Work Text:
He wakes up to a bright light.
His memories are blurry, bits and pieces of a truck and screaming. Pain seeping throughout his body as blood drips out of every corner.
Is this…heaven?
As his eyes get more adjusted to his surroundings, his limbs begin to regain feelings too. Instinctively, he tries to move.
And.
His wrists are trapped. He tries again. His legs, this time. Again, trapped. This is where he starts to panic. He shakes as he realizes he's strapped onto something, the cold press of metal against his back.
There are multiple hands above him, trying to calm him but it doesn't work. He's scared, so scared it hurts.
“The subject's heart rate is elevated,” the voice is muffled, his heart pounding in his ears, “sedative required for subjugation.”
He can't help it. He begins to thrash wildly, shaking his head rapidly. The thick metal shatters with a deafening crack, and he flings himself off the table.
There are sounds of multiple people screaming, but he can't bring himself to care.
This is far from heaven. It must be hell.
A needle pierces his body before he can stop it, and he screams.
No, no, no–
Then, there's nothing.
There's a bald man outside of his room.
Can you even call this a room? It's more like one of those places they stick crazy people in. He's had a lot of time to think bout’ stuff, stuck in this place after they stuck a needle in him.
The tiny glass windows on the door reflect, which helps him look at his appearance. Another person stares back. He looks nine, five years younger than he actually is.
The only obvious option is that he accidentally stole the body of a test subject after he died. It's like something out of a sci-fi movie. He would probably think it's cool if he was watching it.
It's not cool when he becomes the subject.
Mr. Bald is yelling at the scientists, and he sounds angry. There's something familiar about him…oh yeah, he kind of looks like a distant relative of that guy who plays Beast in X-Men.
He finds himself quietly shuffling forward, pressing his ear against the wall, curious about why the guy looks so pissed. He shouldn't be able to hear with the material so thick, but he's somehow able to listen albeit the faint muffling. He guesses it's a positive about being a test subject, if he had to think about any positives.
“–don't care, I want him in the tube by tomorrow. It'll take a year to grow him to a more stable age, and I don't want any pauses on an already slow development. Not when Superman,” Mr. Bald spits out the word like the man killed his whole family, “is actively out there.”
Bald guy. Superman.
Oh shit, he thinks. He knows where he is now, and what continuity.
He sits there for a while, rocking on the white ground as he tries to make sense of everything.
This was not good. Not good at all.
He thinks being transmigrated as Superboy would've been a lot cooler. At least then, he would biologically be Superman's son, even if he also had to be related to Luthor. But no, he's stuck as the guy that's fully a clone and gets thrown into a black hole at the end of the movie.
He's totally using the name Conner, though.
Conn hates Luthor.
He doesn't know why he thought that being the number one hater is cool. It's cool on anyone other than Luthor. Tony Stark or Bruce Wayne are so much more epic billionaires.
He wishes he could punch the guy.
He can just fly away, right?
Spoiler alert; he can’t. Thanks to his struggle when he first woke up, Luthor's obvious solution was to sedate him in case he reacted so rabid again.
Luthor somehow has kryptonite, even if the reservoir is pretty small. Not only do they dose him with watered down liquid amounts of it in the morning and night, but it's built into a collar, snug around Conn's neck.
It helps sap the strength out of his body, and it doesn't help that he never gets to see the sunlight. If that wasn't enough, he's pretty sure it has a tracker built inside of it. There are multiple guards stationed outside of his room, armed.
They stick him in a tube, and poke and prod at him and it sucks ass. He feels bad for Ultraman, having gone through this everyday, like a rabbit being experimented on. Maybe it's good he transmigrated, to spare the guy the pain and future of being erased from this dimension.
Still, that doesn't mean Conn wanted to take his place. He can't even fanboy about being in the DC universe, third favorite franchise when he's this terrified.
At the very least, Baldy thinks he's still as dumb as a bag of rocks. It’s honestly creepy, the obsession he has with Superman. It’s funny to read and watch about, but to see the crazed glint actually scares him.
He has sessions with Luthor every time after they age him up, and he tries his best to memorize each command. Conn despises it. He has to really concentrate, and push himself past the poisoning to follow through. It feels as if he's being forced to run a mile without stopping after already running a marathon.
“2C," Luthor commands, like he's playing Smash Bros.
Conn's still getting used to the ability to fly, so he floats before losing steadiness and tumbling to the ground with a muffled cry.
He tries to get back up, when a harsh kick into his stomach sends his back slamming against the floor. Conn tries not to cry when Luthor's foot presses against the side of his head, grinding it into the floor.
“Mutt. You're even stupider than the original," Lex says harshly. “It seems like I'll have to discipline you, until your low intelligence can process it.”
I hope Clark punches you and your stupid face. Conn wants to say.
But he doesn’t.
By the third time Luthor hurts him, Conn manages to enact 2C perfectly.
In his past life, Conn had parents, once.
They were huge fans of superhero movies, and he remembers them taking him to the theater so many times that the employees memorized their names. Their house is filled with movie posters, comics lining his own bookshelf.
He's ten when it happens happens, and he's not even there. His babysitter receives the news.
A robber. Bank shooting. His parents, gone forever.
He has no other relatives. The foster system takes him. He carries his comics to his chest, even if the other kids make fun of him for being a nerd.
These comics are the closest things he has to his parents.
When they finally manage to grow him to fourteen, canon finally kicks into upstart.
Conn can see Metropolis from the top of Luthorcorp, drinking in the outside world. It looks just like the movie, like the comics he read when he managed to find them at the library.
Conn dons the Hammer of Boravia after they suit him up, multiple pairs of eyes on him. The only one not really paying attention is Eve, who's taking a selfie in a corner.
Luthor's employees murmuring and looking him over like he's an elephant in the circus. He would only ever want to feel like a circus animal if he got to meet Dick Grayson.
Despite everything, he can't help but be a little excited. Nervous? They only gave him one full dose today, and despite the collar, he feels a lot more in control of his head. If he does this right, no more…no more needles and pain.
“Too young,” Luthor sounds spiteful as he inspects him, but Conn can read the excitement on his face. “Luckily the growing process has sped up, so we can have it reach at least twenty four in the next five days.”
Over Conn's dead body.
“Helmet close,” he says, and Conn clicks the mechanism that makes it clink shut as it covers his face. The suit has him look way bigger than he actually is, more than half his size but the Kryptonian strength makes it look real.
The inside of the helmet smells like nail polish remover.
It smells like freedom.
...
Superman is actually cool. He looks like a relative of David Corenswet, which cements his theory that appearances are a mix. He can't really focus on that right now, when Superman's punching him.
He's still cool, though.
He did that little speech thing Luthor made him rehearse for a week straight, about how this is Boravia's warning, and yadayada, death and he'll kill everyone. He knocks down a large statue, letting out a shaky sigh of relief when people manage to scramble out of the way without being hit.
Sunlight is freakin' amazing.
There might be metal and steel covering every inch of his body, but the tiniest gaps in the armor allow amounts of sunlight to shine tthrough. It's not a lot, but he's a lot more in control. If he was at thirty percent strength before, he's like, fourty percent now. By the time he's done talking, he might have enough strength to break the kryptonite collar.
He was planning to fly away and rip the suit off so they couldn't monitor him. From then, he could crack the collar. Conn should've been able to escape without Angela finding him.
He severely underestimated how fast Superman acts, because the next thing he knows, a strong force the colors blue and red came crashing into him.
It's like the word Boravia triggered Clark's fight or flight mode, specifically fight.
Conn's kinda, no, really being pummeled here, a ripple of pain exploding when Superman's fist repeatedly smashes into his gut. He can hear commands being spammed, and can practically see Luthor screaming at the computer screens.
Wait, I'm on your side! Conn tries to say, but after not speaking for so many months and the air getting knocked out of him, the words die in his throat. He doesn’t want to hit Superman, trying to block each attack and kicking his legs clumsily.
He just has to get away from Superman, enough to make an escape.
Managing to bring his foot up, he brings it against Superman's stomach. The muscle in his leg tenses. With all the strength he has, he pushes hard. It sends Superman flying hard in the opposite direction while Conn comes rushing towards the ground. The wind whistles as the force sends him faster and faster, smashing through the pavement of an evacuated area.
The sewer system is dark, blocking the sunlight. He tastes dust, clouds of it wafting where he pants.
Conn shudders, tasting blood in his mouth before he forces his shaky hands to move. He rips his mask off, the goggles flying off with it. He tears the part that connects to the cameras off, and there's a spark as wires disconnect.
He shimmies out of the metal suit ungracefully, the black hunting clothes underneath slightly wet from sweat. His plan is ruined, because even though the dose wore off, he’s weak from the unprepared fight. Judging by how soon he began, Clark was probably already on duty as Superman.
He whimpers, the collar only worsening it. He tries to crawl towards the sunlight, but his legs won't move.
He just has to escape, before Luthor changes his order and sends Angela a command to find him. He can destroy the collar later, he just needs to move–
Conn flinches when he hears a movement. The figure is blurry amongst the dust, but he can't help but think no, no, she's here already, no–
His eyes water and Conn starts to cry. He can practically taste the odd metal of nanotech, slipping into his throat and making him gurgle on nothing.
He doesn't want to go back. The punishment will be worse, and they'll give him so many doses that he won't be able to think at all. Conn wishes that truck never hit him. He wishes he was normal again.
It's scary. He wants his parents.
“Please,” Conn whispers, voice strained. He can't help the way it morphs into ugly sobs. “I don't wanna go back to the lab, I don't want to fight anymore, please.”
He flinches as the steps come closer, gaze glued to the floor when he hears the swish of a cape.
Angela doesn't wear a cape.
He knows because Luthor says it looks tacky.
Conn opens his eyes, and finds Superman staring right back. The dust makes it a bit hard to see the guy's expression, but Superman is looking directly at his face. Despite their more-than ten year age difference, Superman can definitely see himself staring back.
Conn sniffles.
“I'm your clone,” Conn says, feeling like he has to explain. He wasn't a clone before, but he's one now, isn’t he? Then, quieter. “Kill me?”
Maybe Superman will take pity on him, and end his misery. He doesn't want to be a lab rat again, which would no doubt happen if Superman turns him in. He isn't trading one lab for another.
Considering that Ultraman died in a pretty awful way, Superman should be merciful to Conn.
He closes his eyes, sensing Superman walking forward, and–
Something cracks.
His breathing feels lighter now, unrestricted. His muscles no longer have that lingering feeling of numbness.
Conn's eyes fly open, and he stares down to see the collar cracked at the floor. The stupid collar that restricted him for the past year, preventing him from leaving is gone.
“No,” Superman is crouched to his level, and his eyes are such a bright blue. “I'm going to save you.”
“Really?” whispers Conn, immediately feeling stupid afterwards. After all, Superman's whole shtick is saving people. It's funny. The past year made him forget the light and feathery feeling in his stomach that he thinks is hope.
Superman answers. “Really.”
There's a short pause.
“Can you…can you walk?” says the guy, looking a little bit awkward and guilty now. Ah. He did beat Conn, despite thinking he was a threat. It's kinda funny to see the world's hero looking like that.
“No," admits Conn.
It takes a second, but the next thing he knows, Superman's picking him up, arms wrapped around his back and behind his knees. Conn winces a little, aching at the movement.
“Sorry,” Superman sounds a lot guilty now, looking at Conn like he's a wet cat shivering in the rain. It's not far off from the truth. “I'll take you somewhere you can heal.”
Is he going to be taken to the Fortress of Solitude? Woah. And Superman's like, ten inches taller than him when Conn's not wearing the height boosting spot.
It causes Conn to feel small in Superman's arm. In a good way. Protected.
Superman lifts up into the air, the wind roaring past Conn's ears as the man soars up.
He's being carried by Clark Kent. Kal-El. Superman. The Superman. And he also is kind of Superman too, transmigrating into his clone and all. Take that, Luthor. Not only did your creation escape the moment he left, but he's also being rescued by the guy you hate most in the world.
For the first time since he woke up on that table, Conn smiles.