Midnight—Sector 12 Surveillance Hub (Also known as "Owlman's Funhouse of Creepy Tech and Paranoia")
The night air practically hummed with drama. Team One stood atop a mostly-dead parking garage (RIP levels 3 through 5), squinting at the tower below like it owed them money. It was a monument to surveillance paranoia, bristling with antennas, satellite dishes, and enough blinking red lights to make even a Dalek go, "Bit much, mate."
Eidolon crouched beside Diana, one hand holding binoculars, the other casually twirling a dagger that looked like it wanted to start a fight. "Behold: the lair of a man who thinks facial recognition should apply to squirrels. All it's missing is a lava moat and a sign saying 'Absolutely No Capes.'"
Mera rolled her eyes. "Can we focus on not dying?"
"Oh, of course. Ladies first," Eidolon said, tipping an invisible hat to Diana.
Diana—the definition of statuesque murder poetry in motion—simply raised an eyebrow. "Try to keep up."
And then she jumped. No hesitation. Just a blur of silver and crimson as she dove sword-first into the night.
Hawkwoman wasn't far behind, wings slicing the air, her war cry echoing like a battle hymn for every girl who ever got called "too intense."
Mera conjured a thirty-foot wave from thin air and surfed it straight into the building because doors were for people who didn't wield the ocean like a personal wrecking ball.
Eidolon sighed, flicked the dust from his coat, and stepped off the ledge. Midair, he vanished like a sarcastic ghost with a grudge.
—
Inside, chaos.
Wonder Woman was already elbow-deep in brute. The guy looked like he moonlighted as a malfunctioning blender with fists. She ducked a punch, twisted, and broke his cybernetic arm like a breadstick.
"Next," she said, not even winded.
Mera burst through the wall like Poseidon's very annoyed niece, trident glowing like a rave on judgment day. Two guards were flung into a console that exploded in what could only be described as the world's most expensive fireworks mistake.
"You were saying?" she asked, giving Diana a smirk that could've been registered as a lethal weapon.
Diana spun her lasso, roping a guard mid-run and slamming him into a wall hard enough to leave a human-shaped dent. "I said next, not flambé."
And then the alarms howled. Loud. Flashing. Dramatic. The kind of alarms that probably came with their own Michael Bay score.
Red lights pulsed. Panels shifted. The floor lurched like it had just remembered it hated you.
"Oh, brilliant," Eidolon muttered, appearing from the shadows and dusting himself off like he hadn't just free-falled through solid concrete. "Owlman turned the building into a Rubik's Cube. Because of course he did."
A slow, sarcastic clap echoed across the room.
"Touching," came a voice that sounded like someone had distilled all of Batman's trauma and given it a smug AI interface.
Owlman. Grim. Broody. Looking like he'd stepped out of a "What If Batman Did Therapy But It Went Horribly Wrong" special.
And next to him?
Johnny Quick. Red and silver blur. Smug as a cat that ate two canaries and keyed your car. Vibrating with menace and what was probably five Red Bulls and an espresso shot.
"Looks like we got ourselves company," Quick sneered, crackling with speed energy. His Australian accent made every insult sound somehow both sexy and condescending. "Dibs on the British guy."
Eidolon gave him a once-over, unimpressed. "Oh, goody. It's Tasmanian meth gremlin. I've always wanted to fight someone whose main weapon is poor decision-making."
Quick vanished. Eidolon barely blinked before the two of them crashed through a wall, fists flying, blades flashing, and someone somewhere probably screaming about property damage.
"I'll take the owl," Mera said, cracking her knuckles. "You clean up his nestlings."
Diana nodded, eyes glowing faintly. "Try not to drown anyone on our side."
"No promises."
—
Meanwhile...
Power Girl and Flash were working another node of the tower, frying backup systems like it was Black Friday and the fire sale had just begun. Cyborg and Hal fed them intel from another sector.
But Kara's attention kept—okay, not drifting. Let's call it what it was: laser-locked on her comms where Eidolon's voice occasionally leaked through.
"Quick, you're fast. Not smart. You're just methhead with sneakers."
She bit her lip. Nope. Not crushing. Totally professional. Not mentally picturing how Eidolon looked in leather and sarcasm.
Flash zipped by. "Were you muttering about Eidolon again?"
"SHUT UP, BARRY."
"Aww, someone's got a bad-boy blade fetish."
"I will throw you into next week."
Back in the server room, Eidolon was dancing. Not literally, but the way he moved made ballet look clumsy. Quick zipped around him in silver and red arcs, fists a blur—but Eidolon wasn't aiming for Quick.
He slashed a crimson blade made of Magical energy into a bundle of overhead wires. Electricity arced. Johnny screamed. The speedster crashed to the floor, twitching.
Eidolon crouched beside him, the blade casually resting on Quick's throat.
"Fast doesn't mean clever, mate. It just means you make bad decisions quicker than the rest of us."
—
Control Room.
Owlman stood still. Calculating. Cold. Every word he said sounded like a computer deciding whether or not you were worth sparing.
"Your world is dying. You just haven't accepted it yet. Order will prevail."
Diana stepped forward. Flames danced in her irises. Her sword gleamed. Her voice? Low. Dangerous. Divine.
"Justice will."
She lunged. Metal sang. The sound echoed like a war anthem across the chamber.
Outside, Mera rode a column of water through a wall of Syndicate soldiers, laughing like a goddess of vengeance at a particularly fun party.
Hawkwoman dive-bombed from above, mace glowing, wings slicing.
And Eidolon? He emerged from the wreckage, cloak flutter, blade smoking, crimson eyes glowing just a little too bright.
"Shall we bring this nest down, ladies?"
Diana smirked. Mera rolled her neck. The three of them turned together, weapons raised.
Behind them, Power Girl crashed through a wall, cheeks red.
"I'M HERE. And I'm not blushing. At all."
Eidolon glanced at her, lips twitching. "Of course not. Now let's finish this, shall we?"
Team One stepped forward—a hurricane in heels, wings, and weapons.
And the Syndicate? Well...
They were about to learn that bad guys never win.
Especially not against three pissed-off demigoddesses and a sass-powered British shadow.
—
Meanwhile — Sector 6: The Bio-Tech Node (Or, as Cyborg dubbed it on the flight over: "The Dungeon of Things That Shouldn't Be Plugged In, Ever.")
The floor vibrated with a menacing hum, like the whole building had developed a pulse—and it was angry. Lex Luthor stood at the head of the group, eyes glowing behind the HUD of his sleek, chrome-white exosuit. Yes, he was bald. No, he wasn't evil. This Earth's Lex Luthor had swapped megalomania for altruism, and ego for—well, slightly more subtle ego. Picture Lex Luthor with a Nobel Prize and a personal vendetta against tyranny.
"Remember," he said, voice calm but commanding, "we neutralize the node, minimize collateral damage, and if we're lucky—"
A thunderous crash interrupted him. A wall across the chamber exploded inward like it had said something offensive about someone's mother.
Superwoman stepped through the dust and debris like a Bond villain at a fashion show—impossibly tall, armor-black and obsidian-shiny, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut steel and a smirk that could end civilizations. "Hope," she said, her voice thick with mockery, "how quaint."
Behind her assembled the full nightmare circus.
Power Ring twitched in place, muttering to his ring like it was a jealous ex with abandonment issues. The Martian—J'onn's evil twin in cracked volcanic glass form—floated silently beside him, eyes burning coal-black. The Outsider brought up the rear, Alfred Pennyworth's sadistic doppelgänger, scalpel spinning between his fingers like he was auditioning for Top Chef: Psychopath Edition. And then there was Atomica—five-foot-nothing, way-too-smiley, and vibrating with the same kind of energy as a rabid squirrel hyped up on espresso shots and poor decisions.
Venus, glowing in radiant green, narrowed her eyes. "You're the one strangling this planet."
Superwoman smirked. "I'm remaking it. Just... weeding out the weak."
Savanna cracked her knuckles, claws gleaming. "Wanna test that theory, lady?"
"Alright, kids," Hal Jordan said, spinning his Green Lantern ring lazily like he wasn't two seconds from death. "I guess brunch is canceled."
Lex's voice sharpened. "Team Two—engage. No holding back."
And then all hell broke loose.
BOOM. Superman met Superwoman in mid-air like two gods throwing hands on Olympus. The collision sent shockwaves through the air, blowing debris sideways and shattering nearby glass. Clark threw a punch that cracked the sound barrier.
"You're not Diana," he growled, heat vision locked.
Superwoman dodged and slammed a knee into his ribs. "I'm better. I don't play nice."
CRACK. Martian Manhunter phased into The Martian mid-flight. They vanished, then exploded back into visibility, locked in a psychic dogfight that sent code screaming through the node's systems.
J'onn grunted. "Your mind is corrupted."
The Martian grinned like he'd heard a compliment. "And yours is pitifully polite."
Meanwhile, Cyborg opened fire with his sonic cannon, zeroed in on Power Ring.
"Yo, ring guy," Cyborg yelled, dodging a blast. "You need therapy, not cosmic jewelry."
"I'm trying to kill them!" Power Ring shouted at the ring. "Stop reminding me about my third-grade piano recital!"
Venus knelt, palm pressed to the ground. Her vines erupted like green serpents on a caffeine bender, grabbing Atomica mid-leap and coiling around The Outsider's wrist before he could so much as twitch his scalpel.
"That's enough surgery for one day," she said sweetly, fiery redhead meets eco-terrorist.
Savanna flashed across the field, claws slicing through Power Ring's shield. "Tag, you're it."
He screamed. The ring began to cry. Like, audibly. It was awkward for everyone.
Hal Jordan dodged a psychic blast and conjured a full boxing ring mid-air—ropes, bell, the whole package. "Bucket list," he muttered, pointing at Evil J'onn. "Always wanted to punch the Martian Mirrorverse."
Lex hovered above it all, orchestrating the fight like a bald, beautiful chessmaster. He scanned data through his HUD. "Node is five levels down. If we sever the neural link here, the rest of the network collapses."
"I got drills!" Cyborg's arm turned into an industrial-grade boring tool.
"No need." Venus tapped the ground. Giant roots cracked open the floor like a trapdoor to hell. "Shortcut."
"Efficient," Lex said with a nod. "I like her."
"I heard that," Venus said, voice dripping with smug.
"Me too," muttered Savanna, dodging a blast. "You're not subtle."
"Not trying to be."
Then Superwoman punched Superman through three floors of reinforced concrete. Like, just yeeted him into the underworld. She dove after him with murder in her eyes.
"I'll carve the hope out of you, Kal!"
"You'll have to find it first," he snarled, catching her and flinging her into the opposite wall.
Meanwhile, downstairs, the team dove through the vine tunnel toward the node.
Atomica shrank and shot after them like a homicidal firefly. She almost made it—
Until Savanna spun, tail lashing out, smacking the mini-manic sideways into a circuit panel.
"Bug. Squashed."
Lex and Cyborg were already at the node, working in tandem. Sparks flew. Alarms blared.
"Ready?" Cyborg asked, hand glowing.
"Always," Lex replied.
"Do it."
The node flared, lit up like a dying star—and then shut down. The building groaned like it had a stomachache and was about to hurl.
From above, a furious scream echoed. Superwoman launched downward—
—and got intercepted, mid-charge, by Superman's full-body tackle.
"You're done," he said, eyes glowing, cape flaring like a thundercloud.
Then…
FLASH.
Everything went white.
Node Two: Neutralized.
—
Syndicate Tower — Sub-Level: Recovery Wing (Also known as "The Place Where Ego Meets Ice Pack")
The door hissed open with all the drama of a Netflix cliffhanger. In walked Owlman, dressed in tactical Kevlar so black it made your soul feel underdressed. He looked like Batman's moodier cousin—and considering who we're talking about, that's saying something.
Slung over his shoulder like a particularly disappointing gym duffel bag was Johnny Quick, twitching like he'd tried to French kiss a lightning bolt. One of his boots was still smoking.
"Y'know," Johnny muttered through gritted teeth, his Australian accent clinging to every syllable, "this isn't how I pictured a spa day."
The med-bots glided in, all silent efficiency and zero bedside manner, lifting him onto a gurney like they were loading groceries.
Owlman didn't glance down. "Seventy-eight percent chance of survival," he said coolly. "Not bad. For you."
"Oh, goodie," Quick groaned. "I always dreamed of being a C-minus in triage."
Leaving the bots to their business, Owlman stepped into the Command Atrium. The room glowed in red emergency light and conspiracy theory energy. Screens flickered with corrupted feeds, glitching images, and enough red static to make you question your Wi-Fi.
Ultraman stood at the center of it all, arms crossed, glowing red eyes practically daring someone to tell him they'd run out of coffee. Luke Evans would've been proud.
"You're late," Ultraman growled.
"I brought a souvenir," Owlman replied, motioning to a nearby screen, which kindly decided to replay Johnny Quick face-planting in slow motion. For science.
Ultraman raised an eyebrow. "Who did this?"
With a swipe of his glove, Owlman changed the footage. The screen zoomed in and refocused on a group of six individuals: a winged Thanagarian with a war hammer, a red-haired Atlantean that looked like Aquaman's hotter cousin, a speedster with a smirk problem, a Kryptonian glowing with barely restrained energy, an Amazonian who could bench-press a tank—and a sixth.
The sixth one made Owlman pause.
"Most of them have recognizable analogues," he said. "Except him."
The image shifted. Cloaked. Armored. Black leather threaded with crimson light. The cloak moved like it had an attitude problem. The helmet was expressionless. The eyes? Glowing red and amused, like he was three seconds away from roasting your entire lineage.
"No registry. No sightings. No known counterpart," Owlman said. "But he fights like he's trained with every league on the planet. Uses terrain like it owes him rent. And he took down Quick like he was swatting a fly. Repeatedly."
Ultraman cracked his knuckles. "So we kill him first."
Owlman turned to him, eyes narrowing beneath his cowl. "He held back."
He tapped the screen again. The footage slowed. Eidolon dodging, redirecting, stopping just short of lethal force. Every blow was measured. Precise. Calculated like he was solving a particularly violent math problem.
"He let Quick live," Owlman said. "He wanted us to see him. Study him. That makes him the most dangerous person in the room."
Ultraman floated closer. "If he bleeds, I can break him."
"Yes," Owlman said, dry as the Sahara. "But will he let you?"
They stared at the screen. The group of six glared back, frozen in flickering red light.
"This wasn't random," Owlman continued. "This was coordinated. Strategic. Someone is leading them."
Ultraman folded his arms again. "Then we crush the leader."
"No," Owlman replied, already moving toward the data feeds. "We study them. Eidolon plays the long game. He's not here for a fight."
Ultraman scowled. "Then what's he here for?"
Owlman hesitated. Then: "Reconnaissance. Or worse—recruitment."
—
Meanwhile...
Rain slicked the alleyways like someone had given the whole town a bath in guilt and gasoline. A stone gargoyle crouched above the chaos, and on top of that gargoyle stood Eidolon, cloak fluttering in slow motion because he had flair, damn it.
His earpiece crackled.
"You good?" Power Girl's voice buzzed through, warm and teasing like someone who'd definitely practiced flirting in the mirror—and was now very much in a relationship with said mirror.
Eidolon grinned beneath his mask. "I'm better than Quick. And far less crispy."
"I saw that takedown," she replied, and you could hear the smile in her voice. "Kinda hot."
"I aim to please," he said. "And terrify. Bit of both."
She laughed. "You think Owlman's buying the whole 'mysterious vigilante with edge issues' act?"
"Temporarily," Eidolon said, crouching low. "But he's not the problem. He thinks. Ultraman reacts. Quick runs. Grid calculates. Superwoman dominates. But Owlman... he anticipates."
Power Girl went quiet.
"You worried?"
"No," he said, rising. "I'm planning."
"Phase Two?"
Eidolon's eyes flashed.
"Phase Two."
"Do I get to punch someone?"
"You get to punch everyone."
"God, I love working with you," she breathed.
"I know."
And just like that, he vanished into the rain, a whisper in the storm.
One word echoed in the comms.
"Assemble."
—
To be fair, the automatic doors had been through a lot that week. But even so, they squealed open like they knew better than to mess with the incoming drama.
Superwoman didn't walk in. She stormed in. Every step declared war. Her boots crunched through scattered debris and her armor—scorched and spiderwebbed with damage—sparked just enough to suggest "don't touch." One gauntlet flickered like a strobe light with attitude.
Trailing behind her like reluctant contestants on a reality show called Who Got Wrecked This Time? came the rest of the Syndicate.
The Martian, towering and silent, flickered like an old VHS tape mid-exorcism. Power Ring was holding his—well—his power ring, cradling the trembling object like it owed him rent. The Outsider popped his shoulder back in with a wince and a wet crack, grumbling something about "bloody amateurs." Atomica was spinning in a containment field, upside-down and vibrating like a can of soda someone had definitely shaken first.
Johnny Quick looked up from his med-bed like a kid waking up late for school. His hair was a mess. His grin was worse.
"Did you all miss me, or do you always look like the losers of a supervillain bake-off?"
Atomica tried to flip him off while mid-spin. She only managed a wobbly wave.
"Eat static, Quick."
Superwoman didn't break stride. She made a beeline for the Command Atrium, tossed a data stick onto the main console like she was dropping a live grenade, and folded her arms. Her expression was the perfect mix of I told you so and I might punch you anyway.
Owlman looked up from his terminal, dressed in his usual aesthetic of Tech Billionaire Who Could Kill You with a Stapler. Across the room, Ultraman didn't bother to turn. He was busy watching surveillance footage of Superman—again. His fists were clenched tight enough to creak.
Superwoman tilted her head, voice smooth and lethal.
"I see we started the group therapy session without me."
Owlman gestured at the screen without missing a beat. "Eidolon."
Superwoman snorted. "Oh, the broody one in the demon hoodie? Yeah, creepy posture, killer timing. Reminds me of you, actually."
Owlman didn't blink. "He's not ours. Not one of theirs, either. Unknown origin. Highly trained. Dangerous."
She leaned on the console, smirking. "Finally, someone at the party I might enjoy hitting twice."
Behind them, Power Ring—who was now poking at his green ring like it had personally insulted his mother—spoke up with a voice laced in Jensen Ackles' brand of charming exasperation.
"This thing hasn't stopped crying since we ran into Lantern-Lite. I swear it's developed trauma. Should I be worried if it starts journaling?"
The ring trembled and whimpered. Power Ring winced.
"Yeah, okay, you're the victim here."
The Martian—stoic, deep-voiced, and radiating Idris Elba energy—floated forward like he had all the time in the world and no interest in wasting it on mortals.
"We were not prepared for this level of resistance. Their minds are coordinated. Their instincts, synchronized. Even the girl with the hair."
Atomica, who had finally slowed her spinning, grinned and flipped her hair theatrically.
"Flattered."
The Outsider stepped forward, his British growl dry enough to sandpaper steel. "They outplayed us. That shouldn't be possible. We had every angle. Every variable."
Superwoman uploaded the footage from her helmet. The central screen flared to life, casting cold light across the room as battle scenes exploded into motion.
Cyborg in full tank mode, launching EMP bursts. Lex Luthor barking tactical orders like a caffeinated general. Venus and Savanna in tight formation. Hal Jordan's Green Lantern—definitely not their Power Ring—creating an entire boxing gym mid-air and using it to wreck fools while smiling like a gym coach who brought cookies to the apocalypse.
And then: Superman.
Close-up.
Ultraman's jaw twitched.
"He's… me," he muttered.
Owlman tilted his head. "No. He's what you pretend to be."
Superwoman gave a little snort, her smile edged like a switchblade.
"He fights like he has a soul. Weird flex."
Ultraman's voice dropped to a snarl. "He's weaker. I could rip out his heart."
She turned slowly, eyes sharp, jaw set. "Yeah? Funny, 'cause you tried. He's faster. Smarter. And he actually gives a damn. That's what almost got me. He cared."
Owlman tapped a frame on the screen: Superman slamming Superwoman through three concrete floors. Then the next clip—him catching her mid-air, arms trembling, heat vision flaring, fury barely held in check.
"Controlled violence," Owlman said quietly. "His restraint is more dangerous than Ultraman's rage."
Superwoman crossed her arms. "He held back. Same with Eidolon. I've been hit by planets with more enthusiasm."
Ultraman grunted. "Then we start a kill list."
"We're already on theirs," Owlman said, deadpan. "Top-tier, premium seating."
He brought up a new diagram: six intruders. Eidolon in the center. Multiple identities. High-function synergy. Owlman's tone dropped into textbook strategist mode.
"They're not just fighters. They're coordinated. Precise. They've trained together."
"Like a Justice League?" Superwoman offered.
Owlman shook his head.
"Worse," he said. "A family."
The word hit like a dead silence.
Ultraman's eyes narrowed into red pinpricks.
"Then we break them like one."
"Careful," Owlman warned. "Kill the wrong one first, and the rest will become legend. But if you really screw up? Eidolon won't retaliate. He'll dismantle us. Brick by brick."
Atomica groaned and rubbed her temples.
"Cool, cool, love the family drama vibes. Are we fighting superheroes or starring in a Fast & Furious reboot?"
Power Ring raised a hand. "I call dibs on being the guy who survives by accident."
The Martian said nothing, but his eyes glowed like someone who'd seen what waited on the other side—and wasn't impressed.
Superwoman sighed and cracked her neck.
"Well, at least I know what I'm wearing to the apocalypse."
Johnny Quick piped up weakly from the bed.
"Something with less punching involved?"
She gave him a wink over her shoulder.
"Depends. You still healing or just lazy?"
"Both," he mumbled. "But thanks for caring."
She smiled with just enough teeth to terrify a lion.
"I don't."
—
LexCorp Underground - Strategic Command Lair
Honestly, this place looked like the Batcave and a Bond villain's lair had a very expensive, slightly evil baby. Transparent holographic displays floated mid-air like they were posing for a sci-fi magazine shoot, glowing with tactical maps, threat levels, and at least three video feeds of Ultraman punching buildings because apparently subtlety wasn't on sale this week.
At the head of it all stood Lex Luthor, looking exactly like you'd expect if someone had photoshopped Michael Fassbender into a sleek, bald genius with a God complex and better suits. He stood with arms folded, eyes narrowing like he was personally offended by the concept of gravity.
"Status update," Lex said, his voice as sharp as his cheekbones.
Cyborg, who looked like a one-man tech army with the chill of a jazz saxophonist (and the biceps of a linebacker), tapped his console. "Grid systems are stable. Surveillance on the Syndicate is green across the board. Still no sign of movement from Ultraman. He's either brooding or bored. Could be both."
"He's always both," muttered Hal Jordan, who was lounging in a chair like he was on spring break, spinning a glowing green yo-yo and managing to look good while doing it. "I'm just saying, if Eidolon makes another dramatic entrance, I want theme music."
As if summoned by the power of sarcasm, the lights dimmed.
Cue wind. Cue fluttering cloak. Cue over-the-top theatricality.
Eidolon descended from the ceiling like a British bat-shaped ghost, landing with enough style to earn a standing ovation. His cloak billowed in a wind that definitely wasn't there two seconds ago.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, voice smooth and accented like he'd just stepped out of a particularly dangerous tea party. "I was busy saving a cat from a tree and brooding attractively on rooftops. You know, Tuesday things."
Power Girl blinked twice, clearly trying to act cool and absolutely failing. "Hi. I mean, you're here. Cool. Casual. Definitely not blushing."
"Hi, Karen," Eidolon said, flashing her a wink so dangerous it should be registered as a weapon.
Wonder Woman stepped forward, arms folded over armor that gleamed like it was forged by gods who had excellent taste. Her blue eyes narrowed. "You're late."
"I arrive precisely when the narrative demands it," he said, tossing his hood back. "I checked with the author."
Mera leaned casually against a column, looking regal, lethal, and like she might flirt just to win. "Was the author aware that you missed the last two briefings?"
Eidolon tilted his head, smiling under his mask. "Was I missed, then? I'm touched. Especially by you two." His gaze moved deliberately from Mera to Diana. "Truly, it warms my cold, shadowy heart."
"Careful," Diana murmured, her voice like velvet steel. "You might melt."
"And then who would save the world with dramatically timed magic and British sass?" he said, unbothered.
Lex exhaled like a man trying not to murder anyone before lunch. "Enough banter. We have a world to reclaim."
Eidolon turned, cloak still moving like it had a contract with the wind. "Owlman suspects me. He's noticed the gaps in intel. My neutral act. The fact that I somehow always escape scans without setting off a single metahuman alarm."
"Because you don't use your powers," Cyborg said. "You said you were hiding them."
"Cloaking spells," Eidolon confirmed. "Deep enchantments. Magic is like... the VPN of powers. Owlman can't see what he can't measure. And Ultraman? He's too obsessed with Clark to notice anyone else."
Superman—yes, that Superman, six-foot-four of truth, justice, and moral backbonel—finally spoke. "Why me?"
"Because he is you," Eidolon said. "Twisted. Broken. But you represent everything he thinks he could have been. You, standing beside Lex, declaring a better path? That'll trigger him like a reality TV villain seeing a better-dressed version of himself."
Lex smirked. "And when he attacks, we catch it all on camera."
"We let the world see him for what he is," Eidolon said. "And I stay hidden. Waiting. I'll bring the thunder and the smoke—literally."
Power Girl gave a dreamy sigh.
Wonder Woman elbowed her.
"Ow. Worth it," Karen whispered.
Venus stepped forward, all hypnotic grace and that dangerously sweet smile. "And what about us non-Kryptonian distractingly attractive types?"
Eidolon gestured grandly. "You and Savanna will take the rest to see President Wilson."
"Slade Wilson?" Hawkwoman asked, eyebrows arching.
"Yup," Venus said, popping the "p" like it owed her money. "He was ready to help fight the Syndicate until his daughter nearly died. Now? He needs reminding."
Savanna nodded. "He's cautious. Pragmatic. But if we show him we have strength and legitimacy, he might back us again. If he declares the Syndicate enemies of the state, we don't just get press coverage. We get legitimacy. We get war powers. We get to win."
"And you'll be very convincing," Eidolon said to Venus, his smile just this side of wicked.
"Don't flirt with me, shadow-boy," she said, lips twitching.
"I flirt with everyone," he said. "But you're special."
"Gods help us," Diana muttered.
Mera smiled. "Too late. He's ours now."
Hal raised a hand. "So, uh, do we get matching jackets or—?"
"No," Lex said.
"Absolutely," Power Girl said, grinning.
Eidolon raised one gloved hand, the shadows curling around his fingers. "We move at dawn. Lex and Superman go public. Ultraman will take the bait. I hit him with magic. Everyone else makes Wilson see the truth. We play this smart... we win."
There was a beat.
Then Flash zipped in, donut in hand. "Sorry, did I miss the jacket part?"
Everyone groaned.
Eidolon faded into the shadows, his voice echoing behind him like the last line of a trailer.
"Tomorrow, they fall."
—
Location: Owlman's Hidden Sanctum – Somewhere Beneath the Ruins of Gotham
If hell had a server room, it would look like this place.
Everything was metal and shadow, humming with the cold smugness of a machine that knew how meaningless everything was. Red lights blinked like they were bored. Monitors spat out quantum gibberish no one but one very specific bat-themed nihilist could decipher. Dimensional coordinates spun like a roulette wheel of doom, and in the center of it all stood Owlman—cape draped dramatically over one shoulder, because even when plotting the end of all reality, presentation mattered.
Owlman stared at a holographic model of the Multiverse, arms crossed like he was silently judging every version of himself and finding them equally disappointing. Earths spun lazily in orbit above the console—glowing orbs of alternate choices, tragic outcomes, and fashion mistakes.
Behind him, the air shimmered with ozone as Superwoman made her entrance, hips swaying like a threat with lipstick.
"Well," she said, the corner of her mouth curling like she'd just walked in on a surprise party hosted by corpses, "this is cozy. Very 'dystopian-chic.' You redecorate, or did the rats unionize and stage a coup?"
Owlman didn't turn. Didn't flinch. Pretty sure flinching had been surgically removed from his DNA.
"They're not from this Earth," he said instead, voice low and clinical, like he was announcing someone's time of death.
Superwoman raised a brow. "The new capes? The ones with matching outfits and inspirational speeches?"
"From another universe," Owlman continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "Alternate quantum resonance signature. Different vibrational frequency. I confirmed it. They aren't just anomalies. They're proof."
She leaned against a console, inspecting her reflection in the glossy black surface and flicking imaginary dust off her perfectly manicured nails. "Proof of what? That cosplay's contagious?"
He turned then, slowly, eyes glowing behind the mask like a predator deciding which limb to eat first.
"The Multiversal Theory," he said. "It's real. Every choice we make spawns a new reality. An infinite fractal of selves. A million Earths. A million yous."
She straightened, suddenly intrigued.
"Oh? Do any of them wear a less tragic version of this outfit?" She gestured lazily to her own skin-tight uniform. "Because I've got questions. And maybe some strongly worded feedback."
"There's a version of you who never joined the Syndicate. Another who killed Ultraman during sex. One who married Luthor—"
She made a gagging noise. "Okay, that one better be in a padded cell."
"—and one who never got powers. Maybe she works at a coffee shop. Maybe she's happy. Maybe she's not a sadist."
Superwoman rolled her eyes and walked toward him, hips swaying, heat rolling off her like someone had weaponized attraction. "And what about you, Tommy? Are there infinite yous who didn't turn into a brooding murder-philosopher with an owl fetish?"
Owlman didn't blink. "Yes. But they're all wrong."
He tapped a button. The air shimmered again, and a new hologram flickered to life—an obsidian cylinder suspended in a containment field, glowing ominously like it knew your browser history.
"This," he said, "is the Quantum Eigenstate Device."
Superwoman's eyes glittered. "That name is awful. Sounds like a math professor's midlife crisis."
"It collapses the waveform of all reality," Owlman said, dead serious. "Not just our Earth. All of them. Every branch. Every echo. Every irritating little clone of ourselves making different decisions like their lives matter."
Superwoman whistled, impressed. "So, big ol' universal off-switch?"
He nodded. "Yes. And I'm going to use it. On Earth Prime. The source. The Alpha Earth. Destroy that one, and it's game over. The multiverse ceases to exist. No timelines. No choices. No anything."
She blinked once. Then twice. Then let out a low, delighted laugh.
"That is the most psychotically romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"I'm not being romantic," Owlman said flatly.
"Exactly," she purred. "That's what makes it hot."
She strolled over, running her fingers along the schematics like she was caressing a lover's jaw.
"So what's the catch, Romeo? Why haven't we ended all existence yet?"
"Because Luthor," Owlman said, spitting the name like it offended him, "stole the Quantum Trigger. The final component. Without it, the Q.E.D. is just a very expensive paperweight."
She leaned in. "And you're sure it's him?"
"I built it in secret," Owlman said. "Encrypted the data, wiped all trails. But he's Luthor. Smart enough to figure it out. Arrogant enough to think he could use it first."
"And let me guess," she said, eyes lighting up with anticipation. "He hid it. Somewhere inconvenient."
"On their Earth," Owlman confirmed. "Because he's not just smart—he's a petty little man who likes stacking the odds. He knew I wouldn't be able to retrieve it easily."
Superwoman sighed happily, like someone hearing their favorite murder podcast. "God, I love when you talk apocalyptic. So we go there, find the Trigger, and then what? Fire up your cosmic blender?"
"Yes," Owlman said, tone ice-cold. "And unmake everything. A final act of control. Of clarity. The only logical end to a universe defined by chaos."
Superwoman was quiet for a beat. Then she stepped in, inches from his face, her voice a whisper made of knives and kisses.
"You know, Ultraman may be stronger. But you? You're so much more fun."
Owlman's hand slipped to her waist, mechanical gauntlet cold against bare skin. They kissed—hard, brutal, more like combat than affection.
A match made in hell.
And somewhere, across the infinite tapestry of creation, a spark was struck.
The end had begun.
And it was wearing a cape.
---
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