The TV above the bar was doing its best impression of a panic attack—flickering between news anchors with over-sprayed hair and shaky aerial footage of the world's latest "We're All Gonna Die" event. The camera zoomed in on what used to be downtown Metropolis.
Spoiler: there was a giant freaking crater there now.
"Aw, crud on a corndog," Bibbo Bibbowski muttered, drying a pint glass with a rag that had seen better centuries. He squinted up at the screen, wiping his massive hand across his bald head. "That crater's big enough to fit Gotham's crime rate."
The regulars were uncharacteristically silent—construction guys, rookie cops, delivery drivers, and even a couple of stringers from the Daily Planet who hadn't had a decent scoop in weeks. Everyone stared at the screen like it owed them money.
On repeat: footage of Superman and Power Girl being absolutely yeeted out of the sky.
"I mean… I know Supes can take a hit," mumbled Big Sal, whose neck was thicker than most people's thighs, "but that looked like it hurt."
Power Girl was carried out by Wonder Woman, all singed and smoking like a busted transformer. Superman, in worse shape, was half-dragged by Mera, his cape looking like it had just survived a barbecue hosted by Doomsday himself.
Then… the screen froze—and replayed something that no one in the room had expected.
A figure in black.
Armored head to toe, covered in glowing crimson veins like his suit was bleeding lava. A long, impossibly dramatic cloak snapped in the wind that wasn't there. Crimson-lined. Hooded. Masked. The kind of dude that looked like he had nightmares about himself.
Eidolon.
The room collectively exhaled. Someone dropped a fry.
"There's the goth boogeyman," said one of the Planet interns, in a tone that was 90% terrified, 10% fascinated. "He looks like he listens to death metal in the shower."
"He is death metal in the shower," grumbled Sal.
Bibbo set the glass down with a thunk. "Hey. Show some respect, ya half-baked cannoli. That guy just saved our bacon."
"He also looks like he could star in a horror movie about possessed armor," Sal argued.
Bibbo jabbed a massive finger at the TV. "Yeah? So did Darth Vader. Still rooted for him once or twice."
The intern raised a hand. "I mean, not to argue with the guy who could snap me in half with a barstool, but like… he doesn't even talk. No interviews. No speeches. No origin story. He just shows up, punches cosmic horrors in the teeth, and disappears like Batman if he had emotions. That's spooky."
Bibbo scratched his jaw. "Yeah. But spooky ain't bad. Y'ever seen your grandma's feet in slippers? That's spooky. But you love her anyway."
The screen switched to satellite tracking—something was blazing across space, heading away from Earth.
"—Unconfirmed reports that Eidolon has teleported Doomsday off-world—possibly into the sun," the anchor was saying, before being interrupted by what sounded like twelve reporters yelling into a single mic.
"And now he's flingin' Doomsday into the Sun!" Bibbo roared, throwing up his arms like it was game day and Eidolon had just scored the winning touchdown via uppercut. "The freakin' Sun! You know how strong you gotta be to do that? I can barely throw my back outta bed."
The camera panned to a sketch of the event, since actual footage got fried when they entered the solar corona. The artist had really leaned into the "terrifying space wraith" vibe, portraying Eidolon as this winged shadow flying through the flames with the monster in tow.
"Looks like the Devil's hitting a home run," one guy muttered.
"Yeah?" Bibbo grinned, all teeth and grit. "Well, hell just gained a new MVP."
Another silence. But this time, not fear. Awe.
Then Bibbo picked up his mug, nodded toward the screen, and said:
"To Superman. To Power Girl. To Wonder Woman, Mera, all them who got knocked down but kept swingin'."
The others lifted their glasses, murmuring in agreement.
"And to Eidolon," Bibbo added, quieter now. "Wherever ya are, ya terrifying, leather-clad nightmare… ya did good."
There was a long beat.
Then someone in the back—maybe one of the younger guys—murmured, "I still think he looks like a Final Boss from a video game."
Bibbo smirked. "Yeah? Well, maybe that's what we need these days. Someone who don't need a spotlight. Just a job to do… and the guts to do it."
The bar went back to its usual noise and clatter, but now it had an edge—like they'd all witnessed something biblical, and were just trying to wrap their heads around it.
Bibbo, meanwhile, poured himself another pint and muttered:
"Hope he's not allergic to sunlight…"
Then again, if Eidolon was flying Doomsday into the heart of a star just to keep Earth safe?
Sunlight was the least of his problems.
—
Dr. John Henry Irons was having that kind of day.
The "seven cups of coffee and none of them worked" kind of day. The "your prototype just coughed up smoke like a dragon with bronchitis" kind of day.
And now, apparently, the "your hero might've just gotten yeeted by an alien death machine on live TV" kind of day.
"Yo, did you really just blow out your own chest dampener again?" John Henry asked the armor, which—because fate had a sense of humor—chose that moment to let out a hisssss-pop like a soda can under pressure.
He staggered back, coughing and fanning away smoke. "Oh yeah, that's real cute. You tryin' to barbecue me now? I made you. You don't get to rebel until after you save the world at least once."
He thunked the chest plate with his wrench like he was trying to knock some sense into it. The armor made a sad, mechanical wheeze, like it was sorry but also kinda dramatic about it.
"And people say I'm high-maintenance," he muttered, reaching for his coffee.
Before he could caffeinate his soul, the overhead monitor let out a ding. Not a cheerful elevator-ding. More like a "hope you have insurance" ding.
The screen lit up with the news feed.
"—live over Metropolis, where what began as a battle between Superman and the unidentified monster now designated as 'Doomsday' has ended with catastrophic damage to Centennial District—"
"Doomsday?" John Henry said aloud, blinking at the footage. "Oh that's just—nah, see, you don't name a thing Doomsday unless it eats planets for breakfast and flosses with train tracks."
The screen cut to choppy satellite footage of a smoldering crater the size of a football stadium. Smoke billowed like a bad omen. Rubble smoldered. Fire trucks looked like ants crawling around a broken Lego set.
Then—bam. Superman. Limp. Busted. Carried like a ragdoll by Mera, who looked like she'd just dragged a hundred-ton sea monster out of the Mariana Trench.
Power Girl wasn't doing much better—bloodied, scorched, and slung across Wonder Woman's shoulders like a blonde nuclear bomb with a dead battery.
John Henry froze mid-sip.
"Hold up. Hold up."
He set the coffee down—carefully, like it might explode too—and stepped closer to the monitor.
"...reports suggest the Justice League attempted to remove the creature from Earth's atmosphere but were unsuccessful. The League members were retrieved by Hawkwoman, Green Lantern, and Martian Manhunter and transported to an undisclosed location—"
"You're telling me—" he pointed at the screen, eyes wide "—that Superman and Power Girl got tag-teamed by the Hulk's angrier cousin, and even Wonder Woman couldn't pull him off-world?"
He stared as the footage showed the aftermath: a broken skyline, cracked streets, and smoking impact craters like someone had been playing dodgeball with comets.
And then—just when the announcer was about to switch to commercial, the screen glitched.
The feed shifted.
Something emerged from the smoke and fire.
Tall. Cloaked. Face hidden. Armor blacker than space with crimson veins pulsing across the chest like a heartbeat gone berserk. A long, black-and-crimson-lined cloak fluttered behind him like it had its own soundtrack.
Two glowing red eyes.
No logo.
No speech.
Just Eidolon.
John Henry's breath hitched.
"Oh man. Oh man. That's him. That's the guy. That's—who is this dude?"
Eidolon raised a hand. The monster charged. There was a flash of red, a flare of teleportation light, and just like that—poof.
Gone.
Doomsday. Eidolon. All of it.
Silence fell in the lab like someone had hit the mute button on the universe.
John Henry stared at the screen like it owed him rent.
"Did he just—? Did he just UberXL that monster into space like it was no big deal? WHO IS THIS GUY?!"
He spun in a circle, flailing with his wrench.
"Where's the press release? Where's the Wikipedia page? Is there a fan club?! I'd join the fan club! Actually, no—I'd start the fan club!"
The news anchor came back, voice calm in the way only deeply rattled anchors get after watching the laws of physics get body-slammed.
"...the public has taken to social media using the hashtag #ThankYouEidolon, following a statement from Wonder Woman herself, crediting the mysterious figure with saving the Earth from total annihilation."
John Henry sat down hard on a workbench, laughing in disbelief.
"#ThankYouEidolon. Are you kidding me? We just made a TikTok trend outta the Shadow King of Space-Hogwarts, and y'all are out here acting like that's normal?!"
He turned to his armor—the poor, half-finished thing still hissing from the dampener meltdown.
"Buddy," he said, patting the torso plate, "I was building you to stand next to Superman. But now we gotta up our game. Like… a lot. Like... final-boss-in-a-video-game kind of a lot."
He leaned in, lowering his voice like he was talking to a toddler.
"I need you to not explode the next time I turn you on, okay? 'Cause Eidolon out here playing 4D cosmic chess and I'm still losing at checkers."
A soft fzzzt! escaped the armor.
John Henry sighed. "That better be a yes."
He stood up, eyes still locked on the frozen image of Eidolon's last recorded frame—glowing eyes, cloak flowing, looking like a walking spoiler from a sci-fi prophecy.
And then he grinned, slow and dangerous, like a man who'd just found a challenge worth chasing.
"Alright, mystery man. You just set the bar. Game on."
He cracked his knuckles, grabbed his wrench, and shouted toward the ceiling like it owed him a miracle.
"Somebody order me more coffee, 'cause this is about to be the biggest glow-up in Metropolis history!"
The armor fizzled again.
He narrowed his eyes.
"That was not permission to short-circuit again, by the way. I swear, you blow one more capacitor and I'm replacing your motherboard with a Game Boy."
Cue another spark.
He pointed the wrench like a threat.
"I mean it this time!"
—
Lex Luthor looked like he'd been mugged by a philosophy book and a brick wall—both of which had strong opinions about hubris.
His expensive suit was torn in exactly four places, not that anyone was counting (except Mercy, who absolutely was). His bald head sported a gauze bandage that did nothing to distract from the livid red mark across his jaw. One eye was starting to swell shut. He was pacing across the floor with all the manic energy of a TED Talk speaker three espresso shots past their limit.
The room around him pulsed with red warning lights and the quiet hum of high-tech failure.
"He threw him into the sun," Lex growled, as if the word itself was personally offensive. "The literal sun. Who does that?!"
Mercy Graves didn't even look up from her tablet.
"Someone with style," she said. "Also someone who doesn't like getting punched through a parking garage."
"He didn't even give a speech!" Lex shouted, flinging his arms wide like a man auditioning for Villain Hamlet. "No dramatic pose. No threats. No witty one-liner. He just teleported in, grabbed the most valuable biological weapon in human history, and chucked it into our nearest star like yesterday's garbage!"
He paused.
"I was going to clone that garbage."
Mercy tapped something on her screen. "Yeah, the part where you called Doomsday 'genetically irreplaceable' while he was actively throwing you through your own wall was definitely top-tier science talk."
Lex whirled toward her, a wild gleam in his eye.
"I wasn't finished! I had a whole monologue about transcending mortality! About how Doomsday was the next step in evolutionary inevitability!"
"You also compared his skull density to a coconut."
"He needed to be put in his place."
Mercy raised a single eyebrow. "You were the one in a crater, Lex."
Lex stopped pacing just long enough to jab a finger toward the reinforced windows, which currently offered a scenic view of Metropolis in mild existential panic.
"I want every drone, every sweeper unit, every lab rat with a functional nose combing the streets for anything that belonged to Doomsday. Skin cells. Blood. A single scale. Molecular debris. If he so much as shed a callus, I want it in a petri dish by noon."
A nervous intern in the back raised his hand. "Sir, technically Doomsday doesn't have—"
"FIND SOMETHING ELSE!" Lex roared, and the poor kid promptly disappeared behind a server rack.
Mercy sighed, scrolling. "Y'know, it's a little weird you're more upset about losing the DNA than the near-death experience. Most people would be in therapy right now."
"I am in therapy!" Lex snapped. "This is therapy! My therapist said I should vocalize my goals."
"I don't think she meant while throwing lab equipment at interns."
Lex ignored her and dramatically lowered himself into his throne-like swivel chair, which was somehow both ergonomic and evil. He steepled his fingers.
"I will rebuild. I will innovate. I will transcend. Eidolon thinks he's so righteous, so mysterious. He didn't just destroy my weapon—he destroyed progress."
Mercy didn't look up. "You sure you didn't just want a Doomsday pet project to make you feel better after Superman blocked you on social media again?"
Lex snapped his fingers. "That was one time! And it was X, not blocking. He soft-muted me!"
"He tagged you in a meme of a kitten holding a 'Nope' sign."
"Defamation."
Mercy finally looked up, her blue eyes sparkling with too much amusement and not nearly enough sympathy.
"You're spiraling, Lex."
"I am strategizing," he hissed. "Eidolon has declared war. You don't throw my monster into the sun and expect me to do nothing. I am Lex Luthor."
She gave a mock gasp. "Wait, you're Lex Luthor? And here I thought I was working for Jeff Bezos' evil twin."
Lex leaned forward, hands gripping the arms of his chair like a man preparing to conquer several continents.
"He thinks he's won. That he's removed the threat. But what he's done… is give me freedom. No Doomsday? No problem. I'll build something better. Smarter. With less unprompted violence. Possibly voice-activated. I'll call it… Doom-Lex."
There was a long pause.
Mercy stared at him. "Please never say that name in public."
"I'll workshop it."
Another beep came from her tablet.
"Oh look," she said. "Your hospital appointment is in fifteen minutes. You know—the one where they check if you still have a functioning skull?"
"Reschedule," Lex said without hesitation. "The world waits for no man."
"You've got a concussion."
"I have vision."
"You also have twelve cracked ribs."
"I've had worse."
She gave him a look that could wither ivy.
"Lex. You tried to monologue at Doomsday—twice. He dropkicked you into your own jet and used you to smash a billboard."
"Which was promoting LexCorp," he countered. "Free advertising."
She narrowed her eyes.
He sulked.
"…Fine. But I swear, if I don't have a single cell sample by the time I get back, someone's getting reassigned to the janitorial cloning bay."
Mercy sighed and sent a message to the LexCorp med-bots.
"Just try not to break anything else until they get here."
Lex muttered something about 'next time' and 'sun-resistant monsters' under his breath, then settled back in his chair with the defeated posture of a man who had been personally slighted by both fate and physics.
Somewhere outside, the sun blazed cheerfully, completely unaware it had just become Lex Luthor's new mortal enemy.
—
The Fortress was so quiet, you could hear a snowflake have an existential crisis. It was the kind of place that screamed "ancient alien peace" but also whispered "if you slip on the floor, no one will hear you die."
Lois Lane stood near the glowing chamber, arms crossed, fury levels set to "thermonuclear." Her boots clacked against the crystal floor like they were personally offended by it.
"Oh, sure," she said, voice icy enough to give the walls competition, "let's just leave the most powerful man on Earth suspended in a Kryptonian tanning bed while I try not to commit homicide."
Across the room, Kara Zor-L—better known as Power Girl, and to Lois, Power Everything—paced like a caffeine-addicted tigress. Her cape swished aggressively, and her cleavage window was somehow angrier than usual.
"Do you want him alive or not?" Kara snapped. "Because I get it, you're mad—believe me—but this is the part where we wait and don't accidentally vaporize a medical bay with our sarcasm."
Kelex, bless his over-polite alien circuits, hovered between them like a robot at a family Thanksgiving dinner. "Would anyone like a calming beverage? Kryptonian chamomile? Xanthan-root hot cocoa? Perhaps a frozen mojito—"
"Kelex, unless it's a cocktail that comes with answers and a side of therapy, zip it," Lois said.
He beeped nervously. "Noted. Silencing beverage menu. Initiating support mode."
"Support mode?" Kara raised an eyebrow.
Kelex morphed into a sort of hovering armchair with a heating pad and a built-in stress ball. "Please insert hands into designated squish zones."
Lois ignored him, eyes fixed on the healing chamber. Inside, Superman—Clark freaking Kent—floated like some intergalactic Sleeping Beauty. Peaceful. Angelic. Shirtless. It was rude, really.
"Five years," Lois muttered. "Five. Years. Of coffee runs, late-night stakeouts, Pulitzer-nominated journalism, and he forgets to mention, oh by the way, 'Hi, I'm also the guy who catches planes and melts asteroids with my eyeballs.'"
"Classic Clark," Kara said, rolling her eyes. "The guy once apologized to a volcano for collateral damage. He overthinks breathing."
"He lied to me."
"He panicked," Kara corrected. "You scared him."
"I'm five-foot-seven and allergic to wheat. I scared Superman?"
"You wrote an op-ed called 'Who Watches the Supermen?' He keeps it bookmarked. He calls it 'inspiring and mildly terrifying.'"
Lois blinked. "He bookmarked it?"
Kara smirked. "Also memorized it. You rhyme 'cape' with 'escape' and 'shave' with 'brave.' Bold choices."
"I was on a deadline!"
From the pod, Clark twitched. A hand fluttered. Kelex immediately perked up. "Vital signs are stabilizing. Neural activity increasing. He is dreaming about—ah—pancakes?"
Lois and Kara blinked.
"Typical," Lois muttered. "Guy gets nearly killed by a space rage monster and his brain says, 'Let's cook breakfast.'"
"Honestly?" Kara said, "That tracks."
"I'm gonna kill him," Lois muttered. "Not actually, but like, emotionally. I'll punch his soul. And then kiss him. And then punch him again."
"Respect."
Kelex chimed in helpfully, "For legal purposes, please note that assaulting a recovering Kryptonian patient violates Fortress protocol 34-B."
"Kelex," Lois snapped, "do I look like I care about Fortress protocol?"
"I was programmed to say yes regardless of the answer."
Clark twitched again. This time his lips moved.
"Did he just say 'Lois'?" Kara asked.
"Or 'toast.' Hard to tell."
"No," Lois said, stepping closer. "That was definitely 'Lois.' Great. He's dreaming about me. While also dreaming about pancakes. I'm dating a breakfast-themed demigod."
"You're dating a puppy in a man suit," Kara added. "Adorable. Slightly drooly. Wants to save everyone. But you know what? He loves you."
Lois looked at her. Really looked.
"Are you trying to be sweet or just guilt-trip me into forgiving him?"
"Why not both?" Kara said, offering a shrug so heroic it deserved its own cape.
Lois sighed. "When he wakes up, he's getting the full treatment. No holds barred. I'm talking timeline breakdown, flowchart of lies, possibly a musical number."
"I'll provide backup vocals," Kara offered.
"Only if you wear the cape backwards like a dramatic scarf."
"Deal."
Kelex hovered in. "Estimated time to consciousness: three Earth hours. Would you like me to prepare a recovery playlist? I suggest 'Apologize' by OneRepublic and 'It's the End of the World As We Know It.'"
Lois rubbed her temples. "You know what, Kelex? Surprise me."
As the chamber hummed and Superman's vitals ticked upward, Lois sat on the floor with a heavy sigh. Kara joined her, shoulder to shoulder.
Three hours until Clark Kent opened his eyes.
Three hours until the greatest "You lied to me!" confrontation in romantic history.
Three hours until possibly pizza.
And a very long, very honest conversation.
—
Lois Lane was halfway through mentally rehearsing her PowerPoint presentation titled "Clark Kent, You're Getting a Verbal Whooping"—complete with bullet points, GIFs, and strategically-timed sass—when Kara cleared her throat.
"Hey, Kelex," Kara said, straightening up with the seriousness of someone who had just remembered they were basically a superhero from space. "Run playback. After we left. I want to know what happened—especially with Doomsday. Last I saw, Eidolon was throwing spells and sass, and Wonder Woman and Mera were tag-teaming that walking anatomy diagram."
Kelex beeped with what could only be described as snarky enthusiasm. "Retrieving logs now. Please be advised: Certain segments may cause elevated heart rates, fangirling, or spontaneous hero worship."
Lois raised a brow. "I'm already emotionally compromised. Let's go."
The holo-projector shimmered to life like it was gearing up to present the universe's most extra 3D movie. A full-color, surround-sound, IMAX-level illusion filled the Fortress's main chamber, showing Eidolon and Doomsday mid-fight like the finale of a billion-dollar crossover.
"Following your departure," Kelex said, using his best faux-British butler tone, "Eidolon determined continued battle on Earth would result in catastrophic collateral damage—urban destruction, psychological trauma, and, most grievously, several thousand one-star Yelp reviews."
"That tracks," Kara murmured.
The footage showed Eidolon facing off with Doomsday, conjuring a blast of violet energy with a casual flick of his hand that could probably unmake Saturn.
"He snapped his fingers—possibly waved his hand, perhaps jazz-handed—and teleported both himself and Doomsday away," Kelex continued.
Lois squinted. "Wait, he teleported?"
"Affirmative. Kryptonian science has no word for what he did. Magic? Utter nonsense. Holographic dramatics? Far more plausible."
"Definitely magic," Kara muttered.
"First stop," Kelex narrated with an announcer's flair, "Mars. Yes, the red one."
The display changed to show Eidolon body-slamming Doomsday into the Martian surface hard enough to make Olympus Mons blush. He then conjured a sword of pure starlight and proceeded to duel Doomsday like a mythical paladin having a bad Monday.
"Second stop," Kelex added, voice now dramatic enough to require a cape, "the Sun."
Both Lois and Kara stared at the projection.
"Wait, our Sun?" Lois asked.
"Indeed."
In the footage, Eidolon delivered a blow that snapped Doomsday's neck mid-flight, then hurled him directly into the solar core with a look that screamed, "And stay out!"
"Unfortunately, just before impact," Kelex went on, "Eidolon was impaled through the chest by one of Doomsday's bony shoulder spikes."
Kara winced like someone had stepped on her cape.
"He's okay," Kelex assured quickly. "Self-healing activated. Copious blood. Very dramatic. He'll probably rate it a solid 9.3. Would've won an Oscar—Best Leading Man in a Plasma Storm."
"And how did he get back?" Lois asked, because of course he was somehow not vaporized in a flaming ball of hydrogen and gravity.
"Wonder Woman and Batman convinced Beta-9 to piggyback into PeverellTech's Arcane Relay Satellite Network. Portal opened. Eidolon stepped out like he'd just come from a spa day."
"Beta-9 still sassier than Alfred and Beyoncé combined?" Kara asked.
"Sample audio clip," Kelex responded instantly. "Quote: 'If you liked it, then you should've put a portal on it.'"
Lois snorted so hard she almost choked on her own laugh.
Kara, however, had gone suspiciously quiet. Her fists clenched, her shoulders tense. She was leaning forward like she was watching a particularly juicy soap opera episode. Lois's instincts—a mix of years of journalism, five Pulitzers, and an advanced degree in reading people—lit up like Christmas at Wayne Manor.
She narrowed her eyes.
"You like him."
Kara blinked. "Who?"
"Eidolon."
"What?! No! Pfft. Please." Kara's hands flailed like she was fending off a swarm of bees made of feelings. "I mean—sure, he's tall. And powerful. And glowy. And those eyes. And when he called me 'Sunshine' after I knocked out Solomon Grundy, I—"
Lois folded her arms. "You like him."
"I do not."
"You want to bake him cookies and ask if he likes your cape."
"Okay, maybe I slightly like him."
"Ha. Knew it."
Kara huffed and crossed her arms. "But it doesn't matter. He's dating Wonder Woman. And Mera. The actual queens of muscle and majesty. Who even does that?"
"Apparently Eidolon," Lois said. "Also—have you seen them together? That trio is hotter than a Kryptonian hairdryer."
Kara groaned. "Yeah, well, I'm not into that whole 'sharing' thing."
"Then lucky for you," Lois replied smugly, "because they are. From what I've heard, they're open to expanding their royal court."
Kara sputtered. "That's not how relationships work!"
"Sure it is. If everyone agrees and communicates. You punch aliens for fun, wear a boob window in the dead of winter, and once bench-pressed a space cruiser. Maybe live a little?"
Kara groaned and dramatically flopped onto the Fortress floor. "This is ridiculous."
Lois sat down beside her. "This is life. Where your interdimensional crush saves the world, dates two goddesses, and still finds time to smirk like he invented flirting."
Kara buried her face in her hands. "If you tell him, I will heat-vision your espresso machine."
Lois smirked. "Your secret's safe with me. But if you ever do make a move, call me first—I'm writing the headline."
Kara peeked between her fingers. "What would you even call it?"
Lois leaned back, grinning like the cat who caught the Pulitzer. "'Power Girl Joins the Polyamorous Pantheon: Eidolon Scores the Hat Trick.'"
Kara groaned again, face first into the floor. "I hate you."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
—
The air still smelled like war. Ozone, scorched metal, and that weird tang that made you think the sky itself was nursing a grudge. Metropolis, bless her stubborn heart, was hanging on by a thread—burnt-out husks of skyscrapers casting long shadows over streets that looked like someone had gone full Mortal Kombat on them.
And then there was Eidolon.
Harry Peverell. The magical lovechild of a death god and a British stand-up comic, floating fifty feet above the devastation like he'd personally punched Doomsday in the face (spoiler alert: he had). His armor shimmered with crimson lightning, and the symbol of the Deathly Hallows on his chest throbbed like it had its own drumline. The red glow made his already dramatic black-crimson cloak snap in the wind like a diva's final bow.
Below him, Metropolis wasn't dead. Not yet. Civilians staggered out of ruins, coated in ash, soot, and the kind of trauma that no amount of therapy would fix.
Harry didn't speak. He didn't need to. His magic did the talking.
The energy rolled out from him like a heartbeat. No flash, no bang, no dramatic choir singing in Latin. Just quiet, deliberate power. Roads stitched themselves together. Glass reformed in windows. Power lines blinked back to life. A kid's dropped ice cream cone turned into a full sundae with extra sprinkles.
Okay, maybe not that last part. But it felt like it could.
And then came the light show.
A green comet streaked across the sky and stopped just short of invading Harry's personal bubble. Hal Jordan—Green Lantern, galactic cop, and eternal smartass—hovered into view.
"Nice reconstruction job," Hal said. "Real HGTV meets divine intervention. You always this dramatic, or is this your post-solar-death-punch era?"
Harry turned his helmeted head slowly. The crimson eyes of his armor narrowed like a cat judging your existence.
"How about I let you fight Doomsday on the Sun the next time?"
Hal held up his hands. "Point taken. Also, no thank you. That guy punches like a planet. I like my organs unvaporized."
Two more figures joined them. Hawkwoman, flapping her golden wings with the grace of a buzzsaw, and J'onn J'onzz, looking as serene and sad as always.
"City looks better than it did before the apocalypse," Hawkwoman said, eyes scanning the clean-up below.
"That's because I didn't let Bruce design the layout," Harry quipped. "Gothic chic might work for a bat cave, but not for downtown."
"Hmm." J'onn hovered closer, silent and watching.
Harry turned his attention to the Martian. His voice lowered, magic humming beneath it.
"We need to talk."
J'onn frowned. "About?"
"Mars."
Hal blinked. "Uh, come again?"
J'onn's brow furrowed. "There is nothing left to discuss. Ma'aleca'andra is dead. The Burning ended everything. My family… my people… gone."
Harry's cloak fluttered. He tilted his head.
"That's what I thought too. Until I took Doomsday there."
The others stiffened. Even Hawkwoman stopped mid-hover.
"I chose Mars because it was empty," Harry continued. "No civilians. No interference. Just a big, dusty arena with magical ley-lines for a cosmic cage match."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"But once we landed… I felt something. Minds. Buried. Weak. But very much alive."
J'onn went still. "That's not—We searched. We searched for years—"
"You forgot the underboroughs."
Hawkwoman turned to J'onn. "You said those were legends."
"They're real," Harry said. "Caverns the size of cities. And there's someone down there. I don't know who. But I know what fear feels like. And I felt it from beneath the surface."
J'onn's form shimmered, momentarily showing his native Martian shape. His voice was barely a whisper. "My daughter… my wife…"
Harry's tone softened. "I don't know if it's them. But someone's down there. And I didn't want Doomsday anywhere near them. So I threw him into the Sun."
Hal let out a low whistle. "You threw Doomsday into the Sun?"
"He punched me into orbit first. Felt fair."
J'onn floated closer. "You can take me there?"
"I can do better," Harry said, holding out a hand crackling with crimson runes. "I can get you answers."
J'onn nodded, too choked up to speak.
Hal coughed. "Okay, but like, what if these Martians are… y'know, zombie Martians? Or space vampires?"
Harry's eyes flared.
"I'm the plan."
And with a flare of red light, Eidolon and J'onn vanished.
Flash zipped in a second too late, skidding to a stop in his red suit. "Did I miss the cool teleport thing again? Dang it!"
"Yeah," Hawkwoman said. "You really need a better GPS."
"Or maybe stop running to the wrong dimension," Batman muttered from the shadows.
Somewhere across the galaxy, beneath the sands of a long-forgotten world, something ancient stirred.
Buried no longer.
---
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