell into an easy rhythm, though Tony noticed how her eyes kept darting around the room. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No. No," she said quickly. "I always forget to wear deodorant and dance with my boss in front of everyone that I work with in a dress with no back."

"You look great," he assured her. "You smell great. But I could fire you if that would take the edge off."

That earned him a genuine laugh. "I actually don't think you could tie your shoes without me."

"I'd make it a week."

"Really?" Her skepticism was adorable. "What's your social security number?"

Tony's mind went blank. "Five?"

"Five? You're just missing a couple of digits there."

"The other eight," he admitted with a grin. "But I got you for the other eight."

They danced in comfortable silence for a moment, but Tony couldn't help noticing how the lights played across her features, how naturally she fit in his arms. Something shifted in the air between them, an electricity he couldn't quite name.

"How about a little air?" he suggested, his voice rougher than intended.\

"Yes, I need some air."

The balcony offered a welcome respite from the crowd, though Tony found himself even more aware of Pepper's presence in the relative privacy. She was babbling nervously about workplace dynamics and appropriate boss-employee relationships, but all he could focus on was the way moonlight caught in her hair.

"I just think you're overstating it," he said softly, cutting through her stream of protests.

"You know, and we're here, and then I'm wearing this ridiculous dress, and then we were dancing like that and..."

She trailed off, finally meeting his gaze. Tony felt his carefully maintained walls crumbling as they gravitated closer together. Pepper's eyes drifted closed as she leaned in, and for one perfect moment, everything else fell away - Afghanistan, the suit, the company's future. There was only this, only her.

Then reality reasserted itself. Pepper's eyes snapped open and she pulled back slightly. "I would like a drink, please."

"Got it, okay."

"I would like a vodka martini, please."

"Okay."

"Very dry with olives. A lot of olives. Like, at least three olives."

Tony made his way to the bar, his mind still reeling from the almost-moment with Pepper. The arc reactor hummed steadily in his chest, its soft blue glow a stark contrast to the butterflies in his stomach. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had made him feel this off-balance. Actually, he could - it was Pepper, always Pepper, making him question everything he thought he knew about himself.

"Two vodka martinis," he told the bartender, leaning against the polished wood. "Extra dry, extra olives, extra fast." He paused, then added, "Make one of them dirty, will you?" He dropped a generous tip in the wine glass, more out of habit than conscious thought.

The familiar routine of ordering drinks helped steady him, but his hands still trembled slightly. The almost-kiss on the balcony had shaken something loose inside him - some carefully maintained wall between Tony Stark, billionaire playboy, and the man who'd come back from that cave forever changed.

"Wow. Tony Stark."

The voice cut through his contemplation like a knife. He turned to find Christine Everhart approaching through the crowd, wearing a black dress that probably cost more than most reporters' monthly salaries. Her expression suggested this wasn't a social call.

"Oh, hey." He managed what he hoped was a casual smile while his mind raced to place her name. They'd had an... encounter before Afghanistan. Time magazine? Vanity Fair?

"Fancy seeing you here." Her tone could have frozen his martini solid.

"Carrie." He knew it was wrong even as he said it, but somehow being wrong felt safer than admitting he remembered their night together.

"Christine."

"That's right." The bartender returned with his martinis, and Tony had never been more grateful for alcohol. He needed something to do with his hands, something to focus on besides Christine's accusatory stare.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here tonight." Her professional mask slipped slightly, showing real anger beneath. "Can I at least get a reaction from you?"

"Panic." Tony took a sip of his martini, trying to maintain his usual glibness even as his chest tightened around the arc reactor. "I would say panic is my reaction."

"Because I was referring to your company's involvement in this latest atrocity." She gestured toward the TV screens where footage of Metallo's challenge to Superman played on endless loop. The green glow from his chest matched readings Tony remembered from Afghanistan - readings that shouldn't exist in any known physics. "First experimental cybernetics, now this?"

"Yeah. They just put my name on the invitation. I don't know what to tell you." The lie felt bitter on his tongue. He was getting tired of defending decisions he hadn't made, changes implemented while he was supposedly dead in a cave.

"I actually almost bought it, hook, line and sinker." Her laugh held no humor. "The prodigal son returns, shutting down weapons manufacturing, talking about responsibility. Really had me going."

"I was out of town for a couple months, in case you didn't hear." The cave's darkness pressed against his memories, making him take another drink. His fingers brushed the arc reactor unconsciously - a habit he'd developed since his return.

Christine's expression shifted to something harder, more focused. "Is this what you call accountability?" She pulled out a stack of photos, shoving them into his hands. "It's a town called Gulmira. Heard of it?"

Tony's world narrowed to the images in his hands. His weapons - not just old stock, but new models, things that shouldn't exist outside secure facilities - in the hands of terrorists. Including the Jericho missile, the very weapon he'd refused to build in that cave. The same technological principles now powering Metallo's cybernetic frame.

His mind flashed back to Yinsen's stories about his village, about family and peace destroyed by weapons bearing the Stark name. The same weapons now being used to create something that could challenge Superman himself.

"When were these taken?" His voice was barely steady.

"Yesterday." Christine watched his reaction carefully. "The same day your company unveiled their new 'superhuman deterrent' powered by classified tech. Quite a coincidence."

"I didn't approve any shipment." The photos trembled slightly in his hands. "And I sure as hell didn't approve Metallo."

"Well, your company did." Her voice carried the sharp edge of someone who'd finally caught her prey. "Just like they approved turning a wounded veteran into a walking weapon. The Tony Stark I interviewed before Afghanistan would have loved that - the ultimate fusion of man and machine."

"Well, I'm not my company." He pushed past her, needing air, needing space to think. The photos felt like they were burning his hands. On the TV screens, Metallo's challenge played again - the green glow in his chest matching the radiation signatures Tony had detected in that cave.

He found Obadiah outside, working the crowd with his usual smooth charm. The older man's smile faltered slightly when he saw Tony's expression. That same smile that had once meant safety, guidance, connection to his father's legacy. Now it just looked calculating.

"Please, do you mind?" Obie tried to wave off an approaching photographer, but Tony wasn't having it.

"Have you seen these pictures?" He thrust the photos at Obadiah. "What's going on in Gulmira? And don't tell me you don't know about the mineral shipments from the same region."

"Tony, Tony." Obadiah's voice carried that paternal disappointment that had once meant something. "You can't afford to be this naive."

"You know what? I was naive before, when they said, 'Here's the line. We don't cross it. This is how we do business.'" The words felt like acid in his mouth. "If we're double-dealing under the table... Are we?"

A reporter's shout cut through their confrontation: "Mr. Stark! Your comments on the Metallo situation? Sources say the cybernetic integration uses proprietary Stark tech!"

"Your picture, please!" Another called out, cameras flashing.

"Let's take a picture." Obadiah's arm wrapped around Tony's shoulders like a steel trap. "Come on. Picture time!"

They posed together, Obadiah's smile never wavering while Tony's face remained hard as granite. His mind was racing - connecting weapons shipments to mineral deposits, cybernetic innovations to classified research. The picture of betrayal growing clearer with each flash.

Obadiah leaned close, his words meant for Tony alone: "Who do you think locked you out? I was the one who filed the injunction against you. It was the only way I could protect you."

The words hit Tony like physical blows, each of Obadiah's syllables stripping away another layer of trust. This man who'd been like a second father, who'd guided him after Howard's death, had orchestrated everything from the shadows.

Obadiah pulled away, straightening his tie as the reporters swarmed forward:

"Care to comment on Metallo's breakdown at Centennial Park, Mr. Stane?"

"What about the partnership with LuthorCorp? Did you know about Superman's reaction to the mineral?"

"Any response to witness reports about Corbin's psychological state?"

"No," Obadiah said firmly, already heading toward his waiting car. "No comment."

The press instantly turned their attention to Tony, voices overlapping:

"Hey Stark, what about the neural interface tech? Your design, right?"

"You shutting down weapons manufacturing but helping build super soldiers?"

"Got anything to say about your company's role in all this?"

The questions blurred together as Tony's world tilted sideways. He caught Christine's knowing look as she turned away, having gotten exactly what she wanted - proof that the great Tony Stark wasn't as in control as he pretended.

A reporter from the Daily Star shouldered forward. "Four days since the incident and still no official statement from Stark Industries. You still standing by your company's involvement in this mess?"

Tony ran a hand through his hair, the weight of it all pressing down. The footage had been playing non-stop since the fight - Metallo's gradual deterioration during the battle, the moment he'd started tearing away his synthetic skin, the kryptonite radiation that had poured off him in waves.

"You know what?" Tony's voice came out steadier than he felt. "I'm not standing by any of it. Not the weapons showing up where they shouldn't, not the tech being used to turn soldiers into guinea pigs. Sometimes the whole machine's broken, even if you helped build it in the first place."

"What about Corbin?" someone called out. "The military still hasn't located him since he fled the scene..."

"Corbin's a good man who got screwed over." Tony's hand drifted to his chest where the arc reactor hummed. "Trust me, I know something about being turned into something else. Difference is, I did it to myself."

He pushed through the crowd, their questions following him like shadows. His mind was already racing ahead to his workshop, to the Mark II taking shape in secret. They wanted to see real innovation? He'd show them what technology could do when it wasn't being twisted into weapons.

The valet brought his car around and Tony practically dove inside, needing to escape. He pulled out his phone as he hit the accelerator. "JARVIS, you there?"

"Always, sir. Though I note your blood pressure seems elevated."

"Yeah, well, finding out your father figure's been dealing under the table tends to do that." He took a corner faster than strictly necessary. "How's our project coming along?"

"The Mark II's primary systems are at 86% completion. Though I still have concerns about the high altitude performance."

"Pull up everything we've got on those weapons shipments to Gulmira. And dig deeper into the radiation readings from the fight. There's something there we're missing."

"The signature is remarkably similar to what we detected in..."

"In the cave. Yeah." Tony's hands tightened on the wheel. "Looks like Obie's been busy while I was playing dead. Start running simulations on the suit's power systems. I want to know if we can replicate that kind of output without using whatever the hell that green rock is."

The Malibu coast stretched out before him, waves catching city lights like scattered stars. But Tony barely saw it, his mind already in the workshop, already planning the next steps.

He could still hear the music from the benefit fading behind him. Somewhere back there, Pepper was probably wondering where he'd disappeared to, still feeling that almost kiss. But he couldn't think about soft moments on balconies right now. Couldn't let himself get distracted by the way moonlight played in red hair.

"Sir," JARVIS interrupted his thoughts, "I've completed analyzing the energy readings from the Centennial Park incident. The instability patterns in Sergeant Corbin's core showed exponential growth throughout the confrontation."

"Show me when I get back. And warm up the fabrication units. Time to remind everyone what real innovation looks like."

The engine roared as he pushed it harder, racing toward home, toward his workshop, and hopefully he could salvage this mess.

---

Batcave, Gotham City

The Batcave's constant ambient sounds - water dripping, bats chittering, servers humming - had long since become Bruce's preferred working environment. The massive screens of the Batcomputer cast blue-white light across his face as he studied the latest analysis results, his expression growing harder with each new data point.

"The radiation signature is unlike anything in our database," he muttered, more to himself than to Alfred, who was arranging a fresh cup of coffee beside him. "The molecular structure shouldn't be possible according to known physics."

"Rather like having an alien flying around Metropolis, I suppose," Alfred commented dryly. His eyes tracked across the readings from Centennial Park. "Though I notice our corporate connections have been particularly active since that demonstration."

"More than active." Bruce brought up shipping manifests, highlighting specific entries. "Heavy weapons moving through Gotham's ports have tripled in the last week alone. All traced back to the same shell companies LuthorCorp used to acquire their 'mineral samples.'"

The computer chimed softly as a new communication came through. Lucius Fox's face appeared on one of the side screens, looking as impeccable as ever despite the late hour.

"Mr. Wayne," Lucius greeted him with his characteristic understated smile. "I've completed the analysis you requested on those energy readings from Metropolis."

"And?"

"Fascinating stuff. The mineral's radiation signature suggests properties that could revolutionize energy production, medical technology..." Lucius paused meaningfully. "Or weapons development, in the wrong hands."

"Which explains Luthor's interest," Bruce noted. "But not Stane's. Stark Industries was already leading the field in weapons tech before Tony shut it down."

"Perhaps it's not about the weapons themselves," Alfred suggested. "The effects we observed during the confrontation..."

Bruce nodded, bringing up footage from the fight. "Corbin's deteriorating mental state. The way the radiation seemed to amplify his aggression while degrading his higher functions." His fingers flew across the keyboards. "Lucius, what do you make of these neural patterns?"

"Troubling," Fox replied, studying the data. "The mineral doesn't just affect physical systems - it rewrites neural pathways. Makes the subject more aggressive, more unstable. And the effects appear cumulative."

"They knew," Bruce's voice hardened. "Luthor and Stane. They knew what it would do to him."

"Indeed." Lucius's expression grew more serious. "Which makes one wonder what else they're planning to do with it. I've modified the Batwing's sensors to track the specific radiation signature. Should help you find any stockpiles they're keeping hidden."

"What about the stealth systems?" Bruce asked. "The military presence around their suspected facilities is heavy."

"I've got something that might help with that." Lucius tapped something on his end, sending new schematics to the cave's system. "Experimental adaptive camouflage. Won't make you invisible, but it should confuse most radar systems long enough to get you in close."

"Installation time?"

"Four hours, give or take. I can have it ready before dawn."

Bruce studied the stealth system's specifications. "Do it. I'll head to Applied Sciences after I finish analyzing these shipping routes."

"Very good, sir," Lucius replied. "Though I should mention - the range is still an issue. You'll need to refuel at least once to reach the target area."

"Already planned for that," Bruce brought up a flight path he'd mapped. "There's a gap in their radar coverage between 0200 and 0415 local time. If we time it right..."

"We can avoid detection until it's too late to stop us from investigating?" Alfred finished dryly. "How reassuring."

Bruce's attention returned to the footage from Centennial Park, watching how the kryptonite radiation had poured off Metallo in waves as his behavior became more erratic. "Whatever they're building toward, we need to understand it. The weapons shipments, the mineral, Corbin's transformation - it's all connected."

"And the fact that both LuthorCorp and Stark Industries have significant contracts with the military?" Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Merely coincidence, I'm sure."

"No coincidences," Bruce muttered, bringing up more data. "General Ross's name keeps appearing in classified documents related to the mineral research. And I've tracked at least three shipments of heavy weapons that went from Stark facilities directly to LuthorCorp subsidiaries."

"Under Mr. Stane's authorization, no doubt," Lucius noted. "Though I find it interesting that these shipments began right after Mr. Stark's announcement about stopping weapons production."

Bruce nodded. "Stane's been moving pieces behind the scenes. The question is - what's his endgame? And how does it connect to whatever Luthor's planning?"

"The new stealth system should help you get those answers," Lucius said. "I'll have everything ready in the Applied Sciences hangar. Though I should warn you - it hasn't been fully tested at high altitudes."

"It'll have to do." Bruce was already standing, moving toward where the Batsuit waited. "Alfred, keep monitoring those shipping routes. If anything changes..."

"I shall alert you immediately." Alfred watched him suit up with practiced efficiency. "Though perhaps this time you might consider waiting for full daylight before infiltrating heavily guarded military installations?"

Bruce's only response was a slight grunt as he secured the last pieces of armor. The cape settled around his shoulders with familiar weight as he headed toward the vehicle bay.

"The Wayne Foundation benefit is on Thursday," Alfred reminded him. "In case you were planning an extended investigation."

"Tell them I'm in Monaco."

"In May, sir?"

"They never check the details anyway." Bruce paused at the Batmobile. "Lucius, how long to get the stealth system calibrated once it's installed?"

"An hour, maybe two. I'll need to run a full diagnostic to be sure it can handle the stress of high-altitude operation."

"Do it. I'll finish some work here, then meet you at Applied Sciences." Bruce's attention returned to the computer displays. "In the meantime, keep digging into those LuthorCorp shell companies. I want to know every connection between them and Stark Industries."

The Batcomputer's alert cut through Bruce's concentration, red warning lights flashing across the cave's dark walls.

"Break-in at Gotham Museum of Art," he read, fingers flying across keyboards as he pulled up security feeds. "Multiple armed suspects."

"Curious timing," Alfred noted, studying the footage of dark figures disabling security systems with military precision. "The museum just opened their new international antiquities exhibition."

"Artifacts from private collectors," Bruce's eyes narrowed as data scrolled across screens. "Pieces from Afghanistan, China, Russia, Brazil..." His voice trailed off as the Batcomputer's sensors detected something unusual. "Alfred, look at these radiation readings."

"Most peculiar, sir. Similar atomic structure to the mineral from Metropolis, but..."

"Different wavelengths." Bruce enhanced the scans, watching energy patterns shift and pulse. "Each artifact's giving off a unique signature. Red, blue, white..." He stood, jaw set with determination. "This isn't a simple art theft."

A slight smile touched his lips as he looked toward where the Batsuit waited in its armored case. "This looks like a job for The Batman."

"When is it ever not with you?" Alfred sighed, but Bruce caught the hint of a smile as he moved toward the suit. Every piece waited exactly where it belonged - a habit he'd picked up during his training years that even Alfred had stopped teasing him about.

Suiting up had become almost meditative over the years. The base layer felt like a second skin now, its reinforced fabric providing protection without sacrificing mobility. He'd stopped noticing the weight of the kevlar armor years ago, though he still remembered his early nights when every movement had felt clumsy and restricted.

His fingers found each compartment on the utility belt without looking - muscle memory built from countless nights when fumbling for the wrong tool might have meant death. The gauntlets clicked into place with satisfying precision, their serrated fins catching the cave's dim light. He flexed his hands, feeling the familiar resistance.

The cape settled around his shoulders like an old friend. Bruce smiled slightly, remembering how many times Lucius had caught him testing its gliding capabilities in the R lab after hours. What had started as theatrical necessity had become one of his most versatile tools.

Then the cowl - the final piece that completed the change. The white lenses enhanced his night vision while protecting his eyes from debris and smoke. Five years, and the way it changed his peripheral vision still took a moment to adjust to. But it was worth it for the protection it provided, and the fear it inspired.

"Systems check," he growled, his voice dropping naturally into Batman's deeper register. The change wasn't just physical anymore - it was who he became when Gotham needed him.

"Everything's looking good from here," Alfred replied, monitoring the suit's basic functions. "Though perhaps we should let Mr. Fox know about these unusual readings?"

"Later." Bruce was already heading for the Batmobile, its black surface gleaming like wet ink under the cave's lights. The car had grown with him over the years, each close call teaching them something new about what Gotham's protector needed.

He ran his hand along the armored hull as he approached - another habit Alfred teased him about. But the Batmobile was more than just a vehicle. Every plate and component had been tested in combat, refined through trial and error. Sometimes bloody error.

The seat welcomed him as the canopy sealed shut with a soft hiss. The instrument panels lit up with a soft blue glow, each gauge and readout exactly where muscle memory would find it. The engine woke with a growl that echoed off cave walls - a sound that had become as much a part of Gotham's nights as police sirens.

"Time to see what our penguin friend wants with glowing artifacts," Bruce said, wrapping his hands around the controls. "Keep an eye on those energy readings."

"Of course, sir." Alfred's voice carried that dry humor Bruce had come to rely on. "Though perhaps this time we could avoid renovating the museum? The Foundation's budget isn't unlimited."

Bruce allowed himself a small smile as he engaged the drive system. The Batmobile surged forward, its raw power still thrilling after all these years. They raced through familiar tunnels, each turn executed with the precision that came from countless nights of urban warfare.

They burst from the hidden exit into Gotham's night, where spring fog was rolling in from the bay. The mist transformed streetlights into hazy halos, perfect cover for the dark car as it merged with shadows. Perfect hunting weather.

Police chatter filled his cowl: "All units, silent alarm at Gotham Museum of Art. Reports of multiple armed suspects..."

Batman cut through Robinson Park, the car's wheels barely touching grass. His mind was already analyzing angles, mapping approaches. The museum's layout was embedded in his memory - three main entrances, multiple skylights, service tunnels that hadn't been used in decades.

He parked in shadows two blocks away, grappling to the roof with silent efficiency. Through the cowl's enhanced vision, he could see Penguin's men moving purposefully through the galleries. Their movements were too precise, too coordinated for common thieves.

Batman moved silently across the museum's roof, the night air heavy with approaching rain. Through the skylights, he watched shadows move through the galleries below with military precision. Not the usual smash-and-grab crew Penguin preferred.

"Running facial recognition," he subvocalized, the cowl's enhanced vision capturing clear images despite the dim lighting. The system began matching faces against his database as each target moved through his field of view. "Former Force Recon. Ex-Blackwater. Russian PMC backgrounds."

"My word," Alfred's voice carried dry amusement through the comm. "It seems Mr. Cobblepot has developed more discerning tastes in hired help during his recent stay at Blackgate."

Crouching near a skylight, Batman studied their movement patterns. The team worked with practiced efficiency, but something was off about their target selections. They were bypassing priceless artifacts - Ming vases, Renaissance sculptures, imperial jewelry - in favor of seemingly random pieces from the new international exhibition.

His attention caught on the artifacts they were loading into specialized containment cases. The items gave off a strange glow that made his cowl's sensors fluctuate: a red vase from China's Gobi Desert, rough blue crystals discovered in Brazilian mining excavations, white stone fragments from a Russian mountain expedition. Each piece pulsed with energy that defied conventional physics.

"Careful with those pieces, idioti!" Penguin's voice echoed through the gallery, his Gotham-inflected Italian carrying barely contained fury. "You break anything, and I'll feed you your own fingers. Capisce?"

The men continued their work without responding, their movements precise and practiced. These weren't common thugs - they handled the artifacts with the care of specialists who understood exactly what they were dealing with.

"Sir," Alfred's tone shifted to concern, "I'm getting readings from those artifacts that match the energy signatures we detected at LuthorCorp. They appear to be variants of the same mineral."

"Someone's been collecting them," Batman murmured, watching another crate being sealed. "Building a stockpile."

"Indeed. Though perhaps we should alert the proper authorities rather than engaging directly? The radiation levels are concerning."

Batman's attention caught on how carefully they were keeping certain pieces separated. "No time. They know what they're doing with these artifacts. Which means they know what they can do."

He moved silently through the rafters, positioning himself for maximum tactical advantage. Eight men total, all armed with military-grade weapons. The veterans kept checking corners, maintaining professional spacing. But the newer recruits were jumpy, fingers too tight on their triggers. Fear would make them sloppy.

Thunder rolled across Gotham as rain began hammering the skylights. Perfect. The storm would mask his entrance.

"Boss!" One of the men called out from inside a reinforced crate. "These pieces are doing something weird. Like they're reacting to each other."

"Then keep them separated, idiota!" Penguin's umbrella tapped impatiently against marble. "Why do I have to explain everything?"

Now. Batman triggered the skylight release, dropping through the gap as glass rained down around him. His cape spread like wings, disorienting the men below. Two batarangs found their marks before anyone could react - one catching a guard's gun hand, another striking a pressure point that dropped its target instantly.

"It's the Bat!" Someone shouted, bringing weapons to bear.

"Well don't just stand there with your thumbs up your asses!" Penguin raised his umbrella. "Kill him!"

Gunfire erupted, bullets sparking off display cases as Batman moved through shadow and smoke. His training took over - each movement economical, each strike calculated. A leg sweep took down one guard while an armored elbow caught another in the solar plexus. The artifacts' radiation was affecting his cowl's systems, creating interference in his thermal imaging, but he'd trained for fighting blind.

"You're too late, Bats!" Penguin called out as his men scrambled for better positions. "These pieces are already bought and paid for. You really think you can stop what's coming?"

Batman didn't waste breath responding. A smoke pellet provided cover as he grappled to the upper gallery. Two more guards went down to precise strikes before they could track his position. Another found himself dangling from a gargoyle, his scream cut short by a nerve strike.

But the artifacts were complicating things. Each color seemed to resonate at a different frequency, creating strange patterns in his vision. The red ones made his muscles tense involuntarily. The blue distorted depth perception. The white ones interfered with his suit's electronics. Individually manageable, but together they were becoming a serious problem.

He dropped behind a pillar as more gunfire filled the space. Three guards left, plus Penguin. The crime boss had taken cover behind a Roman statue, his umbrella's concealed blade catching museum light.

"You know what these are, don't you?" Penguin shouted over the gunfire. "What they mean? The world's changing, Bats. Power shifting. Smart players are choosing sides."

"Like you chose LuthorCorp?" Batman's voice echoed from multiple directions, making the remaining guards spin frantically.

"Luthor?" Penguin laughed. "That corporate psycho's just another guy trying to play catch-up. This is bigger than him. Bigger than all of us."

A guard's footsteps approached Batman's position. Poor trigger discipline - finger already tightening with nerves. Batman waited until the man was nearly past before striking. An armored hand caught the gun barrel, directing it upward as the man fired reflexively. Batman's other hand found nerve clusters in the guard's neck, and consciousness fled.

Two left. They'd clustered together near the artifacts, making rookie mistakes. Fear was doing half of Batman's work for him.

"The minerals," Batman pressed as he moved through shadow. "Where are they coming from?"

"You really think I'm gonna tell you?" Penguin's voice carried forced bravado. "I may be a lot of things, but I ain't stupid."

"No." Batman emerged behind the guards like a nightmare. "Just afraid."

They didn't even have time to turn before precise strikes dropped them. Penguin swung his umbrella in a vicious arc, the blade missing Batman's cowl by inches. Years of street fighting had made Cobblepot dangerous, but he was still just a thug with delusions of grandeur.

Batman caught the next swing, using Penguin's momentum to slam him into a display case. The crime boss tried to recover, but a kick swept his legs out. The umbrella clattered across marble as Batman lifted him by his collar.

"Last chance," Batman growled. "The minerals. Where?"

"You don't get it," Penguin wheezed through a bloody grin. "These are just samples. The real motherlode? That's what everyone's fighting over. Why do you think Stark disappeared in those mountains? What they're really building in Gulmira?"

Batman's hand tightened. "Gulmira?"

"The new gold rush, sweetheart. Except instead of gold, it's rocks that can hurt gods." Penguin coughed out a laugh. "Better hurry if you want a piece. Though I hear the locals are real unfriendly these days."

Police sirens approached outside. Batman zip-tied Penguin securely before triggering his comm. "Alfred, I need the Batwing ready. And contact Gordon - these artifacts need special containment protocols."

"Already done, sir. Though might I suggest leaving the artifacts to the proper authorities? These radiation readings are rather concerning."

"No time." Batman was already moving toward the exit. "Someone's been gathering these minerals, studying them. And after what they did to Corbin in Metropolis..."

"The Batwing's upgraded stealth systems haven't been fully tested," Alfred warned. "A flight to Afghanistan-"

"We don't have a choice." Batman's voice carried grim certainty as he emerged onto the roof. Rain plastered his cape against armor as lightning split the sky. "How long until the plane's ready?"

"Twenty minutes. Though I feel compelled to point out the numerous ways this could go catastrophically wrong."

"Noted." Batman grappled to where he'd hidden the Batmobile. The car's engine roared to life as he dropped into the driver's seat. "Have Lucius upload everything we have on Gulmira. Satellite imagery, troop movements, local militia activities."

"Already begun, sir. Though perhaps we should consider involving Mr. Kent? Given his connection to recent events-"

"No." Batman accelerated through Gotham's rain-slicked streets, the Batmobile's tires finding impossible traction. "Superman's too visible. This needs a different approach."

The cave's waterfall entrance parted as he approached, cascading around the car's armored hull. What had started as a natural cavern had evolved into something more - a fortress built from shadow and technology. The Batwing waited on its launch platform, sleek and lethal in the cave's ethereal lighting.

"Final checks complete," Alfred reported as Batman changed into his infiltration suit - lighter armor optimized for stealth over protection. "Though I still think this is remarkably ill-advised."

"Someone's weaponizing pieces of a dead planet," Batman replied, checking his equipment one final time. "And now we know where they're doing it."

"And you believe charging in alone is the wisest course of action?"

"Not alone." Batman settled into the Batwing's cockpit as systems came online. "I'll have you."

"How reassuring." But Alfred's voice carried that familiar mix of exasperation and pride. "The flight path is uploaded. I've plotted a course that should avoid most military radar coverage."

The cave's launch tunnel opened ahead as the Batwing's engines spooled up. Batman ran through final checks with practiced efficiency. "Estimated arrival?"

"Four hours assuming optimal conditions. Though given the numerous ways this could-"

"Go catastrophically wrong. I remember." Batman's hands wrapped around the controls as the plane lifted off. "Keep monitoring police bands. And Alfred? Thank you."

The Batwing shot forward into Gotham's storm-torn sky, banking hard as Batman set course for mountains half a world away. Behind him, the city's lights gradually faded into darkness. But his mind was already racing ahead - to hidden laboratories where men played with forces they didn't understand, to weapons that could hurt gods, to the fine line between power and destruction.

Whatever he found in Gulmira, he had to move fast. Because someone wasn't just studying these minerals anymore.

They were building something.

And he was going to find out what.

---

Malibu, California

Tony's fingers moved automatically over the gauntlet's circuitry, muscle memory taking over while his mind drifted. The charity gala's glamour felt like a lifetime ago, though he'd only been home for a few hours. His bow tie lay discarded on a workbench, the suit jacket tossed somewhere between here and the garage. The workshop's familiar sounds - DUM-E's servos whirring, computers humming, tools clicking against metal - usually calmed him. Not tonight.

"JARVIS, run the thermal efficiency numbers on the Mark III again," he muttered, more to fill the silence than from any real need. "And pull up the latest data on those mineral samples."

"The suit's thermal capabilities are well within acceptable parameters, sir," JARVIS replied. "Though I note your blood pressure has been elevated since returning from the benefit."

"Yeah, well, watching Obie play corporate politics tends to do that." Tony reached for his coffee, found the cup empty. "Any progress on tracking those shipments we detected?"

"Still processing satellite data. Though perhaps we should discuss what's really bothering you? The encounter with Miss Everhart seemed particularly-"

The TV in the corner caught Tony's attention, cutting off whatever insight his AI was about to offer. A reporter stood in familiar terrain - Afghanistan's harsh landscape burning orange in the setting sun. The banner read "CRISIS IN GULMIRA" as the camera panned across refugees carrying what little they could save.

"The fifteen-mile hike to the outskirts of Gulmira can only be described as a descent into hell," the reporter's voice carried over footage of villagers making their way down a ravine. "Into a modern-day Heart of Darkness. Simple farmers and herders from peaceful villages have been driven from their homes, displaced from their lands by warlords emboldened by a new-found power."

Tony's hands stilled on the gauntlet. He knew that terrain. Knew those mountains. Had seen them through a cave's mouth during those long months of captivity.

"Volume up," he ordered quietly. JARVIS complied without comment.

"Villagers have been forced to take shelter in whatever crude dwellings they can find in the ruins of other villages," the reporter continued as the camera showed people huddled in the remains of an old Soviet smelting plant. "Or here in the remnants of old industrial sites."

The screwdriver slipped, scratching metal. Tony barely noticed.

"Sir," JARVIS's voice carried careful concern, "your heart rate is-"

"Not now." Tony's eyes remained fixed on the screen as gunfire erupted in the background. The camera swung wildly before steadying on armed men moving through the village. Their weapons - his weapons - gleamed in the desert sun.

"Recent violence has been attributed to a group of foreign fighters referred to by locals as the Ten Rings," the reporter's voice shook slightly. "As you can see, these men are heavily armed and on a mission. A mission that could prove fatal to anyone who stands in their way."

The camera zoomed in on a familiar face that made Tony's blood run cold. Raza, looking remarkably recovered from their last encounter, surveyed the chaos with his usual calculated calm. A cigar smoked lazily between his fingers as he directed his men with casual authority.

"Son of a bitch," Tony breathed. The gauntlet's repulsor hummed to life under his agitated movements.

"With no political will or international pressure, there's very little hope for these refugees," the reporter continued over footage of desperate villagers. "Around me, a woman begging for news on her husband, who was kidnapped by insurgents, either forced to join their militia-"

Tony stood abruptly, the couch scraping across concrete. His reflection stared back from the workshop's glass panels - disheveled, angry, haunted by ghosts he thought he'd left in that cave.

"JARVIS, get me everything you can on Gulmira. Satellite imagery, troop movements, weapons shipments-"

"Already compiling, sir. Though perhaps we should discuss this rationally before-"

"They're using my weapons." Tony's voice was deadly quiet. "My weapons, JARVIS. The ones I said would never hurt innocent people again."

On screen, a woman held up a yellowed photograph to the camera, tears streaming down her face as she begged for information about her missing husband. A child clutched at her skirts, asking questions no child should have to ask.

"Where are my mother and father?" The reporter translated, her professional demeanor cracking slightly. "There's very little hope for these refugees, who can only wonder who, if anyone, will help."

The repulsor's whine grew higher as power built in Tony's palm. His reflection mocked him from the glass - the man who'd built an empire on death, who'd hidden behind platitudes about protecting the troops while his weapons destroyed lives half a world away.

"Your heart rate is approaching dangerous levels," JARVIS warned. "Might I suggest-"

The repulsor discharged with a crack of displaced air, shattering one of the overhead lights. Tony barely registered DUM-E rolling forward with the fire extinguisher.

"Sir-"

"Don't." Tony's voice was raw. "Just... don't."

He stared at his reflection in the remaining glass panels, seeing not the polished billionaire from tonight's gala but the man who'd emerged from that cave with shrapnel in his chest and blood on his hands. The repulsor brightened again.\

"The Mark III's combat systems are still untested," JARVIS tried as Tony's arm raised. "The mineral radiation could affect-"

The glass exploded as Tony fired, his reflection fragmenting into a thousand accusatory pieces. Another blast took out the final panel before he turned away from the destruction.

"Start the suit assembly sequence."

"Sir, I really must insist-"

"Now, JARVIS." Tony stepped onto the marking grid, his voice carrying the same certainty it had in that cave. "We're done watching."

"The suit's flight systems are barely calibrated," JARVIS protested even as robotic arms descended with armor components. "The weapons integration-"

"Will have to be good enough." Tony's eyes fixed on the TV as panels opened in the floor. The Mark III's boots and leg pieces rose up, gleaming red and gold in the workshop's lights. "They're using my weapons, my technology, to slaughter innocent people. Again."

The chest piece lowered as JARVIS fell into resigned efficiency, connecting armor plates with precise movements. "The last test flight nearly resulted in catastrophic failure. The power systems are still unstable-"

"Then we better hope they hold." Tony's arms rose as gauntlets locked into place. "Because I'm not letting this continue. Not one more day. Not one more innocent life."

The helmet descended, internal displays flickering to life as systems initialized. Tony's eyes burned with intensity as the faceplate snapped shut.

"Plot a course to Gulmira. And alert me if any other interested parties show up."

"Other parties, sir?"

"Call it a hunch." The roof access panels opened to reveal star-filled sky. "Something tells me we won't be the only ones paying those mountains a visit."

Repulsors fired as Tony shot upward into the night. Behind him, the TV continued its grim report, but he was done watching. Done hiding behind excuses and corporate speeches.

Time to show the Ten Rings exactly what he'd been building in that cave. And why they should have made sure he was actually dead before they started using his weapons again.

The suit cut through clouds as Tony pushed it faster, higher. The kryptonite-enhanced reactor hummed in his chest, its power mixing with the familiar determination that had kept him alive in that cave.

"Top speed, JARVIS. And scan for any unusual energy signatures in the target area."

"Already detecting several radiation patterns similar to the samples we analyzed, sir. Though I feel compelled to point out that charging into a combat zone with untested equipment is remarkably ill-advised."

"Noted." Tony's voice carried grim certainty as he accelerated toward dawn. "But they wanted a weapons designer. Time to show them exactly what I can design when properly motivated."

The California coast fell away behind him as he soared east. Somewhere ahead, innocent people suffered under weapons bearing his name. But that was about to change.

The Merchant of Death was gone. Time to show the world what had replaced him.

---

Arctic wind howled across the endless ice, a lonely sound that made the Fortress of Solitude live up to its name. Inside, though, warmth radiated from the crystalline spires - not just physical heat, but the comfort of home. Clark landed in the main chamber with barely a whisper of sound, his boots touching down on floors that had witnessed both triumph and despair. Today, his suit told a story of the latter, torn in places that should have been impossible, bearing scorch marks from an encounter with something that could actually hurt him.

The cape hung in tatters around his shoulders. He touched the fabric gently, remembering his mother's hands working the alien material, weaving love into every stitch. Not Martha - though she'd mended plenty of his clothes over the years - but Lara, crafting this final gift for a son she'd never see grow up.

Kelex approached first, crystalline form catching light in ways that still fascinated Clark even after all these years. The service robot's movements were both alien and familiar, like so much in Clark's life. Other robots emerged from their stations, their soft hums filling the vast space with a sound Clark had come to associate with moments of reflection.

"Welcome home, Kal-El." Was that disappointment in Kelex's artificial voice? Clark sometimes wondered how much emotion these robotic assistants could actually feel. "It has been ninety-seven days since your last visit."

"I know." Clark sighed, carefully removing the damaged cape. As he did, a familiar scent caught his attention - Lois's perfume, still clinging to his civilian clothes underneath. It brought back vivid memories of their morning together, before Metallo had interrupted what should have been a perfect day. "I should have come sooner. Life has been... full lately."

"We have monitored your activities," Kelex noted, managing to sound both clinical and somehow concerned. "Both as Superman and as Clark Kent. Your relationship with Lois Lane has deepened considerably."

Clark couldn't help smiling, remembering how he'd left Lois asleep in his bed that morning, dark hair spread across his pillow like spilled ink. "She makes me feel human, Kelex. In ways I never thought possible." The words felt inadequate to describe what Lois meant to him, but they were the closest he could come.

The command key pulsed softly as he approached, responding to his presence like a living thing. When Jor-El's hologram materialized, his father's face carried an expression Clark recognized - the same look of patient understanding he'd seen on Jonathan Kent's face the day Lois first came to Smallville: different fathers, different worlds, but the same love.

"My son." Jor-El studied him carefully, taking in the battle damage with eyes that seemed to see past the physical wounds. "You've faced a difficult opponent. But perhaps we should discuss the matters of the heart first?"

"Lois," Clark said softly, fingers tracing a tear in his suit that still smoldered faintly from kryptonite exposure. The name itself felt like a prayer. "She's everything, father. The way she sees me, not just as Superman or Clark Kent, but somehow both and neither at once. She met Mom and Dad two days ago. They love her already."

"And her family?"

A smile tugged at Clark's lips as he remembered dinner with the Lanes. "Her father's a general, suspicious of everything - but I can't blame him, given what he's seen. Her mother Eleanor though... she has this warmth that reminds me of Mom. And Lucy, her sister, she keeps teasing us about wedding plans." His expression grew more serious. "They've accepted me, father. Clark Kent, the farm boy from Kansas. If they knew what I really was..."

"You fear losing what you've built," Jor-El observed, his holographic form shifting slightly closer.

Clark found himself pacing, a very human gesture he'd picked up from both his fathers. "We sleep in the same bed now," he admitted quietly. "She curls against me in her sleep, trusting me completely. Last night, she told me she's never felt safer than in my arms. But every morning, I have to pretend to wake up when she does, pretend I haven't been listening to her heartbeat all night, memorizing its rhythm like a favorite song."

One of the service robots approached with scanning equipment, its movements careful and precise. "Your cellular structure shows signs of kryptonite exposure. The radiation has been refined beyond its natural state."

"Metallo." Clark nodded, the name bitter on his tongue as he turned back to thoughts of the battle that had interrupted his morning with Lois. "John Corbin. A good soldier who came home broken. They used fragments of Krypton to heal him at first, but then..." He trailed off, remembering the cold light that had replaced human warmth in Metallo's eyes.

"Tell me about the fight," Jor-El prompted gently.

Clark gestured, and crystalline displays formed around them, showing footage of the battle. The technology still amazed him - how the Fortress could capture and display events it hadn't directly witnessed. "The radiation changes him. Every time he uses his powers, I see less of the man and more of the machine. It's like watching someone lose their humanity piece by piece, replaced by something cold and angry."

"And you see parallels," Jor-El noted, his voice carrying centuries of wisdom. "Between his transformation and your fears about revealing yourself to Lois."

"What if knowing changes everything?" Clark watched the footage of Metallo's increasingly mechanical movements, seeing his own fears reflected in that inhuman grace. "The way she looks at me when we're together, father... like I'm her anchor in the storm. Last week, after a tough story, she fell asleep on my couch. Just trusted me enough to be completely vulnerable. What if knowing I'm not human changes that?"

"You are more human than you know," Jor-El said softly, and for a moment Clark could hear echoes of Jonathan Kent in those words. "Your mother and I sent you to Earth not just to survive, but to love. To find happiness however you could. From what I see of Lois Lane, she loves both sides of you already, even if she doesn't realize it."

"She makes me feel whole," Clark admitted, the words coming straight from his heart. "This morning, before Metallo attacked, we were just having coffee in her kitchen. Nothing special, just... being together. She was wearing my shirt from yesterday, hair all messy, complaining about Perry's deadline. And father, I've never felt more like myself. Not Superman, not Clark Kent, just... me."

The Fortress's systems suddenly pulsed with urgent data, the crystalline walls lighting up with new information. Multiple screens materialized, showing satellite imagery of a region Clark recognized from his travels - Afghanistan, specifically the Hindu Kush mountains. Kelex moved with swift efficiency to analyze the readings.

"We've detected a major stockpile of kryptonite," the robot reported, its voice carrying genuine concern. "The Ten Rings terrorist organization has been harvesting it systematically. The town of Gulmira appears to be their central base of operations."

Clark's expression hardened as he absorbed the data. The screens painted a grim picture - civilians being rounded up, weapons being stockpiled, and at the center, containers bearing the same sickly green glow he'd felt during his fight with Metallo. Each image made his stomach clench, both from remembered pain and anticipated conflict.

"The mineral's effects have been amplified," another robot added, displaying complex energy readings. "Our readings suggest they've developed new refinement techniques, possibly using Stark Industries technology."

"Tony Stark." The name came out as barely more than a whisper as pieces started clicking into place in Clark's mind. "He disappeared in that region three months ago, right when they started finding more kryptonite." His reporter's instincts kicked in, connecting dots that had been floating separate until now. "The timing of everything, father. Stark vanishes, these stockpiles appear, then Metallo emerges... it can't be coincidence."

"Someone is coordinating these events," Jor-El agreed, his holographic form studying the data with ancient eyes. "Using our world's remains for increasingly dangerous purposes."

The screens filled with more details, each more troubling than the last. Refugee movements tracked like migration patterns. Weapons placements mapped with military precision. Energy signatures that defied Earth's physics. But what caught Clark's heart, what made his chest ache, were the faces of Gulmira's people. They showed the same fear he'd seen in Metropolis during his fight with Metallo - the universal expression of those caught between forces beyond their control.

"I have to stop this," he said firmly, his voice carrying the same quiet determination Martha always said reminded her of Jonathan. "These people need help."

"Your suit requires significant repairs," Kelex reminded him, gesturing to the damage from Metallo. "The structural integrity—"

"Then work quickly," Clark replied. The robots moved to comply without further argument, their crystalline tools beginning the delicate process of mending his suit. As they worked, he turned back to Jor-El. "When I get back... I'm going to tell her. Everything."

"You're certain?" There was no judgment in Jor-El's tone, only loving concern.

"I love her, father," Clark said simply, the words carrying the weight of absolute truth. "Really love her. Not just physically, though that's... amazing. But the way she challenges me, believes in me, makes me laugh. The way she steals my fries at lunch and pretends she isn't. How she knows exactly when to push me on a story and when to just be there. I can't keep lying to her."

A smile touched Jor-El's holographic features, warming them in a way that made Clark's heart ache for the father he'd never truly known. "Your mother would approve. She always said love was about truth, even when it's frightening."

The robots worked with incredible efficiency, their alien technology restoring the suit's strength while maintaining its flexibility. Clark watched as the cape, woven with symbols of the House of El, once again rippled with otherworldly perfection. Each repair felt like a reminder of who he was - not just Superman or Clark Kent, but Kal-El, last son of Krypton, trying to bridge two worlds.

"The kryptonite stockpile appears to be their primary operation," Kelex reported, displaying tactical data with clinical precision. "But caution is advised. Our sensors detect unusual energy signatures beyond the mineral radiation."

"Someone else is taking an interest in Gulmira," Jor-El noted, studying the approach vectors. "Multiple signatures converging from different directions."

Clark's enhanced hearing picked up strange sounds carried on the Arctic wind - the quiet hum of advanced engines, the whisper of stealth systems. Someone else was heading toward that same target, perhaps multiple someones. The thought should have worried him, but instead it filled him with an odd hope. Maybe he wasn't the only one who couldn't stand by while people suffered.

"Then I better not keep them waiting." Clark floated up as the Fortress's exit portal opened to the eternally bright Arctic sky. The cold air brushed his face like a farewell caress. "Kelex, monitor the situation. Father... when I tell Lois, will you... will you help me explain? About Krypton, about why you sent me?"

"Of course," Jor-El replied, his holographic form seeming to shine brighter for a moment. "Though I suspect she already understands more than you realize. Go now, my son. Help those people. And remember that sometimes the greatest strength lies not in what we can do alone, but in who we choose to stand beside."

Clark nodded, understanding his father's deeper meaning. Then he was gone, a sonic boom marking his departure as he soared toward Gulmira. Behind him, the Fortress's systems tracked other approaching signatures, one from Malibu's direction, another from Gotham. Three lines converging on a single point, though none knew the others were coming.

The restored cape caught Arctic sunlight as he accelerated, pushing himself faster. Below, the world turned from ice to sea to land, but his heart was already looking forward to his return. To Lois, to truth, to whatever came next. The thought of finally sharing everything with her gave him strength beyond what any yellow sun could provide.

He adjusted his course, tracking the kryptonite radiation like a beacon. In his ear, Kelex's voice provided updates: "Multiple heat signatures detected in the target area. Energy readings suggest advanced weapons technology. Exercise caution, Kal-El."

Clark flew on, destiny pulling him toward a convergence he couldn't yet understand. In Gulmira, something waited - not just a battle but a meeting that would change everything. Three defenders, three paths, one moment when legends would unknowingly align.

The sun rose behind him as he crossed into Asian airspace, his restored suit gleaming red and blue against the morning sky. Below, refugees trudged through mountain passes, fleeing the terror in Gulmira. Soon they would see something new, something that might restore their hope.

Three heroes, three different answers to the same question: Who will protect those who cannot protect themselves?

Time to find out.

---

Author's Note:

What a joy this chapter was to write, especially those heartwarming family moments. There's something special about watching two worlds come together as people open their hearts and homes to each other.

I'm excited to announce that once "Superman: Man of Steel" wraps up, we'll be diving straight into "Batman: Shadow of Gotham." Get ready to explore the Dark Knight's world as he encounters a young acrobat named Dick Grayson, setting both their lives on a path neither expected. But that's all I'll say about that for now...

As always, huge thanks to .4545 for his incredible editing work. His insights make every chapter better.

And to all of you reading along and sharing your thoughts - thank you. Your support means everything, and I can't wait to show you what's coming next.

With sincere thanks,

Mtle232

---

Face Claims List:

Main Cast:

David Corenswet as Clark Kent/Superman

Rachel Brosnahan as Lois Lane

Nicholas Hoult as Lex Luthor

Kevin Costner as Jonathan Kent

Diane Lane as Martha Kent

Russell Crowe as Jor-El

Ayelet Zurer as Lara Lor-Van

John C. McGinley as Perry White

Finn Wolfhard as Jimmy Olsen

Alexander Skarsgård as John Corbin

Gary Sinise as General Sam Lane

Ciaran Hinds as Lionel Luthor

Justice Smith as Pete Ross

Jane Levy as Lana Lang

Supporting Cast:

Emma Stone as Cat Grant

Aldis Hodge as Ron Troupe

Chris Wood as Steve Lombard

Eiza González as Mercy Graves

Bruce Greenwood as Alan Scott

Melissa Fumero as Monica

Iron Man Characters:

Robert Downey Jr. as Tony Stark

Gwyneth Paltrow as Pepper Potts

Don Cheadle as James "Rhodey" Rhodes

Jon Favreau as Happy Hogan

Jeff Bridges as Obadiah Stane

Shaun Toub as Ho Yinsen

Faran Tahir as Raza

Clark Gregg as Agent Phil Coulson

Batman Characters:

Brandan Sklenar as Bruce Wayne/Batman

Charles Dance as Alfred Pennyworth

Collin Farrell as Oswald Cobblepot/ The Penguin

Government/Military:

William Sadler as President Ellis

William Hurt as General Thaddeus Ross

Samuel L. Jackson as Nick Fury

Robert Redford as Alexander Pierce

Viola Davis as Amanda Waller

Krypton:

Michael Shannon as General Zod

Antje Traue as Faora-Ul

Richard Cetrone as Tor-An

Other MDCCU Connections:

• A white German Shepherd as Krypto (CGI enhanced)

• Sophie Turner as Dr. Jean Grey (TV appearance)

• Bryan Cranston as Commissioner Gordon (mentioned)

• Patrick Stewart as Professor Xavier (mentioned)