"That's enough, John," Lionel tried to intervene, though Clark noticed he made no move to actually stop Corbin.
"Why? Because I'm not sticking to your PR script?" Corbin turned to the assembled media. "You want a story? Here's your headline: American soldier challenges alien pretender. No tricks, no poses, just a fair fight to see who really protects this planet."
The room erupted in camera flashes and shouted questions. Fox News's reporter practically jumped forward: "Are you saying you can take Superman in a direct confrontation?"
"I'm saying it's time someone showed him he's not a god," Corbin replied, his synthetic face twisting into something between a smile and a sneer. "That humanity doesn't need some illegal alien in a cape telling us what's best for us. You want to protect Earth, Superman? Then face someone who's actually fought for it instead of just flying around like some spandex-wearing tourist."
Clark felt Lois tense beside him. She'd never tolerated bigotry in any form, and Corbin's xenophobic rhetoric was clearly hitting a nerve. But before she could speak, Lex stepped forward smoothly:
"What my colleague means is that perhaps it's time for a public demonstration of Metallo's capabilities. A controlled test of these new defense systems-"
"No," Corbin cut him off. "What I mean is exactly what I'm saying. One soldier, against one alien. Mano a mano, or whatever they say on his home planet. Oh wait - they don't say anything there anymore, do they? Since it's all just space dust now."
The green glow pulsed stronger with every word, and Clark had to lean slightly against a nearby column to stay upright. The radiation was definitely affecting Corbin's behavior, making him more aggressive, more reckless.
"Think about it!" Corbin continued, now pacing the stage with predatory grace. "He says he's here to help? To protect? Then let him prove it against someone who's actually earned the right to stand for Earth. Not some costumed refugee playing savior while hiding his real face."
"You seem very confident," Clark managed to say, keeping his voice steady despite the nausea. All eyes turned to him as he continued, "For someone challenging a being who can move planets."
Corbin's metallic smile grew wider. "Kent, right? The alien's personal PR man at the Planet?" He tapped his chest where the 'M' pulsed. "This little piece of his dead world makes me more than a match for your flying friend. Or maybe he's not just a friend? The way you write about him, it's almost like love letters."
"I write the truth," Clark replied calmly. "About a being who chooses to help despite having no obligation to do so."
"No obligation?" Corbin's laugh was harsh. "He's squatting on our planet, playing god with our lives. At least I'm human - even with all this metal, I'm still one of us. What's he? Some last leftover from a civilization so advanced they still managed to blow themselves up?"
The crowd's reaction was mixed - uncomfortable mutters from some quarters, nodding agreement from others. Clark noticed General Ross looking particularly pleased, while General Lane seemed increasingly concerned.
"Mr. Luthor," Cat Grant from WGBS cut in, "is LuthorCorp officially endorsing this challenge?"
"LuthorCorp stands behind the Metallo project's defensive capabilities," Lionel replied diplomatically. "Though perhaps Sergeant Corbin's enthusiasm is getting ahead of our testing protocols."
"Protocols?" Corbin snorted. "We're past protocols. This is about showing the world it doesn't need an alien savior. That human ingenuity, human courage, human sacrifice - that's what really protects us." He faced the cameras directly. "So how about it, Superman? Or are you afraid to face someone who can actually fight back? Someone powered by the bones of your dead world?"
"That's enough!" Lois's voice cut through the tension. "You want to prove something? Do it by helping people, not staging macho showdowns."
"Honey, the adults are talking," Corbin dismissed her with a wave of his metallic hand. "Though I understand why you'd defend him. Must be exciting, having an alien to write about. Bet it sells lots of papers."
Clark felt his anger rise at Corbin's tone with Lois, but kept his expression neutral. "I think we've got enough for our story," he said quietly to Lois. "Unless you want to stay for more schoolyard taunts?"
"The Daily Planet's leaving so soon?" Corbin called after them. "Make sure you print my challenge word for word, Kent. Let your alien friend know a real man of steel is waiting to show him what American power looks like."
As they headed for the exit, fragments of whispered conversations reached Clark's ears:
"...radiation levels from his core spiking..."
"...aggression inhibitors barely holding..."
"All within acceptable parameters," he heard Stane murmur to Lionel. "The personality shifts were expected..."
Lois glanced up at him as they reached the lobby. "You look like you're about to be sick."
"Just thinking about what they've done," Clark said quietly. "Taking a wounded soldier and turning him into—"
"Their own personal attack dog." Lois's voice was tight. "Though from what we saw in there, I'm not sure they can control him anymore."
"We need to get the real story out there. Not their PR spin, not Corbin's hatred—the truth."
"We will." She squeezed his arm. "Like always."
Clark tried to focus on her touch, but Corbin's words kept echoing in his mind. Two paths lay before the world now: the one Superman had shown, using power to protect and inspire and Metallo's way, born of fear and twisted by hate.
—
The next morning, Metallo dominated every network. Fox News celebrated the "American-made superhero," while CNN dissected military applications. MSNBC debated cybernetic ethics, but they all fixated on one thing: Corbin's challenge.
"SUPERMAN CHALLENGED: American Soldier vs Alien Protector" blazed across screens nationwide. The Daily Star ran with "Man of Steel vs Man of Steel," while the Metropolis Tribune went with "Soldier Challenges Superman." The Daily Bugle, predictably, screamed "HUMAN HERO DEMANDS ALIEN SHOWDOWN!"
At the Planet's morning meeting, the newsroom gathered around Perry's office, unusually subdued. Behind him, every monitor played footage of LuthorCorp's new "hero."
"LuthorCorp's groundbreaking Metallo project represents a new chapter in human achievement," Lionel's smooth voice carried from CNBC. "For too long, we've relied on an alien protector. Now humanity can stand on its own..."
Another screen showed Stane on Fox Business, his silver hair gleaming under studio lights. "The technological implications are staggering. We're talking about the next stage of human evolution. LuthorCorp and Stark Industries are proud to-"
"Turn that garbage off," Perry waved dismissively at the screens. "Lane, Kent - I want the real story. Not this corporate PR circus they're spinning."
"Working on it," Lois replied, not looking up from her notes. "The technology didn't just appear overnight. These shipping manifests I found-"
"Be careful," Perry cut in. "LuthorCorp's already threatening lawsuits over any 'speculative reporting.' I want this airtight before we print."
As the meeting broke up, Jimmy caught Clark by the water cooler. "Hey CK, you okay? You looked kind of green during the Metallo footage."
"Just something I ate," Clark managed a smile. "Listen, if Lois gets back, tell her I had to step out for a bit?"
"Sure thing. Though you might want to bring her coffee when you return. You know how she gets when you disappear on her."
Clark's smile turned genuine. Even after a month of dating, Lois's caffeine requirements remained both demanding and specific. "Thanks Jimmy."
He made it to the roof without being spotted, quickly changing and taking off into the afternoon sky. Metropolis fell away beneath him as he headed west, the familiar pull of home growing stronger with each mile. He needed his parents' perspective on this.
Krypto heard him first. The white dog's bark echoed across the Kent farm as Clark descended, tail wagging furiously as he bounded across the yard. Clark barely had time to land before being tackled by eighty pounds of enthusiastic super-powered canine.
"Easy boy," Clark laughed, scratching behind Krypto's ears. "I missed you too."
Martha appeared on the porch, wiping flour from her hands onto her apron. The smell of baking pie wafted through the screen door. One look at her son's face and she called over her shoulder: "Jonathan! Come quick - Clark's here!"
His dad emerged from the barn, wiping engine grease off his hands with an old rag. "Well, this is a surprise. Everything okay, son?"
The three of them ended up where they always did - around the kitchen table, coffee in their favorite mugs, while Martha's apple pie cooled on the windowsill. Krypto flopped at Clark's feet with a heavy sigh, head resting on his shoe.
"So," Jonathan said after they'd all settled. "Quite a show LuthorCorp put on."
Clark wrapped his hands around his mug, the warmth grounding him. "You saw it?"
"Hard to miss," Martha said. "It's all over every channel. Though I had to stop your father from putting his boot through the TV when that Corbin person started in with the anti-alien rhetoric."
"Wasn't the TV I wanted to put my boot through," Jonathan muttered.
Martha touched her husband's arm. "What that poor man's been through though... to come home wounded like that and have them do this to him instead of helping him heal."
"That's just it," Clark said. "They took his pain and weaponized it. And now he's out there challenging me to some kind of... gladiator match. Like hurting each other would prove anything."
"Something about that green stone they're using," Jonathan noted. "We could see how it affected you when he opened that chest plate. Are you alright, son?"
Clark pushed his coffee aside, suddenly restless. "It's like nothing I've ever felt before - waves of nausea and weakness. They're calling it kryptonite. Because..." he swallowed hard. "They say it's from Krypton. Pieces of my home world that came down in meteor showers."
"Oh Clark," Martha breathed. "To use that against you - it's cruel."
"That's not even the worst part. They've built it right into his chest, right where the House of El crest would be. And every time I get near it..."
"Luthor never was one for subtlety," Jonathan growled. "But what's really eating at you? Because this isn't just about the challenge or that stone."
Clark got up, pacing the familiar kitchen while his thoughts tumbled out. "They took a soldier - someone who sacrificed everything serving his country - and instead of helping him deal with his trauma, they exploited it. Fed his anger and pain until he agreed to let them turn him into... this. And now he's their attack dog, challenging me to prove human superiority over aliens."
"Oh honey," Martha said softly. "You can't save everyone. Some people choose paths that take them places we can't follow."
"But did he really choose?" Clark stopped at the window, staring out at the Kansas fields that had taught him so much about patience. "Whatever that radiation's doing - it's affecting his mind. Making him more aggressive, more unstable. And Luthor and Stane are just... watching it happen. Using him."
"What does your partner think about all this?" Jonathan asked. "This Lane woman you've been seeing?"
Despite everything, Clark couldn't help smiling. "Lois sees right through it all. She's already uncovered evidence of illegal shipments, experimental procedures - about six different medical ethics violations. She's determined to expose everything they've done to him."
"You talk about her a lot," Martha observed carefully. "Things getting serious?"
"Mom..."
"What? A mother can't be interested in her son's love life?"
"It's been a month," Clark protested, though his smile gave him away. "But... yeah. It's different with her. She's brilliant and fearless and completely dedicated to the truth. Even before we started dating, working with her made me feel... normal. Like I could just be Clark Kent, reporter and farm boy."
"You haven't told her yet?" Jonathan asked quietly. "About Superman?"
Clark's smile faded. "No. I want to, but... with everything happening with Metallo, it feels like the worst possible timing. She's so focused on exposing LuthorCorp's exploitation of Corbin. If she knew I was Superman..."
"She'd have quite a story," Jonathan finished.
"That's not why..." Clark started defensively.
"We know, honey," Martha cut in. "But you can't protect her forever. Not if things keep getting serious."
"They are," Clark admitted. "Serious, I mean. Last night we were working late on the Metallo story, and she just... looked at me. Said she'd never had a partner she trusted so completely before. That with everything going crazy in the world, I was her constant."
"You've got that same look your father used to get," Martha smiled. "Still gets, actually."
"Still do," Jonathan agreed with a wink at his wife. "But son, about this challenge - what are you going to do?"
"I can't just ignore it," Clark sighed. "Not with the whole world watching. But fighting him feels like giving them exactly what they want. This public spectacle of alien versus human... it's everything I've tried to avoid."
"Then don't give them what they want," Martha said simply. "Find another way."
"How?"
"By remembering who you are," Jonathan replied. "Not Superman, not the alien they're trying to provoke - but the boy we raised to see the good in people. To help, not hurt."
Clark looked at his parents - these remarkable humans who had taught him everything that mattered about being human. "He's in pain," he said quietly. "Under all that metal and radiation and hate... he's just a wounded soldier who wanted to keep serving."
"Then maybe that's your way in," Martha suggested, getting up to check on the pie. "Not fighting the weapon they've made him into, but reaching the man underneath. And Clark? Bring Lois out to dinner sometime. We'd love to meet her properly."
Clark checked his phone and winced at the missed messages. "I should head back. She's probably already terrorizing half the newsroom looking for those shipping manifests."
"Let us know how it goes," Jonathan said, clapping him on the shoulder. "With both situations."
Clark hugged them both, the familiar scents of home - engine grease, fresh pie, his mother's perfume - wrapping around him like a blanket. "Thanks. For everything."
"That's what family's for," Martha smiled, pressing a wrapped slice of pie into his hands. "Now go. Save the world, get the story - and maybe bring that girl of yours by soon."
Clark laughed as he headed outside, Krypto following hopefully. "Stay boy. I'll be back soon." He walked a few steps into the yard, then gracefully lifted off the ground. As he accelerated skyward, his form grew smaller against the vast Kansas sky.
His parents watched from the porch as their son became a distant speck among the clouds.
"He'll find a way," Martha said softly. "He always does."
—
Gotham
Rain drummed against steel and glass, turning Gotham's docks into a maze of shadows and reflected neon. The persistent downpour masked the sound of movement in the warehouse rafters, where Batman watched Falcone's men unload military-grade weapons from unmarked trucks. Their nervous glances at darker corners told him the stories had done their work - five years of carefully cultivated fear had turned him from urban myth into the underworld's boogeyman. Criminals were all the same at the end of the day beneath their posturing of power and mentality that they were above the law after all: A cowardly and superstitious lot.
He counted eight men below, their movements revealing a mix of veterans and newer recruits. The veterans kept to practiced patterns, maintaining sight lines and checking corners. The newer ones bunched together, hands too tight on their weapons. Scared. Good. Fear made them sloppy.
The warehouse spread below him like a tactical map: two main exits, multiple shipping containers creating natural choke points, and catwalks offering superior positions. Through the cowl's enhanced vision, he could make out military markings on the crates they were unloading. M4 carbines. AT4 rocket launchers. Even a few cases marked with Stark Industries logos - weapons that definitely weren't supposed to be in civilian hands. Enough firepower to arm half of Gotham's gangs.
"Check the perimeter again," the leader barked, one hand resting on his holstered .45. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold. "Falcone wants this done clean. No mistakes. And somebody wake Sal up - he's supposed to be watching the back door!"
Batman recognized him - Marco Vitti, mid-level enforcer who'd worked his way up through extortion and violence. Three priors, known for excessive force. Currently out on bail thanks to expensive lawyers. The kind of criminal who'd slipped through the system's cracks until a different kind of justice found them. His file included notes on a particular fondness for breaking fingers - sending messages to those who crossed Falcone.
"This whole thing feels wrong," one of the newer guys muttered, flashlight beam jerking between shadows. Barely out of his teens, probably recruited from the narrows. His hands shook slightly as he swept the light across the ceiling, the beam catching droplets of water that leaked through the rusted roof. "Falcone's been acting strange lately. Ever since that thing in Metropolis... My cousin says he's scared, you know? Of what's coming."
"Shut it," his partner hissed, but his own eyes kept searching the darkness. More experienced, but still green enough to show his fear. The way he positioned himself suggested some military training - dishonorable discharge most likely. His trigger finger twitched every time thunder rolled across the harbor. "You wanna bring him down on us?"
"The Bat?" The rookie laughed, too loud, too forced. Trying to convince himself more than anyone else. The beam of his flashlight trembled against the rafters, casting dancing shadows that seemed to move with minds of their own. "Come on, that's just stories to scare kids. Urban legend stuff. Nobody could do the things they say he—"
A strangled scream pierced the air, cut off almost instantly. The rookie's flashlight spiraled through the darkness, casting wild patterns before clattering against the concrete. His pistol followed a moment later, the metallic sound echoing through the warehouse like a death knell.
Silence fell, broken only by the rain and the rookie's gun spinning to a stop. Seven pairs of eyes stared at the empty space where their friend had been. Batman watched from above as primitive fear took hold - the same fear that had kept early humans alive in the darkness beyond their caves. In the shadows of the rafters, the rookie hung unconscious, safely secured. No permanent damage, just enough of a warning to maybe make him reconsider his career choices.
"Jesus," someone whispered, voice trembling. "Jesus Christ."
"Spread out!" Marco shouted, drawing his .45. His voice carried the edge of someone trying to maintain control of a situation rapidly spiraling away from him. Sweat gleamed on his forehead despite the cold. "Find him! Rico, check the catwalks! Tony, get those lights fixed! Joey, watch the—"
The sound of running footsteps cut him off as Joey broke ranks, sprinting for the side exit. He made it three steps before something whistled through the air. The batarang caught him behind the knee, sending him sprawling. His gun skittered across the concrete, disappearing into shadows.
"Nobody leaves," Batman's voice resonated from everywhere and nowhere, the cowl's modulator giving it an inhuman quality that seemed to bypass rational thought and trigger something deeper, more primal. "Eight armed men. Military hardware. Illegal weapons trade."
Rico opened fire at a moving shadow, the muzzle flash temporarily blinding him. When his vision cleared, the shadow was gone. "Where—" Something hard struck his wrist, and his gun went flying. Before he could cry out, an armored gauntlet clamped over his mouth. The last thing he saw was a black cape unfurling like demon's wings before consciousness fled.
"That makes all of you accessories to felony weapons trafficking," the voice continued, now seeming to come from a completely different direction. The remaining men fired wildly, their shots echoing off steel containers and creating a chaotic symphony of panic and cordite.
Tony finally reached the circuit box, fumbling with the switches. "Got it!" he shouted. "Just need to—" Something black and terrible descended behind him. A precise strike to the neck dropped him before he could scream - a move learned from a monastery in the mountains, perfected in Gotham's alleys. The figure vanished again as bullets tore through where it had been.
"He ain't human!" One thug backed toward the exit, gun shaking. Former boxer turned enforcer, according to the file Batman had memorized. Now reduced to primitive fear, his professional fighting stance abandoned for pure animal panic. His back hit a shipping container. "The stories are true, he ain't—"
A black cable whipped around his ankle, yanking him upward with impossible speed. His scream dopplered into the darkness above. There was the sound of a brief struggle, then silence.
The remaining men clustered together, backs to a shipping container. Basic pack mentality taking over - but it only made them easier targets. Four left now, not counting Marco. Their shots were getting wilder, less controlled. Fear was doing half of Batman's work for him.
"Watch the shadows," Marco ordered, voice cracking. His façade of control was slipping. "Just watch the goddamn—"
The lights went out.
Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the scene - three men firing blindly, Marco trying to maintain some semblance of control, and a fifth figure, Giovanni, who had dropped his gun entirely. In the sudden darkness, Giovanni started praying in rapid Italian, the words tumbling out between panicked breaths. "Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori..." According to Batman's intel, he'd been with Falcone for three years, but his mother still made him go to confession every Sunday. "Adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte..."
A scream from the left was cut off mid-cry. Muzzle flashes strobed as panicked shots filled the air. Batman moved through the chaos like a ghost, each strike precise and devastating. A broken wrist here - the hand would heal, but the nerve damage would make holding a gun difficult. A shattered knee there - enough to end a criminal career without crippling permanently. The carefully controlled violence he'd spent years perfecting.
Giovanni's prayer grew more desperate with each scream from the darkness. "Santa Maria... oh God, please... Santa Maria..." His rosary beads clicked together as his trembling hands fumbled through the ritual.
"Where is he? WHERE IS HE?" The shout came from above - one of the men had managed to reach the catwalk. The beam of his flashlight swept wildly across the warehouse.
"Here." The word came from directly behind him. Before he could turn, powerful arms locked around him. "Let me show you the view." The man's scream faded as Batman grappled them both higher into the rafters. There was a dull thud, then the sound of a body being secured to a beam.
Two men opened fire on Batman's last known position, but he was already moving. The cape snapped like thunder as he dropped between them. An armored elbow caught one man's temple while a sweep kick took out the other's legs. Both dropped without ever getting a clear look at their attacker.
Only Marco remained, backing toward his truck with a gun in each hand. Lightning flashed, illuminating the warehouse in stark bursts. His men lay scattered and broken in the rain-swept darkness. Giovanni curled into a fetal position, still clutching his rosary and muttering prayers. The scene looked like something from a nightmare - which was exactly the effect Batman had cultivated.
"Stay back!" Marco fired desperately at moving shadows, his shots going wide. The echo of empty chambers clicking told Batman the enforcer had exhausted both weapons. "I'm warning you!"
"I am the warning." The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once - another trick perfected over years of practice. Fear multiplied itself when the target couldn't locate its source.
Marco spun, bullets sparking off containers and concrete. His back hit the truck. When he turned again, Batman stood before him - a demon carved from shadow and precision. The white lenses of the cowl reflected nothing, giving no hint of humanity behind the mask.
"The weapons." Batman's voice dropped lower, a sound like granite grinding against steel. "Where did Falcone get them?"
"I don't know! I just move the shipments, I don't—"
Batman's hand closed on his throat, lifting him off his feet. The grip was calculated - enough pressure to induce panic without causing real damage. "Try again."
"Please!" Marco's bravado crumbled completely. "They'll kill me if I—"
"I'm not going to kill you." Batman brought him closer, letting him see nothing but those blank white lenses. "But by the time I'm done, you'll wish I had."
The words came spilling out between gasps: "The Russians... Anatoli Knyazev's crew... they're running everything through dummy corporations." Marco's eyes darted frantically between shadows. "Shell companies registered in the Caymans - Agricultural Solutions International, Baltic Trade Partners..."
"Names," Batman growled. "Contacts."
"Viktor Mikalek handles the shipments... works out of a warehouse on Dixon Dock. Wednesday nights..." Marco swallowed hard. "The manifests are coded - farming equipment on paper, weapons in the containers. AT4s listed as tractors, M4s as irrigation supplies..."
"The Stark weapons?"
"Black market... salvaged from conflict zones. Knyazev has a guy in Lagos who—" Marco's eyes widened as Batman's grip tightened slightly. "Warehouse 23B on the south pier! That's where they store the high-end stuff before distribution. But Falcone's been stockpiling lately, more than usual. Says something big is coming, need to be ready..."
Batman's cowl recorded everything while his trained memory cataloged the important details. A complex network of weapons distribution that had been invisible until now - Russian arms dealers working through shell companies, shipping routes disguised as legitimate trade, stockpiles building up across the city. The pieces were forming a disturbing pattern.
"What's coming?"
"I don't... I don't know! Falcone's paranoid lately. Ever since Superman showed up in Metropolis... talks about power shifting, new players..." Marco's voice cracked. "Please, that's everything I know! I swear to God!"
He kept one ear tuned to approaching sirens. Gordon would be here soon, right on schedule. Five years of working together had streamlined these operations into a grim routine. The GCPD handled the arrests and evidence collection while Batman provided the intelligence and initial takedowns. An unofficial partnership that had slowly begun to turn the tide in Gotham.
When Marco finished talking, darkness claimed him too. A precise nerve strike to the junction of neck and shoulder - one of the many techniques Batman had learned during his years abroad. The enforcer would wake with a headache and stiff neck, but nothing permanent. Just another reminder that Gotham's shadows held teeth.
Through the broken skylights, rain poured into the warehouse, washing blood and shell casings toward the drains. Police sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Their sound mixed with the constant background noise of Gotham at night - ship horns from the harbor, the elevated train's rattling passage through the Narrows, distant gunshots that might or might not warrant investigation. Five years, and the city's dark symphony hadn't changed.