Location - Cadmus
Third Person
The air reeked of antiseptic, burnt protein, and something metallic—like blood left too long under harsh fluorescent lights. The walls were sterile, the floors a seamless stretch of reinforced steel plating that made every footstep sound unnerving. Cadmus prided itself on efficiency and control. But in Sublevel 26, things seemed different.
Dr. Mark Desmond stood over the latest abomination strapped to the restraint table, his latex-covered fingers tapping absently against his clipboard. The creature—a grotesque fusion of human and alien DNA—twitched against its bindings, blackened veins pulsing beneath its mottled skin. Its mouth, stitched together in a cruel attempt to silence its agony, leaked thick, viscous drool, its breath rattling in uneven gasps.
"Not viable," he muttered to himself, barely acknowledging the junior scientist beside him. "The Kryptonian sequences reject forced integration. Subject 17 has survived past the embryonic stage, but cell degradation is—"
A spasm ripped through the creature's body, and the monitor beside it shrieked with an erratic heartbeat. The junior scientist flinched. Desmond did not. He merely adjusted his glasses and reached for the sterilized scalpel set aside for the inevitable. "Terminate the subject. Log the time. Failure to stabilize the genetic structure."
A mechanical hiss filled the room as the automated incineration process prepared to dispose of another failed experiment. The restraint table rotated to a vertical position, allowing the corpse to slide into the chute leading to Cadmus's bio-waste incinerator. The flames would do their work. The monstrosity's existence was erased. Another tally mark in a long history of grotesque failures.
Project Kr: The Twins.
Desmond removed his gloves and strode toward the observation chamber where the culmination of years of experimentation floated in twin gestation pods. Bathed in eerie green light, the two clones—one male, one female—remained suspended in artificial amniotic fluid. Their bodies were perfect replications of Superman's genetic template, yet subtly altered. Enhanced aggression. Accelerated growth. In Lex's words, they were preparing to replace Superman should he ever fall, but Desmond was not foolish enough to believe that; they were merely creating weapons, plain and simple.
Dr. Westfield, his second-in-command, joined him at the viewport. "The female's neural patterning is progressing ahead of schedule. We've already begun the subconscious imprinting of combat strategies and obedience reinforcement. The male's cognitive functions are slightly lagging."
Desmond narrowed his eyes at the readout. The boy—designated Kr-1—displayed all the telltale signs of the original Superman's stubbornness. A potential liability. "Increase the frequency of psychological conditioning. We can't afford another failed subject. The Light demands results."
Westfield hesitated before speaking. "Sir… we're pushing the limits of the DNA matrix. The more we manipulate, the more unstable they become. We've already had five gestation failures. The Kryptonian genome isn't meant for—"
Desmond silenced him with a glare. "You think Luthor cares about what's 'meant' to be? We are past that debate, Doctor. These twins will be the future of Cadmus's operations. Or they'll be burned like the others."
Westfield swallowed his objections and nodded. In this place, morality was an obsolete concept.
Stress was common in many workplaces, but as Desmond delved deeper into genetic experimentation, Cadmus strayed further from its original purpose. Soldiers, weapons, and tools were the mandate, but creation had a tendency to spiral out of control.
In the adjacent chamber, a trio of test subjects awaited their fate—an amalgamation of failed Kryptonian splicing, grotesque and unnatural. One had a skeletal frame that barely contained its superhuman musculature, its skin peeling in places where the body could not handle the rapid cell regeneration. Another bore hardened plates of bone extruding from its back, an unintended result of forcing alien resilience into a human host. The third… the third had already been discarded. Its form lay broken in a corner, limbs twisted, its throat still leaking a slow trickle of blood.
Desmond sighed. "Westfield, prepare euthanization protocols. These are defective."
Westfield gestured to the lab assistants, who swiftly moved to execute the order. One of the abominations let out a strangled cry—part human, part something else entirely. Its voice was thick with pain, with an awareness that made even Desmond pause for a moment. Then, he dismissed the thought.
This was not a person. It was a failed experiment.
A moment later, the gas release hissed, and the aberrations slumped lifelessly. Their remains would be studied, dissected, and then erased.
Behind the sterile glass, another team of scientists busied themselves with additional experiments—attempts to create the next phase of super-soldiers. One involved attempts at telepathic control, another at bio-organic fusion, blending Kryptonian physiology with Earth's most resilient predators. The results were mixed.
One experiment, a fusion of a Kryptonian and a predatory bird, had gained an unsettling ability to emit sonic frequencies that ruptured eardrums within a ten-meter radius. It was too unstable, too erratic. Desmond ordered its termination without hesitation.
Another had displayed a fascinating resilience, able to endure lethal wounds and regenerate at alarming rates. But it had no cognitive function, a mindless brute with no purpose but destruction. A failure.
Westfield hesitated as they examined the next subject. "Sir, how long can we keep this up before—"
"Before what?" Desmond cut him off. "Before the League finds out? Before public outcry? You worry too much, Westfield. Continue or leave."
Weeks, months, and years tended to blend together when there was no light to be seen. Restless nights and panic attacks plagued many of the staff, but those struggles were often dismissed as signs of weak-mindedness—an inability to handle the demands of their work. However, he had learned to manage it over time; his G-Gnome made the process significantly easier. It transformed even the most unreliable individuals into some of the best team members, particularly when it came to one of their many bodyguards, Guardian.
Desmond stared passively at the pods while the Guardian stood next to him, a G-Gnome perched on his shoulder as they watched the twins stir. The girl, Kr-2, opened her eyes first. Her movement was slow and deliberate, with intelligence flickering behind the emerald glow of her gaze. She reached out, her fingers pressing against the glass of her containment as if trying to connect with the world outside.
The boy remained still, but his vitals surged.
A small smile graced Desmond's face, but before he could fully enjoy the moment, alarms blared to life.
"Unauthorized personnel detected. Security protocols engaged."