**

It was necessary, Luthor knows. Events had proven the need for it.

The halfhearted attempts Cadmus Labs had made were no longer enough. The threat of Superman going renegade again was the official reason given to the science team. The other reason -- the one he'd told Lois at the funeral -- was the one that made him... encourage the team to increase their efforts.

It would have been more efficient had his spies been able to acquire the process that STAR Labs had evidently discovered -- rumors of the Supergirl clone traveled quickly -- but LuthorCorp had its own resources, and he had some faith left in his staff despite their previous failures. Besides, he didn't want STAR Labs or their military connections horning in on the fruits of this particular labor.

He knew a breakthrough had come when he got the call from Westfield. The doctor's solution for stabilizing the Kryptonian DNA sequence had been unorthodox, but it offered Luthor certain... possibilities.

And now, as Luthor stands in front of the tank, he knows. *This* one is viable. There will be no bizarre degradation, no mental or physical defects. He's healthy. Perfect.

Everything Luthor could have hoped for.

He watches Mercy peer into the tank, scrutinizing the unconscious boy floating within. Her eyebrow quirks, and she looks at him. Then she looks back at the boy. Then at him.

"What?" he says evenly.

"Nothing."

He swallows the smirk and walks around the tank. He's grateful she didn't voice her thoughts. If she'd said the boy looks like him, he'd have to scrap the project. The boy isn't *supposed* to look like him.

And yet...

"It's progressing well," Westfield announces to the room as he flips through the pages on his clipboard. "Synaptic development progressing ahead of schedule. Educational programming proceeding as ordered. And it's *finally* grown some hair." His tone is casual, but Luthor hears the smugness and pride beneath the offhand recitation of the progress reports.

Luthor ignores his last remark and rests his hand on the tank. The liquid inside makes it warm to the touch. The boy's eyes are open, but Luthor knows he doesn't see anything. An infant in the womb.

Luthor glances down at the number 5 labeling the tank. "How are the others progressing?"

"Coming along nicely." The smugness in Westfield's voice gives Luthor the urge to hurt him, or perhaps severely reduce his pay. "Versions eight through twelve are viable, not quite as far along as number five here. It will be ready for activation in another month."

"He looks too young."

"When I'm finished with it, it won't." Westfield smirks, his hands deep in his lab coat pockets. Luthor sees Mercy resisting the urge to hit the scientist with something sharp. He makes a mental note to speak with her about her poker face. Westfield is a pretentious pain-in-the-ass, but Luthor tolerates him because of his ability to get results.

He runs a finger thoughtfully across the smooth tank. "Stop the aging acceleration on this version."

"What? Why?"

Luthor smiles as he hears the smirk fall out of Westfield's voice. "You have the other versions to play with. I have plans for this one."

"But this one's almost ready for activation. The others won't be ready for several months."

"Don't argue with me. Finish his programming," Luthor says, pulling on his coat, "and call me when he's ready for activation."

He smiles openly as he leaves Westfield sputtering orders to his science team. If Westfield wasn't so good at his job, Luthor would have fired or maimed him years ago. He makes a mental note to let Mercy have some fun with Westfield when the man stops being useful.

Mercy trails along behind him down the empty corridor. He can feel her staring at the back of his neck as they enter the elevator. "Say it, Mercy."

He watches her chew her lip, measuring her words carefully. Her emotions flicker through her eyes. He watches the floors roll by and waits. Though he hasn't shown it lately, he can be patient. Prison taught him that.

He should teach *her* how to hide what she's thinking.

"I think," she says finally, staring at her perfectly-shined boots, "that 'Julian' would be a good name for a boy."

"Julian," he murmurs. "Julian Alexander Luthor. Has a certain ring to it."

Mercy reaches out and squeezes his hand. He squeezes back, and doesn't let go until the elevator doors open.