SUPERMAN
(lip wobbling, voice cracking with false nobility)
I fight for truth… justice… and the Globohomo way!

Kratos looks down at the gayly coloured midget in front of him, unfazed. His expression is unreadable—like a mountain hearing the wind brag.

KRATOS
(hollow, unimpressed)
You fight for applause.

Superman’s brow furrows, uncertain whether to respond with tears or anger. His cape flutters behind him—clean, polished, pristine. Someone who has never had to work hard or get their hands dirty.

SUPERMAN
(sputtering)
I—I protect people. I inspire them!

KRATOS
You entertain them.
(pauses)
You have never known war. Only performance.

With a frustrated grunt, Superman rockets forward, red eyes glowing, fists clenched like a child who didn’t get his way.

Kratos waits. Calm. Still.

The moment Superman strikes—Kratos steps inside his punch, grabs him by the throat, and slams him to his knees, as if dragging a misbehaving pup to heel.

SUPERMAN
(struggling, whining now)
You… you can’t…PLEASE!

KRATOS
(interrupting, cold)
You are not a god. You are a mascot.

He draws the Sword of Olympus, radiant and ancient, far older than Superman’s illegal immigrant ideals. Without flourish, Kratos plunges the blade down—through Superman’s chest and into the ground beneath him, pinning him down to earth like a broken banner.

Superman gasps, eyes wide in disbelief—his sun-given strength means nothing. His image? Powerless.

Kratos kneels above him, hand firm on the sword’s hilt, his face lit by divine wrath and weary wisdom.

KRATOS
(quiet, final)
You are a monster no longer.

Superman’s eyes flicker—no longer glowing. His breath slows. Around them, silence reigns. The wind no longer stirs.

Kratos remains kneeling, unmoving, a monument to judgment. Not a hero. Not a god.
Something greater. A KING.