Chapter 32 - Through the Door Darkly
(TNT Twins' Compound Ruins - Vermont - June 24th, 2022)
The setting sun painted the devastated compound in shades of blood orange and shadow. Clark Kent—Superman—stood frozen, his eyes locked on the impossible sight before him. Soldier Boy, who moments ago had been nothing more than a corpse with a fist-sized hole through his chest, was standing. Not just standing—grinning.
The bone-like substance that had sealed the wound where Kara's hand had punched through his sternum pulsed with a sickly green luminescence. It wasn't just covering the injury anymore. As Clark watched, the white material spread like a living thing across Soldier Boy's torso, crawling over his skin in jagged patterns that reminded him of lightning strikes frozen in calcium.
"Guess I'm harder to kill than she thought," Soldier Boy said again, his voice carrying that same distorted quality that made Clark's enhanced hearing recoil. It was as if multiple voices were speaking at once, all slightly out of sync.
Annie's hand found Hughie's as they scrambled back toward the van. MM was already moving, tactical instincts overriding shock as he grabbed for the rifle he'd dropped. Butcher stood frozen, one hand still in his pocket where Clark knew he'd stuffed that green rock. Around them, the survivors of the compound—those supes who hadn't fled or been killed—were finally finding the strength to run.
"Everyone, get back!" Clark's voice cut through the chaos, command authority replacing the shock that had consumed him moments before. He couldn't afford to hesitate. Not now. Not with—
Soldier Boy's chest began to glow.
The familiar sick-green light built rapidly, faster than it had before. The bone-like patches across his torso seemed to amplify it, reflect it, feed it. Clark's enhanced vision could see the radiation building, could track how the energy was spiralling through the strange calcium formations like water through a filtration system, growing more concentrated with each pulse.
"MOVE!" Clark blurred forward, grabbing Annie and Hughie bodily and throwing them toward the van with carefully calculated force. Not enough to hurt them, but enough to get them away. He spun back just as—
BOOM
The pulse hit him square in the chest.
Pain. Real pain, the kind he'd only felt a handful of times in his entire life. It wasn't heat or impact or electricity—it was wrongness, a fundamental unraveling at the cellular level. Clark felt his knees buckle as the radiation washed over him, felt his powers flicker like a candle in a hurricane. For a terrible moment, he was eight years old again, trapped in the storm cellar with those green rocks, watching his skin turn ashen and feeling death reach for him with cold fingers.
But this was worse. So much worse.
Because he wasn't the only target.
The pulse expanded in a perfect sphere, catching everyone still in range. Clark heard Annie's scream cut off as the radiation hit her, heard Butcher's curse turn into a choking gasp. Even the fleeing supes went down, those with enhanced durability lasting a few seconds longer before they too collapsed.
And through it all, through the agony that was eating him alive from the inside out, Clark could hear Soldier Boy laughing.
"There it is!" The former hero's voice was ecstatic, almost orgasmic in its pleasure. "There's that fear! You finally get it, don't you? You're not gods. You're just meat that happens to be harder to kill. But everything dies eventually, Superman. Everything burns."
Clark tried to stand. Managed to get one knee under him before his strength gave out again. The radiation was in his lungs, his blood, his bones. His enhanced healing was fighting it, but it was like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a teaspoon. For every cell he repaired, ten more were damaged. He could feel himself dying by inches.
No. Not like this. Not when they still need—
A flash of white and red cut through his fading vision.
CRACK
The sound of impact was like thunder as Kara slammed into Soldier Boy with enough force to crater the ground beneath them. The pulse cut off instantly as Soldier Boy was driven backwards, his feet tearing furrows in the earth as Kara drove forward with relentless fury.
"You will stop!" Kara's voice wasn't the uncertain, hopeful tone she'd used with Clark before. This was the voice of a soldier, of someone who'd been trained to kill and was prepared to do exactly that. "You will stop this now, or I will ensure you—"
Soldier Boy's fist caught her in the jaw mid-sentence.
Clark had seen Kara move. Had fought alongside her briefly, had witnessed her strength and speed. But he'd never seen her take a hit like that. Never seen the way her head snapped back, the spray of blood from her split lip, the momentary disorientation in her eyes as she stumbled.
Soldier Boy didn't give her time to recover. He followed up with a devastating uppercut that lifted Kara off her feet, then caught her by the ankle and swung her into the ground like a rag doll. Once. Twice. Three times, each impact creating fresh craters, each one accompanied by the sickening crunch of concrete and bone.
"I've had forty years to think about this!" Soldier Boy roared, punctuating each word with another brutal slam. "Forty years of torture! Of being cut open and put back together! Of being their lab rat! And you know what I learned?"
He threw Kara away. She tumbled end over end before crashing through the remains of a trailer, disappearing in a cloud of debris and dust.
"I learned that nobody gets to tell me what to do. Not anymore. Not ever."
The bone-like substance was spreading. Clark could see it now, see how it was covering more of Soldier Boy's body with each passing second. His entire torso was encased in the white material, and it was creeping up his neck, down his arms. It pulsed with that same green luminescence, and Clark's enhanced senses could detect something else now—a hunger in the radiation Soldier Boy was putting off. As if it was actively seeking out living tissue to corrupt and consume.
Kara burst from the rubble, her white costume torn and stained with blood and dirt. Her face was a mask of determination, but Clark could see the fear underneath. She knew, just as he did, that something fundamental had changed. This wasn't the Soldier Boy from before. This was something else. Something worse.
"Kal-El!" Kara's shout made him turn. She was hovering now, keeping distance between herself and Soldier Boy. Her eyes met his across the devastated compound. "You need to get everyone out! I cannot—this thing he has become, I cannot contain it near civilians!"
"And what the fuck are you going to do, Blondie?" Soldier Boy's laugh was ugly. "You already killed me once. Didn't stick, in case you hadn't noticed."
"Then I will simply have to be more thorough."
Kara's eyes blazed red. The twin beams of heat vision that erupted from them were hotter and more concentrated than anything Clark had ever managed. They struck Soldier Boy dead center in his chest, where the bone-like substance was thickest, and for a moment—just a moment—Clark thought it might work. Thought the sheer intensity of the heat might be enough to overcome whatever impossible healing factor had brought the man back from death.
Then Soldier Boy started walking forward.
Through the heat vision. Into it. His feet left smoking craters with each step, but he didn't stop. Didn't even slow down. The bone-like substance on his chest glowed white-hot, but it didn't burn away. If anything, it seemed to be absorbing the energy, growing thicker and denser.
"My turn," Soldier Boy said.
His chest flared, and this time Clark saw it—saw how the radiation was channeling through the bone structures, saw how they were focusing it, amplifying it. What came out wasn't a pulse anymore. It was a beam, a concentrated lance of sick-green energy that caught Kara square in the chest and sent her tumbling backward through the air, trailing smoke and screaming.
Clark tried to stand again. The radiation sickness was fading—his Kryptonian biology was winning its battle against the cellular damage, aided by the fading sunlight—but he was still weak. Still moving too slowly. He managed to get upright just as Soldier Boy's attention turned back to him.
"You're next, Boy Scout. But first—" Soldier Boy turned toward the van where Annie and the others had taken cover. His chest began to glow again. "Let's finish what we started, shall we?"
No.
The word was a declaration in Clark's mind. A line drawn in the sand. He would not—could not—lose anyone else.
Clark blurred forward, crossing the distance between himself and Soldier Boy in the blink of an eye. He hit the older supe with everything he had, a perfectly executed flying tackle that should have driven them both into the earth. Should have given Annie and the others time to flee.
Instead, Soldier Boy caught him.
Just caught him. One hand closing around Clark's throat as easily as swatting a fly. The casual display of strength—strength that shouldn't have been possible even for someone with Soldier Boy's power level—sent ice through Clark's veins.
"Not so tough now, are you?" Soldier Boy's grip tightened. Clark felt his throat compress, felt his airway close. Not that he needed to breathe much, but the psychological impact of choking—of feeling powerless—was still there. "All that power, all that righteousness, and you're still just flesh and blood. Just a scared little kid in a cape, playing at being a hero."
The bone-like substance was on Soldier Boy's hand now. Clark could feel it, cold and wrong against his skin. Where it touched, his cells screamed. The contact was like being splashed with acid that worked from the outside in, eating away at his invulnerability itself.
"Ben, please." Clark's voice was strangled, desperate. He grabbed at the hand around his throat but couldn't break the grip. "This isn't you. Whatever they did to you, whatever this is, you can fight it. You're not—"
"Not what?" Soldier Boy leaned in close. His breath smelled like ozone and rot. "Not a monster? Not a killer? I've got news for you, kid. I was a monster long before the Russians got their hands on me. All they did was give me an excuse to stop pretending otherwise."
Soldier Boy's other hand came up, pressing against Clark's chest. Right over his heart. The bone-like substance spread from his palm, crawling onto Clark's costume, onto his skin. The agony was immediate and overwhelming. Clark screamed, the sound raw and animal, as whatever infection Soldier Boy carried began burrowing into him.
"Feel that?" Soldier Boy's voice was almost conversational. "That's what the Russians did to me. Every. Single. Day. For forty years. They'd cut me open, pump me full of chemicals, blast me with those green rocks until I was begging for death. And you know what? Death wouldn't take me. Because I'm better than that. Better than all of you."
"Ben—" Clark could barely form words now. The infection was spreading, eating through his costume, his skin, his—
WHAM
Kara hit Soldier Boy like a missile, her fist connecting with his jaw hard enough that Clark heard bones shatter. Soldier Boy's grip loosened just enough for Clark to tear himself free, stumbling backward and clutching his chest where the bone-like substance was still spreading. It hurt. God, it hurt. Felt like his entire ribcage was being dissolved from the outside in.
But he was alive. And that was what mattered.
Kara didn't let up. She followed her initial strike with a flurry of blows that would have liquified a normal person. Left jab, right cross, uppercut, knee strike—each hit precisely placed, each one delivered with the full force of a trained warrior who knew exactly where to strike for maximum damage. Soldier Boy's head snapped back and forth like a bobblehead, blood and bone fragments flying with each impact.
For a moment—just a moment—Clark thought they had him. Thought the relentless assault was enough to put Soldier Boy down again, give them time to figure out how to end this for good.
Then Soldier Boy caught Kara's fist.
The sudden stop was almost comical. One moment Kara's hand was moving at supersonic speeds, the next it was locked in Soldier Boy's grip like it had hit a brick wall. Kara's eyes widened in surprise, then in pain as Soldier Boy squeezed. Clark heard bones break, heard Kara's gasp of agony.
"My turn," Soldier Boy said again.
He headbutted her. The impact was devastating, the sound like a gunshot. Kara's head snapped back and Soldier Boy didn't let go, didn't give her a chance to recover. He headbutted her again. And again. And again. Each impact accompanied by the sickening crack of bone and the spray of blood.
By the fifth hit, Kara had stopped struggling.
Soldier Boy released her and she dropped like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the ground hard and not moving. Her face was a ruin, her nose clearly broken, one eye already swelling shut. Blood streamed from her mouth and ears. She was still breathing—Clark's enhanced hearing could detect the ragged gasps—but she wasn't getting up.
And the bone-like substance was spreading on her too. Where Soldier Boy had gripped her hand, white calcium structures were growing, crawling up her arm like a disease. Even as Clark watched, Kara's healing factor tried to fight it, tried to push the infection back. But it was losing ground with each passing second.
"Anyone else?" Soldier Boy turned in a slow circle, arms spread. The bone-like substance now covered most of his upper body, and was creeping down his legs. He looked like some kind of twisted marble statue come to life, a perversion of classical heroism rendered in calcium and malice. "Come on! You're supposed to be the good guys! The heroes! Don't you want to save the world?"
Clark tried to stand. His chest was on fire where the infection had touched him, and he could feel it spreading despite his healing factor's best efforts. Every breath was agony, every movement a struggle. But he had to do something. Had to—
A hand pressed against his shoulder. Annie's voice, weak but determined: "Don't. Please. Let me—"
"You'll die," Clark said flatly. It wasn't cruelty, just fact. Annie was already suffering from radiation sickness, her skin ashen and her hands trembling. One more direct exposure to Soldier Boy's pulse would kill her. "Annie, you need to—"
"Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?" It was Butcher's voice, raw and desperate. The Englishman had appeared beside them, supporting himself on a broken piece of concrete. His face was pale and drawn, the effects of radiation exposure clear. "We can't fight that thing. We can't even hurt it. And if we run, he'll just keep killing until there's nobody left."
Clark didn't have an answer. For the first time in his life—truly the first time—he was completely out of options. He'd used everything he had. Punched with all his strength, fought with all his skill. And it hadn't been enough. Wasn't enough. Kara was down. And Soldier Boy was still standing, still getting stronger, still—
"Enough."
The word cut through the chaos like a knife through silk. It wasn't shouted, wasn't even particularly loud. But every head turned toward its source, every eye locked on the figure that had appeared at the edge of the compound's ruins.
Stan Edgar stood there, hands clasped behind his back, his expression utterly calm. He looked exactly as he always did—immaculate three-piece suit, not a hair out of place, that same slightly bored expression he wore in boardrooms and press conferences. As if he'd just arrived for a business meeting rather than the scene of an ongoing battle between superpowered beings.
But it wasn't Stan Edgar. Not really.
Clark could see it now. Could see past the bio-morph skin, past the human disguise. Could see the truth of what—of who—stood before them. The posture was wrong for Edgar. Too military, too rigid. And the eyes...the eyes held something the CEO's never had.
Authority.
"You," Soldier Boy said slowly, and Clark heard something in his voice he'd never heard before. Something that might have been fear, if Soldier Boy was capable of such an emotion anymore. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Cleaning up a mess," Zod replied. His voice was still Edgar's tenor, but the inflexion was completely different. Clipped. Precise. The voice of someone who expected to be obeyed without question. "That's what I've always done in this world. Clean up after your failures and excesses."
Soldier Boy laughed, but it rang hollow. "Failures? I'm stronger than I've ever been! I've got power now that makes the old days look like child's play. I'm unbeatable."
"You are a weapon," Zod corrected. His tone didn't change, didn't heat with anger or cool with contempt. It remained perfectly, terrifyingly neutral. "A weapon I created. A tool that has outlived its usefulness. And now you will stand down."
"Make me."
The words hung in the air for a moment. Then Zod simply looked at Soldier Boy—really looked at him, his gaze sharp and assessing—and spoke a single word in a language Clark recognised as Kryptonian:
"Groshok." Halt.
Soldier Boy froze.
It wasn't a gradual stopping, wasn't a hesitation or a pause. One moment he was tensed to attack, the next he was completely still. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, face locked in an expression of confused rage. He tried to move—Clark could see the muscles bunching, could hear the grinding of bone against the calcium structures encasing his body—but nothing happened. It was as if some invisible force had reached inside him and simply turned off his ability to act.
"What—" Soldier Boy's voice was strangled, panicked. "What did you—what the fuck did you do to me?!"
"I gave you a gift," Zod said calmly. He began walking forward, each step measured and precise. "Forty years ago, when those pathetic humans captured you, when they began their fumbling experiments. I intervened. Introduced a very special compound into your system, One from my homeworld."
He stopped a few feet from Soldier Boy, studying him the way a scientist might study an interesting specimen. "You thought you survived their torture through sheer will. Through your innate superiority. How...typically human. In truth, you survived because I needed you to. Because I required a weapon, a failsafe against the possibility that this world's super-powered population might become...problematic."
"You son of a—" Soldier Boy couldn't move, but he could still speak. Could still rage. "You're saying you're the reason I'm like this? That I went through forty years of hell because you needed a fucking weapon?"
"Yes," Zod replied simply. There was no apology in his voice, no regret. Just statement of fact. "Your torture was...unfortunate. But necessary. The compound I introduced required significant cellular stress to activate. The Russians provided that stress admirably."
Clark felt his stomach turn. His chest still burned where the infection—because that's what it was, an infection, a disease engineered by the man standing before them—had touched him. Around him, he could hear the others stirring. Hughie's sharp intake of breath. MM's muttered curse. Annie's soft sob.
And underneath it all, a sound he'd never heard before. A sound that made his blood run cold despite the pain and exhaustion.
Soldier Boy was crying.
"Why?" The question was barely a whisper. "Why would you—I served my country. I was a hero. I did everything right. Why would you do this to me?"
"Because you were available," Zod said. There was no malice in his voice. No pleasure in the pain he was causing. Just that same terrible, neutral calm. "Because you were strong enough to survive the process. Because you were ultimately...expendable."
He tilted his head, considering. "The compound I gave you has had an interesting evolution. I expected it to grant you increased durability, accelerated healing, perhaps a modest boost to your existing powers. Instead, it appears to have developed into something far more sophisticated. A true adaptive response system. Each time you 'die,' the compound rebuilds you. Stronger. More resilient. Adding biological structures specifically designed to counter whatever killed you last."
Zod gestured at the bone-like substance covering Soldier Boy's body. "The woman—Kara—killed you with blunt force trauma. So the compound reinforced your skeletal structure, added calcium armor to protect your vital organs. Next time you die, it will add new defenses against whatever killed you then. Eventually, given enough death-and-resurrection cycles, you would become virtually indestructible. The perfect weapon."
"And that's what you wanted?" Clark found his voice, found the strength to push himself upright despite the agony in his chest. "You turned a man into—into a living weapon? Just in case you needed one?"
Zod turned to face him. For a moment, Clark saw his true face—not Edgar's manufactured features, but the stern, angular lines of a Kryptonian warrior. Black eyes met his blue ones, and there was no warmth in them. No recognition of wrongdoing.
"I did what was necessary to ensure the mission's success," Zod said. "Nothing more. Nothing less."
He looked back at Soldier Boy. "You will leave now. Travel north into the Canadian wilderness. Stay there until I require your services again. You will harm no one unless explicitly ordered to do so. You will not attempt to remove the compound from your system. And you will obey every command I give you without question or hesitation."
"No." The word was barely audible, but it was there. Defiance in the face of absolute control. "I won't—you can't make me—"
"Groshok," Zod repeated. And Soldier Boy's body moved.
Not of its own volition. Like a marionette on strings, he turned north and began to walk. Each step was stiff, mechanical, fighting against the command even as he obeyed it. His face was a rictus of rage and terror and helpless fury, tears still streaming down his cheeks as he disappeared into the darkening woods.
The silence he left behind was deafening.
Clark tried to move forward, to follow, to do something. But his legs gave out, the infection in his chest finally overwhelming his healing factor's efforts. He felt himself falling, felt the world start to gray out at the edges. The last thing he heard before darkness claimed him was Zod's voice, pitched low enough that only Kryptonian-enhanced hearing could detect it:
"Sleep now, Kal-El. When you wake, we will have much to discuss."
(Unknown Location - Unknown Time)
Consciousness returned slowly, reluctantly. Clark's first awareness was of warmth on his face—sunlight, his body drinking it in like a man dying of thirst finally finding water. His chest didn't hurt anymore. The infection was gone, burned away by his healing factor now that he had access to the sun's unfiltered radiation.
His second awareness was of voices. Angry voices, speaking in Kryptonian. The language his biological parents had spoken, that he'd been slowly learning from the Fortress records. But where those recordings had been measured and educational, these voices were raised. Arguing.
Clark's eyes snapped open.
He was lying on a medical gurney in what looked like a high-tech medical bay. Monitors surrounded him, displaying readouts in English and Kryptonian both, tracking his vitals as his body completed its recovery. The room was sterile white, lit by soft glow-panels rather than traditional lights. Very clearly not any human medical facility.
And across the room, backlit by a massive window showing a spectacular view of New York City at sunset, Kara and Zod were facing off.
"—cannot possibly justify this!" Kara's voice was sharp, each word bitten off with barely controlled fury. She was pacing, her hands gesturing emphatically, her white costume still stained with blood and dirt from the battle. "You created a weapon of mass destruction out of a living person! You tortured him for decades just to make him into your personal attack dog! How is that any different from what the Science Guild did with the Black Zero project?"
"It is different because it succeeded," Zod replied. His voice remained that infuriatingly calm monotone, hands still clasped behind his back as he stood perfectly still. "The Black Zero project was an abomination that nearly destroyed Krypton. What I created was a necessary tool for ensuring the mission's success."
"The mission." Kara spat the words like a curse. "Everything is about the mission with you. The mission to save Krypton. The mission to retrieve our people from the Zone. But what people are we saving, Uncle? What version of Krypton are we rebuilding? Because if it looks anything like this—" she gestured wildly at the window, at the city beyond, "—then perhaps it deserves to stay dead!"
The silence that followed was absolute. Frozen. Clark saw Zod's jaw tighten minutely, saw something flash behind those black eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. More dangerous.
"You do not mean that."
"Don't I?" Kara stopped pacing, turned to face him fully. "I have watched you, Uncle. Watched how you operate on this world. You speak of humans as if they are insects, barely worth consideration. You manipulate them, use them, discard them when they are no longer useful. You created Compound V knowing full well it would cause chaos and suffering, and you did not care because humans were the ones suffering. You twisted that man—Soldier Boy—into a monster, and you feel nothing. No remorse. No guilt. Just satisfaction that your weapon works as designed."
She took a step forward, and Clark saw tears glistening in her eyes. "My mother raised me to be better than this. To value life. To protect the innocent. To use my strength in service of others, not to dominate them. And you taught me to be a soldier. To follow orders. To put the mission above all else. But I am done trying to reconcile those two things. I cannot be both the person my mother wanted and the soldier you need."
"Then what will you be?" Zod's question was soft, almost gentle. But there was steel underneath it. "A human playing at being Kryptonian? A warrior without a cause? You speak of your mother's teachings, but Alura is dead, Kara. Dead with the rest of our world. The only family you have left is standing in this room. Me. And Kal-El, when he finally understands what we are trying to accomplish."
"And what are we trying to accomplish?" Kara's voice cracked. "To rebuild Krypton, yes. To free our people from the Zone. But at what cost, Uncle? How many innocent people have to suffer for us to reach that goal? How many Soldier Boys do we create? How many worlds do we leave burning in our wake as we chase the ghost of our dead civilization?"
"As many as it takes."
The answer was instant, automatic. No hesitation. No doubt. And hearing it—truly hearing it, in his native tongue, from someone who shared his heritage—Clark felt something break inside him.
"That's enough," he said, his voice hoarse. He pushed himself up from the gurney, his body protesting but obeying. Both Kara and Zod turned to face him, but Clark's attention was locked on Zod. "Where are my children?"
Zod's expression didn't change, but he gestured toward a door on the far side of the room. "Through there. Along with Miss Lane and several of your...associates. All unharmed, I assure you."
Clark didn't wait. He blurred to the door, his powers fully restored now, and found himself in what looked like a high-end apartment. The décor was minimalist—all clean lines and expensive furniture—but there was a lived-in quality to it. Pictures on the walls. Books on shelves. A child's toy left on the coffee table.
Lois was standing by the window, Mia in her arms. The two-year-old was sleeping, peaceful and unaware of the chaos around her. But Lois's eyes when they met Clark's were tired, strained, filled with a mixture of relief and residual fear.
"Clark." His name was half prayer, half relief. She moved toward him, careful not to jostle their daughter. "Are you okay? I heard—we all heard—"
He crossed the distance between them in two strides, pulling them both into his arms. For a moment, he let himself just feel it. The relief that they were safe. That despite everything that had happened, his family was intact. He pressed his face into Lois's hair and breathed deeply, letting her familiar scent ground him, remind him what he was fighting for.
"I'm okay," he whispered. "We're all okay. Where's Ryan?"
"Here." Ryan's voice came from the doorway to another room. The boy looked exhausted, his makeshift costume torn and dirty, his face pale. But he was standing on his own two feet, and his eyes were clear. "I'm okay. We all are. Butcher, Hughie, MM, Annie—everyone who was at the compound. Zod brought us here after you passed out."
"Zod." Clark tasted the name, felt it settle on his tongue like poison. He pulled back from Lois, making sure Mia was secure in her mother's arms, then turned to face the doorway where the Kryptonian general had appeared.
Zod stood framed in the entrance, still wearing Stan Edgar's face but making no effort to hide what he really was anymore. Behind him, Kara hovered uncertainly, her expression conflicted. And beyond them, Clark could see the others—his friends, his allies—watching with varying degrees of confusion and fear.
"We need to talk," Zod said. "All of us. There are things you need to understand about what happened tonight. About Soldier Boy. About why I did what I did."
"Oh, I think I understand plenty," Clark replied coldly. "You created a weapon. You tortured a man for forty years to make him into your personal attack dog. And you feel absolutely no remorse about any of it."
"Correct," Zod said simply. "Because what I did was necessary."
"Necessary." Clark felt his hands clench into fists. "That's your excuse for everything, isn't it? The mission. The greater good. Necessity. No matter who gets hurt, no matter who suffers, as long as you get what you want—"
"What I need," Zod corrected. "What Krypton needs. What every Kryptonian trapped in the Zone needs. Including your mother, Kal-El. Or have you forgotten that Lara still lives? That she is waiting for us to free her?"
The words hit like a physical blow. Clark had barely let himself think about it—about the possibility that his biological mother, the woman who'd died giving birth to his civilization's last hope, might still be alive. Might be waiting for him. Might be suffering in that timeless prison while he stood here arguing philosophy.
"Don't." Lois's voice was sharp, cutting through his momentary hesitation. She'd seen the impact of Zod's words, seen Clark waver. "Don't let him manipulate you like that. Yes, your birth mother might be in the Zone. But that doesn't mean you have to become like him to save her."
Zod's eyes narrowed slightly. "Miss Lane. I would advise you to—"
"I don't care what you'd advise." Lois shifted Mia to one arm, using the other to point accusingly at Zod. "You took my children. You took my children without asking, without warning, and brought them here to...what? Prove a point? Show Clark how powerful you are?"
"I brought them here to protect them," Zod replied, and for the first time there was a hint of something other than cold neutrality in his voice. Annoyance, perhaps. "The battle with Soldier Boy would have continued. People would have died. Including, very possibly, Kal-El's offspring. I removed them from danger."
"By sending Homelander to take them!"
"Homelander was explicitly instructed not to harm anyone," Zod interrupted. "And he did not. The children were unharmed. I fail to see the problem."
"The problem," Clark said, his voice low and dangerous, "is that you don't see people as people. You see tools. Resources. Pieces on a chessboard to be moved around as you see fit. You talk about protecting my children, but you don't actually care about them. You care about them as leverage. As a way to control me."
Zod regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded slowly. "You want the truth? Very well. I will give it to you."
He gestured, and the entire far wall of the apartment suddenly lit up with a holographic display. Images flickered past—documents, schematics, video footage. All of it relating to Compound V.
"You asked me once about my involvement with Vought," Zod began. "About how much I truly controlled versus how much I allowed humans to do on their own. I told you that I gave them a tool and they chose how to use it. That was...a simplification."
The display shifted, showing what looked like laboratory footage from decades ago. A younger Frederick Vought, working with equipment that was clearly beyond his understanding, being guided by someone off-camera. Someone whose voice, even distorted by age and poor recording quality, was unmistakably Stan Edgar's. Unmistakably Zod's.
"I did not simply give Vogelbaum the compound and walk away," Zod continued, his voice clinical, detached. "I educated him. Guided his research. Ensured that the formula would produce beings with sufficient strength to eventually be used to wake Kara from her damaged pod. I monitored every trial, every iteration, every 'breakthrough' that Vought achieved."
More images. Test subjects. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Most dead or dying. A few surviving with powers that made them scream in agony. And through it all, in the background of every image, was the shadow of a man offering advice, suggesting modifications, pushing the research forward.
"I was not as hands-off as I claimed," Zod said. "I manipulated. I guided. I ensured that Compound V would create beings powerful enough for my purposes while simultaneously creating enough chaos to keep humanity focused inward, fighting amongst themselves rather than looking toward the stars where they might discover my presence."
Clark felt his throat tighten. "You're saying you wanted the super-powered chaos. The violence. The corruption."
"I found it...useful," Zod confirmed. "A distracted population is a compliant population. And more importantly, a population constantly dealing with super-powered threats has no time or resources to develop technology that might detect my operations or interfere with my plans."
"You're a monster." Annie's voice, small and broken. She'd appeared in the doorway, supported by Hughie. Her face was still ashen from radiation sickness, but her eyes blazed with fury. "You let all this happen. All the people who died because of supes. All the chaos and suffering and pain. You let it happen because it was convenient."
"I let it happen because it was necessary," Zod corrected. "For the mission. For—"
"And what about Nicaragua?" Lois's question cut through the room like a blade. "What about Operation Charly?"
Zod went very still. "Where did you hear that name?"
"Does it matter?" Lois's voice was cold. Controlled. "Mallory told us everything. About how 'Stan Edgar' approached the CIA in 1984. About how you convinced them to let Payback work there and how it all conveniently all fell into place for you. What happened to Soldier Boy was your doing. You said you did something, what was it?"
The room had gone absolutely silent. Every eye was on Zod, waiting for his response. The general's expression remained neutral, but Clark could see the minute tension in his jaw, the way his hands tightened fractionally behind his back. He turned back to the holographic display, pulling up a new image. This one showed a black crystalline structure, similar in shape to the white sunstone crystals Clark had seen, but wrong somehow. Corrupt. The very sight of it made his skin crawl. He remembered it from the memory Zod had played of Krypton; it was the crystal his father had almost sent with him.
"It was a failsafe, a contingency plan in case we were discovered by other powers", Zod explained. "Its true name, in our language, would translate approximately to 'Doomsday Protocol.' It was created by your father, Kal-El. During the final days of Krypton, when it became clear that our world was doomed, Jor-El designed this as a last resort. A weapon to ensure that the survivors would be protected"
The image zoomed in, showing the crystal's internal structure. It pulsed with that same sick-green light that Soldier Boy's radiation carried.
"The Doomsday Protocol is a self-replicating compound that bonds at the cellular level with any organic life form. Once introduced to a host, it begins a process of...evolution. Enhancement. Each time the host is killed, the compound resurrects them and adds new biological features specifically designed to counter whatever killed them previously."
Zod paused, his expression distant. "Originally, Jor-El designed it as a deterrent when he wasn't much older than you, Kal-El. It was a final strike weapon. Release it on an enemy world, allow it to bond with a host, and then kill that host repeatedly until it has adapted to be immune to every weapon its enemies possess. The result would be an unstoppable killing machine that would destroy everything in its path until nothing remained."
Clark felt sick. "That's...that's insane. Why would my father create something like that?"
"Because he thought he might need to," Zod replied simply. "Because Jor-El wanted a deterrent strong enough to make anyone thinking of attacking Krypton or starting a war in our domain to reconsider. He never intended to actually use it. But when Krypton began to die, he saw it as a way of protecting our people if we were discovered. In case something happened to our escape plans. In case we needed a weapon powerful enough to clear a path through whatever opposition we faced."
The display shifted again, showing the black crystal being implanted into what Clark recognised, with growing horror, as Soldier Boy. The footage was dated 1984. Nicaragua.
"It was easy enough to infect Soldier Boy. I just gave it to a prostitute, told her it was drugs, and she shared it with him," Zod continued. "Do not fear. It does not affect Kryptonians; in fact, the creature created from it would not even recognise us as valid targets. Soldier Boy only attacked you because you impeded him in goal; he would have been incapable of actually killing you, hence why you are alive. But any other organic life? Fair game. I believed it was necessary at the time as a way to eliminate the super-powered threat if it ever became truly uncontrollable."
"But you didn't account for someone other than the Russians knowing where he was," Clark said slowly, the pieces clicking together. "You didn't account for someone waking him up without your say-so."
"Correct," Zod admitted. "I would assume, however, by your mate's knowledge, her father was behind it. Sam Lane is proving far more ruthless and resourceful than I estimated "
"So you left him there." Butcher's voice was flat, emotionless. He'd appeared in the doorway behind Annie and Hughie, his face a carefully controlled mask. "You knew he was suffering. Knew what was happening to him. And you just...left him there. Figured you'd deal with it later."
"Indeed, if he had escaped, I would merely just had to deal with fewer humans is all" Zod replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "He was secure, and I had no need to jeopardise the entire mission. Everything I had built, everything I had worked toward—all of it would have been exposed. I made the tactical decision that one man's suffering was an acceptable cost for ensuring our people's eventual freedom."
"An acceptable cost." Clark's voice was barely above a whisper. "You keep using phrases like that. Necessary sacrifices. Acceptable costs. Collateral damage. Do you even hear yourself? Do you understand what you sound like?"
"I sound like a military officer making difficult decisions in wartime," Zod replied, and there was finally a hint of heat in his voice. "I sound like someone who understands that sometimes there are no good choices. Only the least-worst options. You sit there, safe in your righteousness, judging me for the choices I made. But you have never—"
"Don't." Clark cut him off, his own anger finally boiling over. "Don't you dare try to make this about me not understanding difficult choices. I've made plenty. The difference is I don't make them casually. I don't torture people and call it tactical. I don't turn humans into weapons and call it necessary."
He stepped forward, putting himself between Zod and his family. "You talk about Soldier Boy like he was just a tool that malfunctioned. But he was a person, Zod. A person with thoughts and feelings and a life that you destroyed. And the worst part? You don't even see it. You look at what you did to him and all you see is a successful weapon. A useful tool. You don't see the forty years of torture. The humanity you stripped away. The monster you created."
"And what would you have had me do differently?" Zod demanded. "Allow the super-powered population to run rampant? Let them develop unchecked until they became a genuine threat to my mission? I did what was necessary to maintain control, to ensure—"
"That's the problem!" Clark's shout echoed through the apartment. Mia stirred in Lois's arms, beginning to fuss, but Clark couldn't stop now. Couldn't hold back the words that had been building since he'd first learned the truth. "You keep talking about control. About maintaining order. About ensuring the mission succeeds. But you never ask yourself whether your mission is worth all the pain you've caused!"
He gestured wildly at the holographic display, at the images of test subjects and failed experiments and human suffering. "You gave humans Compound V knowing full well it would lead to chaos. To death. To people like Homelander and Stormfront and all the others who've used their powers to hurt and kill and oppress. You let that happen. Not because you couldn't stop it, but because you didn't care enough to try!"
"They are not my responsibility," Zod said flatly. "I gave them a gift. What they chose to do with it—"
"Is EXACTLY your responsibility!" Clark's eyes blazed red for just a moment, heat vision threatening to spark before he forcibly reigned it in. "You don't get to give someone a loaded gun, watch them shoot themselves in the foot, and then claim you bear no blame because you didn't pull the trigger!"
He stepped closer, closing the distance between himself and Zod until they were nearly nose to nose. Despite the bio-morph skin maintaining Edgar's shorter stature, Zod still somehow managed to project an aura of command. But Clark was done being intimidated.
"Here's what I've learned about power," Clark said, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "Power is meaningless without morality, without genuine fear of what you yourself are capable of. That's not just the responsibility to use it yourself, but the responsibility for what happens because you had it. When I save someone, I'm responsible for making sure they're actually safe. Not just physically unharmed, but that I haven't made their situation worse through my intervention. When I fight a villain, I'm responsible for minimising collateral damage. For protecting bystanders. For ensuring that my victory doesn't create ten new problems."
He pulled back slightly, his gaze never leaving Zod's. "But you? You have more power than anyone on this planet. You're smarter than almost any human. Stronger. More advanced. And you use all that power...to do nothing. No, worse than nothing. You use it to maintain the mission. To keep humanity fighting amongst themselves while you work on your mission in the shadows."
"You speak as if that is somehow worse than tyranny," Zod said coldly. "At least I do not rule them. Do not force them to obey me. I have left them to their own devices, allowed them to maintain their autonomy, their freedom. Many conquerors would have simply enslaved this world. I chose a gentler path."
"Did you?" Clark shook his head. "Because from where I'm standing, what you've done is almost worse than being a tyrant. A tyrant at least admits what they are. They rule openly, and people can fight back, can resist, can know who their enemy is. But you? You hide in the shadows. You manipulate. You guide events from the darkness and then claim you're not responsible for the outcomes. You're like...like a parent who gives their child everything they want and then acts surprised when they grow up to be a spoiled monster. It's not even giving a child a handgun, it's giving them a handgun, showing them how to make more of them, and blaming them when they start selling them, and people die"
He gestured back toward where the others were standing, where his friends and family watched with varying expressions of shock and understanding. "You gave humanity Compound V and then sat back while people like Vought turned it into a tool for exploitation and control. You let Soldier Boy be tortured for forty years and then called it a necessary sacrifice. You created Homelander—"
"That was not—"
"YOU CREATED HOMELANDER!" Clark's shout was loud enough to rattle the windows. "Maybe not directly. Maybe you didn't physically put the DNA together or implant the fetus or raise him in that lab. But you knew, Zod. You knew what Vogelbaum and Stormfront were doing. You had to have known—you monitored every aspect of the Compound V research. And you let it happen. Because it was useful. Because it might help wake Kara. Because you cared more about your mission than about the life of a child who never asked to be created!"
The silence that followed was deafening. Clark could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, could feel the adrenaline coursing through his system. But he wasn't done. Couldn't be done. Because someone had to say these things. Someone had to make Zod see.
"I learned something from my parents," Clark continued, his voice steadier now. "My Earth parents. Martha and Jonathan Kent. They taught me that with great power comes the responsibility to use it wisely. To care about how my actions affect others. To try, always, to make things better. Not just for me, not just for the people I care about, but for everyone."
He stepped back, putting more distance between himself and Zod. "And you know what? I fail at that sometimes. I make mistakes. I don't always save everyone. Sometimes the choices I make are wrong, and people suffer because of it. But at least I try, Zod. At least I care. At least I see the people whose lives I affect as people, not as tools or obstacles or acceptable costs."
Clark's voice dropped to something quieter, but no less intense. "You stand there and talk about how you've left humanity to their own devices, as if that makes you somehow noble. But the truth is, you've done worse than any tyrant could. Because you had the power to help, to guide, to make things better, and you chose not to. You chose to let people suffer because it was convenient for your mission. You chose to create weapons out of living beings because you needed tools. You chose to let chaos reign because it kept people distracted from your true goals."
He shook his head, and there was something like pity in his eyes now. "You're not a conqueror, Zod. You're not a military genius executing some brilliant long-term strategy. You're just a sad, scared man who's so focused on bringing back a dead world that he can't see the living one right in front of him. You're so desperate to save your people that you've become exactly the kind of monster they would have fought against."
Zod's expression had frozen during Clark's speech, his face locked into that mask of neutral calm. But Clark could see the minute tells—the tightness around his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw, the way his hands had formed fists behind his back.
When the general finally spoke, his voice was soft. Dangerous. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Clark challenged. "Then explain it to me. Explain how torturing one man for forty years is justifiable. Explain how creating a weapon that kills indiscriminately is a measured response. Explain how every death, every tragedy, every bit of suffering you've caused or allowed is worth bringing back a civilisation that's been dead for over a century."
"Because that civilisation was perfect!" Zod's control finally cracked, emotion bleeding through. "Krypton was a beacon of order and peace! A society where everyone knew their place, where the guilds worked in harmony, where the strong protected the weak and the smart guided the foolish! We had eliminated poverty, disease, and war! We were on the cusp of understanding the very fabric of reality itself! And it all ended because of stupidity and short-sightedness and the arrogance of people who thought they knew better!"
He stepped forward, and suddenly the bio-morph skin flickered, revealing flashes of his true face underneath. "You stand there and judge me for the choices I made. You, who were raised in comfort and safety on this primitive world. You who never knew Krypton, never walked its streets, never felt the pride of being part of something truly great. You have no idea what was lost when our world died."
"You're right," Clark said quietly. "I don't know. I never will. And that's your tragedy, Zod—not mine. Because while you're busy trying to resurrect a dead past, I'm trying to build a living future."
He gestured to the window, to the city beyond. "This world isn't perfect. Humans make mistakes. They fight, and they hurt each other, and they do terrible things sometimes. But they also laugh and love and create and try. They try to be better. Try to build something worth having. And yes, sometimes they fail. Sometimes they fall short of their ideals. But at least they're trying."
Clark's voice strengthened again. "You could have helped them. Could have used your knowledge, your power, your centuries of experience to guide this world toward something better. Instead, you sat back and watched them struggle. Worse, you actively made things harder because it suited your purposes. You talk about Krypton being perfect, but you know what? Based on what you've shown me, I'm glad it's gone."
The words hung in the air like a bomb waiting to detonate. Zod's face went absolutely white, his black eyes boring into Clark's blue ones with an intensity that was almost physical.
"What...did you say?" Each word was enunciated carefully, precisely. As if Zod needed to make absolutely sure he'd heard correctly.
"I said I'm glad Krypton is gone," Clark repeated, not backing down. "If your perfect society created people like you—people who see others as tools, who torture and manipulate and justify any atrocity as necessary—then maybe it deserved to die."
"Kal-El—" Kara's voice, horrified.
But Clark pushed on. "You tell me Krypton was a beacon of order and peace. But how much of that order came from oppression? How much of that peace came from people being too afraid to fight back? You talk about everyone knowing their place—but who decided what those places were? You speak of the strong protecting the weak, but I've seen how you treat those you consider beneath you. You don't protect them. You use them."
He pointed at the holographic display, still showing images of Compound V experiments. "Look at what you've done here. Look at how you've treated the people of this world. You used Frederick Vogelbaum like a puppet, guiding him toward your goals without care for the consequences. You turned Soldier Boy into a weapon. You let Homelander be created because it suited your purposes. You watched as Vought corrupted everything Compound V could have been, and you did nothing to stop it."
Clark's voice dropped to something quieter, but no less forceful. "That's not the behaviour of someone from a perfect society. That's the behaviour of someone who sees other people as property."
The words landed like a physical blow. Zod's entire body went rigid, the bio-morph skin flickering more rapidly now, revealing glimpses of angular Kryptonian features beneath Edgar's manufactured face. When he spoke, his voice was barely controlled fury.
"You dare—"
"I dare," Clark interrupted, his own voice rising to match Zod's intensity. "Because someone needs to. Because for too long, you've operated in the shadows, justifying every atrocity with appeals to necessity and the greater good. But there is no greater good that requires torturing people. There is no mission worth sacrificing your humanity to achieve."
He stepped closer again, his blue eyes meeting Zod's black ones without flinching. "You want to know what I think really happened to Krypton? I think it died because of people like you. People so convinced of their own righteousness, so certain that they knew what was best, that they stopped seeing their fellow Kryptonians as equals. They became tools. Resources to be managed. Problems to be solved."
Clark's voice dropped, taking on an edge of genuine sorrow. "My father—my biological father—created the Doomsday Protocol. A weapon designed to kill entire worlds. And you know what that tells me? It tells me that for all Krypton's supposed perfection, for all its order and peace, somewhere along the way it lost its soul. It became so focused on survival, on maintaining its position, that it was willing to commit genocide to preserve itself."
"Jor-El created that weapon as a deterrent—" Zod began.
"And you used it," Clark cut him off. "You took what was supposed to be an absolute last resort, and you weaponised a human being with it. Not to save Krypton—Krypton was already dead. You did it because you could. Because you saw a tool that might be useful someday, and you decided one man's suffering was an acceptable price to have it available."
Zod's hands unclenched slowly, deliberately. The fury in his eyes transmuted into something colder, more calculating. "You speak of humanity as if it were some universal virtue. But I was raised with something far greater, the essence of being a Kryptonian, and that died with Krypton. What you call humanity, I call weakness. Sentiment. An emotional handicap that prevents rational actors from making necessary choices."
"Then I'll take weakness," Clark said simply. "I'll take sentiment and emotion and all the messy, complicated feelings that make me care about the people around me. Because without that, without the ability to see others as people rather than tools, you're not strong. You're just empty."
For a long moment, neither man moved. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. Then, unexpectedly, Zod laughed. It was a short, bitter sound.
"You are so much like your father," he said, and there was something almost like admiration in his voice. "Jor-El stood before the Science Council and said almost exactly the same things. Appealed to their emotion. Their sentiment. Their humanity, as you would call it. He begged them to see that Krypton was dying, that action needed to be taken, that the old ways would lead only to extinction."
Zod's expression hardened. "And they ignored him. They clung to their rules and their traditions and their precious emotions. And Krypton died for it. Fifteen billion souls, gone in an instant, because people like you convinced people like them that sentiment was more important than survival."
"No." Kara's voice cut through the room, quiet but firm. She stepped forward, positioning herself between the two men. Her face was still bruised from the fight with Soldier Boy, but her eyes were clear. Resolved. "No, Uncle. That is not what destroyed our world."
She turned to face Zod fully. "I have listened to you for months. Listened to your stories of Krypton's glory, your plans to restore what was lost, your justifications for everything you have done in pursuit of that goal. And I have tried—tried so hard—to reconcile the man my mother described with the man standing before me."
Kara's voice cracked slightly, but she pressed on. "Alura told me you were her brother. That you were brilliant and brave and utterly devoted to protecting our people. She said that of all the men on Krypton, you were the one she trusted most to do what was right, even when it was difficult. Even when it costs you personally."
She shook her head slowly. "But the man she described would never have done what you did to that human—to Soldier Boy. He would never have created Compound V knowing the suffering it would cause. He would never have stood by and watched as children were experimented on because it might serve his purposes. Because the man my mother loved understood something you seem to have forgotten."
Kara stepped closer to Zod, her voice dropping to something almost pleading. "Protecting people does not mean using them. It does not mean sacrificing them for the greater good. It means seeing them as worth protecting—all of them, not just the ones who share our heritage. My mother taught me that. She said that true strength was not in how much force you could bring to bear, but in how much restraint you could show. In choosing mercy when you had the power for cruelty."
"Your mother is dead," Zod said flatly. "Dead with the rest of Krypton. And her teachings died with her."
"No." Kara's voice strengthened. "No, they did not. Because she gave those teachings to me, and I am still here. And I will not let you twist her memory to justify what you have become."
She turned to face the others in the room—Lois holding Mia, Ryan standing tall despite his exhaustion, Butcher and Hughie and MM and Annie clustered near the doorway. "These people are not tools. They are not acceptable losses. They are people, with lives and families and futures that matter just as much as ours do."
Kara looked back at Zod. "And if freeing our people from the Phantom Zone requires becoming monsters? If it requires us to torture and manipulate and sacrifice innocent beings? Then perhaps..." She paused, the words clearly difficult to say. "Perhaps they are better off where they are. Because what good is survival if we lose everything that made us worth saving?"
The silence that followed was absolute. Zod stared at Kara with an expression that might have been shock, or betrayal, or something else entirely. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. Dangerous.
"You would condemn your own people to eternal imprisonment because of—" he gestured dismissively at the humans in the room, "—them?"
"I would not condemn anyone," Kara replied steadily. "But I will not sacrifice innocents to save them, either. There must be another way. A better way. And if we cannot find it, then..." She squared her shoulders. "Then we accept that some things cannot be undone. That some losses cannot be recovered from. That the only path forward is to build something new, rather than desperately clinging to what is gone."
"Traitor." The word was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of absolute condemnation. Zod's face had gone completely blank, the bio-morph skin finally failing entirely to reveal his true Kryptonian features. "You stand there, draped in the colours of our world, bearing the crest of the House of El, and you betray everything that symbol represents."
"No, Uncle." Kara touched the S-shield on her chest—the same symbol Clark wore, that Ryan wore, that represented hope and justice and the best of what Krypton could have been. "I honour it. By choosing to be better than our worst impulses. By refusing to let fear and desperation turn me into something my mother would be ashamed of."
She glanced at Clark, and something passed between them. Understanding. Recognition. A shared purpose that transcended their brief acquaintance.
"Kal-El asked me earlier what I would be," Kara continued, her voice growing stronger with each word. "If I could not be both the daughter my mother raised and the soldier you trained. I did not have an answer then. But I do now."
She straightened fully, her torn and bloodied costume somehow seeming more dignified than any formal uniform. "I will be what Krypton should have been. What it could have been, if people like you had valued life over order. Compassion over control. I will use my strength to protect, not to dominate. To help, not to manipulate. And I will do it here, on this world, among these people whom you see as beneath us."
Kara's eyes blazed with conviction. "Because they are not beneath us, Uncle. In many ways, they are better than us. They face impossible odds and keep trying anyway. They stumble and fall and make terrible mistakes, but they get back up and try again. They do not have our strength or our longevity or our advanced knowledge, but they have something far more valuable—they have hope. And I will not be part of extinguishing that hope for the sake of a dead world's ghost."
For a long moment, Zod simply stared at her. Then, slowly, he turned away. His hands clasped behind his back once more, his posture military-straight. When he spoke, his voice had returned to that terrible, neutral calm.
"Very well. You have made your choice. As has Kal-El." He looked back over his shoulder, his black eyes cold and distant. "But choices have consequences. And you will both learn that lesson soon enough."
"Is that a threat?" Clark asked quietly.
"It is a fact," Zod replied. "I gave you both the truth tonight. Showed you what I have built, what I have sacrificed, what I have endured in service of our people's survival. And you have rejected it. Rejected me. Chosen these humans over your own kind."
He turned to face them fully once more. "So be it. But understand this—the mission continues. With or without your support. With or without your approval. I will free our people from the Phantom Zone. I will resurrect Krypton. And I will do whatever is necessary to achieve those goals."
Zod's gaze swept across the room, touching on each person present. "You may consider yourselves fortunate. I am not in the habit of eliminating potential assets simply because they prove...difficult. So you will all leave here unharmed. You will return to your lives. And you will not speak of what you learned tonight to anyone."
"And if we do?" Butcher's voice was challenging, despite the exhaustion clear in his posture.
"Then I will be disappointed," Zod said, and somehow that was more terrifying than any direct threat could have been. "And you will learn why disappointment from me is something to be avoided."
He gestured, and the door to the apartment opened on its own. "Go. Before I reconsider my mercy."
Nobody moved. The tension stretched as a rubber band pulled to its breaking point. Then Lois shifted Mia in her arms and looked directly at Zod.
"Thank you for protecting my children," she said, her voice level. Professional. "But if you ever take them without permission again, Clark won't be the one you need to worry about."
It should have been absurd—a human woman, barely five and a half feet tall, threatening a Kryptonian military commander. But there was something in Lois's eyes, in the set of her jaw, that made it clear she meant every word. And that somehow, impossibly, she would find a way to make good on that promise.
Zod's expression didn't change, but Clark thought he saw the ghost of something—respect, perhaps?—flicker through his eyes. "Noted, Miss Lane."
"Mrs Kent," Lois corrected. Then she turned and walked toward the door, Mia still sleeping peacefully in her arms, leaving everyone else to follow.
Clark moved to join her, but paused as he drew level with Zod. For a moment, they stood side by side, two Kryptonians separated by an unbridgeable gulf of philosophy and purpose.
"You asked me once what kind of man I wanted to be," Clark said quietly. "I think I've figured it out. I want to be the kind of man my parents—both sets of them—would be proud of. The kind who sees people as people, not as tools or obstacles or acceptable losses. The kind who tries, even when trying seems pointless. Especially then."
He looked Zod in the eye. "And I'll spend every day of my life making sure I never become the kind of man you are."
Clark expected anger. Expected Zod to lash out, to make good on his veiled threats. Instead, the general simply nodded slowly.
"Then we truly have nothing more to say to each other, Kal-El. Not until you have lived long enough to understand the choices I have made. Not until you have stood where I have stood and made the calculations I have made."
Zod turned away, facing the window and the city beyond. "But you will. Time is infinite for beings like us. And eventually, you will face a choice where all options lead to suffering. Where someone must pay the price for the greater good. And in that moment, you will remember this conversation. Remember your righteous anger. Your moral certainty."
His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "And you will make the same choice I did. Because survival always wins. In the end, survival is all that matters."
Clark wanted to argue. Wanted to deny it, to insist that he would always find another way. But the words stuck in his throat, because a small part of him—a part he didn't want to acknowledge—wondered if Zod might be right.
Instead, he simply walked away.
The journey back to Smallville was quiet. They took Butcher's van—somehow miraculously undamaged during the chaos at the compound—and drove through the night. Nobody spoke much. There was too much to process, too many revelations to unpack. Mia slept through most of it, mercifully oblivious. Ryan stared out the window, his expression distant and troubled.
When they finally pulled up to the Kent farm, dawn was just beginning to break over the Kansas horizon, painting the fields in shades of gold and amber. The same farm where Jonathan had taught Clark how to throw a baseball. Where Martha had bandaged his scraped knees and told him bedtime stories. Where he'd learned what it meant to be part of a family.
The house looked peaceful in the early morning light. Normal. As if the world hadn't fundamentally shifted on its axis.
Clark stood in the driveway, unable to make himself move toward the door just yet. Lois came up beside him, Mia transferred to her baby carrier now, and slipped her hand into his.
"We made it through," she whispered. "We're all still here."
Clark nodded, squeezing her hand. They stood there together as the sun continued its slow rise, banishing shadows and illuminating the farm in warm morning light.
"Dad," Ryan's voice came from behind them. Tentative. Uncertain. "What do we do now?"
It was the question Clark had been avoiding. Because the honest answer was that he didn't know. Soldier Boy was still out there, wandering the Canadian wilderness with orders from Zod that might be activated at any moment. Zod himself was still operating freely, still working toward goals that Clark now understood would lead to unimaginable suffering. And somewhere in the Phantom Zone, Clark's biological mother waited—trapped in a timeless prison, possibly suffering, definitely alone.
But looking at Ryan now—at this boy who'd been through so much, who'd faced horrors no teenager should have to face, who'd still found the strength to stand up and try to do the right thing—Clark felt something shift inside him.
"Now," he said slowly, the words taking shape as he spoke them, "we figure out how to do better. How to stop Zod without becoming like him. How to save the people in the Phantom Zone without sacrificing innocents to do it. How to build something worth having, rather than just trying to resurrect the past."
He looked at Lois, at Mia, at Ryan. At his family—the one he'd built here, on this strange little world so far from Krypton's ashes. "We move forward. One day at a time. One choice at a time. And we remember that how we act matters just as much as what we achieve."
Ryan nodded slowly. "Okay. But...how?"
"I don't know yet," Clark admitted. "But we'll figure it out. Together."
Behind them, the sun continued its slow rise, banishing shadows and illuminating the farm in warm morning light. A new day is beginning. A new chapter starting.
And somewhere in the darkness, Zod watched. Planned. Waited.
The war for Earth's future—and the future of what remained of Krypton—had only just begun.