He couldn't feel the wind. That's what hit him hardest as he fled across Metropolis - no sensation of air rushing past, no physical connection to the world around him. Just endless streams of data telling him about temperature, velocity, trajectory. The same way it told him about the tears in his synthetic skin, about the exposed metal beneath that shouldn't be there.
That one punch from Superman had done more than just damage his fake flesh. It had ripped away the lie he'd been living since they put him on that operating table. Since they promised to make him whole again.
Metropolis passed beneath him in a blur as he launched himself from rooftop to rooftop. Each landing should have hurt. Should have sent impact shocks through his legs, made his muscles burn. Instead, there was just... nothing. More numbers. More data. More proof that John Corbin was already dead, and this thing wearing his memories was just a hollow echo.
LuthorCorp Tower grew larger with each bound - that gleaming monument to progress and innovation. How many times had he stood in front of those doors? Back when he was still flesh and blood, still believing their promises about experimental treatments and cutting-edge prosthetics. Back when he could still feel hope as something more than an abstract concept.
He didn't plan the crash through the windows. Didn't calculate entry vectors or structural weak points. Pure animal rage carried him through the glass and into the cybernetics lab where they'd remade him. Where they'd turned a wounded soldier into their chrome puppet.
The impact sent equipment flying everywhere. Alarms screamed. Emergency shutters started dropping. He caught glimpses of his reflection in the scattered shards - the exposed skull where Superman's strike had torn away the lies. Chrome and circuits where there should have been muscle and bone.
Scientists scattered at his arrival - the same ones who'd hovered over him during the surgery, promising this would make him better. Now they ran from their own creation. Funny how that worked. Or it would be funny, if he could still feel anything close to humor. And the reminder only made him angrier.
"Fix this!" The words came out wrong, his voice box struggling with emotions it was never meant to process. Everything came out wrong now. "You promised I'd still be me!"
He saw Lionel Luthor standing at his observation window - the same spot where he'd watched them cut away John Corbin's humanity piece by piece. The old man didn't even flinch as a steel table crumpled under mechanically enhanced strength.
"John, please." That same condescending tone he'd used during the early tests. "You're damaging expensive equipment."
The laugh that tore from his throat sounded like breaking machinery. "Expensive equipment? Like what you turned me into? Another piece of LuthorCorp property?"
Lex appeared in the doorway, hands raised like he was calming a wild animal. Maybe he was. Anything would be better than being just a hollow piece of metal "What my father means is that we can help you. But you need to calm down."
"Calm down?" His fingers crushed a monitor without conscious thought. He couldn't even feel the sharp edges cutting into the synthetic skin. "Look at me! Really look!"
He gestured to his ruined face, to the places where one punch had stripped away months of careful deception. "This is what you did to me. What you turned me into!"
Dr. Hamilton approached with his ever-present tablet, still treating this like another laboratory observation. "Your neural readings are spiking. The kryptonite core's radiation levels are unprecedented—"
"The core?" Something broke inside what was left of his human mind. His chest split open on reflex, flooding the lab with that sickly green glow. "You mean this thing? The piece of alien rock you stuck in my chest to replace my heart?"
He remembered waking up after the surgery. Remembered them explaining how the kryptonite would power his new body. How it would make him strong enough to stand against Superman. They never mentioned how it would feel like ice in his chest where warmth used to be.
"To save your life!" Dr. Faulkner stepped forward, and for a moment he almost believed the concern in her voice. "You were dying, John. The IED damage, the experimental treatments failing—"
"So you turned me into this?" Another monitor shattered under his fist. He couldn't even feel satisfaction at the destruction. Each missing feeling was like a punch that not even Superman could match in it's devastating strength against his psyche "A puppet running on space rocks and computer chips?"
The memories flooded back - the endless pain after the IED, the surgeries that never quite fixed anything, the experimental treatments that only made things worse. But even at his lowest, he'd still been human. Still been a father who could feel his daughter's hugs. A husband who could hold his wife's hand. Now what was he?
"We gave you power," Lionel's voice stayed infuriatingly calm. "Made you stronger than Superman himself. Isn't that what you wanted? To show the world that humanity doesn't need alien saviors?"
"Don't pretend this was for me!" He moved toward Lionel, hearing the whir of joints that should have been muscle and bone. His own body was a stranger now, responding to programs instead of instincts. "This was about your weapons program. Your need to control everything. To own everyone."
Security teams had arrived, their weapons trained on him. He recognized the ammunition - custom-designed, probably just for him. They'd planned for this. Just like they'd planned everything else about his new existence.
But Lionel waved them back casually, like calling off trained dogs. "You're upset. The fight didn't go as planned. But we can upgrade your systems, improve the neural interface—"
"Improve?" He wanted to scream, to cry, to feel anything real. But the sense of touch was to him now nothing more than unreachable memories. And all that came out was static-laced sound. "You mean make me feel less? Take away what little humanity I have left?"
The worst part was remembering how to feel without being able to actually do it. His human brain remembered grief, remembered rage, remembered the simple pleasure of a warm cup of coffee. But his mechanical body reduced everything to data points. Equations. Programming.
"We can help you adjust," Lex said softly, stepping closer. "The synthetic skin can be repaired. The sensory systems enhanced—"
"Enhanced?" The word spilled from his artificial lips like poison. Without conscious thought, his arm transformed - that perfect synthetic skin flowing away like mercury to reveal the weapon beneath. Not an attachment or a tool, but part of him. It had always been part of him, from the moment they'd put him on that operating table. "Like this? Is this your idea of enhancement?"
The memory hit him with brutal clarity - teaching Sarah how to hold a baseball, her tiny hand warm in his as he showed her how to grip the seams. Such a simple thing. Such a human thing. Now his hands could transform into blades that could cut through steel, but they couldn't feel his own daughter's touch.
His reflection caught his eye in one of the lab's untouched windows. The chrome skull lay exposed where Superman's punch had torn away the lie, artificial muscles visible through shredded skin. Like a Halloween mask half-torn away to reveal the monster underneath. He reached up slowly, metal fingers touching metal skull, and felt nothing. No sensation. No warmth. No proof he was still alive.
"You said..." His voice caught, memories of their promises echoing in his mind. All those meetings before the surgery, all those careful reassurances that felt like acid now. "You said I'd still be me. That I'd still feel..."
The papers he'd signed flashed through his thoughts. Dr. Faulkner's patient voice explaining how they'd preserve his mind while enhancing his body. Such technical terms for such a simple truth - they'd stolen everything that made him human. The taste of fluffy pancakes, God, how much his daughter loved those. The warmth of sunlight on his face. Even the ability to cry when the pain became too much.
"The neural interface takes time to calibrate," Hamilton clutched his tablet like a shield, still treating this like a problem his precious data could solve. "With a few adjustments—"
"Adjustments?" He turned to face the wall of monitors displaying what they called his vital signs. What vitals? Lines of code scrolled past, marking him as just another machine to be programmed. His human brain - the only part of him still alive - was just another component now. A biological processor running on alien rocks and broken promises.
His fist went through the main display, but there was no satisfaction in the destruction. No release. Just more data feeds, more system reports, more proof that John Corbin had died months ago beneath surgical lights and corporate lies.
"Is that all I am to you?" He wanted to scream, but even his voice wasn't his own anymore - just electronic tones approximating human emotion. "Numbers on a screen? Code to be adjusted?"
"You're a breakthrough," Lionel's voice carried that same corporate pride that had seemed so convincing before. "The next stage of human evolution. But evolution requires refinement—"
"Refinement?" The sound that came from his throat was all grinding gears and broken dreams. He moved to the full-length mirror they'd used for his calibration tests, the one that had shown him his new "improved" form after the surgery. His reflection stared back - half-pretend human, half-exposed machine. "Like making me pretty again? Covering up what I really am?"
Hours spent in front of this mirror, practicing facial expressions like an actor learning a role. Teaching synthetic muscles to smile, to frown, to play at being human. All so he could pretend to still be John Corbin, loving father, devoted husband, American soldier. What a joke.
"John," Lex's voice might have carried real concern, if he could still believe in real things. "Let us help you. The upgrades we discussed, the improved sensory systems—"
"More lies?" His hand pressed against what remained of his synthetic skin, but there was no sensation. Just endless streams of data reporting pressure and contact. Like reading about touch in a book instead of feeling it. "More promises about making me human again?"
The memory stabbed through him - trying to kiss Angela after the surgery, seeing her flinch from his too-perfect lips, his too-cold touch. The divorce papers had cited "irreconcilable differences." How do you reconcile with a husband who isn't even human anymore?
"The upgrades are real," Faulkner insisted, like better programming could replace a soul. "We can enhance your neural processing, improve tactile response—"
"Make me a better weapon, you mean." His fingers dug into the artificial flesh of his face, synthetic skin parting without resistance. "A more obedient soldier. That's what this was always about, wasn't it?"
That's why they'd chosen him. The decorated veteran. The wounded warrior desperate for healing. The perfect test subject for their chrome-plated lies. They'd known exactly what buttons to push, what hopes to exploit.
"Make you whole again," Lionel corrected with that smooth corporate voice. "But first, you need to let us help you."
Whole again. The words echoed in what remained of his human mind as he stared at his reflection - at this thing they'd turned him into. The exposed chrome seemed to mock him, showing the truth beneath every pretense of humanity.
"It's all fake..." His fingers tightened, synthetic skin parting like tissue paper. All those careful calibrations, all those perfect imitations of life, tearing away to show the death beneath. "Everything you promised. Everything you made me believe."
"John, please—" Lex started, but he wasn't John anymore. Maybe he never had been, not since they'd put that alien rock where his heart should be.
"A FRAUD!" The scream emerged as pure electronic distortion as he ripped away more of his artificial flesh. Each tear revealed more truth - pistons instead of muscles, hydraulics instead of tendons, circuits instead of veins. Everything that made him look human falling away like autumn leaves, leaving only chrome and cold purpose behind.
The scientists backed away as he systematically destroyed their carefully crafted illusion. Security teams raised their weapons again, but Lionel remained still, watching with that same calculating interest he'd shown during the original surgery. Like this breakdown was just another phase of the experiment.
"It's all I am," his voice grew more mechanical with each word, humanity bleeding out with his discarded skin. The pretense of being John Corbin falling away with each strip of synthetic flesh. "It's who I am!"
His fist shattered the mirror, chrome knuckles spraying glass across the lab. The impact registered as pure data - force applied, resistance encountered, structural damage achieved. No pain, no satisfaction, no feeling at all. Just numbers proving that John Corbin was truly gone.
"Metallo!"
The name hung in the air like a death knell. Behind him, Lionel smiled slightly, the expression of a man who'd gotten exactly what he wanted. He'd wanted a weapon, after all.
Now he had one.
"If that's what you want to be," Lionel Luthor's voice dripped honey-coated poison, "we can help you embrace it. Make you even stronger. Remove those... inconvenient human limitations."
Human limitations. Like compassion. Like remorse. Like the ability to feel your daughter's hand in yours or your wife's lips against your cheek. The memories burned in the human brain they hadn't quite figured out how to fully control.
He turned to face them, chrome skull catching the harsh lab lights. The kryptonite core in his chest - his mockery of a heart - pulsed with sickly green energy. They thought the radiation made him stronger. Really, it just made the hatred burn colder.
"Do it," he heard himself say, voice stripped of its last human overtones. Let them think they'd broken him. Let them believe John Corbin had died in that mirror, leaving only their obedient machine behind. He played the obedient soldier before with all those ungrateful politicians, wearing that mask again came effortlessly "Make me what you always wanted me to be."
The next hours passed in a haze of surgical violations and cold calculation. He watched through cameras that had replaced his eyes as Hamilton and Faulkner worked their "improvements" into his systems. Their hands moved with practiced efficiency, installing new neural interfaces that would supposedly make him better. More stable. More controlled.
Every touch of their instruments reminded him of that first surgery. The promises about preserving his humanity while enhancing his body. The carefully worded explanations about becoming something greater than human. Such pretty lies, wrapped in technical terms and corporate jargon.
He knew what they were really doing - installing controls, fail-safes, ways to make their weapon more predictable. Part of him wanted to laugh. They still thought they were dealing with John Corbin, the desperate soldier who'd believed their promises. But John Corbin had died in that plaza, when Superman's fist had torn away the lie they'd wrapped him in. What lay on their operating table now was something else entirely. Something born of chrome and circuitry, powered by alien radiation and a hatred that burned colder than space.
Lex watched from the observation window, and something almost like guilt crossed his features. The younger Luthor had always been different - maybe he'd actually believed they were helping. But Lionel's eyes held only satisfaction as he observed his creation being "refined." A proud father watching his child learn to kill.
Let them think they'd won. Let them believe their "refinements" would make him docile. The kryptonite core pulsed with his carefully hidden rage, but outwardly he remained still. Mechanical. The perfect patient. They wanted Metallo? He would give them exactly what they deserved.
He thought about Sarah as they worked. His little girl, who'd stopped calling after the first time she'd tried to hug him and felt only cold metal beneath fake skin. He thought about Angela, who'd filed for divorce when she realized her husband had become a thing of chrome and wires. He thought about his unit in Iraq, about brothers in arms who'd died while he lived on as this mockery of life.
"How do you feel?" Hamilton asked when they finished, still clutching his precious tablet of readouts and data points.
He flexed his upgraded systems, testing the new neural pathways they'd installed. Everything felt sharper, cleaner, more precise. And more hollow. Like they'd scraped away whatever traces of humanity had survived the first transformation.
"Like what I am," he replied, modulating his voice to perfect neutrality. Let them hear the machine they wanted. "A machine."
"The sensory improvements will take time to integrate," Faulkner explained, her voice carrying that false compassion he'd once believed. "But you should notice enhanced tactical processing, better motor control—"
"Better everything," he cut her off, remembering how she'd promised the first surgery would let him feel again. "Except what matters."
He turned to Lionel, keeping his chrome face as impassive as the mask it was. "When do we begin the next phase?"
"Soon," Luthor smiled, pleased by his apparent acceptance. The smile of a man who thought he'd won. "First, we need to ensure these upgrades are properly calibrated. That your systems are... stable."
That you're properly controlled, he translated silently. That your weapon won't turn against its makers. As if they could control what they'd created. As if their programming and fail-safes could contain the cold fire burning in his kryptonite heart.
"Of course," he replied with mechanical smoothness. "Whatever you think is best."
He caught Lex's slight frown, the younger Luthor perhaps sensing something beneath the perfect obedience. But Lionel only nodded, already turning to discuss the next stages of his precious project with the team. Already planning how to use his new weapon.
They'd given him everything they'd promised - strength beyond human limits, power to match Superman himself, freedom from physical weakness. Everything except what he'd really wanted. What they'd never intended to give him. His humanity. His soul. The ability to be more than their chrome puppet dancing on radioactive strings.
He flexed his enhanced systems, testing the improved response time, the faster processing, the deadlier capabilities. They'd made him better, stronger, more lethal. And in doing so, they'd given him exactly what he needed.
The perfect weapon. Just not for them.
The kryptonite core pulsed with steady rhythm now, its radiation perfectly regulated by his upgraded systems. On the surface, he was everything they'd worked so hard to create - their chrome soldier, their mechanical warrior, their answer to Superman. Their obedient slave.
But beneath that polished exterior, in the human brain they couldn't quite control, John Corbin's last gift to Metallo burned like pure radioactive fire:
Patience. Purpose. And the perfect understanding of what he had become.
Let them think they'd won. Let them believe their weapon was properly calibrated, their monster safely caged. He had all the time in the world now to plan their downfall, to nurture the cold hatred that the kryptonite made stronger with every pulse.
After all, machines could wait forever. And in the end, Lionel Luthor would learn exactly what kind of monster he'd created. They all would.