Fighting through the red haze of rage that clouded his mind, Clark focused on Ultraman2’s words. “How?” he asked, his voice little more than a growl. “It’s already happened to us… to YOU.”

            Ultraman2’s answering smile was cold. “And yet, it’s not too late. We can actually thank Manhattan for that.”

            Rising to his feet, Clark stared at Ultraman2 in earnest. “How?”

            “When Manhattan re-ordered history… the WAY he re-ordered history… he altered the fundamental fabric of time, itself. Made it malleable.” Ultraman2 held up a cautionary finger. “The timestream is beginning to solidify itself once more, but until it does…?”

            “We have a chance,” Clark concluded.

            “Precisely.”

Though the anger still raged within him, Clark marshalled it, tamping it down. “We travelled through time… with the intention of changing history,” Clark reasoned. “And Waverider didn’t try to stop us? What about Rip Hunter and the Linear Men?”

            Ultraman2 snorted. “The self-professed ‘Time Cops’? The group who monitor and patrol the timestream to prevent exactly what we’re attempting?” Another snort. “They didn’t exactly HELP us… but they didn’t STOP us, either. From what Rip told me, they’re taking a ‘wait-and-see’ attitude towards the whole situation.” He shrugged. “They didn’t take too kindly to Manhattan’s own alteration of the timestream, but they lacked the power to confront him directly.”

            Clark nodded in understanding. “They can’t enact any changes to the timeline while Manhattan is active--”

            “—and they figure that, by the time Manhattan is eventually defeated, the timeline will have already solidified,” Ultraman2 finished.

            Clark grunted a harsh laugh. “Typical. Rip and his merry band are too scared to do anything on their own, so they leave it to US.”

            Ultraman2 spread his hands. “When have we EVER known Rip to get his own hands dirty? If he needs anything done, he just dispatches a couple of his Linear Men cronies to do it, while he sits there at the Heart of Time, barking orders.”

            Clark nodded his agreement. “So… what now?”

The future-Ultraman frowned, tapping a finger against his chin in thought. “The heroes of Earth aren’t dealing with him yet, but they will be before too much longer.” He shook his head. “The vagaries of time-travel are a bitch, sometimes. Regardless, right now, that blue bastard’s attention is focused on the positive-matter Earth… specifically on Superman, and the rather unique properties of the Earth-0 universe,” the other Ultraman supplied. His eyes grew intense. “We. Need. To. Leave. It. There.” he said, emphasizing every word.

Clark nodded. “And that means dealing with Owlman.”

Ultraman2 nodded.

Clark spread his hands. “So what do I need to do?”

“Wait.” Seeing Clark’s consternation, Ultraman2’s eyebrow rose faintly in amusement. “Honestly, Clark… right now, that’s literally ALL you can do. Be patient. Let Owlman come to you.” He smiled coldly. “Rest assured, Clark… he WILL. And when he does…?”

Clark’s own answering smile mirrored Ultraman2’s. It faded as his eyes grew thoughtful. “How far in the future are you from?”

            “Farther than you might think, but not far enough for my comfort,” Ultraman2 replied cryptically.

            “And how long until the timeline solidifies?”

            “Long enough,” Ultraman2 answered. He glanced at the readout on the control sleeve, frowning. “I don’t have much more time here, I’m afraid. The window is closing faster than Brainiac anticipated.” He looked to Clark once more. “When Wayne challenges you—about Manhattan—don’t back down. He’s going to do it publicly in an effort to shame us. Stand up to him. Put him in his place. Brutally. HARD. And do in front of everyone.” Ultraman2’s eyes narrowed as he held up a hand, his thumb and index finger a narrow margin apart from each other. “”Come THIS close to killing him. EMBARRASS him.”

            Nodding absently, Clark’s attention was elsewhere, his mind turning over bits and pieces of what he’d learned. “There’s a reason he’d done this,” he mused. Catching Ultraman2’s eye, Clark shook his head. “Manhattan, I mean. The alterations to our timeline… all of it. He’s done this for a reason.”

            Ultraman2 nodded. “And he did,” he confirmed. “As we surmised, he used our universe as an experimental test-bed for his theories.” Motioning into the distance, the future Ultraman frowned. “According to Rip Hunter, Manhattan stole ten years of time away from Earth-0’s timeline. We have to figure that he used his experimentation on OUR timeline to see if it could be done.”

            Clark’s eyes narrowed. “Did he take that much from us?”

            Ultraman2 shook his head. “All combined—a day here, a month there, a week here—Rip estimates that it was about a year’s time… maybe a little more. Spread out across the entire timeline.”

            “But for Earth-0, he stole ten years?”

Ultraman2 nodded.

“All in one piece?”

“That’s what Rip says.”

            Rubbing a hand on his chin, Clark digested this latest information. “Why would Manhattan steal ten years’ worth of time from Earth-0?” Clark asked. No sooner had the question emerged from his mouth than his eyes were widening in understanding. “Experience,” he whispered. Turning to his other self, Clark spread his arms wide. “He didn’t just steal ten years’ worth of time! He stole ten years’ worth of EXPERIENCE!”

            He faced his older self.

            “Think about it!” Clark urged. “Us—you and I—facing Superman… but ten years EARLIER in his career.”

            Ultraman2’s own eyes narrowed in comprehension. “We would have wiped the floor with him!”

            “Exactly!” Clark agreed. Pointing vaguely off to one side, Ultraman smiled grimly. “THAT is what Manhattan’s done: he’s reduced them from the legends they’ve become… to novices right out of the proverbial gate.”

            “But why?”

            Ultraman2’s question hung in the air.

            Finally, Clark shrugged. “In the end… does it even matter?”

            The display screen on Ultraman2’s control sleeve began flashing, drawing his attention. Touching several buttons in quick succession, he scowled.

            “Time to go.”

            With the touch of another button, a swirling maelstrom of energy erupted behind the future Ultraman, forming the all-too-familiar dimensional tunnel of the New Gods.

            “So, what happens to you?” Ultraman asked. “When the timeline resets—for you, at least—what happens to you?”

            Stopping at the crest of the Boom Tube, the other-Ultraman shrugged, his eyes haunted as he looked to Clark over his shoulder. “Who knows? But, whatever it is, it CAN’T be any worse than what’s already happened.” He paused. “Both Brainiac and Luthor believe that our timeline will continue on, becoming just yet another ‘alternate history’ in the grand fabric of the Multiverse.”

            “And what do YOU think?”

            “I pulled the Martian-equivalent battleship out of the Phantom Zone, the interior of it has been outfitted with yellow-solar emitters, I’ve emptied the Panopticon into it—all the weapons, trophies, computers, data-banks and supplies—and one of the cargo holds is filled with ten tons of Krypton-grade anti-kryptonite.” Ultraman2 shrugged. “Maybe I’ll try my hand at being a Space-Pirate. Or maybe I’ll find a planet to conquer. Who knows?” His face fell as he cast another glance upwards and to the right. “Right now, I don’t even really care,” he whispered. Clearing his throat, Ultraman2 met Clark’s eyes.

            “Do what you need to do, Clark,” he demanded. “Save our family.”

            The Tube swirled shut, drawing Ultraman2 back to his home reality.

            “I will,” Clark vowed.

            For a time, Clark remained where he was, his mind sifting through all he’d learned from his future self. Then, casting a glance at the nearby clock, he nodded to himself.

            “Brainiac, send the Ultrabots to Krypton’s coordinates,” Ultraman ordered. “Salvage every last iota of anti-kryptonite from the debris, and bring it back to me.” A smile touched his lips. “And start making breakfast.”