In the end, only General Zod found himself trap into the Phantom Zone's eternal twilight.
The decision came after a private conversation between Jor-El's AI and his former friend, a dialogue conducted in the quantum-encrypted language of Kryptonian high command, incomprehensible to outside observers. Whatever truths or promises were exchanged in those stolen moments, they proved sufficient to crack Zod's absolute certainty about the righteousness of his cause.
When the conversation concluded, Zod's expression had shifted from defiant rage to something approaching tragic resignation. His tactical mind, genetically optimized for strategic thinking, had apparently reached an uncomfortable conclusion about the long-term viability of his methods.
"Faora-Ul, Nam-Ek, Jax-Ur," he commanded, using their formal military designations for what might be the final time. "I order you to remain with these... individuals. Observe what they claim will be the birth of New Krypton." His voice carried the weight of absolute authority, though pain flickered behind his steel-gray eyes.
"Sir, we should stand together, " Faora began, her warrior's instincts rebelling against the prospect of abandoning her commanding officer.
"This is not a request, Sub-Commander," Zod cut her off with parade-ground precision. "You will witness what Solarion calls the future of our species. You will evaluate whether his vision deserves the name 'Krypton' or represents some alien perversion of our heritage."
The unspoken implication hung heavy in the recycled air: if Ben's New Krypton proved to be a genuine continuation of their civilization, perhaps Zod's resistance had been fundamentally misguided. If it revealed itself as mere mockery wearing Kryptonian symbols, then his eventual escape and resumption of the true mission would be cosmically justified.
"As for myself," Zod continued, straightening into the rigid posture of a condemned man facing execution with dignity, "imprisonment changes nothing. Whether I spend years or centuries in that dimensional void, my conviction remains unshakeable. One day, when your patience with these aliens finally expires, or when they reveal their true nature, I will return. And when that day comes, we'll finish what we started."
Faora's jaw tightened, but military discipline won out over personal loyalty. "Understood, General. We'll carry out the mission."
The exchange represented both ending and beginning, the close of Krypton's final military campaign and the opening of an uncertain chapter in their species' future. Ben watched the interplay with professional interest, recognizing the complex emotional currents that drove each participant's choices.
Within minutes, he'd produced what appeared to be an elegantly designed fusion of flashlight and energy weapon, its crystalline components humming with barely contained power.
"Phantom Zone Projector, Mark One," Ben announced, hefting the device with casual pride. "Portable, stable, and infinitely more convenient than planetary-scale installations."
He demonstrated by firing into empty space, the projector's beam opening a swirling vortex that seemed to devour light itself. Beyond the portal's event horizon lay twisted dimensions where physics operated according to different rules entirely.
Jor-El's holographic form flickered with amazement as his sensors analyzed the impossible engineering feat before him. "How did you achieve such miniaturization? My original design required satellite-sized infrastructure just to maintain dimensional stability."
"Superior application of bio-kinetic field theory," Ben replied in Grey Matter's characteristically smug tone.
The explanation was both accurate and deliberately simplified. Ben's space-level understanding of reality manipulation allowed him to solve problems that would stump even Kryptonian super-science, but explaining the full scope of his capabilities would raise uncomfortable questions about his true nature.
"Your species' intelligence is truly remarkable," Jor-El said with genuine admiration. "I begin to understand why my son chose to ally with your people rather than his birth-kin."
"Don't give the Galvans too much credit," Ben warned, his scientific humility warring with species pride. "Intelligence is just one tool among many. Every race has its blind spots and limitations."
The philosophical observation carried personal weight. Ben's transformations had taught him that raw intellectual power, while invaluable, couldn't solve every problem. Sometimes wisdom mattered more than intelligence, compassion more than logic, determination more than brilliance.
As the Phantom Zone portal stabilized, Jor-El performed the melancholy duty of saying farewell to his oldest friend. "Goodbye, Dru-Zod. I hope the isolation gives you time to reconsider your methods."
Zod's response was a contemptuous sneer that spoke volumes about his uncompromising nature. "Save your pity for the alien sympathizers who'll realize too late that some threats require absolute solutions."
The portal swallowed him without ceremony, its swirling vortex sealing the dimensional breach as efficiently as it had opened it. General Zod, last military commander of the Kryptonian Empire, vanished into phantom exile, leaving behind only the echo of his final words and the weight of space history.
"When do we begin Krypton's reconstruction?" Faora asked immediately, her focus shifting to mission parameters with mechanical efficiency. The warrior's psychological makeup demanded clear objectives and measurable progress toward strategic goals.
"Soon," Ben replied, though his attention was already moving toward more immediate concerns. "I have some business to finish in this universe first."
"New Krypton won't be established here?" Faora's tactical mind immediately began calculating the implications of interdimensional colonization.
"Why? Are you particularly attached to this universe?" Ben asked with genuine curiosity. "Krypton is gone. Does it matter which universe hosts its successor?"
The question highlighted the fundamental difference between attachment to place and loyalty to concept. For beings whose homeworld had been utterly destroyed, the specific space coordinates of their new civilization mattered far less than its cultural and genetic continuity.
"I suppose location is irrelevant," Faora conceded, though her voice carried traces of warrior's impatience. "I simply hope you'll proceed quickly and prove your promises aren't mere deception."
Ben's casual confidence in discussing interdimensional empire-building had already demonstrated power levels that made deception unnecessary. If he wanted them dead, a single thought would suffice. Complex lies would be pointless when simple force could achieve any objective.
"Trust me, you'll get your New Krypton," Ben assured her as he began turning their commandeered vessel toward Earth. "But first, I need to acquire some local technology that might prove useful for our larger project."
His thoughts turned to the Mother Boxes, ancient artifacts of Apokolips that had somehow found their way to Earth's various civilizations. Unlike the Infinity Stones, which required combination to achieve ultimate power, each Mother Box was a self-contained miracle of space engineering. Teleportation, molecular reconstruction, temporal manipulation, reality alteration, the devices represented technology so advanced it might as well be magic.
The question was whether to claim one Mother Box or attempt to acquire multiple units for comparative analysis. Three existed on Earth: one in human custody, another protecting Atlantis, and a third safeguarding Paradise Island. Each presented different challenges for acquisition.
"I wonder if Arthur Curry has claimed the Atlantean throne yet," Ben mused aloud, his mind already working through the diplomatic complexities involved.
The DCEU's fragmented timeline made precise chronology difficult to determine. Wonder Woman had clearly been active for decades, but the other future Justice League members remained question marks. Cyborg probably hadn't undergone his transformation yet, and whether Barry Allen had gained his Speed Force connection was anyone's guess.
But these uncertainties didn't significantly impact Ben's strategic planning. The Mother Boxes themselves were the prize, not the heroes who might eventually wield them.
After careful consideration, Ben decided on a measured approach: acquire the human and Atlantean Mother Boxes while leaving Paradise Island's artifact undisturbed. The Amazons maintained peaceful isolation, and disturbing their sanctuary would create unnecessary complications. Atlantis, however, was reportedly preparing for surface world conquest, a campaign that could only succeed if Superman was somehow removed from the equation.
"Perfect timing for a little underwater diplomacy," Ben concluded with satisfaction.
The three surviving Kryptonians had little choice but to accept his timeline. Jax-Ur simply nodded with scientific detachment. For someone who'd spent decades as a galactic nomad, a few more months of delay meant nothing.
Faora settled into sullen patience, her arms crossed and her expression broadcasting disapproval of any unnecessary delays. But military discipline kept her complaints internal, Zod's final orders had been explicit about cooperation with their new allies.
Nam-Ek, the massive warrior, remained as silent as ever. His genetic programming apparently included absolute loyalty to designated command authority, making Ben's current leadership position unquestionable regardless of species.
Upon reaching Earth, Ben immediately deployed his new subordinates to remote locations where they could begin solar energy absorption without attracting unwanted attention. Decades of imprisonment had left their cellular batteries nearly depleted, but Earth's yellow sun would quickly restore their superhuman capabilities.
Meanwhile, Ben himself dove deep into the Kryptonian databases, absorbing centuries of accumulated knowledge with Grey Matter's enhanced intellectual processing. The scope of their civilization's achievements was staggering, scientific principles that wouldn't be discovered by human researchers for millennia, engineering techniques that treated physics as mere suggestion, artistic traditions that spanned galactic conquest and peaceful exploration.
But it was the combat armor technology that captured his primary attention.
"How exactly does this equipment provide such dramatic capability enhancement?" Ben asked during one of his regular conversations with Jor-El's AI consciousness.
The question touched on military applications that fell outside Jor-El's expertise. "Jax-Ur would be more qualified to answer technical questions about weapons systems," the AI admitted. "My research focused on planetary engineering and peaceful applications of our technology."
"However, I can explain the basic operating principles," Jor-El continued with scientific enthusiasm. "The armor was originally designed for off-world conquest operations, where Kryptonian physiology couldn't rely on solar charging. The suits compensate for that limitation through bio-kinetic field manipulation."
"Stance-based enhancement," Ben realized with growing excitement. "But wouldn't yellow sun exposure make the armor redundant?"
"Correct," Jor-El confirmed. "Once Kryptonian biology is properly charged, the armor's benefits become marginal at best. I'm curious why you're so interested in what is essentially obsolete equipment."
"Because I have soldiers who aren't Kryptonian," Ben explained, his mind already racing through the implications for Plumber military capabilities.
If Kryptonian combat technology could be integrated into standard-issue equipment, every Plumber agent would gain combat effectiveness comparable to elite space warriors. The organization's chronic manpower limitations would become irrelevant when individual operatives could match the output of entire armies.
"Currently, most of my forces lack the strength to meaningfully contribute during major conflicts," Ben continued with characteristic bluntness. "They're brave and loyal, but space-level threats tend to vaporize conventional soldiers before they can even engage."
The assessment was harsh but accurate. Despite establishing the Plumbers as a galactic power, Ben remained essentially a one-man operation supported by a handful of exceptional individuals. The rank-and-file members were glorified security guards rather than true military assets.
"With proper equipment upgrades, that changes completely," Ben concluded. "Every Plumber becomes capable of engaging threats that would require Asgardian champions to handle."
The strategic implications were profound. Instead of relying on overwhelming personal power, Ben could delegate meaningful responsibilities to trusted subordinates while focusing on problems that truly required his unique capabilities.
"Should I consider establishing a Green Lantern Corps?" Ben wondered briefly, then dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. "No, too many systemic vulnerabilities. Centralized power sources, emotional dependency, established track record of total military collapse..."
Green Lantern Rings were powerful, but they carried too much operational baggage. Better to develop indigenous technology that couldn't be disabled by enemy action against distant power batteries.
While Ben immersed himself in technological research, Clark returned to Kansas with a heart full of complex emotions. The past few days had contained more life-changing revelations than the previous twenty-three years combined. He'd learned the truth about his origins, met others of his kind, chosen sides in a space conflict, and gained a clearer understanding of his destiny as Earth's protector.
Now he needed to share that knowledge with the woman who'd raised him, who'd shaped his moral character through countless small lessons about kindness and responsibility.
Martha Kent deserved to know that her adopted son had finally found his place in the universe, even if that place came with terrifying responsibilities.
But first, Clark needed to resolve his own lingering doubts about humanity's potential reaction to his revelation. On the journey home, he'd found himself returning to a conversation with Ben that had challenged his fundamental assumptions about heroism and public service.
"Do you think they'll accept me?" Clark had asked, his voice carrying decades of accumulated uncertainty.
Ben's response had been characteristically blunt: "No."
The flat certainty had hit Clark like a physical blow. He'd expected encouragement, perhaps some qualified optimism about humanity's capacity for growth.
"Being a hero is fine, but only if you're under their control," Ben had continued without looking up from his armor analysis. "Nobody wants someone flying over their heads indefinitely, making them nervous. And the people you save? They might not thank you, but the ones you fail to save will definitely blame you."
Clark had tried to find middle ground, some compromise that might ease the transition. "Maybe I should work with government authorities, "
"Unless you plan to be their obedient attack dog."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" Clark had asked, frustration bleeding into his voice. "I don't know what the world is ready for."
That's when Ben had finally turned to face him, Grey Matter's alien features somehow conveying intense focus despite their non-human configuration.
"Why do you need to wait until they're ready?" Ben had asked, his tone suggesting the question was fundamental rather than rhetorical.
"This isn't about their readiness, Clark. It's about yours."
"You have overwhelming power," Ben had continued, his small hands gesturing for emphasis. "If you wanted, you could kill every human on Earth in a single day, or force them all to kneel in submission. You could do whatever you want, but you choose to be good."
"For that choice alone, they should thank you on their knees. If they think being good means you deserve to have guns pointed at you, then maybe it's time they learned what a Superman really is."