The storm wasn't natural. It never had been.
Above Metropolis, the sky had turned into a wound—green, pulsing, alive. Kryptonite lightning forked across the clouds like veins of poison, each flash illuminating the city in sickening emerald. The air itself hummed with radiation, a low, predatory growl that made every cell in Clark Kent's body scream. He flew through it anyway, cape in tatters, black suit scorched and clinging to his skin like a second layer of pain. His eyes glowed faintly—heat vision flickering, unstable—but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Green Lantern streaked beside him, ring blazing with emerald light, but even Hal Jordan's willpower was straining. His constructs flickered, distorted by the storm's interference. "Clark, your vitals are tanking!" Hal shouted over the wind. "That satellite's the core—it's broadcasting refined Kryptonite in a 50-mile radius!"
Clark's jaw clenched. The burn from LexCorp Plaza had never left him. It had spread—slow, insidious, like frost creeping through glass. His flight stuttered. For a moment, he dropped ten feet before catching himself. "Then we destroy it," he growled. "No more games."
The satellite hung in the eye of the storm—a crystalline sphere the size of a city bus, its surface etched with glowing Kryptonian runes. Not decorative. Functional. A fusion of alien science and human greed. Verdant had weaponized the weather itself, turning fragments of a dead world into a doomsday engine. Clark's fists tightened. My world.
Hal's ring flared. "Incoming!"
Drones poured from the storm's edge—sleek, black, faster than the last batch. Their hulls shimmered with Kryptonite-infused alloy. Beams lanced out, green and precise. Hal threw up a shield—a dome of green light—but the beams punched through, fracturing it into shards. One struck Clark in the chest. He grunted, spinning, vision tunneling.
"Clark!" Hal dove, catching him with a construct tether. "You're bleeding radiation!"
"I'm fine," Clark lied. He wasn't. His skin was pale, veins glowing faintly under the surface. But the drones were diving toward the power grid. If they hit the substations, half the city would go dark. He pushed off Hal's tether, rocketing forward.
He hit the first drone like a missile. Metal crumpled. The second fired point-blank—Clark twisted, taking the beam across his back. Pain exploded. He roared, grabbing the drone and crushing it in his fists. Sparks and green dust rained down. The third drone banked hard, aiming for the LexCorp Tower. Clark blurred after it, intercepting mid-air. He drove his elbow through its core, ripping out the Kryptonite power cell and hurling it into the storm.
Hal was already on the fourth, ring forming a giant emerald fist. It smashed the drone into scrap. But more came. Dozens. A swarm.
"They're endless!" Hal yelled. "Verdant's got a factory in the clouds!"
Clark's breath came in ragged gasps. The radiation was building. His flight was failing. He dropped again—twenty feet this time—before Hal caught him. "Clark, you're done. Let me finish this."
"No." Clark's voice was steel. "The satellite. That's the source."
He launched upward, straight into the storm's heart. Lightning struck him—once, twice. Each bolt was a hammer of green fire. His suit smoked. His cape burned away in strips. But he kept flying. The satellite loomed ahead, its runes pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Hal flew cover, ring blazing. He formed a battering ram, slamming it into the satellite's hull. The impact cracked the outer shell, but the core inside flared brighter. "It's shielded!" Hal shouted. "Kryptonite lattice—my ring can't penetrate!"
Clark didn't answer. He flew straight at it.
"Clark, no!"
He hit the satellite like a meteor. The impact shattered the outer casing. Alarms screamed. Green energy surged. Clark grabbed the exposed core—a glowing sphere of pure Kryptonite, encased in crystalline lattice. It burned his hands. His vision went white. But he held on.
With a roar, he tore it free.
The storm screamed.
The core detonated in his grip—not with fire, but with sound. A sonic wave of green energy rippled outward, shredding drones, unraveling clouds. The satellite disintegrated. Clark was thrown backward, tumbling through the sky, the core still clutched in his burned hands.
Hal caught him again. "Clark! Let it go!"
He couldn't. The core was fused to his gauntlets, radiation pouring into his bloodstream. His eyes rolled back. For a moment, he saw Krypton—not the dead world, but the living one. Crystal spires. Red sun. His mother's face. Jor-El's voice: "Kal-El… you are not alone."
Then darkness.
He woke on the Daily Planet roof, rain falling—normal rain, gray and cold. Lois knelt beside him, her coat soaked, eyes red. "Clark," she whispered, voice breaking. "You idiot."
Hal stood nearby, ring dim. "He's stable. Barely. The core's gone—I vaporized it. But the radiation… it's in his cells now."
Clark tried to sit up. His body felt like lead. "The storm?"
"Gone," Hal said. "You did it. But Verdant's not done. The satellite sent a final transmission before it blew—coordinates. Antarctic glacier. Thorne's there."
Lois held up her phone. A new message glowed on the screen:
LANE. YOU'RE CLOSE. TOO CLOSE. SUICIDE SLUM. MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE. –K
Clark's blood ran cold. "Officer K."
Lois's jaw set. "The mole. They want to talk."
"Don't go," Clark rasped. "It's a trap."
"I have to," she said. "We need the truth."
Hal crossed his arms. "Then we go together. No arguments."
Clark tried to stand. His legs buckled. Lois caught him. "You're not flying anywhere, Smallville. Not like this."
He looked at her—really looked. The fear in her eyes wasn't for the story. It was for him. "Lois… I'm sorry."
"For what?" she asked.
"For dragging you into this."
She smiled, fierce and tired. "You didn't drag me. I ran."
Midnight. Suicide Slum.
The streets were empty, rain-slicked, lit by flickering neon. Lois walked alone, recorder in her pocket, pepper spray in her hand. Clark and Hal watched from the shadows—Clark propped against a wall, barely standing, Hal's ring cloaking them both.
Officer K stepped from an alley. Tall. Familiar. Lois froze.
"Jimmy?" she whispered.
Jimmy Olsen—former Daily Planet intern, now in a Metropolis PD uniform—stood with a Kryptonite emitter in his hand. His eyes were hollow. "I'm sorry, Lois. They have my sister."
The emitter hummed. Green light bathed the alley.
Clark staggered forward. "Jimmy, don't—"
Too late. Syndicate goons emerged from the dark, weapons glowing. Jimmy activated the emitter. A wave of radiation slammed into Clark. He dropped to one knee, gasping.
Lois drew her spray. "Jimmy, fight it!"
"I can't," he said, voice breaking. "They'll kill her."
Hal's ring flared—but the emitter disrupted it. His constructs fizzled. "Clark, I can't—"
Clark forced himself up. The radiation burned, but he moved. One step. Two. He reached Jimmy, grabbed the emitter, and crushed it in his fist. Green shards exploded outward.
The goons opened fire. Clark moved—slow, painful, but unstoppable. He disarmed the first, knocked out the second. The third fired a Kryptonite dart into his shoulder. He roared, ripping it free, and slammed the shooter into a wall.
Jimmy fell to his knees. "Lois… the chip. In my pocket. Nexus files. Everything."
Lois knelt, pulling a small data chip from his coat. "Jimmy, why?"
"They promised to save her," he whispered. "I was wrong."
Sirens wailed. The goons fled. Hal grabbed Jimmy. "We're getting you out. Both of you."
Clark collapsed against the wall, vision fading. Lois caught him. "Stay with me, Clark."
He looked at the chip in her hand. "Nexus… it's real."
"And we're ending it," she said.
Above, the sky was clear. But in the distance, a faint green glow flickered on the horizon.
Antarctica was calling.