Whoosh!
Accompanied by the soft whirring of propellers, three squadrons of drones—forty-eight in total—lifted off from the open field, arcing toward Downton in perfect formation.
At the same moment, waves of numbness and searing pain crashed over him from every direction. His eyes rolled back as electric current ripped through his body. He couldn't move—not an inch. Worse, he couldn't even tell what was shocking him.
It wasn't a simple stun gun. The path ahead looked utterly normal—no traps, no wires, nothing out of place.
Yet in this deceptively calm environment, it felt as though dozens of electric batons were jabbing into his flesh. His skin prickled, as if it might blister and burn at any second.
Downton gritted his teeth. Yes, the pain was excruciating—but compared to death? It was nothing.
When death can no longer be your weakness, he reminded himself, your willpower will far exceed your imagination.
Ten seconds of relentless voltage passed. Then, slowly, his body began to adapt.
Muscles trembling, he forced himself upright, regaining his balance. His vision blurred, then sharpened. He lifted his head—and saw it.
Not quite a sky full of drones, but close: over forty medium-sized drones hovered in a tight ring around him, eight meters out. Then, as one, they launched something.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The air filled with sharp, synchronized whistles.
Instantly, Downton's muscles locked. Just seconds after managing to stand, he collapsed again—curling into himself as dozens of microscopic electrode needles pierced his skin. His hands flew to his head, fingers digging into his scalp.
Then—hiss…
A sound like a deflating balloon. A whisper of wind brushed his cheek.
He turned toward the asphalt road five meters away.
There, countless invisible particles—fine as mist—drifted together, coalescing midair. They formed a coin-sized metal ring, hovering just above the pavement.
The moment it stabilized, the electric current vanished.
So… Downton thought, dazed. I was nearly fried by something the size of a keychain?
Whose tech was this?
It was unlike anything he'd seen—not in films, not in the field. Sleek. Silent. Brutally efficient.
Inside the command vehicle, General Lane clapped his hands with satisfaction, eyes fixed on the monitor showing Downton crumpled on the ground.
"The trial equipment LexCorp provided for the bid is impressive," he mused. "A bit too refined, honestly—and the power output's too mild for most targets."
He leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"But it's perfect for someone like him. After all… what's the point of killing a man who just comes back somewhere else?"
The driver turned from the cab. "General, should we move in?"
"Absolutely. Now that he's contained—even temporarily—there's no need to drag him into the town. Who knows what a madman like that might trigger?" Lane's voice dropped. "Better to handle him out here, in the open."
The vehicle rumbled to life, tires crunching over gravel. Inside the swaying passenger compartment, Lane kept his eyes locked on the screen.
And Downton?
He crouched beside the sleek black Maybach, testing his limbs. His body still tingled, but movement was returning. He opened his mouth.
"Ahem."
A dry cough. Then—laughter.
Being paralyzed didn't matter. Not as long as he could still speak.
So he did.
"Damn it~" he drawled, voice edged with dark amusement. "What is this junk? I've never seen you pull out toys like this for anyone else…"
He rolled his eyes, the ghost of a grin playing on his lips.
"But the second it's me? Oh, suddenly you've got drones, nanotech, and electric needles straight out of a sci-fi nightmare."
He shook his head, muttering under his breath.
"I'm starting to question Liv's intelligence…"
Was it really the U.S. military that attacked him?
In the DC Universe, the military didn't mess around—they deployed orbital strikes, experimental mechs, maybe even a borrowed Kryptonian containment field if things got desperate. But these? These gadgets looked nothing like standard-issue gear.
No, this felt… off. Too sleek. Too quiet.
More like D.E.O. stealth tech or an A.R.G.U.S. black-site prototype. Had some shadow agency piggybacked on a military op? Or worse—was the military just a front?
"These bastards are already gunning for my immortality?" Downton muttered, fingers twitching against the cold concrete. "But they shouldn't be working with the brass. Not unless someone cut a deal behind closed doors…"
His thoughts snapped back to the drones hovering like mechanical vultures overhead.
"Hey!" he called out, grinning through gritted teeth. "You tin cans got comms? Don't leave a guy hanging! Find one that can actually talk—bonus points if it's got a voice like Catwoman after two martinis. I'll spill all my secrets. Maybe even flirt back!"
He strained against the restraints, testing his limits. The drones had speared metal filaments into his limbs, flooding his nervous system with paralytic current. But after dying—and coming back—dozens of times, Downton's physiology wasn't exactly human anymore. Pain was just noise now.
Gritting through the tremors—like Parkinson's crossed with a live wire—he pushed himself upright.
Inside the command vehicle half a klick away, General Sam Lane's knuckles whitened around his headset. "LexCorp swore that neural lock could pacify a rampaging elephant. Hell, they tested it on rhinos! Is Downton stronger than both?"
"Switching to max output, sir!" barked Private Weasley, fingers flying over the drone controller.
"Hold on," Lane snapped. "At full power, the charge only lasts eight minutes. Our ground team's still seven minutes out. If we knock him out now and he teleports—and you know damn well he might—we lose him for good."
"He's playing with us," Weasley muttered. "He wants us to panic."
"Exactly." Lane's jaw tightened. "But the Smallville forward unit—they're one minute out. Let them close the net."
Above them, unnoticed until now, a sleek, unmarked jet banked silently over the Kansas plains. Aboard it, a pale man in a tailored coat studied a live feed on his tablet. His eyes—cold as Gotham rain—narrowed.
"I won't believe in rebirth," he murmured, "until I see it burn and rise again."
He swiped once. The tablet's screen flickered.
Then—two missiles launched from the jet's underbelly, streaking earthward in twin plumes of fire.
"Prove it to me, Downton," the man whispered. "And if Jonathan's message is true… maybe Gotham does have a future."
On the ground, Downton barely had time to register the incoming warheads before the sky split open.
BOOM!!!
The blast wave hit like a god's fist. Debris rained like shrapnel. Fire swallowed the world.
And in the heart of the inferno—just before the shockwave vaporized everything—Downton threw his head back and laughed.
"Now that's how you drop a hello!" he roared over the roar of collapsing air. "Missiles! Explosions! Bricks flying like confetti! This is America! This is glorious!"