Chapter Text
I remember the first time I killed a person like it was yesterday.
I had taken up "crime fighting", as I called it then, in Metropolis after the evening farm work. I wouldn't call it that now, as my method was haphazard at best and disastrous at worst. This was the "worst" end of the spectrum. It was a run of the mill mugging, at first. I had the man's wrist in my hand and squeezed until he dropped the knife. Then squeezed until he screamed. Then squeezed until I couldn't feel the shape of his bones anymore, and his flesh was ribboning out between my fingers. I had developed my powers during puberty, or some Kryptonian approximation of it, and they were triggered by (among other things) strong emotion. I had no idea why I was so angry that day, maybe I was at the end of my rope after some embarrassment with Lana, or some slight from Whitney, or some other teenage thing that I had to miss out on because of the nature of my biology. The man crumpled to the floor of the grimy alley (grimier than average in Metropolis), his body half on the floor, half hanging from my vice grip, some spare tendons still connecting his hand to the rest of his arm. I let him go, leaving him writhing on the ground--but I still wasn't finished. Heat burned behind my eyes, and all I could see was red. He screamed. Screamed and burned until he couldn't do either anymore and he was half char in an alley that smelled like burnt barbecue.
I was lucky I was facing away from the entrance of the alley, so when people entered, my face was entirely in shadow. The moment I heard their gasps, I sped off back to Smallville. Ma had made her town-famous brisket for dinner. I put on a smile that was only slightly faker than usual and shoveled it down my throat. I threw it up later that night and felt terrible about it. I loved that brisket, but the smell--the images it conjured--the char between my teeth-- I retched a couple times more into the toilet bowl.
In the morning, news of a murder in the alleys of Metropolis made its way back to Smallville. It wasn't anyone with the best reputation, so the police didn't really care about bringing justice, but the unique circumstances of his death warranted a bit of enthusiasm on their part. While Ma and Pa fussed over the news, I sped upstairs to shove the last night's clothes further into my dirty clothes hamper. I didn't put them back into rotation for a month.
I vowed then to never kill again. A vow I've broken repeatedly, obviously. It never felt good, and I've never done it without exhausting every other option, after the first. I've never wanted to kill someone.
So why now do I feel the urge to wrap my hands around this man's neck?
My face heats, and I see red. I sweat, which is uncommon for me. My hands squeeze at my sides. I've never wanted anything more.
Lex Luthor. Prepare to die.