The tunnels groaned.
Not in a spooky, background ambiance kind of way. No, this was the kind of groan that sounded like the planet had a stomachache and they were the unlucky burrito causing it.
Eidolon didn't flinch. Of course, he didn't. The man could probably walk into a haunted house, get offered tea by a ghost, and ask if the brew was ethically sourced.
His black leather armor gleamed in the faint magical light, etched with a pulsing crimson sigil on his chest that sent glowing vein-like tendrils of power across his body. His cloak, lined with red and somehow fluttering despite the still air, made him look like a gothic rock star who moonlighted as a demigod. His face was completely hidden beneath his hood and helm, the only visible feature his glowing crimson eyes that seemed to say, "I dare you to try something stupid."
"That sound," Eidolon said flatly, "is the ancient Martian equivalent of, 'You really should've turned left at Albuquerque.'"
M'gann looked up, her expression halfway between worried and ready to start swinging. Her voice was soft but firm. "What was that?"
"The Red Hunger," Eidolon replied, his fingers lighting up with tiny dancing sigils. "Capital R. Capital H. Capital 'Oh gods we need to move.' It's like a fog monster with the worst case of halitosis and unresolved childhood trauma."
M'gann blinked. "How do you know all this?"
He tilted his head. "British. We're born with a sarcastic encyclopedia and an irrational amount of knowledge about eldritch horrors."
From the front of the group, J'onn floated silently, his deep green form haloed by the low-light glow of his bio-luminescent Martian aura. His voice rumbled like a dignified thundercloud who'd just read a disappointing newspaper headline.
"These tunnels once led to the Heartspire," he said, his red eyes scanning the stone around them. "A sacred peak where our ancestors would commune with the stars. This place was meant for meditation."
Eidolon made a sound halfway between a snort and a scoff. "Yeah? It's giving more 'evil lair meets serial killer Airbnb' right now."
From somewhere behind them, a sound echoed through the stone.
Laughter.
Not the good kind. Not the you-told-a-joke-and-everyone-laughed kind. More like the kind of laugh you'd hear right before your flashlight died in a horror movie.
The kids huddled closer. M'gann pulled two of them into her arms, her expression hardening even as her voice stayed sweet. "We need to move. It's coming."
Eidolon placed a hand on the wall. Runes jumped to life along the surface, golden and hot and very annoyed. "Yeah. It's tracking us like a clingy ex with a GPS tracker and zero boundaries."
J'onn turned back, voice calm as ever. "We are close to the surface. The ley convergence above us is strong. But the path ahead... narrows."
Eidolon sighed. "Narrows how?"
"Narrows like a womb," J'onn replied solemnly.
There was a long beat.
"Did... did you just compare our escape route to Martian childbirth?"
J'onn did not smile. "Only metaphorically."
Eidolon muttered something very British and very rude under his breath and started up the narrowing passage.
As they climbed, the air grew tighter. Not just physically—magic was tense here, like it was holding its breath. And beneath it all, that breathing sound started again.
Slurping. Wet. Inhaling fear like it was on sale.
"You okay?" M'gann asked, keeping pace beside him, one hand still gently shielding a child behind her.
Eidolon didn't look at her. "Oh, I'm fantastic. Just me, my sarcastic inner monologue, and the literal embodiment of Martian nightmares breathing down our backs. Peak holiday vibes."
She smirked. "Your eyebrows are glowing again."
"Means I'm charging a portal spell," he said casually. "Or possibly preparing to unleash a hellfire sneeze. Either way, best keep the kids behind me."
They reached the vertical climb. A jagged stretch of Martian rock shooting upward like someone had given gravity the finger.
J'onn floated upward like it was a gentle escalator. Show-off.
Eidolon just stared. "Why is it always up? Why can't eldritch death fogs ever chase people downhill? That's all I'm asking."
But he climbed, because that's what you did when people were counting on you and eldritch nightmares had no chill.
Behind them, the growling got louder. The air grew thick. And the Red Hunger howled.
The children started crying.
Eidolon turned back and snapped his fingers. A ripple of golden warmth spread out from him, settling over the group like a weighted blanket made of sunshine and chamomile tea.
M'gann blinked in surprise. "What did you do?"
"Stabilized their fear," Eidolon replied. "Bit of emotional shielding. Keeps panic from spreading."
"You can do that?" a child whispered.
He turned his glowing gaze to the boy and said, "Sweetheart, I'm British. Bottling up feelings is practically a national sport."
The tunnel opened ahead. A shaft of pale silver light shone down through a crack in the ceiling. The surface.
"J'onn," Eidolon said, pointing, "if you'd be so kind as to introduce that ceiling to your heat vision, I'd be much obliged."
J'onn nodded once. His eyes flared red, and with a blast of pure energy, the rock cracked, melted, and collapsed away—revealing a swirling Martian sky above, laced with lightning and dust.
The moment the path cleared, Eidolon hoisted two kids up and climbed out into the open.
The others followed—M'gann and J'onn bringing up the rear.
As soon as the last child was safe, Eidolon's hands blazed with crimson and gold. He raised his arms, runes spinning into place around him like a clock made of fire and starlight.
Down below, the fog surged.
It hit the tunnel mouth.
It screamed.
Eidolon didn't move.
He turned, those burning eyes meeting the Red Hunger's swirling void.
"You're late," he said flatly. "We were just leaving."
Then he slammed his palms together.
A spiral of phoenix-feather flame and golden lightning erupted behind him, tearing open a glowing portal to Earth. Trees. Sky. Freedom.
"Everyone through!" he bellowed.
The kids didn't need telling twice. They ran.
M'gann tugged the last one along, her face set and fierce. J'onn paused, gave Eidolon a look that was halfway between grudging admiration and Martian curiosity.
"You are... unconventional."
Eidolon grinned behind his helm. "You should see me do karaoke."
And then he turned and stepped through the portal—just as the Red Hunger slammed into the mouth of the tunnel and let out a howl that rattled reality.
The portal snapped shut.
And silence fell over Mars.
For now.
—
The portal spat them out with a dramatic whoomp, the kind that usually came with a lens flare and a soundtrack by Hans Zimmer.
They landed on a sunlit hill just outside Metropolis. Real grass. Actual, honest-to-Merlin, photosynthesis-having grass. Eidolon could've dropped to his knees and kissed the ground. He didn't, of course. He had a reputation to maintain. Also, he was still wearing his helmet, and public displays of emotion were strictly against the British Code of Not Being a Drama Queen (unless it was done with sarcastic flair).
Still, it was nice. Blue sky. Birds in the distance. Moderate levels of alien pollution, but nothing that would make the EPA cry too loudly. And right there on the horizon: LexCorp Tower, glinting like a massive middle finger to common sense.
Behind him, the kids—a bunch of young Martians, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed—stumbled around like dazed tourists at Disney World after three days without sleep and one too many churros.
One of them dropped to their knees and kissed the grass.
Another tried to eat it.
Eidolon pointed without turning. "Don't do that," he said. "It's fertilized with corporate greed and the crushed dreams of interns. Also, raccoons pee here."
M'gann, ever the overachieving older cousin, swooped in to help the smallest kid sit down properly. She dusted off their jackets with all the weary affection of someone who had once believed babysitting would be easier on a different planet.
"Stay close," she said gently. "And no more grazing."
J'onn stood silently a few feet away, arms folded, gaze sweeping the skyline like he was downloading the entire topography into his brain. Which, knowing him, he probably was.
"It's good to be home," he said, voice deep and deliberate—like Morgan Freeman if he'd been forged from Martian steel and existential dread.
Eidolon tapped the side of his helm with two fingers. "Let's let the Earth know we're back before someone sends up a drone and mistakes us for a Flashpoint side quest."
A sleek holographic interface shimmered to life around his wrist, floating midair like an expensive light show at a tech billionaire's birthday party.
"Beta-9," he said.
There was a beat of silence. Then, a voice filled the air. Warm. Powerful. Polished to perfection. And with just enough sass to let you know you were not, under any circumstances, in charge here.
"Eidolon," said Beta-9, her tone like velvet dipped in gold. "I was beginning to think you ghosted me. Again."
He tilted his head innocently. "We were only off-world for a day. Mars doesn't even have time zones. I'd hardly call that ghosting."
"One Earth day without check-in triggers protocol review. You know this."
"Beta, love, you named the last protocol review 'Operation Where the Hell is My Boy?'"
"Because that was the operation. And if you portal-jump out of the solar system without notice one more time, I will initiate the Beyoncé Protocol."
He blinked. "That's not real."
"It is now."
The hologram winked at him. Actually winked.
Eidolon sighed, somewhere between exasperation and the resigned dignity of someone who knew arguing with Beyoncé was not only pointless—it was sacrilege.
"Fine. Consider this my check-in," he said. "Location: outskirts of Metropolis. J'onn's with me. And we brought back a handful of Martian refugee kids. Also, there's a high probability a shape-shifting psycho with boundary issues followed us. So maybe send someone with... I don't know. A sword. And mood lighting."
"Coordinates received. Dispatching tactical assets now. Shall I warm up your theme music?"
He hesitated. "...Is it the remix with violins and that aggressive bass drop?"
"Would I ever disrespect your entrance?"
"Beta, this is why you're my favorite AI."
"And don't you forget it."
"Exactly."
The transmission ended with a perfectly timed audio cue: one note of digital chime that sounded suspiciously like a diva blowing a kiss.
J'onn glanced sideways, eyebrow raised in the timeless Martian expression of what is your life?
"The Beyoncé Protocol?"
Eidolon didn't look at him. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to."
"I did not realize the Justice League's artificial intelligence was... themed."
"She's not themed, J'onn. She's curated."
Behind them, one of the kids raised their hand. "Is she a goddess?"
"No," said Eidolon. "She's better."
From somewhere down the hill, a boom echoed through the air—deep and unmistakably dramatic. The kind of boom that said, surprise, suckers, we brought backup.
Eidolon turned, watching as a sleek aircraft—definitely not standard government issue—descended through the clouds with the grace of a falcon and the subtlety of a firework.
"Ah," he said, plopping down onto the grass with a dramatic sigh. "Right on time. Amazonian goddess, Atlantean royalty, or emotionally repressed billionaire—I'm taking bets. Five to one it's the Bat. He owes me a favor. And a sandwich."
M'gann tilted her head. "J'onn told me he punch you in the face the last time?"
"Yes," Eidolon replied cheerfully. "And I stole his grappling hook. We've moved past it. It's called growth."
J'onn didn't smile, but something about his posture relaxed. "It's good to be home."
Eidolon stared up at the sky, his voice softening just a fraction.
"Yeah," he said. "For now."
Because deep down, he knew what the others didn't.
Mars had been a nightmare. But Earth?
Earth was where the real chaos lived.
And it had missed him.
—
The boom echoed across the hill like a thunderclap wearing tactical boots and a bad attitude. A moment later, a shadow swept over the group—a sleek black aircraft, equal parts menace and midlife crisis.
The Batwing.
It descended like it was judging everyone below, touched down with the arrogance of a billionaire tax evader, and opened its rear ramp with a hiss so dramatic it could've gotten a SAG card.
And out stepped Batman.
Because of course he did.
All black. All cape. All brooding menace bundled into a parental guilt trip with a utility belt.
His boots didn't even make a sound on the grass, which was just plain rude. Eidolon—Harry Peverell, interdimensional snark dispenser and part-time savior of small green and white children—had spent weeks perfecting his own dramatic entrances. But no, Bruce Wayne had to glide down like the Reaper in a cowl.
Behind him, looking like the universe's most photogenic apocalypse, came Wonder Woman and Mera.
Diana's golden armor caught the afternoon sun like justice dipped in liquid intimidation. Mera, all crimson leather and crown-that-could-double-as-a-weapon, walked like she owned the planet and was just letting everyone else borrow it temporarily.
Eidolon rose from his grassy perch—okay, it was a slightly flattened picnic blanket, sue him—with a theatrical flair worthy of a Shakespearean exit.
"Well, look who finally decided to crash my picnic," he drawled. "Bats, Brienne of Themyscira, and Little Miss Tsunami."
Diana arched a brow that could slice through hubris.
"You've been back on Earth for five minutes, Harry. Must you already be insufferable?"
He spread his arms. "Darling, I missed you too. That wasn't sarcasm, by the way. I genuinely missed your terrifying aura. It's very... grounding."
Mera smirked, crossing her arms. "You left without saying goodbye."
"I left to stop an interplanetary murder cult from feeding Martian children to a psychic fog monster. Forgive me if I didn't schedule a farewell brunch."
"Still could've sent a hologram," Diana muttered.
"Or a singing crystal. I like the ones with firework projections," Mera added.
"I was going to, but Mars has terrible Wi-Fi and worse Yelp reviews."
Batman said nothing. Because he was Batman. But his eyes flicked—barely—to the five Martian kids huddled behind Eidolon, all looking like extras from a superhero-themed Stranger Things reboot.
Eidolon followed the look and raised a hand. A soft crimson shimmer spread out from his fingers, forming a protective dome over the hill. It was invisible to the naked eye but hummed like a bass drop from a Taylor Swift remix.
"There," he said. "Bubble's up. No drones. No satellites. No eavesdropping government spooks with acronyms for names and delusions of grandeur."
Batman gave a single nod.
Which, in Bruce-speak, was basically throwing confetti and singing show tunes.
Eidolon turned, suddenly more serious. "How's Clark?"
Batman's jaw tensed. "Out of the Healing Chamber. Recovering in the Fortress."
Diana folded her arms. "Lois is there. Tearing him a new one."
"Oof," Eidolon winced. "Is she using full sentences or just headline puns?"
"She opened with a Pulitzer-worthy monologue," Diana said. "Then threw a Kryptonian chair at him."
"Classy," Eidolon nodded. "Very Oprah-meets-Spartan."
"I mean, he did almost die," Batman said.
"He did die," Eidolon corrected. "I just made sure Doomsday died harder. Then I yeeted his corpse into the sun like a responsible adult."
Mera stepped closer, her voice soft but razor-edged. "And you didn't think to mention you were going off-world?"
He met her gaze, a flicker of guilt breaking through the sass. "If I told you, you would've followed. And that would've made things worse."
"You're an idiot," she said, smacking him lightly on the shoulder.
"I know," he replied with a sheepish grin. "But I'm your idiot."
Her lips twitched. Diana rolled her eyes. Batman stared at a tree like it had committed tax fraud.
Behind them, one of the Martian kids sneezed and briefly turned purple.
M'gann—voice bubbly, and face shifting between worry and babysitter exhaustion—rushed over. "No shifting in public!"
Eidolon turned. "He sneezed! What do you want from me, a telepathic tissue dispenser?"
"Not the worst idea," murmured J'onn, who had been silent until now. His deep, calm voice rolled out like thunder under silk. "But let's prioritize stability first."
He stepped forward, posture regal, mind undoubtedly running calculations six layers deep. He placed a hand on the shoulder of one of the smaller Martian children. The kid immediately stopped vibrating.
Beta-9's voice pinged in Eidolon's earpiece with the honey-coated confidence of a galactic diva.
"Harry, boo, you've got three unauthorized satellites trying to peek through your bubble. Should I give them a Beyoncé blackout?"
Eidolon grinned. "Make 'em regret buying stock in LexCorp."
"Already done, sugar. Oh, and your heart rate's spiking. Is that because of the girls, the guilt, or the five inbound bogies burning re-entry east of your picnic blanket?"
Eidolon froze. "Wait—what?"
A tremor rippled through the earth.
J'onn looked up, expression sharpening.
Batman's eyes narrowed. "Something just entered orbit."
Mera conjured a blade of water with a flick that made gravity rethink its priorities.
Diana drew her lasso with that terrifying calm that meant someone was about to have a bad day.
Eidolon sighed and cracked his knuckles.
"I just got the grass stains out of this suit."
A moment of silence stretched, tense as a drawn bowstring.
Then Eidolon grinned. "Alright. Let's see who forgot to RSVP this time."
—
[Earth-Zeta Syndicate Tower – Midnight]
The skyline of Zeta City didn't sparkle like something out of a superhero postcard. No, it glowered. It brooded. It looked like a neon fever dream decided to punch hope in the face and steal its lunch money. And towering above it all, like a middle finger made of concrete and bad intentions, stood the Syndicate Tower. Headquarters of the Crime Syndicate. Zip code: DOOM.
Venus tapped one vine-laced gauntlet against her hip and squinted at the vault door in front of them. It was big. It was armored. And it looked like it wanted to bite someone.
"So," she said, her voice like warm honey that had once strangled a man. "Are we going subtle? Or full Broadway supervillain number?"
Jester dropped from the ceiling like a particularly glittery fruit bat, his violet grin stretching ear to ear. He was upside-down, naturally. Gravity was a suggestion.
"I vote interpretive chaos," he declared, twirling a joy-buzzer between his fingers. "With jazz hands!"
Savanna rolled her eyes so hard they almost took flight. She was already crouched beside the door, supersuit gleaming in sleek cheetah-print and practicality. Her expression said she had zero time for interpretive anything.
"In and out. Grab the Quantum Trigger. Don't die. Don't monologue. And if you sparkle, I swear to Bast, I will shave you."
Jester gasped dramatically. "But the sparkle is part of the brand!"
Power Tower loomed behind them like the world's most intimidating motivational poster. Seven-foot-something, muscles for days, and a scowl that could cause small earthquakes. If she had a catchphrase, it was probably "No."
"We have seven minutes before the orbital cannons cycle. If they notice the dimensional barrier cracking, we're toast. Not even good toast. Soggy toast."
Lex Luthor, who hadn't even looked up from his wrist console, finally spoke.
"The only thing worse than soggy toast is listening to you all talk about it."
He was the picture of composure. Bald, goateed, and looking like Michael Fassbender on a bad day. The kind of man who drank black coffee, quoted Machiavelli for fun, and filed for patents in his sleep.
"The Quantum Trigger is locked behind biometric encryption keyed to Ultraman's DNA," he said, eyes flicking through glowing blue schematics. "We don't have time to play dentist."
Jester raised a finger. "Actually, I do have a molar."
Everyone turned.
"Don't ask," he added. "And don't sniff it."
"We're using the stealth gene scrambler Venus whipped up," Lex cut in, like a man trying to steer a bus full of circus clowns through a hurricane.
Venus smiled sweetly. "Nice to finally get some credit around here. You know, instead of being mistaken for the evil version who tried to date a volcano."
Power Tower rumbled, flexing her biceps like she was prepping for a WWE finale. "Focus. We breach in thirty."
Then the alarms started.
A sound like a robot banshee on a caffeine binge shrieked through the tower. Red lights flared. And above them, a dozen Syndicate goons in black tactical armor came pouring from catwalks and corners, each one armed with weapons that looked like they'd been borrowed from thirteen different universes and at least one bad sci-fi movie.
Savanna muttered something very unprintable.
"Why always during my stealth missions?"
"Because you're adorable when you're annoyed," Jester said, flipping forward and launching himself into the air like a sugar-fueled missile.
Power Tower cracked her knuckles. She was already growing.
"Let's remind them what real heroes look like."
Venus sent a flurry of vines snaking out like sentient spaghetti, snagging weapons, ankles, and at least one guy's dignity.
Lex sighed again. The man had made sighing into an Olympic sport.
"Savanna, on me. Venus, keep them off our flank. Power Tower, smash responsibly. Jester—"
"Distract the minions with flair and possibly glitter bombs?"
Lex hesitated.
"Yes. Exactly."
Savanna darted beside him, graceful and lethal, like an apex predator with better cheekbones. "What's Plan B?"
Lex tapped a final command into his console. The vault hissed.
"There is no Plan B. We either get the Quantum Trigger or we all become tragic origin stories."
—
The skyline of Zeta City didn't sparkle like something out of a superhero postcard. No, it glowered. It brooded. It looked like a neon fever dream that had decided to punch hope in the face and steal its lunch money. And towering above it all—like a middle finger carved from concrete and bad intentions—stood the Syndicate Tower. Headquarters of the Crime Syndicate. Zip code: DOOM.
Savanna zipped past a squad of Syndicate goons like karma in designer heels, claws flashing and sarcasm locked and loaded. Venus—fiery-haired, jungle-goddess chic—unleashed vines that slithered and snapped like sentient spaghetti. Power Tower made her presence known by turning a dude into drywall with one punch. Jester pirouetted across the battlefield like a glitter-drenched fever dream with issues, three Syndicate goons getting concussions and sparkle-induced trauma before they hit the floor.
Lex Luthor, meanwhile, scowled his way to victory.
He typed away at the control console like a man trying to win an evil science fair. The Quantum Trigger sat in the vault before him, glowing like a star had decided to cosplay as a hand grenade.
"We're nearly out," Lex announced, voice like black coffee—bitter, efficient, and extremely necessary. "All we have to do now is—"
Crash.
The ceiling gave up on being a ceiling and decided to audition for the role of 'incoming doom.' Rubble exploded, dust flew, and through it all came two figures who were definitely not here to make friends.
Owlman landed first, cape swirling, eyes calculating behind his cowl. Imagine if Batman had gone to a finishing school run by sociopaths. He was elegance and cruelty all wrapped in one brooding package.
Next came Superwoman, striding through the dust cloud in heels and a whole lot of attitude. Her lasso crackled red like it had been dipped in a live wire and bad decisions.
"Going somewhere?" Owlman asked, voice smooth enough to sell audiobooks and cold enough to make glaciers shiver.
"Actually," Jester said, somersaulting onto the vault and grinning upside down, "we were hoping to borrow a cup of sugar. And maybe your doomsday weapon. Oh, and your Wi-Fi password."
Power Tower rolled her neck like she was warming up for a cage match. "We were promised a boss fight."
Superwoman's smile was a weapon. "You'll get a funeral."
Lex grabbed the Quantum Trigger and slid it into the transdimensional module on his wrist. He didn't flinch when a beam scorched past his shoulder.
"No time for banter," he muttered.
"Oh, there's always time for banter," Jester said, pulling the pin on a confetti grenade the size of a toddler's head. It exploded in a dazzling puff of rainbow chaos. "See?"
And then it got messy.
Venus's vines lashed out, wrapping around a goon's leg and flinging him into his friend like a botanical bowling ball. "That was my flank, genius!" she shouted at Lex.
"I said keep them off our flank," Lex growled, ducking a flying pipe. "Not turn it into a jungle gym."
Power Tower met Superwoman with the subtlety of a meteor strike. The two collided, shockwaves flattening steel beams and egos alike.
"You hit like a wrecking ball," Superwoman snarled.
"I am the wrecking ball," Power Tower roared, headbutting her so hard the floor cracked.
Jester zipped through Owlman's henchmen—because yes, Owlman had those—twirling like a murder ballerina with glitter in his wake.
"Is this the part where I scream 'you're not my real dad' or do we skip ahead to emotional trauma?" he cackled.
Owlman didn't answer. He just pulled a blade from his belt and hurled it. Jester caught it between two fingers and ate it.
"Needs salt," he said.
Lex's fingers danced across the controls. His jaw clenched. The breach was almost stable, the escape route almost ready.
Almost.
Jester caught Lex's eye.
"Get them out," he said simply.
Lex paused. "Jester, no."
Power Tower had heard it too. Her gaze snapped to the others.
"We stay," she said, voice like an avalanche with biceps.
Venus blinked. "Excuse me, I didn't hallucinate that. You're staying? What are you—crazy?"
"Yes," Jester chimed. "Have you met us?"
"It's math," Lex said, his voice quieter now. Almost human. "The breach can't support all of us. Three can make it through before it destabilizes."
Savanna's claws retracted as she whirled on him. "So what, we just leave them? No. No way."
Power Tower gave her a nod. "You have to go. We hold the door."
"You'll die."
"Better us than you," Jester said. "Besides, I owe Owlman a glitter bomb to the face. Can't die before I collect."
Venus's eyes blazed. "I'm not letting you sacrifice yourself like some kind of tragic antihero."
"Sweetheart," Jester said with a wink, "I've always been tragic. The glitter is just to distract from the trauma."
Power Tower turned to Lex. "Get them out. Now."
Jester turned back once more. "Lex… remember that time you tried to invent edible plutonium?"
Lex didn't answer.
"You're still bald," Jester said.
Power Tower slammed her fists into the floor, triggering a controlled cave-in. The chamber collapsed behind them in a roaring crescendo of dust, stone, and fury.
Lex hit the final command.
The breach roared open, white-hot and swirling with chaotic energy. Venus, Savanna, and Lex vanished into the light—
—as the tower behind them came crashing down.
They didn't look back.
Heroes never do.
But somewhere, far across the multiverse, the echoes of laughter and thunder still rang.
And Owlman knew.
The game wasn't over.
It had just begun.
—
Smoke hung in the air like a guilty secret at a villain convention.
The battlefield—which used to be a city block—now resembled a half-eaten lasagna. Craters. Fire. Rubble. Someone's car alarm blaring like a toddler with cymbals. And right in the middle of it, stepping out of the dust like a bruised god of overcompensation, was Owlman.
He looked like someone had thrown a microwave at him. His armor was cracked, cape shredded, and one of his lenses was spiderwebbed from a hit that definitely came with a dental plan. But he walked like nothing was wrong. Because, of course, he was Owlman. And guilt walked with him like an old friend.
Floating behind him, radiant and royally ticked off, was Superwoman. Her lip was bleeding. A clean, elegant cut. The kind of injury that, on anyone else, would ruin a date. On her? It made her look even scarier.
Owlman dropped into the rubble with all the warmth of a guillotine on casual Friday.
"Found them," he said.
There, in a crater that looked suspiciously like an exclamation mark, were Jester and Power Tower. Half-buried. All-smirking.
Power Tower pushed herself upright with a groan that sounded like it belonged in a Rocky montage.
"You know," she rasped, spitting out something that could've been a tooth or a Lego, "that actually kinda hurt."
"On a scale of one to 'call my chiropractor,'" Jester said cheerfully, his face a Picasso painting of bruises, "I'm at a solid 'I saw Elvis.'"
Superwoman landed with a thundercrack. The ground literally flinched. She had her glowing lasso in one hand and a death glare in the other.
"You lost," Owlman said. His voice was whiskey, gravel, and disappointment all dressed in Armani.
"We stalled," Power Tower snapped. "It's called strategy. Look it up, nerd."
"Semantics," Superwoman growled.
"Technically, that is semantics," Jester offered helpfully. "Also, did anyone else feel that shockwave in their spleen? Or was that just lunch fighting back?"
Owlman knelt. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a predator checking to see if the mouse was still twitching.
He unsheathed a knife and gently—almost tenderly—placed it against Power Tower's cheek.
She stared him down like a boss fight. "Do it. I could use the exfoliation."
Ultraman chose that moment to descend from the sky like a myth wearing a bad mood. His cape flared behind him, because physics works differently when you're a smug, solar-powered demigod with a jawline that could slice cheese.
He landed next to them and rolled his shoulders. Bones cracked. Thunder rumbled.
"You should've run," he said, in a voice full of silk and venom. "But you stayed. For what? Honor? Glory? Friendship?"
"Spite," Jester said brightly, raising a finger like a student with the wrong answer. "You forgot spite."
Ultraman's punch hit the ground next to Jester like a tactical nuke in a bad mood. The shockwave alone tossed Power Tower like a frisbee. Jester just convulsed—like a Muppet in a blender.
"You're going to talk," Ultraman growled.
"I mean, probably," Jester wheezed. "Eventually. It's kinda my thing. You want a monologue? A flashback? Maybe a musical number? I got range."
Ultraman grabbed him by the throat and lifted him up, slow and theatrical. Jester dangled like an inflatable tube man with blood loss.
"Wait," Jester gasped. "C'mere. I'll whisper it. Can't… can't breathe real loud."
Ultraman leaned in, just close enough to regret every life decision that brought him here.
"Jester—!" Power Tower shouted, warning in her voice.
Too late.
Jester smiled. No, grinned. A cracked-lip, glitter-smeared, bloodstained grin that could haunt dreams and weddings alike.
"You ever dance with entropy in the pale moonlight?" he whispered.
Click.
Ultraman looked down.
The inside of Jester's jacket sparkled like a holiday nightmare—dozens of blinking blue lights, all wired to go boom-boom.
"Oh," Ultraman said, eloquently.
"Boom," Jester said, gleefully.
Superwoman moved first, grabbing Owlman like a sack of brooding potatoes and rocketing skyward. Her flight left a sonic boom and a stunned pigeon in its wake.
And then the world exploded.
The blast wasn't subtle. It wasn't quiet. It was cinematic. The kind of explosion that directors use as trailer bait. Fire bloomed. Metal screamed. Glass shattered in five postcodes. Syndicate Tower folded like origami during a nervous breakdown.
When the dust settled and the flames flickered out like disappointed stage lights…
Ultraman stood alone.
His suit was a memory. His hair smoldered. His skin was burned but healing—because Kryptonian privilege is real, folks. But his pride?
That was dead.
Charred.
Buried.
In the crater's center, all that remained was scorched earth, a smear of glitter, and the melted remnants of a laughing man's madness.
Nearby, Power Tower's gauntlet twitched—still smoking, still defiant.
And on the wind, soft and mocking, came the ghost of a voice that absolutely should not exist anymore:
"Needs salt."
Ultraman's fists clenched. The ground cracked beneath him like the world was holding its breath.
Above, Superwoman and Owlman floated in tense silence. Watching. Waiting.
"This isn't over," Owlman muttered, the words like rusted blades.
Superwoman didn't answer.
Because she knew.
It hadn't even begun.
---
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