Lois sits at her desk in the Daily Planet, late at night. She’s typing up a story on her computer. Her heart is breaking.
TEXT: This is the last Superman story I will ever write. Just typing those words causes me more pain than you could ever imagine…
On a rooftop high above the city, Superman clutches his chest in agony and falls to his knees.
TEXT: …but not as much pain as I know it will cause Metropolis’s greatest hero.
Close on Superman’s chest.
TEXT: There are teeny, tiny machines – nanobots, they call them – swimming around inside my bloodstream. The technology is beyond me – I've asked our science editor to provide a sidebar. All I understand is that I’ve been infected, and so has the Man of Steel.
The same image, but this time in X-Ray so that we can see through Superman’s costume and into his body. We can see the heart beating in his chest. It is being attacked by a swarm of tiny machines, glowing green. Kryptonite powered nanobots.
TEXT: We have been told that any attempts to remove them will likely kill us. However, they will remain benign and cause us no further harm so long as I don’t ever type a certain combination of letters again.
Out of X-ray. Now Superman has collapsed completely on the rooftop. He’s curled up in agony.
TEXT: Those letters are S-U-P-E-R-M-A-N…
TEXT: And that is the last time I will ever write them.
Back to Lois, lit by the light from her computer screen, a look of steely determination has replaced the sadness.
TEXT: From now on, for the good of the entire world, I will dedicate my life instead to concentrating on an entirely different combination of letters.
Close on Lois’s computer screen. It reads…
TEXT: Be warned: what I write will not be pretty.