Pennsylvania.
An abandoned fertilizer plant beside the Interstate Highway.
The basement air smelled of mildew.
The lights flickered as the current fluctuated.
Bruce sat on a wooden chair.
A sheet-metal table stood before him.
A portable military monitor sat on the table.
Its screen was on.
One hundred and twenty giant screens were broadcasting the same feed worldwide.
The camera was fixed on the Greenhouse atop the One God Temple.
Chu Men lounged against the back of a dark-gold throne, dressed in a black robe.
Clark wore an all-black suit. The symbol that had once stood for hope was gone from his chest, replaced by a dark-red brand of servitude.
He stood at Chu Men's left like a stone statue, his dark-red eyes empty of emotion.
Diana wore Royal Guard Armor. Her head was bowed, and the Lasso of Truth hung dull in her hand.
Barry lingered in the shadows at the edge of the frame, his head lowered.
Bruce stared at the screen.
He had not looked away since sitting down.
Alfred stood beside the chair.
The old butler had rolled up the sleeves of his wrinkled white shirt. He held medical scissors and a bottle of iodine.
He pressed an iodine-soaked cotton pad against the gash on Bruce's right cheek.
The torn flesh curled outward.
Bruce's jaw muscles tightened.
His jaw set in a hard line.
Alfred took a fresh cotton pad and wiped down past Bruce's collarbone.
"This needs three stitches." The old butler picked up a curved needle.
The needle pierced the flesh, drawing tiny beads of blood.
Bruce kept his eyes fixed on the screen.
The camera zoomed in on Clark.
The face that had once been Metropolis's sun was now utterly lifeless.
His eyes were like two dried-up wells.
Bruce's chest began to rise