Leaving Brainiac to begin processing through the incredible amount of information Jor-Il had sent him, Ultraman stormed out of the control room, heading directly for the intruder. Anger seethed through the Tyrant of Steel’s body at the intrusion, and his eyes blazed crimson, casting ruby-tinted shadows before him.

            As he’d left the control room, Clark had grabbed a data pad and linked it into the Panopticon’s surveillance system. When he’d first heard the intruder, Ultraman had instinctively used his x-ray vision to find out who it was, but was, instead, surprised to find that his enhanced vision seemed to slide AROUND the man: he could see nothing but a blurry void where the intruder should have been.

            Glancing down at the observation screen in his hand as he rounded a corner, Clark stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the image it contained.

            The image was distorted, but unmistakable: Blue uniform. Red cape attached at the shoulders. Red-on-yellow, inverted pentagonal ‘U’ shield.

            “It looks like me,” Ultraman breathed softly.

            “There’s a reason for that, Clark,” an all-too-familiar voice commented from in front of the Tyrant of Steel.

            Reacting instinctively, Clark tossed aside the viewer before launching a devastatingly powerful right cross…

            …only to have the intruder snag his wrist in a vice-like grip, stopping the punch from landing.

            “We… don’t… have… time… for… this… Clark,” the intruder grated, the effort of holding Ultraman at bay clearly evident in his strained voice. The left hand holding Clark’s blow from landing faintly trembled beneath the strain. Covering most of the intruder’s left forearm, a high-tech sleeve containing numerous power readouts, circuitry, holographic keypad and viewscreen shone with an eerie inner light.

            A corner of Ultraman’s mind noted—with some curiosity—that the glowing circuitry very closely resembled the circuitry adorning the New Gods’ Mother Boxes.

            “I’m… not… here… to… fight… dammit!” the intruder snarled.

            Shifting his attention away from the control sleeve, a harsh retort abruptly died on Clark’s lips as he caught sight of the intruder’s face.

            It was him.

            Ultraman.

            The shock alone was enough to cause Clark to relent, lessening the pressure of his attack and pulling his fist back.

            Remarkably, rather than press the advantage, the other ‘Ultraman’ did the same, taking a step back as well.

            “But… how?” Clark asked, shocked. “The Panopticon’s shielded…?”

            “Not for someone who knows the access codes, it isn’t,” the doppelganger replied easily. “And we ARE the one that programmed it.”

            His initial shock swiftly fading away, Clark eyed the stranger closely. “All right… you may LOOK like me, but that doesn’t really mean anything, does it. Do I really need to list the number of beings who could pull off a convincing imitation of me?” Peering even more closely at the newcomer, Clark’s eyebrow twitched upwards in curiosity. “A damn convincing con-job, my friend, I admit…” His words died off as he peered even deeper into the intruder’s cellular makeup. “You’re from the future,” he murmured.

            Ultraman2 nodded his head. “Correct.”

            Meeting the intruder’s eyes, Clark scowled. “So, if you ARE me… then tell me something only I’d know,” Clark insisted.

            Lifting an eyebrow in irritation, the future-Ultraman sighed, a flash of a grimace passing across his face. “You—WE—know that Owlman is systematically resurrecting all of the Syndicate’s enemies via a stolen Amazonian Purple Ray, and a Lazarus Pit he appropriated from Ras al Ghul as well. He’s then storing them all in stasis in a hidden, secret sub-level of the Aerie to use as a ready-made army against us when he feels the time is right for a coup.”

            Clark shook his head. “True. But not good enough,” he grunted angrily. “If you’re a white Martian—or if you’re working with Owlman—you’d know that information.”

            “A White Martian? NOT with the Panopticon’s telepathy baffles in place and running,” the doppelganger countered, motioning to their surroundings. “And Owlman? Working WITH someone? We know better, Clark.”

With an exasperated grunt of his own, the future-Ultraman pinched the bridge of his nose between the fingers of his left hand, the room’s light glinting off of the strange control apparatus covering most of his left forearm. “If I timed it right, you should also have just finished our conversation with our father, Jor-Il,” he stated, irritation coloring his tone. “A conversation that WE initiated. A conversation wherein it was revealed to us by Jor-Il that we are now completely Kryptonian. The conversation ended when Krypton exploded.” Ultraman2 jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “And, right now, Brainiac is working on decrypting the data stream Jor-Il sent you: the entirety of his works.”

            Clark motioned for the stranger to continue.

            Rolling his eyes, the doppelganger motioned to Clark, himself. “You didn’t recognize my footfalls because you never bothered to memorize your OWN footsteps.” Glancing over the multitude of trophies, the intruder frowned, his eyes growing distant. “Not long ago, we fought a battle against Superman. Over the ocean.”

Ultraman’s own eyes narrowed.

“During the fight, Superman said something,” the other Ultraman continued. Though his voice was soft, he snapped out each word, as if they offended him to even utter. “He said ‘you think killing your enemies makes you tougher, Ultraman. That’s a mistake. It means you face each foe only once, besting them at their most basic, MINIMAL level. I’ve battled mine TIME and TIME again, as they grow more inventive—forcing ME to be more resourceful in return. I’ve got more EXPERIENCE, more SKILL, more KNOWLEDGE… I don’t just SIT ON A MOUND OF SKULLS AND CALL MYSELF TOUGH!’”

The muscles along Ultraman’s jaw danced with tension.

Meeting Clark’s eyes, Ultraman2’s own eyes hardened. “And, deep down inside, we think he’s right.”

            Leaning back against the wall, Clark frowned as the other Ultraman’s words hit home. “All right,” he said with a slow nod. “I’m convinced that you are who you say you are.” He spread his hands. “Now… WHY are you here?”

            “You know damn well why I’m here,” Ultraman2 retorted.

Clark’s mouth set in a grim line. “Doctor Manhattan.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve already decided not to pursue him.” He eyed Ultraman2 closely. “And if you truly ARE me, you’d already know that.”

Sighing in exasperation, Ultraman2’s lips curled into a sneer. “Did I say that WE were the ones to attack him, Clark?”

“Then why don’t you quit tap dancing around it and tell me--!” Clark retorted, bristling with anger.

“Owlman,” Ultraman2 stated bitterly, cutting him off.

As quickly as the anger flared, it died just as swiftly. “What? Owlman?” Clark asked.