The earth didn't just groan—it grumbled. Loudly. Like it had been rudely awakened from a million-year nap by a bunch of nosy humans with jackhammers.
Industrial machines clawed at the dirt like hyperactive toddlers on espresso. Diggers, loaders, and laser drills moved with the precision of a military parade—if that parade was built entirely by LexCorp and powered by egos and bonus checks.
And then… the crane squealed. Not a normal mechanical squeal either. This was the sound of something old being ripped from its tomb. With a loud KRA-KOOM, a slab of alien alloy broke the surface. The ground shuddered like it had changed its mind about cooperating.
That's when everything stopped.
"Uh... Boss?" a foreman said into his walkie, voice one octave away from panic. "We just hit something. And I don't mean a pipe. Unless pipes are now made of space metal."
Thirty minutes later, a fleet of black LexCorp SUVs pulled up, dark and shiny like they'd just rolled out of a villain's wet dream.
Out of the lead vehicle stepped Lex Luthor.
Yes, that Lex Luthor.
Bald. Impeccably tailored. Smirking like he'd just won at chess against Einstein and then insulted his haircut.
He adjusted his lavender-tinted sunglasses and surveyed the scene like a bored god about to smite someone for fun. Beside him stood Mercy Graves, blonde hair in a tight twist, sunglasses reflecting every mortal sin in a five-mile radius, and a clipboard in her hand that probably had half of Congress blackmailed on page two.
And trailing behind, sipping iced espresso like she was front row at Fashion Week: Eve Tessmacher, in three-inch heels, flawless lipstick, and the unbothered aura of someone who knew her mascara would outlast the apocalypse.
Lex strode to the edge of the pit and peered down. "What do we have here?" he asked casually, in the tone of a man who already knew and just wanted someone else to say it out loud for dramatic effect.
A hunk of jet-black metal jutted out from the dirt—sleek, geometric, and humming ominously, like a spaceship-sized microwave warming up something dangerous. Strange glyphs shimmered faintly across its hull. Ancient. Alien.
One of the scientists—a jittery guy with the social confidence of a damp sock—crouched beside it, running a scanner that beeped like a panicked R2-D2. His eyes widened like a cartoon character discovering dynamite in a birthday cake.
"This is... this is not from Earth."
Lex arched a brow. "Congratulations, Doctor. Would you like a gold star or a dictionary definition of 'alien'?"
The scientist blinked. "The readings... the language... it's Kryptonian."
That word hung in the air like a thunderclap. Kryptonian.
Miss Tessmacher sipped her drink. "Another spaceship? That's what—four now? You're gonna need a valet service for these things."
"Three and a half," Mercy corrected smoothly. "The last one exploded. Took out two interns and a taco truck."
"A tragic loss," Lex said with a smirk. "The tacos, I mean."
He stepped into the pit, brushing dust from the alien hull with gloved fingers like he was introducing himself to royalty. "No. This isn't just another escape pod or scout vessel. The structure, the material density... this predates Kal-El's arrival by centuries."
Tessmacher leaned over the pit edge, one hand on her hip. "So... like a Kryptonian Titanic?"
Lex's eyes gleamed. "Try: Kryptonian Dreadnought."
The metal beneath his palm pulsed. A low, rhythmic thrum, like a heartbeat—or a countdown. The ship suddenly lit up along its seams with a golden glow. Glyphs rearranged themselves into something vaguely threatening.
A panel hissed and slid open.
Everyone jumped. One of the workers let out a scream so high-pitched, dolphins might've filed complaints.
Lex, of course, didn't flinch. He just smiled wider. "Ah. Finally. An invitation."
Tessmacher squinted at the opening hatch. "What are the odds there's a super-powered mummy in there?"
Mercy flicked her clipboard open, not even looking up. "Eighty-three percent. Eighty-seven if it has red eyes."
"Excellent," Lex said, like it was Christmas morning. "Prep a containment team. I want it quarantined, scanned, and gift-wrapped before lunch."
Tessmacher raised her cup. "And if something comes out and starts vaporizing people?"
Lex gave her a patient look. "Then remind it whose name is on the building."
Inside the hatch, the darkness blinked back—silent. Cold. Alive.
Lex turned away, already plotting twelve steps ahead. Mercy followed without needing a cue. Tessmacher stayed behind a moment longer, sipping her espresso with a sigh.
"I really hope it's not a monstrous bad guy," she muttered. "I just got this jumpsuit dry-cleaned."
The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of ozone and something older.
Buried secrets never stay buried.
And this one was waking up hungry.
—
If you ever wanted to witness a grown man nearly faint from reading ancient space glyphs, this was your chance.
Dr. Bernard Kellerman—who had four PhDs, a caffeine addiction, and the fight-or-flight response of a fainting goat—was currently hyperventilating behind a stack of reinforced steel crates. He clutched a translation tablet like it might suddenly grow arms and fight off what they'd just uncovered.
"Tell me that doesn't say what I think it says," Tessmacher muttered, balancing her iced espresso like it was a Fabergé egg. Her heels were planted on solid ground, but her tone was halfway to Bermuda.
Mercy Graves, unnervingly composed, tapped the tablet like she was reading Yelp reviews. "Depends what you think it says."
"It says 'Containment Breached. Biological Weapon Compromised. Planetary Sterilization Imminent.'" Kellerman wheezed from behind the crates. "Which, by the way, is the alien equivalent of 'Oops, we nuked the planet.'"
Lex Luthor didn't even look up. He was brushing space dust off a console with the care of a museum curator prepping for an exhibit called 'How We All Die.' The bald genius looked like someone had genetically engineered charm, menace, and bespoke suits into a walking power fantasy.
"Planetary sterilization," Lex repeated with the calm glee of a man who had always wanted to say those words out loud. "That does have a certain... finality, doesn't it?"
Kellerman peeked up from his hiding spot, glasses askew. "Mr. Luthor, sir, with respect, this is not something we can study or poke with metaphorical sticks. This is ancient Kryptonian biowarfare. The kind that gets entire civilizations added to the galactic extinction list!"
"Oh," Eve Tessmacher said brightly, "like the dinosaurs, Blockbuster, and cable TV."
Mercy arched one perfectly sculpted brow. "You forgot MySpace."
Tessmacher nodded solemnly. "R.I.P."
Lex finally stood and turned, the lavender-tinted lenses of his glasses flashing in the sun like he was about to drop a TED Talk called Why Unleashing Doom Is Good for Business. He tilted his head toward Kellerman.
"Doctor. Breathe. And tell us exactly what we're dealing with."
Kellerman exhaled like someone had unplugged him. "It's called Project: Doomsday. It was designed during the Black Zero Wars, before Krypton went full kaboom. Think of it as the ultimate failsafe—biological weapon, self-regenerating, instantly adaptive, and so homicidally angry it could get kicked off Reddit."
Tessmacher's drink paused halfway to her lips. "Sounds like my ex."
Mercy didn't look up from her tablet. "Does your ex have bone armor and a hatred for all living things?"
"He did on weekends."
Lex's smile spread, slow and deliberate. "Genetically engineered to evolve past any weakness... destroy any threat. Created to challenge Krypton itself. Fascinating."
Kellerman threw his hands in the air. "Not fascinating! Psychotic! You can't 'negotiate' with Doomsday! You can't leash it or brand it or make it the mascot for LexCorp Mart!"
Lex glanced at Mercy, ignoring the rising pitch of his favorite scientist. "Memo: design LexCorp Mart mascot. Maybe a plush version with light-up eyes."
Mercy tapped it into her notes without a flicker of irony.
Then the ship hummed.
A low, rhythmic thrum rolled through the air like a bass drop from the underworld. The hull lit up in golden veins of ancient power. Glyphs danced across the metal like they were suddenly in a rave. The hatch creaked open another foot.
"Oh no," Kellerman muttered. "It's waking up. It's waking up."
Tessmacher squinted at the glow. "Okay, is it just me, or did it just blink? Did it blink?!"
Mercy, already activating perimeter force fields with casual grace, answered, "Yes. And it was not a friendly blink. That was a 'you're all appetizers' blink."
A clawed hand gripped the hatch edge.
Correction: thing shaped like a hand. Except it was the size of a small car door, covered in cracked bone plating, with claws like obsidian switchblades.
A low growl echoed from inside the ship—deep, animalistic, the sound a supernova might make if it had a sore throat and feelings.
Kellerman screamed, which was honestly fair. Tessmacher stumbled back two steps and clutched her espresso like it was holy water. "I just dry-cleaned this jumpsuit. This thing better not bleed tar or explode or—ugh—shed."
Mercy adjusted her sunglasses like this was the 10:30 AM showing of Monsterpocalypse: Live.
Lex? Lex stepped forward.
Of course he did.
He looked down into the dark with the cool detachment of someone browsing a wine cellar and discovering a vintage murder.
"You wanted proof Kryptonians weren't gods?" he said, to no one in particular. "Well. Even gods had nightmares."
The creature inside shifted.
And finally—opened its eyes.
Twin red slits lit up in the darkness. No pupils. Just rage and hunger and the echo of every world it had ever smashed into stardust.
Tessmacher whispered, "Okay, new plan. We throw a tarp over it and pretend we found a weather balloon."
Mercy gave a small sigh. "I just fixed the drone defenses."
Kellerman fainted.
Lex's smirk widened, all shark and secrets.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, hands folded behind his back like a general inspecting the end of the world, "say hello to Earth's final weapon in the age of Superman."
The ship rumbled again.
Doomsday was awake.
And it was hungry.
—
Some people wake up wanting coffee. Some want a warm bath, a cuddle, or maybe a donut.
Doomsday? He woke up wanting blood.
His first motion wasn't even dramatic. Just a twitch of a claw. A breath in, like he was trying to taste the air for the nearest terrified intern. Spoiler: he found one.
Lex Luthor, billionaire, genius, bald icon of superiority, stood in front of the creature like he'd just finished rehearsing his TED Talk on how to tame monsters without getting gooed. Imagine Michael Fassbender, if he had less hair, more narcissism, and even sharper cheekbones.
"Magnificent," Lex said, his tone reverent, like he was observing the world's deadliest lava lamp. "The ancient Kryptonians must have been very afraid of you. That makes two of us—me and my deep respect for their engineering."
Behind him, Dr. Kellerman clutched his tablet like it was a security blanket. The man looked like a meerkat with anxiety issues. "It's going to kill us all, Mr. Luthor! It's not an artifact, it's a weaponized abomination!"
Tessmacher, lounging on a folding chair like she was sunbathing at a nuclear test site, sipped her overpriced espresso. "He's doing the villain monologue again, isn't he?"
"Yup," Mercy Graves muttered, already recording on her sleek LexCorp-issued phone. "Ten bucks says he tries to make it an intern."
"I am not betting against Luthor's ego," Tessmacher replied. "I like my money where it is—buying shoes."
Lex took one more step toward the ten-foot-tall monster, arms wide as if he was about to hug a particularly violent cactus.
"I offer you liberation," he said smoothly. "A new purpose. Together, we can—"
WHAM.
Doomsday's backhand came so fast it practically invented new physics. One moment Lex was mid-sentence, the next he was airborne, flying backward like a missile of expensive fabric and broken ribs.
He plowed through two crates, a steel digger, and what had been the camp's only functioning port-a-potty. A long silence followed. Birds flew off in a panic. Someone screamed.
Kellerman: "HE'S DEAD. I KNEW HE'D DIE. I CALLED IT. I GET POINTS."
But then...
WHIRRR—click—shnk.
From the crater, Lex rose. Not walked. Rose. His nanotech armor wrapped around him like a metallic second skin, glowing faintly green, sharp as spite, and twice as dramatic. He looked like a sci-fi Dracula who could host a fashion week.
"Oh," Lex said, brushing dust off his shoulder. "That was rude."
Tessmacher blinked. "Did he just... sass the apocalypse?"
"I think I'm in love," Mercy deadpanned, firing stun rounds at Doomsday as she backed away.
The creature roared and rampaged forward like someone had given a toddler godlike strength and a severe dislike for dig sites. The security team opened fire. It was about as effective as throwing glitter at a tank.
Tessmacher, heels sinking in the dirt, shouted, "I TOLD YOU THIS WAS A BAD IDEA! AND I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO FINISH MY COFFEE!"
"MOVE!" Mercy ordered, grabbing her by the collar and dragging her away. "Unless you want to be Doomsday's toothpick, GO!"
Doomsday smashed through vehicles like they were soda cans. A transport truck exploded. A backhoe sailed twenty feet through the air and landed on poor Jenkins (RIP Jenkins, you never finished your memoir).
The monster leapt out of the vault, howling.
Then—it paused.
Turned.
Sniffed.
And walked.
North.
Toward Metropolis.
Every step left a crater. He crushed a family of rabbits, a hawk, and a very unfortunate squirrel that hadn't updated its life insurance.
A couple on a hike paused to take a selfie.
Bad call.
They became part of the landscape.
Mercy, several hundred yards away, was tracking the monster's energy signature with a tablet. "It's heading straight for Metropolis. Casualties are going to spike within the hour. Also, I think it hates birds."
Lex hovered above the wreckage like a very smug Iron Man who'd just been personally insulted by gravity.
"Mercy," he said, voice electronically modulated now, "start drafting a press release."
Mercy blinked. "A press release?"
"I want this creature branded by morning. T-shirts, toys, a VR experience—'Doomsday: Brought to You by LexCorp.'"
"You want to sponsor the murder-beast?"
"No. I want to own it."
Kellerman finally came to, blinking through his cracked glasses. "Did he just—no. Nope. I'm out. I'm going to go find a cave, and live in it. With soup."
In the distance, sirens wailed. Satellites realigned. Alerts pinged across the globe.
And in a gleaming tower far above the city, someone in a cape stared out the window with a growing frown.
Because LexCorp had officially cracked open the apocalypse piñata.
And someone—anyone—was going to have to clean up the candy-coated massacre.
—
General Sam Lane had been through some things in his life. Vietnam. Iraq. A brief stint trying to assemble IKEA furniture. Nothing scared him anymore.
Or so he thought.
He'd barely finished his third cup of black-as-his-soul coffee when the call came in: unidentified biological threat inbound, origin unknown, size… "Uh, sir, the satellite says it's as tall as a small office building and angrier than a goose on steroids."
Sam muttered something unprintable and stood up so fast he almost herniated a disk. "Get me everything. I want tanks. Jets. Drones. Hell, I want NASA on the line and a flamethrower in each hand."
He was not having a good Tuesday.
Within the hour, the outskirts of Metropolis had turned into a military-grade welcome party. Tanks rolled in. Helicopters buzzed like angry hornets. Soldiers in exo-armor stood in formation, guns ready, faces hard.
And then Doomsday arrived.
No big intro. No ominous music.
Just a ten-foot-tall slab of prehistoric hatred with bone spikes, glowing eyes, and the overall charm of a meat grinder dipped in acid.
Missiles launched. The kind that could level bunkers in the Swiss Alps.
They hit Doomsday dead-on.
Doomsday didn't blink. He didn't even notice.
"Tactical report," Sam barked into his comm.
"Uh… it's immune to explosions. And possibly physics, sir."
The second wave was tanks. They opened fire, turning the landscape into an apocalyptic fireworks show.
Doomsday walked through it like he was on a morning jog.
"Sir, what is that?" a young private asked, eyes wide.
"Bad news in bone armor," Sam muttered. "And our tax dollars at work."
Then came the air support. Two jets swooped in, cutting through the clouds like chrome angels of vengeance.
Doomsday picked up a slab of pavement the size of a minivan and chucked it.
One jet exploded mid-air.
The other swerved to avoid the debris and crashed into a hillside.
Sam Lane watched this happen with the calm detachment of a man who'd run out of profanity twenty minutes ago.
"Okay. Plan B. Everyone fall back. Then Plan C. Which is screaming."
The order barely got out before Doomsday hit the line. And by "hit," we mean tore through it like a blender through soup.
Soldiers were flung like action figures. One guy tried unloading a full clip into the creature's face—Doomsday grabbed him, used him to hit another soldier, and then threw both into a tank, which exploded.
"Oh come on," Sam growled, pulling his pistol. "Why do I even bring this thing?!"
Behind him, a Humvee exploded. Sam went flying, landed hard, and rolled behind what remained of a burning jeep. His arm felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. His ribs were doing an interpretive dance called "Crack Symphony in Pain Minor."
And yet, the old bastard pulled himself up, bleeding and pissed off.
He looked across the battlefield—which now resembled a Michael Bay blooper reel—and saw Doomsday stomping his way.
Directly at him.
"Well," he muttered, "guess I finally get to meet God. Hopefully he's got whiskey."
Doomsday raised a fist roughly the size of Sam's entire life regrets.
Sam looked up, defiant, pistol raised in one hand, middle finger raised in the other. "Let's dance, Shrek."
BOOOOOM.
Something hit the ground with a shockwave that cracked asphalt and physics. Doomsday was launched backward, slamming through three wrecked tanks and leaving a crater where gravity itself took a sick day.
Floating in the middle of the smoke was a man.
Not just any man.
The man.
Six-foot-something, square-jawed, steel-eyed, cape billowing dramatically in the wind like it had read the script.
Superman.
"You okay, General?" he asked, voice calm but laced with that just-saved-you-from-being-salsa undertone.
Sam wiped blood from his nose. "Yeah, sure. Just a few broken bones, a mild concussion, and the complete obliteration of my entire command. Peachy."
Superman gave him the slightest smile, then turned his eyes—now glowing like twin furnaces—on the creature dragging itself out of the rubble.
Doomsday roared, cracked its neck, and stomped forward like an angry toddler who'd just been denied candy.
"You must be new," Superman muttered. "We don't do rampages in Metropolis."
Doomsday charged.
Superman flew at him like a missile with abs.
They collided in the center of the battlefield with a sound like the world's largest bell being punched into submission. Shockwaves rippled out. Cars flipped. Windows shattered. Birds dropped dead mid-flight from the vibes alone.
Sam Lane ducked behind cover again, groaning. "Couldn't this have happened in Gotham?! They like this crap!"
Up in the sky, Superman and Doomsday traded blows fast enough to give the Flash an existential crisis. Superman drove a punch into Doomsday's gut, sending him flying through a billboard that exploded because of course it did.
Doomsday bounced, snarled, and sprang back with claws. Superman took the hit, grunted, and slammed his opponent into a crater with enough force to leave an impact visible from the moon.
It didn't slow Doomsday down.
Nothing did.
And deep down, Superman knew—
This fight?
It wasn't just for Metropolis.
It was going to be for everything.
—
Let's get one thing straight—I didn't ask to be surrounded by eight of the most powerful, deadly, gorgeous women on the planet. I merely allowed it to happen. Repeatedly. Out of heroism, obviously.
We were supposed to be "off-duty." You know, relaxing. Sand, sun, a beach towel that somehow survived Galatea landing on it at Mach-2, and the kind of swimsuits that made even the clouds blush. I had exactly one goal: soak up Vitamin D and shamelessly flirt with my girlfriends.
Kara—blonde, built like a teenage goddess, and currently wearing the world's least convincing "I'm totally reading" face—was lounging next to me, sunglasses perched on her nose, abs doing more flexing than a TikTok gym bro.
Tia, her clone-sister with all the curves and none of the chill, was oiling up her legs and deliberately stretching in ways that absolutely violated several United Nations protocols on psychological warfare.
Kori floated upside-down in midair, radiating sunlight and making the rest of us look like peasants. Megan—Miss Martian herself—had turned into a redheaded lifeguard and was giggling while using telekinesis to feed Zatanna grapes like we were in some kind of supernatural spa commercial.
Raven (resident goth queen, deadpan destroyer of my ego) sat under an umbrella reading Emotions for Dummies and pretending not to listen to every word we said. Mareena, literal Atlantean royalty, was gliding over the waves like the Little Mermaid had leveled up and started bench-pressing killer whales.
And then there was Deedee.
Big tiddy Goth GF Death herself. All legs, lips, and existential dread. She was currently straddling my waist, wearing a black bikini that could give a monk a heart attack, playing with my hair like it was a stress toy.
I sighed contentedly. "You know," I murmured, "I've fought gods, demons, sentient AI, and once, a very angry cow in Ireland—but this? This is the kind of chaos I live for."
Deedee purred. "Mmm. You are unusually relaxed. Should I be worried, or should I be topping off your butterbeer?"
"Both," I replied, just as she leaned in and whispered something that immediately made my brain short-circuit and my toes curl.
That's when Cyborg's face rudely popped up on the holographic screen attached to my gauntlet.
"Shadowflame," Cyborg said, face tight with concern, "code red in Metropolis. Batman's called full mobilization. Superman's engaged with an unidentified threat."
Before I could say "Buzzkill," Lee Jordan—yes, that Lee, now Mount Justice Comms Director and proud snack goblin—shoved himself into frame, munching chips and dripping charisma like Donald Glover after a Red Bull.
"Yo, H. Supes is throwing hands with something straight outta horror-core. Ugly. Big. Looks like it eats Kaiju for breakfast. We got live feed."
The image blinked to life.
Doomsday.
A walking concrete blender wrapped in bone spikes and bad attitude. The thing looked like someone crossbred a troll, a tank, and my worst finals week hallucination.
Kara sat bolt upright. "Oh no. That's Doomsday. Kryptonian black project. Bioweapon from the dark age of our science."
"Your people made that?" I said. "Remind me never to ask your grandparents for tech support."
Kara grimaced. "It adapts. Every time you kill it, it comes back immune to whatever you used. You can't kill it the same way twice."
"Great," I muttered. "So it's Doomsday, but make it subscription-based."
Everyone froze. The beach vibe? Gone. Replaced by cold dread, focused fury, and a sudden flurry of swimsuit-to-superhero transformations that would've made Sailor Moon weep in admiration.
Deedee climbed off my lap with a sigh and blew me a kiss. "Duty calls. But when this is over, I'm finishing what I started."
"Motivation received," I said, touching the crimson gemstone on my chest.
My armor responded instantly—flowing over me like molten gold and blood-red fire. Plates snapped into place with a thunderclap, the cloak unfurled like it was catching a phantom breeze, and the golden helmet sealed shut with a hiss, leaving only glowing golden eyes visible.
Shadowflame had clocked in.
"Deedee," I said, my voice now deepened and echoed through the helm like I had a built-in subwoofer, "tag Cyborg out. You and Lee are running tactical. I want satellite feed, threat scans, civilian damage control, and magical fail-safes ready. And tell Batman if he wants the city intact, he better keep the sarcasm to himself."
Deedee's outfit shimmered into her battle garb—black gothic armor with skeletal etchings, a scythe strapped to her back, and an aura that said 'I'm sexy and I cause existential dread'.
"Roger that, Daddy Deathlight," she said, winking as she vanished with a puff of shadow.
Lee popped back in. "Yo, just so you know, I called in the full Young Justice roster. They're en route. You're leading the A-squad."
"I always lead the A-squad," I said, rising into the air as wings of living flame burst from my back. "And I want teams deployed under Robin, Aqualad, Arsenal, Raven, Zee, Mareena, and Megan for rescue, recon, and suppression. Nobody dies today unless I say so."
Kara was already floating next to me, decked in her red-and-blue, golden hair blazing behind her. She looked at me like she wanted to say something serious. Instead, she smirked.
"Last one to Metropolis owes the winner a shower," she said.
"Together?" I asked.
She grinned. "Obviously."
"I love team-building exercises," I said.
Tia flew up beside us, flexing her biceps in her white bodysuit. "I am going to punch that thing in the heart."
Starfire floated up between them, a glowing comet of orange light and regal fury. "And I shall incinerate its evil bottom with the glorious might of the Tamaranean Royal Lineage of Fiery Destruction!"
"Translation: burn the ass," I muttered. "Got it."
We took off in unison, flames trailing behind me, Kara leaving sonic booms in her wake, Kori lighting up the sky, and Tia flying like she wanted to win a demolition derby. Behind us, I saw Zatanna teleport in with Raven, both already prepping spells; Mareena surfing in on a wave she summoned from five hundred miles away; Megan dropping into formation with her usual cheer-meets-deadly precision.
As Metropolis came into view—buildings trembling, screams echoing, Superman barely holding his own against a creature that looked like it wanted to redecorate the skyline with his face—I felt the familiar thrum in my bones.
Not fear. Not even adrenaline.
Purpose.
Because we weren't flying into a fight.
We were flying into war.
And war had a name.
Shadowflame.
And he was bringing hellfire, heartbreak, and a whole lot of very pissed-off superpowered girlfriends with him.
—
Somewhere on the rough edge of Metropolis, the ground wasn't just shaking—it was screaming. Superman was getting absolutely wrecked.
Not "oh no, he's having a bad day" wrecked. More like "somebody just gave the Man of Steel a very personal lesson in what happens when you mess with Doomsday."
Doomsday, if you missed the memo, was basically a biological blender on steroids with a bad attitude and a vendetta against anything wearing a cape. And right now, that cape belonged to Clark Kent, who was looking less like the iconic hero and more like someone who accidentally walked into a demolition derby.
Meanwhile, hovering just a little too close for comfort—because apparently, journalistic instincts include flying headfirst into disaster zones—was a news chopper. Inside, Lois Lane sat poised in front of the camera like a pro, even if her brain was screaming "Clark is about to get his ass kicked live on air."
"Good afternoon, Metropolis," Lois said, voice smooth but tight, like she was reciting a grocery list and not narrating a city about to be flattened. "We're coming to you live from the outskirts of town, where an unidentified creature has been laying waste to everything in its path."
Jimmy Olson, camera in hand and a grin that screamed 'still optimistic, somehow,' chipped in, "Lois, you think Supes can handle this? I mean, he's the Big Blue Boy Scout, right?"
Lois shot him a look sharp enough to cut through steel. "Jimmy, this is not a drill. He's Superman. And if anyone can take down a walking disaster, it's him."
Then came the roar. A sound that wasn't just loud—it was the kind of noise that made your stomach punch your spine and begged you to reconsider all your life choices.
Lois blinked, swallowed, and kept going. "The creature has been officially named Doomsday by Metropolis officials. And, folks, if the name doesn't scare you, the fact that it's currently punching Superman through three buildings might."
Jimmy leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Should we, uh, mention that the guy getting punched is kinda… Clark?"
Lois's jaw tightened. "Not. A. Word."
Down below, Clark Kent was doing his best impression of a pinball trapped in a cage—except the cage was Doomsday's fist and the pinball was his dignity.
Every time Superman threw a punch, Doomsday just grinned—or at least, it looked like a grin on a creature that seemed to be made out of bone shards and fury—and hit back like he was trying out for the world's angriest heavyweight champion.
Superman's jaw clenched, his cape fluttering like a flag in a storm. Sweat beaded down his forehead—visible even through the iconic blue and red—and his eyes burned with determination. You could see it in his posture: this wasn't over. Not yet.
Back in the chopper, Lois's voice cracked just a little. "We advise all residents to stay indoors and avoid the downtown area. Emergency services are overwhelmed. This is, by far, the most dangerous threat Metropolis has faced in years."
Jimmy snapped a picture just as Doomsday slammed Superman into the asphalt, sending up a geyser of dust and sparks. "Oof. That's gotta hurt."
Lois took a deep breath and forced a smile for the camera. "But if there's one thing we know about Superman, it's that he never gives up. He'll be back on his feet."
Yeah. Hopefully before the city was a crater.
Meanwhile, a few miles away, Harry Shadowflame was watching the entire disaster unfold, his fingers twitching with impatience.
"Come on, Clark," he muttered, "don't let that monster have all the fun."
—
So there I was, watching the Man of Steel get absolutely decimated like a pizza left out in the sun—definitely past its prime, definitely not getting a second slice. Clark was basically a human punching bag on steroids, and I'm thinking, Clark, buddy, you seriously need a squad.
Cue my grand entrance—because what's a rescue without a little showmanship? Forget trumpets; it's more like fire crackling, wings unfurling, and my crimson cape slicing the air like a hot knife through—well, Metropolis' very fragile sanity.
I'm rocking my Crimson and Gold armor like a walking neon sign screaming, "I'm about to ruin your day, Doomsday." That crimson gem on my chest? It's pulsing like it's got a caffeine addiction, burning hotter than your grandma's chili. My cloak flaps dramatically, even though there's zero wind—because style is non-negotiable when you're saving the world.
Flames burst from my back like I just stole the sun's lighter fluid, wings blazing bright enough to give every fire alarm in the city a nervous breakdown.
I dive straight into the chaos.
Below me, Clark's about to eat dirt for the final time—or at least, I hope it's final, because Doomsday's about to deliver a "knock you into next Tuesday" kind of punch.
I pull every scrap of magic and fire in my arsenal, condensing it into a swirling, searing blast that I hurl at Doomsday's ugly mug like it owes me money.
The monster roars—somewhere between a pissed-off bear and a grinder caught on rock—and takes the hit like a freight train on fire. He stumbles back, and honestly, he looks like he's reconsidering his career choices.
Just then, the cavalry shows up.
Supergirl streaks in, glowing like a celestial spotlight with a "don't mess with my family" glare that could melt steel. She catches the news chopper before it can face-plant the nearest rooftop. The pilot's hanging on by sheer terror, but Kara's hands are steady and sure—landing that bird smoother than your favorite bartender sliding you a perfectly chilled cocktail.
Meanwhile, Galatea—Tia for short—is basically a walking tank. She drops from the sky like a meteor and scoops up Lois, Jimmy, and the pilot faster than a squirrel on espresso before they get a taste of asphalt.
Lois Lane, sharp as ever even with her heart in her throat, gives a tight-lipped "Thank you" that says, My fiancé is about to get his ass handed to him, and yeah, I'm freaking out but don't tell anyone.
Jimmy's camera is already snapping shots like a paparazzo on steroids, grinning with a weird mix of terror and 'this is going to make a killer headline' excitement. "Uh, Lois? You think Supes is gonna be okay?"
Lois shoots him a look so sharp it could carve diamonds. "Jimmy, if you wanted to help, you'd fly up there and punch Doomsday yourself."
He makes a face like I just asked him to recite the alphabet backwards while juggling chainsaws.
Back on the ground, Starfire—Kori for the friends and anyone within screaming distance—is glowing with her trademark alien fire, hands gently touching Clark's battered form.
"He lives?" she asks, with the kind of innocent bluntness that somehow makes everything more intense.
I grin, tossing her a glance. "He's down, but not out. We keep him breathing till he can toss some fists again."
Kori smiles like I just told her the dessert menu has unlimited options—her fire flaring softly in rhythm with her excitement.
Doomsday, unimpressed, shakes off the fire like it's a bad cold and locks eyes on me like I'm his new favorite chew toy.
I crack my knuckles. "Alright, ugly. You're about to learn why they call me Shadowflame."
And then, the real fun begins.
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