Metropolis gleamed under a twilight sky, its skyscrapers reflecting the last rays of the sun like polished steel. Superman floated above it all, his red cape rippling in the high-altitude wind, his senses scanning the city's heartbeat—traffic hum, distant laughter, the clink of glasses in rooftop bars. But tonight, a faint unease gnawed at him, like a whisper he couldn't quite hear. He chalked it up to the weight of the world—saving it daily didn't come without scars, even for the Man of Steel.
His super-hearing caught a crackle, not from the city but from above. A voice, urgent, familiar. "Kal-El, you there?" Green Lantern's ring-transmitted signal cut through the static. Hal Jordan's tone was sharp, no trace of his usual cockiness. "We need to talk. Now."
Superman ascended, breaking through clouds until he hovered in the stratosphere, where Hal's green aura glowed against the darkening sky. The Lantern's construct—a shimmering map of Earth—floated between them, zeroing in on a desolate white expanse: the Antarctic glacier. "Found something you're not gonna like," Hal said, his jaw tight. "A company called Verdant Extraction. They're digging up something nasty down there."
Superman's eyes narrowed. "Mining's not my jurisdiction, Hal. What's the catch?"
Hal's ring projected a hologram: a massive facility carved into the ice, its spires glowing with an eerie green light. "Kryptonite," Hal said. "Tons of it. Not raw chunks—refined, weaponized. I intercepted a shipment headed for Metropolis's black market. Rifles, grenades, even a damn missile. They're arming criminals, Clark, and they know it'll hurt you."
The word hit like a punch. Kryptonite. Superman's one weakness, a relic of his destroyed homeworld. He'd faced it before—Lex Luthor's schemes, Metallo's glowing heart—but this was different. Industrial scale. Organized. "How'd you find them?" he asked, voice steady despite the chill creeping into his bones.
"Patrolling the southern hemisphere," Hal said. "Ring picked up an energy signature—Kryptonite's unique radiation. I scoped their base. It's a fortress, Clark—drones, AI defenses, and some kind of lab they're keeping off the books. They're calling it 'Project Emerald Genesis.' Sounded like bad news."
Superman's mind raced. Verdant Extraction had risen quietly, their PR touting eco-friendly mining across Antarctica, Siberia, even off-world. But weapons? That was a game-changer. "I'll check it out," he said. "Send me the coordinates."
Hal hesitated, his green eyes flickering with concern. "This isn't a solo gig. That place is crawling with tech that could drop you. Let me back you up."
Superman managed a half-smile. "Appreciate it, but I need you watching the skies. If they're shipping to Metropolis, I want to know where it's landing."
Hal nodded, reluctant, and transmitted the data to Superman's communicator—a discreet earpiece Clark Kent used for Justice League ops. "Watch your back, Kal. Something about this feels… personal."
Back in Metropolis, Clark Kent adjusted his glasses in the Daily Planet's newsroom, the Antarctic coordinates burning in his mind. The bullpen thrummed with late-night energy, reporters chasing deadlines. Lois Lane, perched on her desk, typed with ferocious focus, her dark hair catching the fluorescent light. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Smallville," she said, not glancing up. "Spill it."
Clark forced a chuckle, slipping into his bumbling reporter act. "Just a lead, Lois. Nothing big." He couldn't tell her—not yet. Lois would dive headfirst into danger, and Kryptonite wasn't a story she could fight with a pen.
He pulled up Verdant Extraction's public filings on his computer. Their CEO, Elias Thorne, was a shadow—no photos, no interviews, just a name tied to billion-dollar contracts. Their Antarctic operation, buried in vague environmental reports, mentioned "rare mineral extraction." Clark's gut screamed cover-up. He cross-referenced Hal's data: satellite images showed a sprawling complex beneath the glacier, shielded from detection by advanced cloaking tech. Sci-Fi stuff, straight out of a bad movie.
A news alert pinged: a robbery at Metropolis's First National Bank, suspects armed with "unidentified energy weapons." Clark's heart sank. He slipped out, claiming a coffee run, and changed in an alley, blue suit gleaming under streetlights.
The bank's lobby was a warzone. Shattered glass crunched under Superman's boots as he landed, his cape settling like a storm's aftermath. Five robbers in tactical gear sprayed green-glowing rounds, their rifles humming with unnatural energy. Civilians—guards, a night-shift teller—huddled behind counters, screaming. Superman charged, expecting the bullets to bounce off. But as one grazed his arm, a white-hot sting seared through him. He grunted, catching himself mid-stride. The pain faded fast, but it was real. Impossible.
"Time to surrender," he called, voice steady despite the shock. He blurred forward, disarming the leader—a burly man with cybernetic goggles—in a heartbeat. The rifle clattered, its green core pulsing. Superman's strength held, but each bullet that came too close brought that sting again, sharper, like a blade under his skin.
He moved like a whirlwind, yanking weapons, zip-tying the robbers with their own gear. The last, a wiry woman with a crescent moon tattoo, smirked as he pinned her. "Verdant's just getting started, alien," she spat. "You're not ready for what's coming."
Superman held up a confiscated bullet, its green glow casting shadows on his face. "Who's buying these?" he demanded. She laughed, saying nothing. Sirens wailed outside—Metropolis PD arriving. He secured the scene, ensuring the civilians were safe, then rocketed into the night, the bullet clutched in his fist.
At the Fortress of Solitude, Superman stood in the crystalline chamber, the bullet under a Kryptonian scanner. The Fortress's AI, a faint echo of his father Jor-El, hummed to life. "Analysis complete," it intoned. "The mineral is Kryptonite, refined to a molecular purity exceeding previous encounters. Likely origin: Earth-based deposits, processed with advanced technology."
Superman's jaw tightened. "Purpose?"
"Weaponization," the AI replied. "The refinement enhances its radiation, targeting Kryptonian physiology. Prolonged exposure would cause severe debilitation."
He stared at the bullet, its glow like a taunt. Verdant Extraction wasn't just mining—they were building an arsenal to kill him. Hal's warning echoed: Project Emerald Genesis. A lab. A weapon beyond rifles or bombs. Something—someone—designed to end the Man of Steel.
A comm signal beeped. Hal's voice, urgent. "Clark, I'm tracking a Verdant convoy—Antarctic to Metropolis. Heavily armed, heading for the docks. You want in?"
Superman's eyes hardened, the green glow reflected in his blue irises. "I'm on my way." He launched from the Fortress, streaking south, the Antarctic's icy heart calling him. But as Metropolis's skyline faded, a distant explosion lit the horizon—a green fireball, roaring with unnatural fury. Screams followed, and a guttural sound, not quite human, echoed in his ears.
Whatever Verdant was hiding, it was already loose. And it was only the beginning.