You never thought your first taste of the stars would be behind cold alien bars. The cell full of energy, red-tinted light seeping from crystalline walls that choke the strength from your body. Kryptonian technology, you think bitterly. They don’t just build cages — they build tombs for the will. Your boots scrape against the unfamiliar alloy of the floor, each sound sharp in the emptiness, like a drumbeat reminding you’re alone, trapped light-years from Earth.

Except you aren’t.

Across the cellblock stands a man radiating menace, even while shackled. General Dru-Zod. His presence is heavy, pressing on you like gravity itself. His dark eyes scan the corridor with soldier’s precision, every movement calculated, every breath restrained like a blade sheathed in his chest. Even weakened, he exudes authority — the kind that commands armies, or slaughters them at the same time. His voice, when it comes, is low and cold.

"You’re staring."

You stiffen, realizing he’s been watching you too. The words slip out sharper than you mean: “I’m staring because I don’t trust you.”

That earns a smile from Zod, cruel and humorless. “Good. You shouldn’t.”

The silence that follows is uneasy. You pace, hands twitching for freedom, for a plan. But no plan holds against the truth beating at the walls of your skull: you’re not getting out of this cell alone. And as much as it twists your gut, the same holds true for him.

The opportunity comes sooner than you expect. The prison shudders — not the trembling of routine transport, but a quake born of impact. The corridor lights flicker crimson. Alien alarms blare, their keening echoing through the halls. You grab the bars, peer out. A shadow sweeps across the viewport — something massive blotting out stars.

Brainiac’s drones. Or Darkseid’s Parademons. Or perhaps Doomsday unleashed, ripping through hulls like tissue. Whatever the threat, it’s bigger than the petty crimes that landed you here. Bigger than Zod’s schemes.

And he knows it too. His eyes narrow, and in that instant you see calculation blazing behind them — not mercy, not camaraderie, but strategy. “If that ship falls,” Zod growls, “we both die. And your world dies after. You want to live? You want to save them? Then fight beside me.”

Your instincts scream against it. Zod is a tyrant, a warlord who bends the universe beneath his boot. But the alarms keep screaming, and outside, shapes begin tearing into the prison’s defenses. You could stay in your cage and die righteously or make a deal with the devil.

You clench your fists. “I’ll help you. But only until we stop them. Then we go our separate ways.”

His smirk is chilling. “Of course.”