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On a bank of monitor screens twenty feet wide by twenty feet high, he sees the hand of Opportunity reach for the door. A flash of eldritch energy, and the horrified faces of earth's mightiest heroes only cement the image in his mind. A blazon of gold and red turned crystalline white on a chest that no longer rises and falls with the breath of life.
His lips pull back into a slow, satisfied smile as he can hear Opportunity knocking in the back of his mind. He reaches for the phone and dials, speaking quickly. The voices on the other end of the phone are panic-stricken, but he brings to bear his charisma and cleaves through them. His voice is calm, concerned. His manner is firm, but nonthreatening.
Yes, yes, there are demons in the streets. Yes, yes, all hell is quite literally breaking loose. Yes, it is terrible.
It is, indeed, a horrible thing that has come to pass. But no, the world could not possibly be coming to an end. There are too many of them out there to permit that. Too many of the heroes, and the sorcerers.
Is he afraid? No, no -- panic would serve him and his employees ill. The important thing now is to keep his head. Yes, thank you. That would be so helpful.
Impatient fingers drum slowly on the varnished ebony of his desk, belying the mellifluous and calm tones he speaks into the phone. Finally, though, he hears what he has been waiting for.
"The chopper's in the air, Mr. Luthor! We'll make sure to let them know you're doing this as a public service!"
From the steel and concrete fortress bearing his name, Luthor stands, silhouetted against a blood red sky and watches his corporate helicopter rise in an uneven ascension toward New York City. It will not be an easy flight for his pilots -- the sky is full of things at best unrecognizable and at worst unnameable. But Luthor gets what he wants, and he pays his lackeys well. And, when it comes down to it...
...they dare not fail him.
He listens, head cocked to one side as he keeps in constant touch with his flight crew. He watches his monitor bank as the heroes wade deeper into battle, leaving the pillar behind them -- the pillar of salt which once was a Man of Steel.
His lip curls in distaste as the black-caped figure grasps a terrified rookie cop by the collar and thrusts him toward the motionless Superman. The rookie wastes no time obeying. He seems almost eager to get out from under the long, angular shadow thrown by the figure. Batman is supposed to be one of the good ones, yes -- but he has always looked ominous even in the best of times. Now, with the sky behind him full of batwinged horrors, Batman looks practically like he plays for the other team.
Luthor grimaces, watching. Of course they'd not leave him defenseless and helpless, no. But they haven't turned him back yet, either. Which, Luthor smiles to himself, means they probably don't...know...how!
Delicious.
The demons are seething up from a fissure in the ground. What heroes aren't consumed fighting are engaged in rescue efforts. While the rookie does as he is bidden, it's clear that most of them are too terrified to stand their ground long. They need rescuing themselves. Ah, so much the better. He does so enjoy playing the hero.
"ETA about three minutes from the site, Mr. Luthor."
He is pleased; between the on-board weaponry on his craft and the fact that there is, in all likelihood, no other air traffic, his helicopter has made exemplary time.
He answers them in calm, clipped tones, assuring them that they will be well rewarded for their efforts, frowning at the screen as the news camera's view of his quarry is momentarily obscured. He smooths down his tie, perfecting his immaculate image, and walks toward the camera in the corner of his office.
On his wall of monitors, he sees them landing. The black and silver helicopter blows demons out of its way, or sucks them into its blades. No matter. They disembark with a precision that would rival even the United States army, and race in perfectly synchronized cadence to the ring of police. Their faces obscured by dark-tinted visors, they are identifiable only as his people. The LexCorp sigil on their shoulder patches is the only distinguishing feature; the uniforms are so well tailored that it isn't even readily apparent whether this flight crew is male, female, or some comibnation thereof.
"Mr. Luthor has seen what has happened here and he wishes to express his horror at this absolutely tragic turn of events. Mr. Luthor has offered to take -- Superman here -- into protective custody in his home city of Metropolis, while LexCorp and the Metropolis branch of STAR Labs work day and night to restore the Man of Steel to his natural form once more."
The Man of Salt, of course, makes no reply.
Luthor smiles; his pilot speaks with an eloquence that makes him proud. Of course he does; no one who works for LexCorp would be slovenly in their dress or their speech. The rabble New Yorkers blink in astonishment. Obviously they expected some barking, grizzled commando yelling brusque orders. They're taken aback, thrown off guard.
Excellent.
"I ... I don't know. New York has its own branch of STAR..." falters the cop in charge.
Luthor's teeth grind. His hand clenches on the desk.
"Yes, but Metropolis seems to have been spared the worst of this so far and we will have the time and resources to dedicate to restoring Superman. I'm certain the STAR Labs here will have its hands full! Mr. Luthor has already prepared facilities and is flying in specialists and occult experts from all over the world." Untrue, but an admirable ad-lib.
Of course, no one but Luthor himself knew exactly what was planned once Superman was safely in a sub-basement vault of LexCorp five stories beneath the ground. The world thought Luthor a philanthropist -- like that Gotham milksop Wayne. It was a facade that customarily served him well.
Of course, plans would have to be undertaken with care and cunning. Yes, the idea of simply waiting until Superman was safely secured, then dismissing the staff and taking a fire hose to him was enticing -- but it lacked panache. It lacked style. And there would be the difficult and troublesome task of explaining precisely how such an accident could've happened after Luthor's employees had guaranteed Superman's safety on national television.
Besides, his suit cost over two thousand dollars. Getting water and salt all over it would be -- distasteful.
Still, he was Luthor was he not? Of course, in time, he could come up with a way to restore Superman -- and what a debt to be repaid. Or, if not, he could arrange it so that one of his scientists or occult experts 'miscalculated' -- resulting in the pillar of salt being shattered into tiny crystals.
His thoughts, however, had to be pushed violently aside. More of the costumed buffoons were arriving on the scene. That trollop Zatanna, in her fishnets. Yes, he recognized her. Luthor was too canny to allow anything beneath his notice if it could potentially benefit him. And at her side, a woman in a purple gown. Xanadu.
He spoke to his flight captain, urging him to hurry before one of the magickally enlightened decided to attempt to restore Superman on the spot.
His flight captain, having seen the arrival as well, was already quickening his pace and acting to have Superman loaded into a cryogenic container. But they were not fast enough.
A glowing sphere was flung from Xanadu's hands into the night sky, brilliant against a darkness that seemed darker somehow.
The police, to a man, all look up to follow the bright flare, and Luthor mentally wills his men to move --
-- and he feels Opportunity turn away from the door.
A shower of sparks erupts from Xanadu's crystalline orb and falls to earth. Where it touches, demons scream and flee. Where it touches, the heroes find themselves stronger.
Where it touches Superman -- salt transforms once again to Kryptonian flesh.
"It appears we are no longer needed, Mr. Luthor," his pilot says apologetically. To his credit, Luthor can barely hear the fear in his voice; he can barely tell the man knows he is in for quite the reprimand for having failed.
Luthor balls a fist at his side, but unclenches the hand after five seconds, taking a slow deep breath.
Hell afforded him this Opportunity, but took it away again.
With a flick of his fingers against a pad on his desk, the monitor screens darkens. The radio falls silent, and he is surrounded by the opulent darkness of his executive office.
He smooths a hand over his tie again; Luthor, immaculate.
One Opportunity lost; another, gained. Although he has no chance now to keep Superman under lock and key, or to indebt him -- he does have the opportunity to appear to the world as a man who thought first of protecting earth's greatest hero.
Another day, another opportunity.
And if an Opportunity like this should appear again, Luthor was already formulating a plan to exploit it for all its future worth.