Clark stood in the center, looking pale and drawn. His usual vibrant energy was muted, his posture slightly slumped. But his expression was determined, stubborn.
Bruce stood before him, cowled and serious. "You need to stay here. Your body needs time to heal."
"I can't," Clark insisted, his voice weaker than Marcus had ever heard it. "The city needs Superman."
"The city needs you alive," Diana countered, her tone gentle but firm. "You're in no condition to fight."
The argument had been going in circles for twenty minutes now, and no one was budging.
Clark stood in the center of the room, pale and drawn but determined. His jaw was set in that particular way that meant he'd made up his mind and wouldn't be swayed by logic, emotion, or tactical sense.
Bruce faced him with equal stubbornness, though his was hidden behind the cowl. "You're not ready. Your body needs more time."
"People don't have more time," Clark countered, his voice hoarse but firm. "Every day Luthor's out there, every day I'm hiding, more people get hurt. I can't just—"
"You can't help anyone if you're dead," Diana interrupted, her tone gentle but unyielding. "Clark, we understand your need to act. But you're compromised. Weakened. Going into combat like this is suicide."
"I've fought while injured before," Clark said.
"Not like this," Barry added, electricity crackling nervously around his fingers. "Dude, you can barely fly without wincing. Your heat vision cuts out randomly. You're running on fumes."
Clark's expression tightened—partly from pain, partly from frustration. "Then what am I supposed to do? Just sit here while you all risk your lives?"
"Yes," Bruce said flatly. "That's exactly what you do. You rest, you recover, and when you're actually capable of fighting again, you return to active duty."
"And if something happens before then?" Clark's hands clenched into fists. "If one of you gets killed because I wasn't there to help?"
The question hung heavy in the air.
Arthur—Aquaman—spoke up from where he'd been leaning against the wall. "Then we die doing our jobs. That's the risk, Clark. You know that better than anyone."
"I can't accept that."
"You might have to," Victor—Cyborg—said quietly. His mechanical features showed concern despite their inhuman appearance. "The kryptonite contamination in your system is still active. Every time you use your powers, you risk driving those fragments deeper. If they reach your heart or brain..."
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Clark swayed slightly, and Diana was there in an instant to steady him. He didn't pull away, which told everyone just how bad he really felt.
"I know you want to help," Diana said softly. "Your need to protect people is what makes you Superman. But right now, the best way you can help is by staying alive and getting better."
Clark looked at each of them in turn—his friends, his teammates, people who'd become family. He saw their concern, their fear for him.
But he also saw their determination to keep fighting whether he was with them or not.
Finally, he sighed. "Fine. But only because you're all being unreasonably stubborn about this."
"Says the guy who argued for twenty minutes straight while barely able to stand," Barry muttered.
Despite everything, Clark smiled slightly. "That's different. I'm Superman. Stubborn is part of the job description."
"So is knowing when to rest," Bruce said, but there was approval in his tone. "We'll handle whatever comes up. You focus on healing."
Clark nodded, then his expression turned serious. "But be careful. All of you. Marcus—he'd..." Clark paused, choosing his words carefully. "He'd do something uncontrollable if any of you died while he was away. Especially if it happened because I was too weak to help."
The mention of their shared mentor made everyone straighten slightly.
Bruce's voice was steady when he spoke. "We'll be careful. And when Marcus returns, we'll show him a planet that's still standing and a team that's still alive. That's a promise."
"I'll hold you to that," Clark said.
Far above Earth, in a space that shouldn't exist, Marcus floated in the void and stared down at something impossible.
A massive structure sprawled across what had been an abandoned industrial zone. It looked organic—like a hive or nest constructed from living tissue rather than metal and stone. Chitinous spires reached toward the sky, pulsing with bioluminescent patterns. Openings in the structure's sides disgorged flying creatures at regular intervals.
"What the hell is this?" Marcus murmured, his enhanced vision cataloging details. "Has someone opened a portal to hell? This looks like something out of a dimensional invasion."
He didn't have access to the DC universe's timeline—couldn't peer into its past the way he could in other realities. The temporal structure here was different, more rigid, protected by forces he hadn't bothered to fully analyze.
So he was going in blind, which was annoying but not unprecedented.
The power of the Void flowed from his eyes, shifting his perception beyond normal sight. The nest's structure became transparent, revealing internal passages, chambers, and most interestingly—a massive energy source at its very center.
"Now what is that?"
The energy signature was incredible. Massive, complex, multidimensional. It pulsed with power that reminded Marcus of Infinity Stones but with a different quality—more technological than cosmic, but no less potent.
"If I could integrate that into my armor..." Marcus felt excitement build. An energy source like this could facilitate a major promotion, push his capabilities significantly higher.
But first, he needed to understand what he was dealing with.
"Better get some intelligence before I go charging in," he decided. "Let's see if any of these flying things can tell me what's happening."
He focused on a creature that had separated from the main swarm—probably a scout or patrol unit. It was roughly humanoid but clearly not human. Leathery wings, chitinous armor, glowing eyes. Some kind of bio-engineered soldier, perhaps.
Marcus raised one hand.
The Bloody Talons manifested instantly—his armor's signature ability, creating weapons from blood and biomass. Crimson light coalesced into elongated claws that extended from his fingertips, each one razor-sharp and humming with destructive potential.
He flicked his wrist.
Several blood-forged blades shot from his hand like thrown knives, moving faster than sound. The creature had no chance to react. The blades punched through its armor and pinned it in mid-air, impaling it through non-vital areas.
The creature opened its mouth to scream—probably to alert others—but Marcus was already moving.
He crossed the distance in an instant, appearing beside the pinned creature with his hand raised. The movement was casual, almost lazy, but the power behind it was absolute.
SLAM.
Marcus' palm connected with the creature's head.
Void energy flooded into its brain, overwhelming its consciousness, rewriting neural pathways, establishing a connection that let Marcus access every memory, every piece of information stored in that primitive mind.
The creature's eyes began to glow with purple-black light. It went rigid, suspended between the blood blades, as Marcus rifled through its consciousness like searching through files.
Minutes passed.
When Marcus finally withdrew his hand, his expression was a mixture of interest and concern.
"Well," he said slowly. "This is more complicated than I expected."
The creature was called a Parademon—a soldier in the armies of Apokolips. They weren't born; they were made, transformed from the conquered populations of defeated worlds. Every Parademon had once been a person with hopes and dreams and families.
Now they were just weapons. Mindless, obedient, existing only to serve.
"Charming," Marcus muttered, feeling a flicker of disgust.
But the Parademon's memories held more valuable information. It knew about its commander—Steppenwolf, a general of Apokolips who'd been exiled by the planet's ruler. The exile had a chance at redemption: conquer one hundred thousand worlds and offer them to his master.
And he'd found Earth.
More specifically, he'd found what his master had been searching for since an ancient failed invasion: the Mother Boxes.
"Apokolips," Marcus said thoughtfully. "Famous as Krypton, ruling a galactic empire, commanded by Darkseid himself."
He knew of Darkseid by reputation—a tyrant who'd conquered countless worlds, who commanded armies beyond number, whose very name inspired terror across multiple galaxies.
A being of genuine power, not just bluster and posturing.
But there was something else in the Parademon's memories. Something that made Marcus pause and reconsider his entire approach.
The Anti-Life Equation.
Darkseid's true obsession. The mathematical proof that would rob all sentient beings of their free will, turning every living thing in the universe into extensions of Darkseid's own consciousness.
And according to legend, the Equation was hidden on Earth.
That was why Darkseid had come here millennia ago, before he fully ascended to power. He'd brought the Mother Boxes intending to transform Earth and search for the Equation at his leisure.
The invasion had failed but Darkseid had never forgotten. He'd been searching for Earth ever since, looking for the planet that held the key to ultimate dominion.
"The Anti-Life Equation," Marcus breathed. "Something that makes even Darkseid obsessed."
He felt hunger rising within him—not physical hunger, but the deep craving for knowledge and power that drove him to seek out artifacts and abilities across dimensions.
If the Anti-Life Equation was real, if it truly existed on Earth...
"I need to find it," Marcus decided. "Power like that, even if I never use it, needs to be secured. Can't let it fall into the wrong hands."
He dismissed the Parademon with a casual gesture, Void energy erasing its consciousness entirely. The creature's body fell from the sky, already beginning to dissolve.
"First, I'll deal with Steppenwolf and claim the other Mother Boxes," Marcus planned aloud. "Then I'll search for the Equation. Simple enough."
He was about to move when he sensed something approaching—familiar energy signatures moving fast toward the nest.
Marcus turned his perception and immediately spotted the Batplane cutting through the sky. And beside it, flying under his own power—
"Clark."
Marcus' eyes narrowed. His godson was here, which wasn't surprising. Where there was a threat to Earth, Superman would respond.
But something was very wrong with Clark's energy signature.
It was diminished—significantly weakened from what Marcus remembered. The vibrant solar power that usually radiated from Clark like a second sun was muted, flickering, struggling.
"What happened to him?" Marcus growled.
He focused harder, pushing his enhanced senses to their limit. And there—buried in Clark's shoulder and dispersed through his bloodstream—he detected trace amounts of kryptonite.
Not just kryptonite. Something else. Some kind of synthetic compound designed to prevent the body from expelling the radioactive fragments.
"Someone shot him," Marcus realized, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "Shot him with kryptonite while he was trying to help people, then made sure the poisoning would last."
Anger flared hot in his chest—the protective fury of a mentor seeing his student harmed.
"Who did this?" Marcus demanded of the empty air. "Bruce? No, he'd never. But someone on Earth has access to kryptonite and the technical knowledge to weaponize it effectively."
He thought through the possibilities, rapidly narrowing down candidates.
"Lex Luthor," he concluded after a moment. "Has to be. Brilliant, paranoid, sees Superman as a threat. He'd be exactly the type to develop anti-Kryptonian weapons."
Marcus made a mental note: deal with Luthor eventually. Permanently, if necessary.
But first, handle the immediate crisis.
He watched the Batplane for another few seconds, considering his options. He could stay hidden, observe how Bruce and the others handled Steppenwolf. Or...
"No," Marcus decided. "They're my students. My family. I'm not watching from the sidelines."
Besides, he had questions. Lots of questions about what had happened during his absence.
Reality rippled around him.
Marcus teleported, crossing the distance in an instant, and materialized inside the Batplane's cockpit.
"What happened while I was away?"
The effect was immediate and dramatic.
Everyone in the plane jumped—even Bruce, who was piloting, jerked slightly at the controls. Barry let out an actual yelp of surprise. Victor's optical sensors flared bright red as combat subroutines activated.
Diana's hand went to her sword before recognition hit.
For a long moment, everyone just stared at Marcus like he was a ghost.
Then Bruce recovered his composure with visible effort. "Teacher. When did you come back?"
His voice was remarkably steady considering Marcus had just appeared from thin air in a sealed aircraft.
"Just now," Marcus said casually, settling into an empty seat like this was perfectly normal. "Returned to Earth, sensed the energy fluctuations from the Mother Boxes, came to investigate." He glanced out the window at Clark flying alongside them. "Now tell me what happened to Clark. Why is he so weak?"
Barry was the first to answer, words tumbling out rapidly. "A year ago, he was rescuing people from a building fire. Someone shot him mid-flight—kryptonite bullet that punched through his shoulder. The bullet was designed to fragment on impact, and it carried some kind of synthetic compound that prevents his body from expelling the kryptonite naturally."
"His powers have been severely diminished ever since," Diana added, her expression troubled. "We've tried everything we can think of to help him, but the contamination is deep in his tissues."
"He still insists on fighting," Bruce said, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. "We just spent twenty minutes trying to convince him to sit this one out."
Marcus studied Clark through the window. Even from here, he could see the pain his godson was hiding, the way every movement cost him more than it should.
"Kryptonite doesn't cause lasting damage," Marcus said slowly. "It suppresses Kryptonian abilities and causes pain, but once it's removed, recovery is swift. If Clark's been weakened for a year..." His eyes narrowed. "Whoever designed that bullet knew exactly what they were doing. This isn't just an attack—it's attempted permanent depowerment."
"Lex Luthor," Bruce confirmed. "Chairman of LexCorp. He's been developing anti-Superman weapons for the past two years, ever since the Kryptonian invasion made him paranoid about alien threats."
"Lex Luthor," Marcus repeated, committing the name to memory with the kind of attention usually reserved for people he intended to deal with personally. "Interesting."
The temperature in the cockpit seemed to drop several degrees.
"We're handling it," Bruce said carefully. "Luthor is a problem, but he's not today's priority."
"Agreed," Marcus said, though his tone suggested the conversation about Luthor was far from over. "So you're here for the Mother Boxes as well?"
The question made everyone exchange glances.
Victor spoke up, his mechanical voice carrying an unusual emotional weight. "Yes. Steppenwolf has collected all Mother Boxes but he is still in the process of synchronizing them now. If he succeeds..."
"The Earth will be destroyed," Diana finished.
"Actually, that's not quite accurate," Marcus said, leaning back in his seat. "The Mother Boxes can do that, yes—they have the power to restructure matter on a planetary scale. But Steppenwolf won't destroy Earth."
"He won't?" Arthur asked, speaking for the first time. His voice was deep, skeptical.
"No. He needs it intact." Marcus pulled information from the Parademon's memories, organizing it into coherent explanation. "Steppenwolf has been exiled by Darkseid. To earn his way back, he's sworn to conquer one hundred thousand worlds. Earth is just one planet in that quota."
He gestured vaguely. "If he uses the Mother Boxes to destroy Earth, that doesn't add to his count—it just wastes resources. Instead, he'll use them to terraform the planet into something more suitable for Apokolips' needs, transform the population into Parademons to swell Darkseid's armies, then move on to the next conquest."
The distinction didn't seem to comfort anyone.
"So instead of killing us all at once, he's going to turn us into mindless soldiers," Barry said weakly. "That's... not actually better."
"No," Marcus agreed. "It's not."
The Batplane began its descent. Through the windscreen, the nest loomed larger—a grotesque structure of organic architecture and alien technology.
"We're here," Bruce announced. "Everyone prepare for combat. Standard assault pattern—Diana and Arthur handle internal combat, Barry and Clark evacuate any civilians in the area, Victor separates the Mother Boxes, Green Arrow and I provide covering fire and tactical support."