Derrick Thompson pulled his pick-up up the driveway of a small blue shingled house in the sleepy middle-class neighborhood of Oaktown. It was his lunch break and, although usually eating out, today he'd decided to drive home, mostly so that he could update his work files. Thompson was head over a twenty-man work crew on the Metropolis docks, where they were employed unloading recently arrived freight shipments. The enterprise earned him a decent profit, especially with the help of a few extra curricular activities on the side.

Upon stepping into his quiet home, the first thing Thompson noted was the uncomfortable temperature. The house felt stuffy and overly hot, particularly for this time of year. 'Marge must have been messing with the thermostat again,' Derrick concluded with annoyance as he made a b-line for the kitchen. Procuring a cold beer from the refrigerator, he tore back the metal tab and took a cool swing, swiping a shirtsleeve across his moist brow.

The last few hours had been hectic ones for Thompson and the reasons behind that were largely why he'd decided, for caution's sake, to edit some of the information in his records. Derrick had yet to sleep since the accident and the news broadcasts about strange occurrences on Hob's Bay had done little to calm his nerves.

Leaving the can on the kitchen counter, he moved down the hall towards the den where his at-home office was located. If anything the temperature seemed to climb as walked, causing him to wonder if in fact the heater might be broken altogether.

Reaching the doorway to the den, Derrick was given immediate pause by how dark it was inside. Someone had pulled down all the blinds, and through the sparse lighting he could see files strewn across his desk and floor, as well as the dull glow of his computer's monitor. There was an odd smell that permeated the torrid air, like burning cloth and rubber.

"Hey, is somebody in here?" he asked cautiously while squinting towards the darker corners of the room.

"Just the man...I wanted to see..." rumbled a low reply.

"Jesus!" Thompson gasped, startled by the unseen speaker. "I-is that you Marge?" he asked with alarm, knowing that the voice had not sounded at all like his wife's. Besides that, she knew better than to go through his personal papers.

"What? Can't place...my voice anymore, Derrick? Forgotten so soon? Guess maybe that's to be...expected after last night..."

Despite its raspy quality, Derrick did indeed recognize the voice and the realization sent cold shivers down his spine. "Ted? Is that you?" he answered nervously, reaching for the light switch, "Thank god! I thought you were--well, I mean..."

"You thought...I'd been left on that ship...when it went down," Lomax replied in whispered, labored tones, "I was...fat lot you cared then..."

"Hey, man! You gotta know that wasn't on purpose! I had no idea the ship was going to go up like that! I didn't even know you were missing 'till this morning! There were a lot people out there and with it being so dark and the confusion and everything..."

The darkness offered no answer, and Thompson's finger at last flipped back the plastic switch, flooding the room in bright light. The sight that greeted him caused his eyes to widen to shock, "Oh my god..."

Ted Lomax, or what had been Ted Lomax, stood near the far corner of the room, garbed in what appeared to be the mostly melted remains of a blue rain slicker. The appearance of his skin though is what made him so horrifying a vision. His entire body now bore an inhuman obsidian gloss, and his head was devoid of both hair and distinguishing feature.

"W-what happened to you?" he asked in a hushed tone, slowly backing into the hallway.

"You know...what happened," Lomax growled under his breath, moving away from the distant corner and towards the center of the room, "You didn't tell us...we were moving...anything that dangerous, did you? Didn't think...it was worth mentioning?"

"H-hey, you think they told m-me?" Thompson stuttered, fear etched upon his face, "I-I had no idea. No idea!"

"Sure, sure" the slick black figure responded menacingly as he quickly bridged the distance between them. The closer he got the hotter it became and sweat poured down the folds of Thompson's fat face in rivulets. "All I want to know...is one thing...but I'm only gonna ask once."

Before he could gather his thoughts enough to flee, a powerful hand clasped onto his shoulder.

"Who hired us?" Lomax demanded loudly, his empty eyes staring into Thompson's own, "Who was that shipment for?"

The pain was so intense where Lomax held him that Derrick screamed aloud and smoke seeped from beneath his captor's hand. The contact felt akin to a searing branding iron biting into Thompson's arm, and the aura of heat surrounding his former employee made it difficult to breath. Before he blacked out, however, Derrick Thompson managed to croak forth a name. And it was just the name Ted Lomax needed.

Lex Luthor, president of the multinational conglomerate LexCorp, laced his fingers together, staring down at his visitor with shrewd eyes. His expression was unreadable as he patiently awaited the man's response.

The second figure was positioned across from, and slightly below, Luthor's smooth mahogany desk, facing the corporation 'L' logo on its front. He was dressed in a plain black suit that matched his thin mustache and pointed goatee. Clearing his throat nervously, the man finally stated, "Ahem. Actually, no, I was thinking a higher price might be in order..."

"Oh, is that so?" Lex answered calmly with slightly raised brow.

"Considering the danger involved towards my person, unusual costs and services, the unique properties of the-"

"Yes, yes, are you through?" the business mogul asked pointedly, intentionally cutting him off, "Because if you are then I'll have to inform you that you won't get a penny more than agreed upon."

"Hmmph. Well...if that's the way you feel, I guess I could always take it else-"

"Could you really? Then by all means do. But it's my understanding you have neither the facilities to store it, nor a ready market that would comprehend its value."

The man fidgeted in his chair, an irksome expression lining his face as Luthor called his bluff in direct terms. "Okay. Perhaps not then," he quickly rescinded, "It was seven and a half million, correct?"

"Seven flat," Luthor replied simply, "And if that's all, my secretary can see that you receive your payment through the appropriate channels."

Catching the dismissive tone, the man reluctantly nodded and stood, heading across the grand granite floored chamber that made up Luthor's private office. The footsteps of most guests echoed through the room with their passing, but this particular visitor moved with far too much grace to register even the faintest of sounds. That was but the least of his talents.

As the man reached the gold inlaid double doors, Luthor added without bothering to look up, "A pleasure doing business with you." A faint smile crossed his lips as the other's reply came in the form a slammed door. That gloating visage lingered only briefly before his attention shifted to the computer monitor before him. His fingers darted across the keyboard as he studied the screen.

Minutes later, he clicked on the intercom to his secretary. "Judy, contact Felix in security. Tell him I've checked over the accounts as he suggested and found his information to be correct. There are inexplicable losses. Inform him that I want a 'special committee' to look into it. He'll know what I mean."

"Yes, sir. Oh, and that reporter called while you were in meeting. She said she'll make the seven o'clock appointment."

"Of course."

The minor detailing finished, he released the transmit button and swiveled his black leather chair so as to stare out the massive wall length picture windows behind him. Luthor gazed down at the glassy metal sprawl of Metropolis City's commercial district and, from the vantage point of a modern god, his mind played through the myriad of schemes he had in store for the peons dwelling far below.

The men quickly hefted the gurney into a waiting paramedic van and its doors swung closed with a bang. Soon, emergency lights washing Oaktown's suburban streets in red, it sped off down the road. Meanwhile, uniformed MCPD cops and plain cloths detectives continued to snoop around the powder blue house it had left behind, formerly a peaceful Oaktown residence now turned crime scene. Among their numbers walked SCU* commander Maggie Sawyer, and alongside her the city's premier defender, Superman, followed.

*(Metropolis Special Crimes Unit - Tim Deland)

"Same as that old man we found on the beach," Sawyer informed him, "except worse this go round. Third degree burns on the left arm and various second degree markings elsewhere on the body. The doctors thought there might be internal injuries too but they won't be sure until he undergoes a thorough examination at the hospital."

"Who was he?"

"Derrick Thompson, thirty five years old, married twice, no kids and no previous criminal record. One interesting possible connection however..."

"That being?"

"Well, it appears Thompson ran a heavy lifting crew on the wharf. Which-"

"-could be linked with our sunken ship and Vulcan Industries' missing chemicals," the Man of Steel ad-libbed.

Maggie Sawyer nodded, tucking her hands into a knee length gray coat as she started for the house's front door, "Exactly. The wife's on her way home now, and with her permission we'll see what we can find in his files. They were strewn all over the place when we arrived, as if someone had already been through them, so we're not getting too hopeful. If we can find out who works for him though, at least we'll have someplace to start. Now-"

Glancing back over of her shoulder, Sawyer was shocked to discover that she'd been addressing empty space; the Man of Steel was no longer with her. Turning her eyes skyward, the inspector could just make out a dot of blue and red streaking north towards the inner city.

"Hmph," she muttered with a slight frown, "Wonder what his hurry is?" As if in response, the APBs began arriving over the police ban seconds later.

"S-stay back! That's all I know! I swear that's who I get my orders from," the man bellowed, pressing himself even tighter against the room's wood paneling, "For Christ sake, keep away from me!"

"Lucky for you...that's all...I needed," Lomax answered in slow, splintered phrases. His condition was rapidly degenerating as the inferno of the nightclub around him attested. The Rouge Lounge was a small private club that catered to a high-class clientele, offering expensive drinks, classy waitresses, and several under the table extras for those who knew the right person to ask. Although a relatively new establishment, it had become a popular scene for Metropolis's wealthier citizens, especially those of its underworld.

But now its formerly tasteful trappings were in shambles, Lomax's mere presence having converted the room into a virtual oven. Wineglasses and liquor bottles continued to shatter in the dizzying heat, spilling their contents across the bar, while the bouncer wailed from his prone position by the door. Pushing his way inside, a heavily muscled attendant had attempted to force Lomax backwards. Simple contact with Ted's body had caused the bouncer's skin to blister, melt, and burn to ash within a time frame of seconds. There had been other bodyguards besides him but following such a show it hadn't taken much convincing to send them fleeing out the door with the rest of patrons.

That his powers were increasing at an alarming rate was painfully obvious, and the change had now spiraled far beyond his ability to conceal. Coherent thought had become increasingly difficult for his feverish brain, but he was still focused enough to handle the task before him. In his mind that was all that mattered now.

The owner of the club, Boris Gregorov, began to crawl along the floor towards the back exit. Besides running this business, Gregorov was also a leading lieutenant in Andre Popov's criminal organization. If Gregorov was to be believed Popov's gang was behind the illegal weapons shipment that had arrived in Hob's Bay last night, and inadvertently caused Lomax's current condition. It was Gregorov who had hired Thompson, and now Lomax had the name of the man plotting Gregorov's moves. As the crook wormed his way towards the exit, Ted recognized the look of genuine fear that registered in the whites of his terrified eyes.

Lomax understood such men well enough; he had been something similar once. A small time thug willing to do whatever was necessary to get ahead in life, and wrecking vengeance on those who got in his way. He'd spent time in prison for his crimes but that had not reformed him. It was his wife to whom he gave that credit. Perhaps it would be overly romantic to credit Rachel alone with his reformation, but she had supplied him with a reason to try to become something better. He had done his best but, for all that, he had come up short because of his own misjudgment and because of a man he'd never met before: Andre Popov.

His task was only partly revenge; another important fact continued to resonate within his scattered thoughts. There had been more containers aboard that ship, containers identical to the one whose deadly contents had infected him. In fact, several dozen like it had been present last night and most, if not all, were removed before the accident. The knowledge that such a dangerous weapon was being held within the city, or worse, possibly planned for use, told Ted that he had to react. He was, after all, the only one who knew and taking the direct route was the way he understood best.

Leaving the demolished clubroom behind and stepping out into the Rouge Lounge's small parking lot, Lomax was only mildly surprised to discover three city police cruisers awaiting him. Six cops were positioned behind the vehicles, and worried glances were exchanged as they trained their weapons upon him. The senior officer among them began issuing commands, an overly authoritative tone barely concealing his fright.

"Stay where you are and put your hands in the air!"

Lomax did not have the time necessary to attempt an explanation of his situation to the police. By then it might be too late to act, and as it was he was in no mood or shape for rational conversation. So ignoring their orders, he continued to march imperturbably forwards.

Andre Popov had not always been a wealthy man. He had been born many years ago in a small Ukrainian village, at the time just another minuscule part of the vast patchwork that was the Soviet Union. His first real job had come in his youth, owing to family necessity. Working as a simple carpenter's assistant with his uncle for little pay and less prestige, he helped his parents and siblings survive. His next job came a few years later, as a handyman of another sort, fixing things for a local mob boss by the name of Sergei Slvanovich.

He had learned a valuable lesson during those early years of his life: money and power were always taken and never given. Popov had decided to become one of those who took and so he had, in time usurping Slvanovich's position and then his boss and so forth until true power was held firmly within his grasp. Oddly enough, however, his current empire was based not on seizing but providing goods. He supplied people with merchandise that they could not get elsewhere, namely weapons of the most notorious and illicit variety.

The profit from his criminal trade allowed him to live in a state of luxury that could only be dreamed of in the poverty-ridden countryside of his birth. Now Popov held various homes in Europe and the States, among them a palatial residence on the outskirts of Metropolis. Popov's manor was a beautiful testament to what wealth could bring; its high walls festooned with tall vines and pretty gardens of clipped rose bushes kept expertly by a hired groundskeeper.

Inside, Andre Popov was currently nursing a glass of cognac as he spoke aloud to an empty room, a phone held aloft in one meaty grip. Age had not reduced his impressive size, and he was still an intimidating man physically as well as otherwise. "Yes," he repeated, "you heard correctly. It will take place here or not at all."

Sipping at his drink, he listened carefully to what was being said on the other side of the line before replying. "Of course it's unusual but you know this deal is a sensitive one. I can not hold onto them for long and likewise they can not be moved through the usual channels safely."

There was silence again as the other responded and Popov nodded in satisfaction. "Good. This evening then. Yes, I see. Alright. Good bye, my friend."

With a private smile spreading over his thick lips, Popov dropped the phone back down on its hook. Finishing the rest of his cognac with a quick swig, the weapons merchant pushed his sizable bulk free of his cushy chair and then made his way towards the room's exit. There was still much to prepare before the deal went down.

"Freeze I said!"

"One more step and we will open fire! For the love of-"

The hulking black figure surged towards the parked police cars, smoke billowing up from the ground where his feet left scorch marks in the macadam. Finally, the leading officer gave the signal and the lot was immediately filled with the sound of pistols and shotguns being unloaded at their collective target. A flurry of lead and buckshot descended on the approaching figure.

Yet the bullets failed to even slow it down.

A few continued to fire relentlessly while others began to scatter and run. Among those that remained was a young, athletic officer sporting a blond crew cut. Standing his ground, he hurriedly loaded more shells into a pump-action shotgun. Raising the gun back to his shoulder to fire point blank at the oncoming enemy, he discovered it to be closer than thought and a slick black hand reached out to grab the nozzle. The barrel melted to goo at its touch and, yanking the weapon from the officer's hand, it was sent skittering across the lot. The rookie cop then sprawled backwards onto the pavement, where he soon passed out from the shear heat emanating from the obsidian creature above him.

The dark hued behemoth began to stride forth again when suddenly it was knocked from its feet, and sent hurtling back through the Rouge Lounge's front window, taking a good portion of the wall with it. In its place appeared a heavily muscled man, a familiar bright red 'S' on yellow background displayed proudly upon his broad chest.

"Get this man out of here, officers," Superman ordered, his light blue eyes shifting from the downed man to the stunned cops, "And have the block cleared. This one might be trouble."

As they quickly moved to carry out his commands, the hero studied his fist with a curious expression. When he had said that this one might be trouble, he wasn't entirely certain the statement wasn't going to prove truer than it normally would. Superman had definitely felt the impact of that punch or, perhaps more accurately, the contact. It had burned like white-hot embers and left his hand a dull aching red even from such a brief encounter.

Barely a moment later, the rubble shifted and the large obsidian skinned man struggled back into sight. Superman did not instantly move to strike again though, instead addressing it in even tones. "I don't suppose you'd care to explain what you've been doing here?"

"They...Rachel...danger..." came the forced reply, an angry expression on its simple face. "No...time..."

"When you assault law officers and rampage through my city," Superman answered firmly, "you make time."

Rather than respond in words, the creature charged forward with a roar and was met by a blinding arc of red light from the Man of Steel's eyes. It was only mid-level range heat vision but it was enough to send it crashing through the Lounge again and out the opposite wall. Rising into the air, Superman flew over to meet his enemy as it landed, hoping his last attack would be enough to end this conflict early.

Instead, he arrived in time to view the slick obsidian drawing back to its feet and letting forth a pained bellow. The next thing Superman knew he being thrown through the air like a rag doll from an incredible blast of force. It singed him as if engulfed by a blazing fireball, although there were no flames accompanied it. Stopping himself mid-flight, the Man of Steel reversed his direction and raced back to where his foe was still standing.

The creature now stood in a circle of destruction, one apparently cut by the same force that had tossed Superman so roughly aside. A line of shear devastation spread for a radius of several feet around it. Cars and lampposts had been instantly melted, sidewalk trees left mere smoldering skeletons, and several building fronts scorched. Fortunately, no civilians had been caught in the blast but that was more a matter of luck than anything else.

Besides the immediate backlash, Superman could feel that the creature was emitting even more heat than before, a fact he guessed might mean it had not just reflected but absorbed his heat vision. Either way, it looked like he'd need to do this the old-fashioned, direct way.

As the hero landed on the road before the creature, his boots sunk an inch or two into the rapidly melting asphalt. Ignoring that for now, he threw himself into the offensive, delivering a rapid succession of punches to the monster's glossy body. Although staggering under the relentless attack, it did not fall and if anything the heat continued to rise drastically. Sweat began beading on Superman's forehead as he landed blow upon blow. Finally, delivering another sharp uppercut to the creature's chin, it was sent soaring into a parked SUV, crumpling its side with the impact.

Unfazed, the burning man again rose and on his approach Superman noted that the truck was leaking gasoline from its now cracked tank. Before he had a chance to get clear it ignited with a flash, and the resulting explosion slammed them both to the ground. The creature was first to regain its footing but it chose to ignore its still dazed attacker, resuming its march down the same path it had tried to walk before. Its single-minded purpose appeared unconcerned with Superman.

Gritting his teeth, Superman tossed the burning debris off him and stood anew. This wasn't working. Whatever he was fighting was casually shrugging off blows that would have shattered bones in a normal man. It was like striking solid stone and, while the Man of Steel could smash stone easily enough, he didn't want to permanently injure this foe. Worse, with every hit he landed the monster continued to throw out more heat, almost as if it was feeding off his assaults. If he struck it any harder the result could be the sort of backlash his heat vision had caused, possibly even greater. To Superman it was obvious that waging an extended battle like this in the middle of Metropolis was bound to get someone hurt sooner or later.

There had to be another way to end this situation safely, Superman decided, but first he needed some idea of what he was dealing with. Such thoughts in mind, the hero rose back into the sky, his tattered cape trailing behind him as he flew north towards STAR Labs.

"How are things looking?" the hero queried over the comm system as he gazed down at the direct feed image shown in the console display. Before reaching STAR Labs, Superman had quickly contacted Steel through their JLA comms and requested that his ally monitor situation while he talked with Dr. Miguel Vasquez. Vasquez was a chemist who worked for STAR Labs and the other day he had claimed familiarity on the details of a strange chemical substance that had caused the temperature in Hob's Bay to mysteriously skyrocket.* Superman hoped the doctor might be just the man to shed some light upon this recent development as well.

*(Last issue - Tim Deland)

"Same as you left them," answered Dr. Irons's voice, straining to be heard over the police and STAR's choppers surrounding him, "Wherever he's going, he's not letting anything detour him. So far the police have been doing an admirable job keeping the roads clear. I've been assisting with the evac where I can but this isn't something we can keep up all day if you know what I mean."

"Understood. Hopefully, we'll be able to come to a satisfactory solution very shortly," Superman replied with his usual calm, although the tension he felt was still evident in his voice. Leaving the console's side for now, he shifted his attention to the doctor. "Anything to make that statement a true one, doc?"

"I realize this may come as a disappointment," Dr. Vasquez stated with exasperation as the Man of Steel turned his way for help, "but honestly I'm not sure how I can help you with this. I don't see the relation between that creature and Vulcan Industries' missing chemicals."

"A chemical weapon that leaves the Bay a giant sauna and a man marching down main street with the properties of a walking radiator, all within a day of each other, and you don't see a connection? In my experience coincidences like that aren't too likely."

"Be that as it may," the doctor answered, scratching at his neat black hair, "I don't see what Promethele could have to do with this. Promethele is a thermo-chemical weapon, yes, and a deadly one at that. In the wrong hands it could potentially kill a lot of people but what it can't do is change a man into whatever that thing out there is. In fact, the physics involved aren't even the same. As I said before the chemical operates by generating high levels of thermal energy when oxidizing but from what you've told me, along with the preliminary readings our machines aboard the helicopter are picking up, your friend out there is acting like some sort of blackbody."

"A blackbody?"

"Ah, that's a theoretical term for an object that absorbs all forms of energy and redirects it as thermal discharge. Merely an assumption and not one I'd stake my career on, but it does explain why your punches would cause its heat output to rise. The kinetic energy transferred from your attacks was absorbed and redirected as thermal energy. That's also probably the reason why you didn't do a lot of damage. And, due to its concentrated nature, your heat vision supplied that particularly dramatic reaction you described."

Superman crossed his arms, not sure how this information could help him or if it was any more than guesswork on Vasquez's part. "How does it keep getting hotter then? If this is the same creature that assaulted that old man on the beach early this morning then it's definitely throwing off a lot more heat now. I doubt anyone could survive so as much standing near it for long, let alone anything else."

Miguel could only shrug, "Who knows? My guess is that it's probably feeding off the sun's light, meaning it has a constant source of power. So it just keeps absorbing more and more energy. I have my doubts that anything can retain such a state for long though. As I said, a blackbody is theoretical, they don't exist. While it doesn't seem to be reflecting any energy, I doubt it can fully convert all its absorbing either."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it may be building up to a potential meltdown, burning up both it and most likely anything in the near vicinity."

"Not exactly the news I was hoping to hear, doctor," the Man of Steel muttered, gazing back down at the monitors, "And no idea how to stop it?"

"Not really. The Promethele chemical needs oxygen to set off its reaction but, even assuming they're connected as you believe, I'm not sure what good that information does you in this case. If you want to know what I really think," the doctor said grimly, "I say you eliminate this creature now before the change progresses too far."

"No," the hero answered without hesitation, "that's not how we do things in Metropolis. That's not how I do things. There has to be another way."

"I didn't suggest it because I liked it. But what options to do you have? You don't even know what or who it is you're dealing with. You-"

"Actually," a gruff voice interrupted, causing both of their heads to spin in unison towards the door, "you might be wrong there doc."

"Turpin," Superman said, immediately recognizing Maggie's assisting officer from the SCU, "what have you got for us? Good news I hope. We could sure use some."

"I'll leave that for you to decide," the inspector responded, "Maggie thought someone ought to be monitoring what the STAR Lab boys were coming up with, and also figured you should know that we have a possible ID on this creep. Didn't want to broadcast it over the airwaves since we don't know for sure. We've been rounding up and questioning the employees who work for that Thompson character the last few hours, and as it turns out they were the unloading crew for that ship that sunk last night. That's the same one that spread those chemicals in the bay and it seems one of 'em went missing during the accident--an ex-con by the name of Ted Lomax. Of course, logic says the two shouldn't be connected, since by rights Lomax must have died on that ship. But if working in this city has taught me one thing, it's that reason has a way of taking a back seat around here."

"Can you tell me anymore about this Lomax?" "Not too much, just what the police files said. He was convicted a number of years back on assault charges, some hoods he was running with must have done the wrong thing and pissed him off. Wasn't exactly on best behavior in the pen either and practically wrote the book on disorderly conduct, roughing up the other inmates. Eventually, he got out though and married some girl or other. Since then he's been clean or least we never nailed him. No idea why he'd be attacking his boss and burning the town down around him, if that creature even is Lomax. According to the files, he was a pretty big guy though, a lot like our monster out there."

"Revenge maybe?" the doctor offered helpfully, "If he was on that ship when it went down and the monster we're seeing was the result, that sounds like a pretty good reason for him to attack the man who sent him there. And if it is on some vendetta, that's all the more reason to subdue this creature quickly, whatever means necessary."

"That's what we're thinking, but why hasn't he stopped then? Thompson's already in the hospital and that Lounge he broke up doesn't make much sense either."

"Hmm. Something he said..." Superman mumbled with a thoughtful look, ignoring the doctor's theory for the moment. "Turpin, you mentioned a wife, didn't you?"

"Yeah, Raquel or Rachel or something like that. After their marriage he seemed to shape up, or maybe just got smart who knows. Why?"

"Because I might just have an idea. If Lomax won't reason with us, maybe he'll be willing to talk with someone else..."

Ted Lomax trudged relentlessly onwards down empty city lanes, their gray sidewalks looking strange in their absence of pedestrian traffic. Yet that did not mean he was alone. A good quarter mile in front and behind him trolled Metropolis City police cars, warning people off the streets through squawking megaphones. Helicopters also swarmed high above him like insects, and with them flew a man covered in metal and wearing a bright red cape identical to the one he'd fought earlier.

The powerful figure who had attacked him before had seemed familiar, but Lomax's blurry thoughts could not be troubled identifying him. The important thing was that he had tried to stop him, and Ted could not afford to let him succeed in that goal. He had to reach Popov. Besides providing a name, the horrified Gregorov has surrendered an address to him as well; the crook had been too frightened to lie.

The temperature surrounding Lomax was extraordinary and the air about him seemed hazy from the copious amount heat he was emitting. The footprints pressed into the road he traversed grew ever deeper. Cars, some having been abandoned as their owners responded in panic to the emergency police warnings, were reduced to overheated slag as he marched by, their rubber tires melting to slick gray ooze and the windows warping like silvery mercury.

The voices from the megaphones and helicopters had tried to speak with him but he'd paid them little mind, much as he had the questioning the caped one gave him. The task before him was important, Lomax recalled with clarity, and he could not afford to pause. He desired revenge and...something else. He now found he had difficulty recalling what exactly, but it was indeed something offering grave a threat to his family and possibly the whole city.

"Lomax! Ted Lomax!" a new voice from above called, "Stop!"

Hearing his name spoken caused Ted's head to reflexively jerk upwards and again he was confronted with the noble visage of the caped man, the bold red 'S' catching and holding his eyes. Lomax's initial reaction was anger, rage filling his being at the thought that he was about to be slowed down again by another brawl. His emotions, however, were suddenly confused upon sight of the woman with him. Lomax knew her, of that he was certain, knew her with such familiarity that it tugged at the fuzzy part of brain. Suddenly, Ted Lomax stopped walking.

"Ted! Ted, is that you?" The woman had to yell to be heard through the noise buzzing from above, but her voice still retained a subdued quality. Despite her terrified expression and teary eyes, she had a pleasant face, framed as it was by a halo of sandy gold hair. Her stomach showed the faint swell of a woman in mid-stages of pregnancy. The man of steel set the woman down on the pavement, but restrained her from moving any closer to Lomax's smoldering body.

"Ted, can you hear me? Can you say something?"

Lomax's face bore a look of pained confusion as he stood wavering over his next action.

"You have to listen to them!" she announced with sudden determination, unable to know for certain if the creature was even her husband at all. Something about the way it looked at her though intuitively told Rachel it was so, goading her onwards, "You have to stop! They're trying to help you! You're in danger and so is everyone else!"

"Danger...?"

"Your wife is telling the truth, Mr. Lomax. There's a very real chance that you and maybe many others," Superman added with a glance towards Rachel, "might be hurt if you continue. We only want to help you."

Ted Lomax's feverish brain struggled to understand what they were saying. Thoughts of his wife, Rachel, managed to fight their way to the forefront as recognition dawned. A terrible weariness followed closely behind. "But...was trying...to prevent..."

Lomax crashed forward unto his knees and the Man of Steel had to hold Rachel back from rushing to him. The heat he was throwing off was enough that it would have left even the hero swooning. A normal human would likely be killed in short order.

"...trying to...prevent," Lomax struggled to finish, the fight draining out of him as he gave way to his overpowering sickness.

"Just rest, friend. We'll find a way to help you, I promise you that."

"No!" he shouted with such fury that the Man of Steel automatically stepped back, assuming it was to be a fight after all. Lomax no longer had the strength for that though and such was not his intention.

"...other...contain...containers..."

"Other containers?" Superman repeated with open confusion until the truth of what Lomax was saying burst through to him with the force of an atom bomb. Despite the incredible heat, he rushed forward, ignoring the dizziness that tried to overcome him. "Where Lomax! You have to tell me where!"

Consciousness was fast leaving the obsidian giant and his pupil-less eyes drooped shut. Unable to do anything to revive him, the Man of Steel clenched his fists in frustration. Only now had he discovered Lomax's true goal and by the time he revived, if he ever did, it might be too late to resolve it. Superman was about to turn away when Lomax's lips suddenly moved again as a whispered word fell from his mouth. It was too low to be heard by human ear.

But Superman was far from human. No sooner was Lomax's last word spoken then the hero disappeared in a burst of speed, so fast that Rachel and the surrounding members of the city police force never saw his passing, only the incredible gust of wind that accompanied it.

Meanwhile, the prone form of Ted Lomax lay still as death where he had fallen.

"That's only three, Popov," the rat faced man said, nervously fumbling with a book of matches. A cigarette hung limply from his lips as shifty brown eyes darted around the attractive grounds. "You said four."

Popov showed no offense at the man's accusing statement and smiled as he leaned over to ignite the stick with his own cigar. "As I told you there was an accident. This is why I need to move them so quickly. Your employer is getting a good price. You should be happy. This is a 'unique opportunity'--I believe that was the phrase the original seller used."

The two men, along with a handful of armed bodyguards, shared the pine wood porch behind Popov's gorgeous Hampstead manor. Their view had them overlooking his large, tastefully arranged property. There were garden arrangements of rhododendrons and chrysanthemums that were colorful but not gaudy, and a large pool with a marble fountain gurgled a few feet away. More in line with their current business though was the unmarked helicopter that rested a little ways out on the yard, and men who were efficiently loading three white barrels into its open doors.

"Hmph," the smaller man grunted, still feeling uncomfortable as he eyed the operation. Popov was known to be one of the most reliable arms brokers in the States and East Europe as far as quality items went, but he also had the reputation of a cunning businessman as well. He dealt fairly with those he had to, and swindled those he could. It was the nature of the profession and the jittery crook had every right to be nervous, especially given the unorthodox setup for this sale.

Most men like Popov would prefer to be several hundred miles away when deals like this went down, not relaxing on a lawn chair as it occurred in his backyard. He must have been desperate to unload this weapon quickly, the man reflected, a belief that only made sense considering how dangerous and illegal a purchase it was. His own master desired it though, and so regardless of personal aversion he had to risk dealing with Popov and whatever setup he required. Kobra would expect no less.

"That's the last one," one of the man's bodyguards noted, causing Popov to glance at the laptop computer screen setup in front of him. The digital display of his Swiss accounts informed him that the proper monetary transfer had been made, and he nodded his heavy head in agreement.

"Then it appears our business is-"

"-over," another voice finished loudly, causing everyone in the yard to glance up in shock. He had appeared with such speed that they'd failed to notice his arrival but now, floating high above Popov's porch with arms crossed over his chest, none could mistake the familiar and humbling figure of Superman.

The men did not need an order to open fire and the rapid staccato of semi-automatic weapons echoed oddly through the peaceful setting. Of course, their efforts yielded little effect and bullets bounced off the hero's invulnerable skin like popcorn seeds. Realizing they were probably in more danger of injuring themselves through ricochets than of hurting him, Superman moved quickly to disarm the panicked thugs. No sooner had he finished with one mob than another poured from the manor and joined the fray. Nonetheless, a few minutes further saw them disarmed as well, their weapons left in various states of ruin on the well-manicured lawn.

While the lopsided battle was raging, Popov had hopped the ornate steel parapet surrounding the porch and scurried for the chopper. The rodent-like buyer followed, huffing and stumbling to keep up with the surprisingly agile weapons' dealer. Kobra's cadre was of course in top physical condition as only in such a state were they able to serve their master best. But he was only an associate, a pawn of the organization, not a part. A well paid pawn of course but at the moment, his lungs burning agony, he rather wished he'd had the benefit of their training as well.

"Start the engine!" Popov shouted to the pilot as they approached their destination. With its dangerous cargo already onboard, the helicopter would be heavy enough as it was, and two additional passengers would only increase that weight. Not that it possessed any chance of out racing the Man of Steel at any rate.

The last of the armed guards dispatched, Superman sped to the chopper in a flash. The rotors had barely begun to spin when he commanded, "You can't escape Popov. You may as well surrender."

The thickly built arms merchant reached into his suit coat, prompting the Man of Steel to add with a slight shake of his head, "I guess you weren't paying attention. Those don't have much effect on me."

As the hero spoke a .357 magnum appeared in Popov's hands, but rather than point it at Superman, he trained its chrome barrel on the stark white containers inside the chopper. The hero stopped dead his tracks as Andre pulled back the hammer. "One step closer I fire! Do not think I jest!"

"Popov! What are you doing?" the still puffing Kobra lackey shouted in alarm. "You'll kill us all!"

"Precisely...at least if our friend moves another inch. There should be enough of that chemical in there to reduce us all to cinders in the blink of an eye if I fire. Perhaps even enough to kill some of these wealthy snobs I call neighbors. No big loss there but one I doubt Superman is willing to live with. So either you let me get on this helicopter and fly away, without pursuit, or we'll find out just how dangerous this stuff is."

The look on Popov's face was deadly serious. He had faced death dozens of times on his desperate climb to the top and there was little doubt in the Man of Steel's mind that he was telling the truth.

Yet Superman did not back down. The hero's eyes flashed red, and he reached up to stop the helicopter's slowly spinning rotors. As he took a step forwards Popov's expression twisted into a snarl.

"Fool! You think I bluff?" he shouted with rage as his finger curled around the trigger. Even with his powers Superman could not reach him before the hammer fell.

He didn't need too.

Nothing at all happened as Popov pulled the magnum's trigger and, as he yanked it several more times, his desperation grew. Still no bullet blazed forth from its cold chambers.

Grabbing the useless weapon from clammy fingers, Superman crinkled the gun up like a toy and tossed it aside. "You're going to jail, Popov. This thing is at an end."

"But how-?"

The hint of a smile appeared at the corner of the hero's mouth as he answered, "Nothing a little heat vision couldn't handle; I burned off the firing pin while you were so busy talking." Glancing over towards the dangerous white barrels, he added, "Now just one more thing to see to..."

The sun was dipping below Metropolis's glittering horizon by the time Superman and Steel returned to the Steelworks factory. After giving Popov over to the police, Superman had personally seen to delivering the deadly chemicals to members of the OPCW*, who pledged to destroy them as soon as a safe means could be devised. For the remaining containers investigations would continue, hopefully with leads provided by Popov and his men. In the meantime, Steel had helped to clean up the damage left in the wake of Blackbody's rampage through central Metropolis.

*(The Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons, & didn't we go over that once already? - Tim, putting it on the quiz)

Removing his helmet, Dr. Irons tossed it onto an empty bench and stretched his arms with a tired groan. "All I can say is I'm thankful it's over."

"I suppose. Things definitely could have gone worse," the Man of Steel claimed, failing to show the same exhaustion his partner did. His super stamina prevented him from ever really feeling much fatigue, at least within a day's time. Mostly he was just glad that this crisis had happened today. Despite understanding his dual duties as a reporter and international hero, Lois didn't particularly appreciate him being constantly tardy for their dinner dates. Luckily, tonight she had one of her own to attend, and glancing at a wall- mounted clock told Clark that's where she probably was at this very moment. Considering whom the dinner was with, he was rather thankful he wasn't in her shoes.

"I still feel somewhat bad about Lomax though," Superman added as the thought nagged at him, "Hopefully, STAR Labs will be able to find a cure for his condition." Moving Ted from where he fell had been no simple feat but once done STAR pledged to provide a holding cell that would monitor his energy absorbing powers. He was alive, although how to reverse his condition remained sadly unknown to them as of yet. Although he realized he could not solve every problem perfectly, Superman frequently felt more than a tinge of guilt when events didn't always work out the best for everyone. He would be certain to check in on Lomax and his family in the future.

"Maybe," Irons replied without a great deal of optimism as he pulled off his heavy steel gauntlets. "What I never understand is how that sort of thing happens in the first place. Now if I ever ended up getting strange chemicals dumped on me like that, you can bet I wouldn't get super powers out the mess. Cancer, maybe. Super powers though-"

A grin flashed across the hero's face before he answered in serious tones, "Actually, the doctors think it may have had something to do with his genetic structure, a dormant metahuman power that surfaced following the explosion. The chemical probably just worked as a catalyst of sorts. Still, I know what you mean."

"Says the super powered man from another planet," Henry quipped with a faint smile.

"Pretty much."

Superman strode across the cluttered lab to examine one of Irons's newer suits that had been laid out upon a wide table. Steel stood up to join him. "I never did figure out what the problem was with this one. Just suddenly shut down on me, as you so fortunately witnessed."* The expression on his face clearly told his friend that he was none too happy about that fact either. "Some good news though, at least relatively. I did find out something about that other situation I mentioned. Something pretty interesting too."

(See last issue - Tim Deland)

"You mean your company's missing funds?"

"That's it. From my preliminary investigations, it looks a whole lot to me like someone's been using the B13 tech to hack into Steelworks' accounts. Not just my company was hit either, but nearly every other business in town. In fact, I was planning on informing the authorities when I got your call."

A look of confusion spread over the Man of Steel's face, "Using the B13 to hack accounts but who-"

Before Superman could finish his thought, the lights in Irons's lab abruptly winked out, followed by every other electronic device. It was not just the Steelworks factory that went dead though. The glowing city of Metropolis, its humming urban towers perpetually lit by the lights of its denizens, had died without a murmur of protest. The power outage was instant and it covered every square inch of the city, despite the fact that several alternate power sources fed the grid and a failure in one should not effect the others.

A blackout had suddenly overtaken Metropolis City.

Next Issue: An old foe with a new face returns to haunt Superman in Part I of Playtime.