The Next Day — LexCorp Plaza, Metropolis (aka Welcome to the Ego Arena)
Lex Luthor never did anything small.
If this press conference had any more holograms, fireworks, or dramatic backlighting, you'd think someone was about to propose to a Transformer.
Dozens of cameras hovered like caffeinated mosquitoes. Holo-projectors the size of pickup trucks blasted Lex's very shiny bald head into the sky like some sort of capitalist Bat-Signal. Behind him, the LexCorp logo pulsed in rhythm with the egos on stage.
Front and center stood Lex himself, in a three-piece suit so precise it could perform surgery. The man oozed confidence, menace, and at least three different colognes that smelled like expensive decisions.
To his right stood Superman—the Superman. The actual beacon-of-hope, laser-eyed boy scout with the kind of bone structure that made sculptors cry.
He wasn't posing.
He was the pose.
Cape fluttering at just the right angle, chin tilted in that signature I-have-seen-the-stars-and-know-peace way. Henry Cavill would be proud. He looked like hope incarnate—and also like he could throw a moon if you made him late for brunch.
To Lex's left, Wonder Woman stood in gleaming armor that somehow made the sunlight itself pause to stare.
Alexandra Daddario-as-Diana wasn't smiling. She wasn't frowning either. She had that calm, terrifying expression that said, I have wrestled gods and I am very tired of this nonsense.
Lex leaned forward into the mic with the confidence of a man who not only had a plan, but had also already bought the copyright for it.
"People of Earth," he began, his voice crisp, theatrical, and carrying all the subtlety of a Bond villain's opening monologue. "Or at least, this one."
A ripple of awkward laughter passed through the crowd.
"Today is the day things change. A new chapter begins. One where truth isn't afraid of power—and power finally learns some manners."
Wonder Woman crossed her arms. Superman said nothing. But the gleam in his eyes said preach.
Lex turned slightly, gesturing to Superman like he was unveiling a new sports car, or a particularly heroic bottle of cologne.
"This is Superman. He's strong, yes. That's obvious. But more importantly? He's good. He doesn't burn first and ask questions never. He doesn't rule. He inspires. He doesn't threaten. He protects."
The crowd leaned in. One woman clutched her chest and gasped. A child held up a homemade Superman sign made from glitter glue and excessive ambition.
Lex's voice turned sharp. "Unlike Ultraman."
Now that name hit different. The air practically tensed. Somewhere in the distance, a dog started barking at nothing.
"Ultraman," Lex continued, "is strength without morality. Power without restraint. A man so obsessed with being feared, he's forgotten what it means to be respected."
The holograms behind him flared to life—images of devastation, of Ultraman's 'protection' reducing entire cities to rubble. Civilians kneeling. Resistance crushed. A world ruled by a man who thought kindness was a weakness and subtlety was for cowards.
Lex sneered. "He claims to be your guardian. But he is nothing more than a petty dictator with a punch fetish."
At that, Superman stepped forward. Not loud. Not theatrical.
Just real.
"I'm not here to replace anyone," he said, voice calm and warm, like hot chocolate with just a hint of iron. "I'm here to remind you that power doesn't have to mean fear. That justice doesn't have to roar. It can stand tall. It can be... human."
Okay, the crowd definitely swooned at that. A newscaster visibly wiped away a tear. Diana looked over at Superman and gave the smallest of nods, like good speech, 7.5 out of 10, maybe needs more sword metaphors.
Lex, of course, couldn't leave it at that.
He smirked and leaned toward the mic again. "Ultraman, wherever you're watching this—probably from your fortress, polishing your 'I Am the Law' trophy—I dare you to come down here. Right now. Prove to the world what kind of man you are."
He smiled like a shark in a tie.
"Unless, of course... you're afraid."
—
Meanwhile... in the Obsidian Fortress of Ego and Excess
Ultraman stared at the screen.
Specifically, at his face being replaced by Superman's.
The glass in his throne room was trembling. The arm of his obsidian chair shattered under his grip like it owed him money.
His eyes were already glowing red.
"They mock me?" His voice was smooth and venomous, like silk soaked in acid.
A guard, halfway across the room, wisely started backing away. No one wanted to be within eye-laser radius when Ultraman got twitchy.
"They bring in a counterfeit? A pretender in a cape?" Ultraman's lip curled into a snarl.
"He doesn't even have the decency to kill anyone," he growled, rising to his feet. "He smiles. He inspires. I am not here to inspire—I am here to rule."
His voice echoed through the fortress. Somewhere in the distance, something exploded. Probably from stress.
He stalked to the window, the sky outside flickering ominously.
"They want to compare us?" he hissed. "Fine. Let them."
His eyes flared. A sonic boom cracked the sky.
"Let's see how much hope their 'real' Superman has when he's bleeding on the pavement."
—
Back at LexCorp Plaza
Wonder Woman muttered to Superman, "He's going to come charging in like a minotaur on espresso."
Superman's jaw tensed. "I know."
"You ready for that?"
"I have to be."
Diana nodded once. "Then let him come."
Superman didn't look away from the horizon. "He already has."
Tomorrow was no longer the battle line.
It was now.
—
Meanwhile — Air Force One (aka The Flying Dysfunctional Family Meeting)
Slade Wilson drank his whiskey like it owed him rent. He didn't drink for taste—it was more like a ritual. Like a soldier cleaning his weapon before a war he already knew he'd lose.
Across from him lounged Venus, legs crossed, crimson heels casually propped on the conference table like they weren't currently sitting in the highest-security aircraft on the planet. The curve of her smirk could start a war. Probably had, once or twice. Her scarlet hair gleamed under the cabin lights, looking less like "superhero" and more like "temptation in a bottle labeled Do Not Shake."
Next to her, Savanna flicked through her tablet like she was auditioning to swipe left on every government secret known to man. Leather jacket, cheetah print scarf, and the permanent air of someone who knew she could outrun karma and make it cry about it.
Hawkwoman—Shiera to people who weren't dumb enough to underestimate her—sat stiffly at the window seat, trying not to crush the reinforced titanium armrest. She was doing okay. So far, the plane hadn't cracked in half from the sheer weight of her annoyance.
"We're not here for cocktails and awkward eye contact," Mera said, arms folded and voice sharp enough to fillet a shark. "We need your support. Officially. You know what's at stake."
Slade's good eye (the one that could still glare like it had a kill count) narrowed. "You're asking me to go on record. To declare war on the Crime Syndicate."
"No," Venus said sweetly. "We're asking you to finally stop pretending neutrality is a moral stance."
"Oh good," Slade said, swirling his glass. "Moral lectures from a woman who can make a redwood forest blush."
"Don't tempt me," Venus purred. "I've been dying to see if I could make the rose garden on the White House lawn walk."
Savanna didn't look up. "Can we focus? I've got exactly six hours of battery left and no desire to die with 143 unread TikToks."
Slade grunted. "You realize what you're asking will start a global conflict. Billions in damage. Entire governments toppled."
"Freedom," Venus said, gesturing like she was pointing out a sale on liberation. "For starters."
"Chaos," Slade replied.
"Same difference," Savanna muttered.
Shiera finally stood, her wings shifting behind her like a loaded crossbow. "You want to keep playing diplomat, fine. But let's not pretend this isn't personal. Your daughter's already on their radar. She's speaking at the anti-Syndicate rally in Gotham tonight."
Slade froze.
The glass cracked in his hand.
"She what?"
"You heard me," Shiera said. "Rose Wilson. Front and center. Microphone in one hand, middle finger in the other."
Slade's jaw clenched like he wanted to punch gravity.
"I told her to keep her head down," he growled.
"She told you to go to hell," Mera said flatly. "In all fairness, she said it very politely."
"She's seventeen," Slade snapped. "She thinks she's invincible."
"We already have a team in place," Mera added quickly. "Top-tier. Stealth-trained, powered, and heavily armed. She won't sneeze without one of ours catching it."
Slade stared at her. Hard. Like he was trying to break her in half with sheer disappointment. Then, slowly, he set down the cracked glass.
"You get one shot," he said, voice low and steel-edged. "You want my support? You make sure she gets through tonight alive. You do that—and I'll give you everything I've got."
Venus winked like she'd just convinced Hades to open a savings account. "One shot's all we need."
Savanna looked up, sighing. "Great. Now someone tell me who thought putting the fate of the world in the hands of this group was a good idea."
Shiera grinned.
Mera smirked.
Slade didn't smile. He never did. But the twitch in his jaw?
That was his version of saying, Let's go to war.
And outside the jet, thunder rumbled like the world had just been warned.
—
If dramatic entrances were an Olympic sport, Ultraman just broke the scoreboard.
The sky tore open like it owed him money. Thunder didn't just rumble—it roared, cracked, and filed a restraining order against the clouds. A streak of red fire and wrath exploded downward, sonic booms clapping loud enough to send every pigeon in Metropolis into early retirement.
He landed. The pavement didn't survive.
Crater. Smoke. LexCorp security drones spiraling like drunk dragonflies.
And standing in the middle of the mess: Ultraman.
He was like someone had taken Superman's design brief, spilled rage all over it, and then said, "Yeah, perfect." Tall. Shining. Radiating hate like it was on sale. His cape whipped with the arrogance of a god. And that twisted red-and-black House of IL sigil? Sharp enough to wound national pride.
He pointed a finger at Lex.
"You."
Lex—bald, polished, and looking like a Calvin Klein ad for war-time genius—adjusted his cufflinks and blinked.
"Well," he said. "That was faster than Amazon Prime."
Ultraman's eyes flared. "You think this is funny?"
Lex tilted his head. "No. I think you are."
From the sidelines, Superman stepped forward—in full hero mode, all chiseled concern and moral authority.
"Ultraman," he said, voice like a warm fire in a snowstorm, "this doesn't have to end in violence."
Ultraman snorted. "End? Clark, my dear sweet clone... this starts with violence."
He stalked forward, each step cracking the ground beneath him.
"You walk around like kindness is power. Like being merciful means you've won something. You act like restraint is a virtue."
He stopped, inches from Superman. "It's pathetic."
"Funny," came a new voice—cool, female, and entirely unimpressed.
Diana stepped between them, the sun hitting her like it knew who the main character was. Shield on her back, lasso glinting at her hip, and her expression all lethal grace.
"And yet here we are," she said, lips quirking. "Still not bowing. Funny how that works."
Ultraman's nostrils flared. "Step aside, Amazon. Or I'll tear this city down around your bones."
Diana didn't move.
She smiled. "Try."
Then Ultraman charged.
And the plaza exploded.
—
The Sky Above
Some people fall from the sky.
Eidolon arrived like the sky itself had just realized it was under new management.
He hovered in orbit—black-cloaked, rune-armored, shadow-wrapped like Death's favorite nephew. The Deathly Hallows symbol pulsed blood-red on his chest, and his eyes—only his crimson eyes—glowed through the mask. Not fiery. Not demonic. Just... old. Tired of your nonsense. Done pretending he wasn't ten steps ahead.
Down below: capes flying, shields spinning, and Superman getting yeeted through a LexCorp truck.
Eidolon tilted his head.
"Showtime," he murmured.
His voice echoed inside his helm like a whispered spell cast in reverse. With a flick of his gauntlet, crimson runes pulsed to life—the signal seal Wonder Woman had carved into the stone. It pulsed once.
Cue the curtain.
—
LexCorp Plaza Thirty Seconds Later
Ultraman had Superman by the throat, mid-monologue, classic villain posture activated.
"You think they love you?" he growled. "They fear me. You're a myth with PR—"
The sky cracked again. Not sonic this time.
Magical.
It wasn't just loud—it was wrong. Reality hiccupped. Wizards somewhere got migraines. Cats bolted under furniture. Every comm in a five-mile radius committed seppuku.
A beam of crimson lightning stabbed the plaza.
And Eidolon dropped like the end of a legend.
BOOM.
He hit Ultraman like karma in armor. The Syndicate's not-so-Superman flew backward—five blocks minimum, leaving a solid impression of his body in three different buildings and a "Now Hiring" sign.
Eidolon straightened.
Smoke curled off his pauldrons.
Superman groaned from his crater. "Nice of you to drop in."
Eidolon didn't look at him. "Traffic was hell."
Wonder Woman stepped beside him, blood on her lip, eyes alight.
"He mad?" she asked.
Eidolon's eyes flicked toward her. "Rage-shrieking mad."
"Good." She spun her shield into her hand with a flourish. "I'm in the mood to ruin his week."
—
Somewhere Across the City
Ultraman dragged himself from a parking garage. His cape looked like it had lost a fight with a weedwhacker. He cracked his neck, then glared up at the sky like it owed him an apology.
"…Who the hell was that?"
Above, Eidolon descended slowly, not flying so much as judging his way downward. Superman flanked his right, cape billowing like destiny. Wonder Woman flanked his left, sword drawn, every muscle coiled in godly fury.
The sky darkened.
Ultraman smiled, teeth red with blood. "Oh. You want a war?"
Eidolon's voice dropped, low and calm. Like the silence after the final breath.
"No," he said. "We want an ending."
—
The Fight That Followed?
Let's just say it made the Battle of New York look like a schoolyard slap-fight.
Superman slammed into Ultraman like a freight train in love with justice.
Ultraman responded with a haymaker that cracked open a building.
Diana threw her shield—it ricocheted off a satellite dish, a water tower, and Ultraman's skull.
Eidolon didn't just fight—he orchestrated. Shadows danced with him. Runes etched into the air mid-strike. He disappeared mid-blink, reappeared behind Ultraman, and drop-kicked him through a monorail.
At one point, he turned to Diana—mid-combat—and smirked under his helm.
"Dinner after?" he asked, blocking a heat vision blast with his gauntlet.
She parried a blow and shoved her sword through Ultraman's shoulder.
"If we survive."
"Romantic."
Ultraman growled, lifting a burning car to throw.
Eidolon waved a hand. The car turned into flaming butterflies.
Ultraman blinked. "What the—?"
"Transfiguration," Eidolon said sweetly. "Old school."
Superman grabbed Ultraman from behind and launched him into orbit.
"Let's keep him up there for a bit," Clark grunted.
"You just yeeted him into low Earth orbit," Diana said, sheathing her sword.
Clark panted. "What? It's Tuesday."
—
Lex, Watching from a Safe Distance
Lex leaned on a balcony railing, sipping scotch and watching the chaos below like it was the Super Bowl. He didn't flinch as a car exploded midair.
Next to him, Mercy—his assistant/bodyguard/accountant/possibly assassin—handed him another file.
He didn't look up.
"Remind me," he said dryly. "Why didn't I fire him into the sun again?"
"Because he is the sun," Mercy replied, nodding at Superman.
Lex sighed. "Fine. But if he dents my new rooftop garden, I'm invoicing the Justice League."
—
Final Scene: Eidolon, Post-Fight
The battle's over. Ultraman is unconscious, zip-tied in magical sigils, and Superman is hauling him toward the Watchtower.
Diana wipes blood from her cheek, glancing at Eidolon.
"You really were showing off," she said.
"I was flirting," Eidolon replied. "You just happen to like violence."
Diana stepped close. "You're not wrong."
"Say the word," Eidolon murmured. "And I'll transfigure a moonlit balcony into a restaurant."
"You'll behave?"
He tilted his head.
"Not even slightly."
Diana smiled.
"Good."
—
Meanwhile — Gotham City (Or, How to Annoy an Assassin with a Microphone)
Gotham was having a very Gotham kind of night.
Rain drizzled like it had nothing better to do, soaking the city in that moody film-noir filter it always seemed to wear like a badge of honor. The kind of night where you expected thunder, betrayal, and at least one dramatic monologue delivered from a rooftop.
Right on cue, Robinson Park was packed—umbrellas everywhere, hoodies pulled up, signs raised. The crowd didn't care about the rain. They cared about the girl standing on the hastily assembled stage like she was about to deliver either a graduation speech or start a revolution.
Probably both.
Rose Wilson adjusted the mic with the flair of someone who was genetically incapable of being chill. Her platinum ponytail bounced as she moved, steel-toed boots planted firm like she dared the Earth to knock her over. The leather jacket she wore had a Syndicate skull logo spray-painted over with a bright pink "NOPE," complete with glitter accents. Rose wasn't subtle. She considered subtlety a sign of cowardice and bad taste.
"You ever feel like the world's gone to hell in a flaming clown car with no brakes?" she began, flashing a grin that had 'fight me' written all over it.
The crowd chuckled, murmuring like a pot of political discontent about to boil over.
"Yeah. Me too. Daily. And I'm not just saying that because I was raised by a guy who thinks 'love' is a tactical disadvantage and probably files his taxes with a combat knife."
Some actual laughter now. Good. Let them laugh. That was step one. Laugh, then listen, then fight.
Across the street, on a rooftop bathed in shadow and dramatic lighting (because Gotham loved a theme), Archer crouched with the patience of a predator in a cologne commercial. Red hood. Black visor. All attitude. His bow was sleek, blood-red, and humming with quiet menace. Each arrow in his quiver looked like it had a vendetta.
"Target acquired," he muttered into his comm. His voice was smooth, confident. The kind of voice that sounded like it did yoga, but only to improve kill precision.
He notched an arrow, the tip glowing faintly with whatever techno-nightmare science he'd loaded it with. Red kinetic energy crackled like it wanted to punch something. Or someone.
Back on stage, Rose kept talking.
"You know what the Syndicate taught me?" she said, leaning closer to the mic. "That evil doesn't always wear horns and a pitchfork. Sometimes, it wears tailored suits and gives press conferences."
A cheer rippled through the crowd.
"Sometimes, it claims to protect you, then locks the doors when the fire starts."
TWANG.
The arrow sang through the air.
One second it was flying—silent, perfect, deadly.
The next, it wasn't.
Because the air shimmered.
And then, there he was.
Martian Manhunter.
He didn't drop in with a cape flourish. He didn't roar. He just… was. One moment, invisible. The next, emerald-skinned, glowing-eyed, calm as a monk who'd just caught a sniper round between two fingers.
Which he had.
The arrow was pinched between his thumb and forefinger, held like it had personally offended him.
The crowd went silent.
Rose blinked.
"Okay," she said. "Did not have alien bodyguard on my bingo card. But I'm rolling with it."
Martian Manhunter's eyes scanned the rooftop across the way. His voice, when he spoke, could've frozen lava.
"Threat confirmed."
On the roof, Archer snarled. "Martian freak," he spat, already locking another arrow. "Let's see you catch this one."
The second arrow pulsed like it wanted to eat planets.
And then the sky exploded.
Well, not technically, but it felt like it. One moment, Archer was cocky. The next, Power Girl descended like an avalanche wearing red, white, and "I bench press tanks for fun."
BOOM.
The roof caved.
Archer was no longer a threat. He was a crater with great hair.
Karen dusted herself off, like she'd just stepped out of a makeup trailer, not punched a villain through reinforced concrete. Her crop top didn't even wrinkle.
"You know," she said, standing over his unconscious body, "I expected more from the evil version of a guy who talks about justice like it's his emotional support animal."
Back at the stage, Martian Manhunter turned to Rose. His eyes softened just a little. "You were very brave."
Rose squinted at him. "You were very invisible."
"That was... the point."
"Oh." She pointed at the arrow still clutched in his hand. "Also, thanks for the save. I really prefer my speeches not end with emergency surgery."
He gave the tiniest of nods. High praise, from him.
Rose turned back to the mic, like nothing had happened—like the rally hadn't just gotten its own superhero crossover episode.
"Right," she said. "Fear."
She scanned the crowd, wet and wild and absolutely electric.
"They want us scared. They want us quiet. They want us to believe we can't win. But the thing is…"
She smiled again, crooked and defiant, the kind of smile that made enemies nervous and friends brace for impact.
"We've got the mic now. And we're not shutting up."
The cheers this time weren't polite. They weren't supportive.
They were war cries.
And across the world, screens lit up—Rose Wilson, seventeen years old, standing in the rain, shielded by a literal alien and a superwoman, flipping off evil with her words.
Somewhere far away, in a private room full of suits and secrets, someone muttered, "She's going to be a problem."
Good.
That was the goal.
—
Cut To: Onboard Air Force One (Or, "Father of the Year" Watches the World Burn with a Side of Whiskey)
The inside of Air Force One was the kind of quiet that made you want to check under the seats for ticking time bombs—or worse, an impromptu visit from Amanda Waller.
Outside, the storm scratched at the windows like a ghost with bad timing, but inside, the cabin was all leather seats, cold lighting, and the weight of a thousand unsaid things.
Slade Wilson—President of the United States, decorated war veteran, ex-mercenary, one-man apocalypse—sat in the executive cabin, one elbow on the armrest, the other cradling a glass of very expensive whiskey that he'd been pretending to sip for the past twenty minutes.
He wasn't drinking.
He was watching.
The screen before him flickered with a live feed. And on it? His daughter.
Rose Wilson.
Soaked in rain, soaked in rebellion, standing onstage with a mic like it was a sword and the crowd like it was an army. She was smiling that smile—the one that meant "I've already made my decision, and now I dare you to stop me."
Slade had seen that smile before. Usually right before she made a strategic decision that gave her enemies ulcers.
She'd always been like that.
Too sharp. Too loud. Too her.
The speech ended. The crowd roared. Somewhere, a news anchor probably fainted into their soy latte.
Slade still didn't blink.
Didn't flinch when Power Girl dropped in from orbit like a missile with mascara.
Didn't twitch when Martian Manhunter caught a sniper round midair like he was plucking lint off a sweater.
But the crack—oh, the crack had already started.
Not in the glass. Not even in his armor.
In him.
The part he didn't admit existed.
The part that had once felt things.
And now, thanks to one very angry teenager with a glitter-covered jacket and a total disregard for staying alive, that part stirred.
Not because she'd defied him.
Because she meant it.
Slade's lips curved—just a little. It wasn't a grin. Slade Wilson didn't grin. It was more of a "well, damn" expression. The kind of smile that should come with a warning label.
He pressed a button on the armrest. A small chime.
"Sir?" came the voice of his press secretary, probably mid-dream about avoiding another international scandal.
"We're prepping a press conference," Slade said. His voice was rough, low, that gravel-under-your-boot kind of growl that could calm a battlefield or start one.
The line went quiet for a beat. "Uh, yes, Mr. President. May I ask… subject?"
Slade didn't answer right away. He swirled the whiskey like it held answers instead of 30-year-aged regret. The screen was still playing Rose's speech.
She looked like a fire about to jump the firebreak.
He watched her for another second. Then finally spoke.
"We're declaring the Syndicate enemies of the United States."
The line stayed quiet. Maybe the press secretary had dropped the phone. Or maybe she was waiting for him to say "just kidding."
He wasn't going to.
"…Understood, sir," she said finally, with the strained politeness of someone who had just realized she was going to need six coffees and a new pantsuit. "I'll alert the Joint Chiefs."
Slade cut the line.
And for a moment, just a moment, he let himself sit with the silence.
It was a silence shaped like Rose. Like every missed birthday. Every shouted argument. Every scar they'd given each other, emotional or otherwise.
She had the mic now. And she wasn't shutting up.
Good.
He finally took a sip of the whiskey. It burned like honesty.
"God help them," he muttered, eyes still locked on the screen, "she's got my aim and her mother's mouth."
Outside, lightning lit up the sky.
Inside, President Slade Wilson leaned back in his chair, let the storm rage, and smiled like the war was just beginning.
Because it was.
—
Absolutely. Here's the continuation, complete with wit, rage, and magical brutality:
LexCorp Plaza
Minutes After "Victory"
Ultraman lay half-buried in debris, dazed, seething, and in pain.
Pain.
Not the usual, I-flew-through-a-volcano-while-being-shot-with-nukes kind of pain.
This was magic pain—that deeply personal kind of agony that reminded him he was a Kryptonian and a damn idiot for forgetting wizards existed.
He groaned, spitting blood and gravel. "That... shouldn't have hurt."
Then he blinked up at the glowing crimson runes still flaring in the sky above like Eidolon had carved the air itself into a warning sign. Magic. Goddamn magic.
Realization hit like a meteor: he was vulnerable to Eidolon.
Ultraman scrambled to his feet, panting, blood trickling from his temple. No backup. No leverage. No upper hand—
Unless...
"Mr. Action!" he barked into the comm, clutching his cracked ribs. "Distract the wizard freak. Buy me a minute!"
Across the city, somewhere amid the flaming wreckage of a donut shop, a man in sunglasses and a leather jacket—Mr. Action, Ultraman's favorite chaos-addicted metahuman meathead—grinned like a madman.
"Oh, hell yes," he said, activating a rocket skateboard and flipping into traffic with no regard for Newtonian physics or civilian safety.
Simultaneously, Ultraman tapped into the emergency Syndicate line.
"Captain Super! On deck. Hit the clone. Hit him hard."
Somewhere above, a blur shot toward Superman with all the grace of a steroidal cannonball in a cape. Captain Super, a brutal, unhinged enchman of Superwoman's, came screaming through the clouds.
Meanwhile, Ultraman's eyes locked onto Diana.
Blood on her lip. Hair a storm. That warrior smirk still taunting him like a dare.
She'd flirted with Eidolon. She'd stood in his way.
She'd disrespected him.
"Oh, her," Ultraman sneered, teeth red. "So that's what this is."
He limped forward, posture straightening with the arrogance of a man who's been hit too many times and learned nothing. "You think you're better than Superwoman, huh? More noble? More pure?"
Diana's sword was already in her hand. She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
Ultraman smirked darkly. "You know, once I'm done with your wizard boytoy, I'll break you. Make you beg for me."
He stalked closer, voice dripping with venom. "I've already got one Amazon in my bed. Why not make it two? A Wonder Woman from every world, bent at the knee—"
CRACK.
He didn't see the fist.
He didn't see Eidolon, already standing behind him—having silently evaporated Mr. Action in a burst of cursed runes and "go screw yourself" energy.
What Ultraman did see, just before his jaw shattered, was Diana tilting her head and mouthing the word: "Behind you."
Then came the punch.
Magic-fueled. Runes etched along the gauntlet. The Deathly Hallows on his chest glowing brighter than hellfire.
Ultraman flew through a LexCorp shuttle, a statue of himself (oh the irony), and part of the street labeled "Ultraman Ave," which promptly collapsed in poetic justice.
Eidolon floated forward, the air around him bending, humming with arcane rage.
"See," he said calmly, cracking his knuckles, "I was going to let Superman handle you."
He paused. "But then you started talking about my girlfriend."
Ultraman, wheezing, spat a tooth. "She—"
"No." Eidolon's voice cracked reality like a whip. "Shut up."
He raised a hand. Blood-red spellwork flared around his arm like armor woven from fury.
"I watched you yesterday. Lurking from the shadows. You know what I saw?"
Ultraman coughed, trying to rise.
Eidolon tilted his head. "Superwoman. With Owlman."
Ultraman froze.
Eidolon's voice dropped into something colder than death.
"She's been cucking you, Krypton-lite. Owlman's got her wrapped around his talons, and you—?" He punched again—boom, another crater. "You didn't. Even. Notice."
Another punch—this one carved a spell-rune into Ultraman's cheek.
"You swagger around like a god." Crack. "Threaten people better than you." Boom. "Touch my Wonder Woman—"
He paused. Reached into the void. Pulled a spell dagger that screamed in Latin.
"—and you didn't even realize you're the side character in your own betrayal."
He stabbed it downward—not into Ultraman's heart, but beside it, into the air, carving a glyph that anchored magic like gravity.
Ultraman's body went rigid, limbs locking, his screams muffled by arcane chains.
"Wonder Woman," Eidolon said softly, turning to Diana, "would you like to deliver the last hit?"
Diana walked forward, flicked her sword into her hand, and stopped just short of Ultraman's face.
She raised an eyebrow. "He's not worth it."
Then, without warning, she kicked him in the face. With a thunderclap.
"...But that was for calling me his."
Ultraman collapsed.
Eidolon clapped his hands, runes dissolving.
"Alright," he said, brushing soot off his cloak. "Now who wants shawarma?"
Superman floated down, dragging a dazed Captain Super in one hand. "Only if you're buying."
Diana rolled her neck. "I'll take a steak."
Eidolon smirked beneath the mask. "I know a place. But I'm not carrying cash."
Diana grinned. "We'll figure something out."
Cue credits. Epic music. Ultraman unconscious. Lex sipping scotch like he planned this.
---
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