Mockingbird doesn’t sing (They Stitch Him Back Together)

Washington, D.C 

March 30, post-09:00

EST

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A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft click of the play button.

Click. 

A wave of static cracked momentarily before a male voice began talking. It was a recording.

"This is Dr. Desmond, lead scientist of Project Cadmus. I apologize for any lapses in articulation. Exhaustion gnaws at the edge of my focus, but the weight of this project compels me to record.

As always, I record not because I seek validation. But because I have earned it.

This is Log Entry 004, chronicling the progress of Project Match. This log, the fourth in its sequence, records the progress of my brain child. The marvel housed within the sterile confines of this Genesis Chamber.

Standing as a statement of my brilliance.

Proof that I could do it. Evidence that I did it.

I have wrought life. Not just any kind of life.

But from the being that flies in the sky. The solar sentinel. The undeniable paragon of strength and physics defying powers

From him, I have fashioned a demigod. A testament to my audacity and defiance of convention.

Forget Frankenstein's cobbled together monster. A carnival freak animated by stolen lightning! Prometheus! Pygmalion! —all mere preludes, for I did it.

I have created him

A clone of Superman. Not some grotesque facsimile, but a being sculpted from the very DNA of the Kryptonian.

Luthor, with all his bluster and "superior intellect," failed. He couldn't make it work. They couldn't make it work.

The Kryptonian genome gap.

The Kryptonian DNA, while mostly intact, harbored interstitial gaps. Imagine a stellar power station, a miniature sun at its core. Its immense energy output funneling down bottlenecked conduits towards the extremities. In the Kryptonian cells, this translated to a dense packing of organelles near the nucleus, leaving the distal ends – the cellular periphery – comparatively under-resourced, a structural weakness.

A grand challenge for simple minds.

It was easy to solve.

The breakthrough arrived, not with a flourish, but in the quiet hum of the observation lab. I noticed a curious phenomenon — specific Kryptonian cell lines, when exposed to a concentrated controlled necrosis-inducing agent, exhibited a remarkable resilience. Not only did they survive the near-death experience, but they emerged demonstrably altered, possessing a heightened responsiveness to external stimuli. It was as if the brush with oblivion had triggered a dormant adaptive capacity within the Kryptonian cellular machinery.

This observation sparked a daring hypothesis. If specific stimuli could induce such profound cellular changes, could I then, in a controlled environment, replicate the conditions necessary to generate the very cells missing from the Kryptonian genome?

The answer, as it turned out, was a resounding affirmative.

By meticulously cultivating specific cell lines and subjecting them to a carefully calibrated barrage of stressors – of radiation, bio-electric currents, and precisely targeted chemical cocktails – I were able to coax forth the missing puzzle pieces.

The culmination of these efforts was a potent bio-serum, a concentrated essence of Kryptonian adaptability. Administered directly to the clone, it acted as a cellular architect, bridging the chasms in its genetic code. I watched, with bated breath, as the once sickly looking babe began to rectify itself. The skeletal structure solidifying. The musculature filling out. All orchestrated by the Kryptonian cells' newfound ability to adapt and evolve.

I did this.

Me!

Not Luthor.

Me!

Those forever chasing the coattails of true brilliance, could only dream of such a feat. Tomorrow, they might try to steal my credit, bury my accomplishment under a bureaucratic avalanche. But they cannot erase this.

When Man reached out and sculpted a masterpiece from the genetic blueprint of a god.

Now three weeks old. A mere babe. Yet one sculpted with the potential to rewrite the course of history.

Dark hair, a fine down, crowns his head as its phenotype mirrors that of a human child, with delicate features and pale skin.

No outward signs betrayed its outworldly heritage.

The subject's pallor stands as a testament to its limited exposure to sunlight and, by extension, solar energy.

A rather ingenious way if I do say so myself to keep the subject malleable in its current uncharged state.

Neural activity has been deliberately kept below the threshold of true consciousness, a leash woven from genomorph mental inducement. Awakening would come later, after the final stages of forced growth.

Despite these constraints, the clone's development remains astonishing. Cellular replication outpaces expectations by a staggering 20%. This growth trajectory mirrored documented Kryptonian maturation patterns, hinting at a terrifying possibility – full maturity within a mere nine months.

The parallels with human development were equally uncanny.

For one, the subject exhibits a primitive grasping reflex, much like that of a human newborn as seen in today's observations when I carefully introduced a sterile thermometer into its palm through the access port of the genesis chamber. His tiny fingers instinctively curled around the instrument, a reflexive gesture reminiscent of those seen in human newborns.

Yet, it was a minor fluctuation in pressure that provided the most startling revelation. A barely perceptible disturbance within the genesis chamber triggered an immediate response from the subject. In an instant, its tiny frame tensed, its eyes squeezed shut. It was a fleeting reaction but noticeable nonetheless.

I find this interesting that the such refl—"

A click of a button abruptly stopped the recording and the next recording started. The same raspy deep voice.

"This is Log Entry 056.

So far, the most striking change has been the subject's physical development.

Gone are the days of the fragile infant suspended in nutrient solution. The boy, as I've begun to think of him, now appears as a perfectly formed seven-year-old child. Suspended on the growth bed.

His skin, once pale has taken on a healthy, sun-kissed hue a consequence of the carefully calibrated artificial sunlamp. His dark hair, once wispy, now hangs in thick, curls around a face that shed its infant features.

Neural activity, carefully regulated by the genomorph inducement, simmers just below the threshold of consciousness. This controlled growth has ensured his physical development hasn't outpaced his mental capacity.

Despite this inducement, I believe the boy dreams.

Of what I do not know. But the rapid, almost imperceptible flickers beneath his closed lids speak volumes.

He dreams.

The genomorphs can detect nothing of what he dreams of…nor of a hint of the burgeoning consciousness he displays.

Neither does the ECG

For all intents and purpose, a dog has more neural activity than the boy.

Yet he dreams.

Fascinating."

A finalizing click echoed off the walls signaling the end of the recording.

"That was quite informative." Lex Luthor drawled, voice dripping with the silky menace of a high-end assassin closing in for the kill. "Wouldn't you say, doctor?"

Dr Desmond, looking deathly pale in the flickering light, could only manage a pathetic croak. "Mr Luthor, please, I can explain."

"Now, now, that wasn't what I asked you Dr Desmond" Luthor chuckled. The sound echoed through the metallic chamber like a cybernetic scoff.

The observation lab reeked of burnt circuitry and of course, the acrid tang of regret.

Doctor Desmond, perhaps once a titan of steely resolve, now resembled a dying neon sign — flickering erratically and on the verge of complete burnout. The sterile environment had dissolved into an unsettling chiaroscuro. Sterile lights sputtered and died, leaving only the flickering emergency lights and ominous hum of the secondary generators of the deactivated Genesis Chamber. It loomed like a metallic coffin, mocking Desmond's hubris.

"I asked you if you found that really informative?"

"…y-yes." Dr Desmond whimpered.

"I'm glad. Because I did too." Luthor drawled, voice dripping with venom. "But enlightenment doesn't erase insubordination, Doctor. You had fourteen weeks to play God and keep me in the dark. I am almost outstanded by your stupidity."

Desmond stammered, his voice a pathetic croak against the oppressive silence of the lab. "I... I had to be sure. The project... it was volatile. I knew consequences if..."

Luthor cut him off with a humorless laugh, an echo bouncing off the cold, metallic walls. "Consequences, Doctor? We both know that was the least of your concerns. You deviated. You strayed from the Light." A cruel smile played on his lips, devoid of warmth. "And for that, yes, there will be consequences, doctor."

A slow, predatory swivel brought Luthor's gaze to a figure shrouded in shadow at the periphery of the lab figure. The figure didn't move, didn't twitch, existing as a dark counterpoint to the flickering emergency lights. Then, with a ripple that seemed to distort the air itself, the shadows coalesced, revealing a boy no older than twelve.

He was unnervingly youthful, with hair like obsidian flames, curling upwards in two sharp points that mirrored horns. The hair framed a face both too pale and too knowing. But it was his eyes that sent a shiver down Desmond's spine. Too dark. Too lifeless.

His skin on the other hand, the color of moonlight on fresh snow, stretched tautly over a slender frame. Emphasizing the unsettling contrast between his childish stature and the evil he exuded.

A low, almost inaudible meow echoed throughout the lab, adding an unsettling counterpoint to the tension. As if summoned by the sound, a sleek orange cat with piercing red eyes emerged from the darkness. It sauntered over to the boy, its movements fluid and silent, and with a graceful leap, it perched itself on his shoulder, curling its long body around the boy's neck.

"Well, Klarion," Luthor drawled, a hint of expectation evident in his voice, "what's your verdict? Did Desmond achieve his little miracle?"

Klarion's lips stretched into a grotesque parody of a smile, revealing a set of needle-sharp teeth that glinted unnervingly. "Oh, succeed he did," he rasped, his voice a chilling counterpoint to Luthor's. "There's a spark there. I feel a soul." He tilted his head, his gaze falling on the deactivated Genesis Chamber, where the form of the clone lay suspended. "The clone is alive alright. Although," he added, stroking Teekl's head absently, a dark glint in his obsidian eyes, "how malleable it will be remains to be seen."

Luthor's brow furrowed, a dark crease appearing between his eyes. "What does that mean, Klarion?" His voice was a low growl, the rumble of a coming storm.

Klarion, like a grotesque gargoyle, tilted his head further, the obsidian depths of his eyes seeming to devour the meager light.

"It means, dear Lex," he rasped, the words like sandpaper on bone, "that this... puppet, needs a more personal touch. A direct connection to gauge its potential malleability."

A tense silence stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the secondary generators.

Desmond flinched as a hiss of displaced air announced the outer chamber door unlocking. Luthor, with a predatory grace that belied his bulk, strode towards glass inside . He placed his hand on the biometric scanner, the glowing blue lines tracing the intricate map of his veins. The machine, hummed with a low thrum, a digital voice announcing its decision in a monotone: "Access granted."

A disbelieving gasp escaped Desmond's lips.

Luthor cast a withering glance over his shoulder, the light glinting off his cold, calculating eyes. "Make no mistake," he drawled, his voice laced with a disdain that sent shivers down Desmond's spine, "nothing transpires within the walls of Cadmus without my explicit knowledge, Doctor."

With a hiss of displaced air, the pressurized doors of the Genesis Chamber slid open, a blast of frigid air washing over the observation room. Desmond recoiled, the bite of the cold a stark contrast to the clammy sweat clinging to his skin.

Luthor, however, remained impassive, a statue of steely resolve. But even he couldn't mask the flicker of morbid curiosity in his eyes as Klarion the Witch Boy materialized from the swirling mist within the chamber. His form seemingly solidifying from the shadow like a malevolent dream given shape.

He moved with an unsettling fluidity, gliding across the metallic floor towards the pod where the clone lay suspended in.

Three smaller pods hung suspended from the ceiling above the pod, their smooth surfaces reflecting the sterile sheen of the laboratory. Inside each, a creature no larger than a marmoset curled in a fetal position. But these weren't ordinary primates. They appeared four legged with black stripes on their head. And protruding from their tiny skulls were two stubby horns made of bone, pulsing with red light. The eerie bioluminescence cast an otherworldly glow on the room, each horn throbbing in a macabre unison.

Klarion stood before the pod, his pale face illuminated by the red glow. He reached out, a single finger brushing against the clone's temple. A low hum, like the vibration of a dark tuning fork, emanated from the Witch Boy as he closed his eyes, his brow furrowing in concentration.

From his fingertips, a crackling tendril of crimson energy erupted, coiling like a serpent before arcing towards the clone's temple. It lanced into its flesh with a soft hiss, leaving no mark but a ripple of disturbance in the surrounding mist.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a spark ignited in Klarion's obsidian eyes, a manic glint replacing the calculating darkness.

"Interesting," he rasped, the word dripping with a malicious glee. "Oh, very interesting indeed!"

With a final flourish, Klarion drew back his hand, the crimson energy dissipating into wisps of smoke. He straightened, a satisfied smile stretching across his face. "Done!" he declared, his voice ringing with chilling finality.

Then the Witch Boy threw back his head and unleashed a guttural cackle that echoed off the metallic walls, a chorus of dark amusement that seemed to mock them all. But then, as abruptly as it started, the laughter died. In its place, only an unsettling silence remained.

Klarion himself was gone. One moment he was there, the next, he had vanished like a wisp of smoke.

Doctor Desmond gulped audibly in the silence.

Luthor, ever the pragmatist, was the first to break it. He strode forward, his footsteps echoing on the metallic floor.

Desmond flinched at each one, a pathetic shadow of the man the recording had extolled.

"You know," Luthor began, his voice a cold caress. "I had such high hopes for you. I thought with your brilliant mind, you could be trusted with the more…delicate tasks to handle. Evidently, I was mistaken." He paused, his gaze flickering to the slumbering figure in the chamber. "However , fate, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor. You've stumbled upon something potentially…useful."

A flicker of something that might have been relief crossed Desmond's face, quickly replaced by a flicker of dread as Luthor continued. "Consider this a stroke of luck, Doctor. You won't be terminated. Not today, at least. However, trust, as I said, is a fragile thing. And yours has been shattered beyond repair."

"Henceforth, you'll have a constant…companion."

A small, white, four-legged creature with a vaguely monkey-like body emerged, blinking its large, red eyes. Black stripes adorned its head, and a pair of stubby horns curled upwards from its forehead. It scuttled towards Desmond with surprising agility, scrambling up his legs till it got to his shoulders where it perched precariously. Its red eyes boring into Desmond's.

Then the two short horns on its head erupted in a blinding crimson glow.

And in response, Desmond let out a bloodcurdling scream and crumpled to the floor.

"A little reminder," Luthor said with a cruel smile, "of the consequences of disobedience. Now," he turned towards the Genesis Chamber, his voice hardening, "prepare the clone for awakening. We have much work to do."

With that, Luthor strode out of the observation lab, the G-trolls making way for him and following after him while Desmond whimpered on the floor.

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