– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

He stepped towards the glowing villain, his mind racing through calculations faster than any human could comprehend. The air shimmered around Heatstroke, distorting the world beyond her into a wavering mirage. Conner's thermal vision registered temperatures climbing past 5,000 degrees Celsius and rising exponentially.

At this rate, nuclear fusion wasn't just possible—it was imminent.

93.7% probability of catastrophic detonation within the next 87 seconds, he estimated. Radius of total destruction: approximately 1.2 kilometers.

Chance of team survival without intervention: 1.3%.

Unacceptable.

Training and indoctrination from Cadmus flickered through his thoughts, called to mind as relevant. Useful, more often than not.

Always annoying though.

Case in point, the Stefan-Boltzmann law flickered through his thoughts: E = σAT^4.

Energy emitted equals the Stefan-Boltzmann constant multiplied by area and temperature to the fourth power. With Heatstroke's likely output, he estimated her effective temperature at nearly six thousand Kelvin—hotter than the surface of the sun.

The implications were dire. At those temperatures, the very air would ionize, creating a plasma that would conduct electricity and heat with terrifying efficiency. The ground beneath her feet would liquefy, then vaporize. Anything within a kilometer radius would be incinerated instantly.

Including his team.

Cadmus's training whispered in his mind. Threat assessment, Tactical analysis. Collateral damage projections.

All the tools of a living weapon, turned towards the goal of preserving life.

The clone's lips tightened into a thin line. He'd been created to be a weapon, a perfect soldier. Now, faced with this threat, he felt the weight of that purpose settle onto his broad shoulders. The irony wasn't lost on him—a weapon designed to destroy, now tasked with preventing destruction.

His teammates' shouts faded into background noise, irrelevant data discarded in favor of more pressing calculations. Wonder Girl's retreat was logical; her Amazonian durability, while formidable, had clear limitations. The heat would cook her alive in her skin if she got too close. Robin's concern, while touching, was equally irrelevant.

They didn't understand. They couldn't.

He was the Superboy.

He was meant to protect.

To handle the threats only Superman could.

And this was a threat only Superman could.

Aqualad's absence registered in the periphery of his mind. Regrettable, but irrelevant. Even if his Atlantean teammate wasn't currently incapacitated in Miss Martian's ship, the amount of water needed to counteract Heatstroke's output was... he ran the numbers.

3.7 x 10^11 liters.

Lake Michigan levels.

And expecting it not to evaporate on contact was just ridiculous. No, hydrokinesis was not a viable solution here. The entropy was too high, the energy levels too extreme.

Escape from the impending explosion was also unlikely. Out of all of them, only Wally had the speed to escape the range of the impending detonation that could only be compared to a nuclear bomb. Even then, the fallout, the radiation, the shockwave... Conner ran the numbers. Wally's odds of survival: 38.2%.

Not good enough.

Wonder Girl was a close second, but considering her lack of ability to properly outpace Attigan in the air, she would likely struggle to outpace a commercial aircraft. With Miss Martian unconscious inside the ship alongside Aqualad, her bio-ship was rendered a useless escape vector. They were trapped.

Useless.

All of them.

All but him.

Conner's mind flashed through the events of the past hour, analyzing and reanalyzing every detail with perfect recall. The boyfriend, Coldsnap, had been a key factor in the equilibrium. His ability to absorb thermal energy must have acted as a natural dampener for Heatstroke's powers. A symbiotic relationship, two sides of a thermodynamic equation balancing each other out. With him unconscious, that balance was shattered.

He took another step forward, wincing as the soles of his boots began to melt. Again.

The cost-benefit analysis of continually replacing footwear versus going barefoot flitted through his mind, dismissed as quickly as it formed. Focus.

The air crackled with ionized particles, setting Conner's teeth on edge. His thermal vision picked up the subtle shifts in Heatstroke's aura, the way the plasma writhed and pulsed around her like a living thing. It was beautiful, in a terrifying way. He couldn't help but admit that some part of him was fascinated by the phenomenon.

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But fascination wouldn't save lives.

Action would.

He absorbed another wave of heat from Heatstroke, feeling the familiar tingle of solar energy suffusing his cells. It hurt, yes, but it also invigorated him.

The pieces clicked into place with satisfying clarity. Solar energy. Of course.

She wasn't generating heat from nothing—she was absorbing, amplifying, and redirecting solar radiation.

The realization brought with it a host of new calculations and possibilities. If she was essentially a living solar flare, then the laws governing stellar phenomena should apply. Magnetic fields, plasma dynamics, thermonuclear reactions—all suddenly relevant.

Conner rapidly updated his mental model. Assuming a baseline solar constant of 1361 W/m^2 at Earth's surface, Heatstroke must be amplifying this by a factor of at least 18. Conservative estimate. The implications were staggering. At this rate of increase, she'd soon rival the surface energy output of a small star.

A G-type main sequence star, to be precise. Like the sun, but condensed into a humanoid form.

He raced through the implications. The ground beneath Heatstroke was already liquefying, unable to withstand the intense heat. Soon, the very air around her would ignite. And then...

He shook his head, banishing the apocalyptic scenario. No. He wouldn't let it come to that.

He couldn't.

The clone's gaze locked onto the miniature sun forming in Heatstroke's hands. Her panic was evident, her control slipping with each passing second. He could almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

Time seemed to slow as Conner weighed his options. Attempt to contain the blast?

Probability of success: 7.2%. Evacuate the area? Insufficient time. Redirect the energy? Possible, but risky.

Absorb it?

The idea crystallized in his mind with sudden clarity. His Kryptonian physiology thrived on solar radiation. If he could somehow channel Heatstroke's excess energy into himself...

Assuming his body could process solar energy at a rate similar to Superman's, he might be able to harmlessly absorb... what? 7 x 10^5 joules per second? 10^6? The upper limit was unclear, but it was their best shot.

Heatstroke's output, based on his observations, was approaching 3.5 x 10^22 joules per second. The heat of a star, compressed into a few cubic meters of space.

The deficit was staggering, but not insurmountable. If he could redirect even a fraction of that energy, it might be enough to prevent catastrophic detonation. He'd have to push his limits, possibly beyond what even Cadmus had designed him for.

It was insane.

Reckless.

The kind of plan that would make Batman scowl and Superman shake his head in disappointment. But it was also their best chance.

Conner took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. His Kryptonian cells could only absorb so much solar radiation before they reached saturation. Before they started to break down. Before the very thing that gave him his powers became his undoing.

The odds of survival were... less than optimal.

But the alternative was unthinkable.

He thought of his team, of the life he'd built since escaping Cadmus. Of the world he'd sworn to protect. It wasn't a long life, but it was his.

And if this was how it ended... well, there were worse ways to go.

With grim determination, Conner surged forward.

Each step hurt.

Burned worse than the magma.

His body screamed even as it sang.

It felt like the most painful, most intoxicating drug in existence.

He wondered if this is what liquor was supposed to feel like, an intoxicating burn.

If so, every single part of him was drunk.

The heat was overwhelming now, searing his lungs with each breath. His invulnerability was being pushed to its limits, cells regenerating almost as quickly as they were destroyed.

Time seemed to stretch and warp as he closed the distance. Attigan's eyes widened in shock and fear as she realized his intent.

Too late to stop him.

Too late to do anything but watch in horror as the clone of Superman reached out with both hands.

In that final moment, Conner allowed himself a small, sardonic smile. The irony of it all—a weapon of mass destruction, sacrificing himself to prevent mass destruction.

Heh. Funny.

Then, bracing himself for agony beyond imagining, he grabbed the miniature sun as it exploded.