DC: Rise of the Kryptonian Tyrant

Deathstroke's heart sank further, but he maintained a cold sneer. "Aren't you still afraid of nuclear bombs? Or of being discovered by the U.S. military as an alien?"

Bardi laughed lightly. "Afraid?"

"You can think so."

He didn't elaborate. The battles he envisioned and the enemies he expected to face in the future were far more terrifying than anything humanity could throw at him now. There were beings out there gods, demons, and others capable of obliterating planets at will, even destroying entire star systems.

Compared to that, human threats were almost trivial.

For now, his caution was a necessity. This was merely a time to hide, to bide his time until he became strong enough to face any opponent.

Knowing that his alien identity could remain hidden, even for a few years, was invaluable. It would give him the time he needed to build power, influence, and the momentum to one day stand unrivaled.

Before, his high-profile moves in Gotham and Metropolis had been deliberate provocations. They were tests, to see how far he could push humanity's tolerance, to gauge if they would risk annihilating their own cities with nuclear weapons just to destroy him.

It might have seemed overly cautious to others, but Bardi knew better. His upbringing on Krypton, a civilization governed by absolute precision and strict rules had instilled in him the importance of planning for every contingency.

Now, it was clear. They hadn't paid attention to him at all. General Vic had kept his identity hidden, blinded by his own ambitions.

It would be foolish not to seize this window of opportunity.

"I've already planned your future," Bardi said, his voice calm and commanding. "One day, you might even fight alongside me, across the stars."

His tone carried the weight of inevitability, his gaze distant, as though he were standing atop the peak of a mountain, looking down at the world beneath him, already imagining the vastness of the universe.

Deathstroke snorted in disdain. "There's not much time left. Let me go. I'll intercept the film and keep your alien identity secret. But if the U.S. military learns who you are, you'll never have a moment's peace. How could you dream of fighting the universe then?"

To Deathstroke, Bardi's talk of cosmic conquest was laughable. How could he claim such ambitions while he still had to hide among humans?

But Bardi wasn't angry. Instead, he chuckled.

"You don't understand anything about my abilities," Bardi said, his voice tinged with amusement.

His right thumb continued its subconscious motion, rubbing against his left palm, a gesture that seemed to focus his thoughts.

Deathstroke closed his eye, cutting off the conversation. He didn't want to reveal anything more to Bardi.

But it was already too late.

"'This film, at 21:00, will be received,'" Bardi began, quoting Deathstroke's earlier words. "'Unlike General Vic, he will definitely hand it over directly to the U.S. military.'"

Bardi's piercing gaze never left Deathstroke.

The assassin remained silent, keeping his expression neutral. But Bardi's vision didn't rely on facial expressions.

Through his binocular vision, he saw the flow of blood vessels and nerve currents within Deathstroke's body, every involuntary reaction laid bare.

In Bardi's eyes, Deathstroke was like a transparent figure, his inner workings fully visible. He could see the faint, involuntary shifts in nerve activity that confirmed his words.

"No one can lie to me," Bardi said quietly.

"You said, 'he's different from General Vic.' That means his character is different. You're certain that he would hand the film over to the U.S. military. Why? Because he's a patriot."

As Bardi spoke, he noticed the subtle acceleration of Deathstroke's neural signals.

Deathstroke's control over his heartbeat and breathing was remarkable, but the subconscious responses of his nervous system betrayed him.

"A patriot," Bardi continued, his voice steady. "Someone with a similar status to General Vic, perhaps even another general. He must be close enough to the upper echelons of the U.S. military to ensure their attention."

Bardi's words hung in the air like a knife.

Deathstroke remained outwardly composed, his eye closed, his breathing steady. He didn't dare let his thoughts wander, knowing that even a stray reaction could give Bardi more clues.

But it was futile.

Bardi's analytical mind was sharper than any blade. Even the smallest detail was enough for him to deduce the truth.

"A general," Bardi concluded. "A patriot. And in Metropolis."

The faintest flicker of Deathstroke's neural signals confirmed it.

Bardi's lips curled into a cold smile.

"That's all I needed to know," he said, his voice laced with finality.

Without another glance at Deathstroke, Bardi turned and walked to the landline phone mounted on the wall.

He picked up the receiver and dialed a number.

In the background of the call, faint drum beats mixed with rock music, female laughter, and the sound of stomping feet suggested a wild party was in full swing. It was clear the person answering the phone had stepped into a quieter corner, likely to avoid the noise disrupting the conversation and earning Bardi's ire.

"Boss, I'm working on getting Sildenafil into the hands of the upper echelon. They've expressed interest and are willing to test it. The success of this depends on their decision to cooperate. And for the record, I'm not using company funds to eat, drink, or party!"

The nervous voice belonged to Noy, the previous owner of the biotech company Bardi had acquired.

Noy wasn't suited to managing a company or conducting scientific research. But when it came to diplomacy, networking with the wealthy and powerful, and navigating the complexities of Metropolis's elite, he had some value. Recognizing this, Bardi had kept him on as a diplomat for Universe Biotechnology Company, tasking him with expanding the company's influence among the Metropolis elite.

Before Bardi could speak, Noy eagerly began rattling off his efforts.

"Boss, word's gotten out. The 'family' is planning to make things hard for you. They don't like that you came from the suicide slums. They've been saying you'll have to crawl on your knees and apologize to them or else. They're threatening to crush the company, turn us into penniless beggars in Metropolis, and, for the finale, break our legs and toss us into the Atlantic."

Noy's voice trembled as he spoke, his fear palpable. His 200-pound frame had been quaking at the thought of the 'family' targeting them.

Having spent time mingling with Metropolis's elite, Noy was all too aware of the 'family', an influential coalition of wealthy power brokers. He'd once been part of it but had fallen from grace after losing his fortune, ultimately being expelled.

Bardi, however, remained indifferent. Compared to the potential threat posed by the U.S. military, these capitalists were little more than a minor annoyance.

"Noy, don't worry," Bardi said, his tone calm and steady. "They can't touch us. I've recently developed a new drug, and I plan to collaborate with the military. Once we've got the military on our side here in Metropolis, the company will have a solid backing."

Noy's relief was audible. "No wonder you took care of the suicide slum so boldly, Boss. If the military's involved, we're untouchable!"

"I know about the Drayton family, the Marion family, and the Grote family," Noy said, his tone turning fawning. "I've met some of their second-generation heirs, plenty of them like to party."

"Hmm," Bardi replied nonchalantly. "Are those all the military families in Metropolis?"

Noy hesitated before adding, "Not exactly. There's also the Lane family. But they're different. Their family has strict rules. They don't mingle with the second-generation brats like the others. Recently, one of them was promoted to lieutenant general. From what I've heard, he's on track to reach the highest ranks. But I haven't been able to get close to him."

Bardi's eyebrow arched slightly.

The Lane family.

He knew them. Sam Lane, in particular, had a reputation. In the future, this was the man who would become a staunch opponent of Superman.

"What's this Lieutenant General's name?" Bardi asked.

"Sam Lane," Noy confirmed. "From what I hear, he's not easy to deal with. He's like an old-school hardliner, even as a young man. Strict, stubborn, and impossible to get along with."

The mention of Sam Lane sent a wave of unease through Deathstroke. Despite his closed eye, his brow twitched involuntarily.

"Oh, he must be a very patriotic man, then?" Bardi asked, his tone faintly amused.

Noy chuckled awkwardly. "Out of all the military families in Metropolis, his is definitely the most loyal to the United States. People even joke that the Lane family is America's 'loyal dog.'"

Bardi let out a small laugh. "That's… unfortunate. Continue working on the company's development. Spend as much as you need. Just send the bills to me for reimbursement."

Overjoyed, Noy thanked him profusely before hanging up.

Bardi placed the phone back on its cradle and turned to face Deathstroke, retracting his x-ray vision.

"It's Sam Lane, then," Bardi said, his tone casual. "He's definitely the one who would hand over my alien identity to the U.S. military."

He chuckled to himself. Breaking things down step by step, the answer had become so obvious.

Deathstroke, despite his hardened demeanor, felt a pang of respect and awe. Bardi had pieced everything together effortlessly, using nothing but a few words and a single phone call.

"I've lost," Deathstroke admitted, his voice low. He closed his eye again, squeezing it shut tightly, as though trying to block out the reality of his defeat.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips as his body went slack in the chair, his once-tense posture crumbling into defeat.

He had lost completely.

No leverage. No bargaining chips. No opportunities to escape.

"You're not going to die," Bardi said, his voice calm but firm. "You won't be a subject for my experiments. You'll still have your freedom. And who knows? Maybe one day you'll even oppose me again."

He stepped behind Deathstroke. With a swift motion, he delivered a precise chop to the back of his neck, knocking him unconscious.

---

The night sky stretched wide, sparkling with stars. A villa with blue-and-white exterior walls sat quietly under the vast expanse, its silhouette outlined by faint moonlight.

Half of a yellow envelope stuck out of the villa's letterbox.

Sam Lane stepped through the door, noticing the envelope. His brows furrowed in puzzlement as he retrieved it.

Who would leave a package here in the middle of the night?

Pondering the oddity, he stepped inside, the warm light of the villa washing over him.

Setting the envelope on the shoe cabinet, he turned to greet his daughter. Picking her up, he smiled and pressed his face against hers, playfully rubbing cheeks.

His daughter giggled, her laughter filling the air.

***

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