Three heroes stood as a wall against the elite of Apokolips: Shazam, Wonder Woman, Aquaman. Facing them were Steppenwolf and the three Furies, backed by the roars of Parademons and the rumble of war machines. The situation seemed like blatant suicide. No chance of holding back this rolling tide of destruction.
Steppenwolf, his gaze blazing with hatred, locked eyes on Shazam.
"So, this is it, Billy!" he roared, gripping his kryptonite axes. "You should've taken my offer! Now… I'LL DESTROY YOU!"
Shazam didn't flinch. No trace of the boy's former uncertainty remained—just the cold focus of a warrior forged in the crucible of this war.
"Every time we clash," his voice was calm, almost weary, "you scream like a banshee. Maybe try crying for a change? Mix it up."
Steppenwolf's rage hit its peak. He lunged forward, but suddenly Granny Goodness materialized between them. She cast a quick glance around, her mouth opening to bark an order to Grid:
"Deal with that little sh—" But she didn't finish. Deadshot's next laser pulse triggered another teleport, hurling her to another part of the battlefield.
Gridd—the Fury with vulture-like wings—sensed the threat. With a powerful flap, she soared into the sky, zeroing in on the barely visible source of the laser pulses.
Steppenwolf didn't wait. With a low growl, he charged Shazam, his kryptonite axes whistling through the air with deadly green glints.
At the same time, Bekka—the Fury with a deathly pale face and stiletto claws—melted into the shadows and reappeared at Wonder Woman's feet like a ghost. Diana, with reflexes honed over centuries, dodged, but not entirely. Bekka's black claws carved deep gashes into her left forearm.
Then, the inexplicable happened. In any normal—or even abnormal—situation, a wound on a body sculpted from Themyscira's sacred clay would heal, or at worst, require a healer's touch. But not this time. Cracks spread from the claws' marks. Fast, relentless, as if time itself accelerated a millionfold, drying and crumbling the clay's structure. In an instant, her entire arm up to the shoulder was webbed with shuddering fractures. Without a hint of doubt or a cry of pain, Diana swung her divine sword. A lightning-fast strike—and her own arm fell to the sand, crumbling to dust moments later. Her face was a mask of icy resolve.
Aquaman, spotting the third Fury—Stomna—readied for action. She looked like a walking catastrophe: massive, covered in festering sores, her skin glistening and pulsating as if ready to explode. Poseidon's trident was raised for a throw when Doctor Fate materialized before him. The sorcerer looked exhausted, shadows under his eyes speaking of immense fatigue from maintaining a barrier, but his gaze was sharp, fixed on unseen currents of the future.
"Help the Amazon," he told Aquaman. "This one… I'll handle."
Fate had seen a possible future where Aquaman hurled his trident. In that future, they suffered a crushing defeat. The reason lay in Stomna herself. Her pulsating, ulcerous form wasn't just repulsive—she was a living bomb. Piercing her would trigger an explosion, releasing millions of microscopic, hyper-aggressive particles. These wouldn't just kill; they'd bypass any defense, burrowing into flesh and essence, devouring victims from within at horrifying speed, like an all-consuming plague. Yet Fate's visions revealed a critical limitation: Stomna couldn't detonate herself, nor could her allies intentionally trigger it. This left a narrow window—she could be disarmed or detonated in strictly controlled, safe conditions. This deadly task of "defusing" her Fate took upon himself, narrowing his eyes as he sifted through countless probabilities for the one true path.
High above, Grid closed in on her target. Deadshot, seeing the rapidly approaching threat, acted with icy precision. Annoyed but not panicked, he switched his laser to maximum power. Aimed. Fired. The beam, capable of burning through the earth's crust, struck the center of the flying Fury.
Something monstrous happened. Instead of being incinerated, Grid… opened her mouth. No, it was more than that. Her jaws unhinged into a vast, unnatural portal of black void. The beam vanished into the abyss. For a moment, her swollen abdomen glowed like a radiant orb. Then… she spat it back. The concentrated energy ricocheted toward Deadshot with doubled fury. His Quinjet didn't just take the hit—it erupted into a blinding plasma fireball. A deafening blast, and nothing remained of the sniper or his craft but scattered, molten debris and billowing smoke. Grid, snapping her jaws with satisfaction, turned and flew back to the battlefield. Her task was done.
***
Freed from the laser's tyranny after Deadshot's rig was destroyed, Granny Goodness materialized at a safe distance. Her face, now stripped of its kindly mask, was twisted with cold fury and calculation.
"Finally!" she hissed, surveying the chaos. "Time to end this game."
She knew things had gone awry from the start. Every move was anticipated, every attack countered. They were expected here. Prepared for. The key to victory, then, was to change the battlefield.
Her gaze grew distant, fingers tracing intricate runes in the air, drawing power from the threads still tethered to Adam.
"If the portal is guarded…" she whispered, eyes gleaming with ambitious madness, "…we'll shift the continent beneath it. Let Earth's defenders wake up in the middle of an ocean, or as far from the invasion point as possible."
***
In the command center, Alex absorbed streams of battlefield data. His eyes darted between screens, analyzing the chaos. One observation crystallized: the Furies weren't using kryptonite blades against Diana or Aquaman—only against Shazam, and only by Steppenwolf. Why? Logic suggested kryptonite wasn't a melee weapon for them but a specialized tool. They likely couldn't channel their strength or unique abilities through it without risk or loss of efficiency. Its purpose was clear: neutralize Kryptonians. This meant Darkseid feared them—their strongest foes. Yet, seeing kryptonite in the hands of every third Apokoliptian fighter, Alex bitterly noted that, for now, only Adam and Shazam stood as true titans on their side.
"Superman, Powergirl!" his voice cut through the comms. "Target Apokolips' war machines. Destroy their firing positions and support Adam."
A tragic update flashed on the screen: Deadshot's signal was gone. Quinjet destroyed. Alex clenched his fists but kept emotions in check. Granny was free again. The "Laser Cage" plan had failed, but "Plan B" was already forming. Pamela Isley approached, her face focused. Silently, she handed him a small bio-capsule pulsing with verdant life. Alex passed it to Martian Manhunter.
"J'onn," he said, locking eyes with the telepath, "brief Zatanna on the elimination plan. And help her execute it."
A new alarm blipped on the main screen. Surveillance satellites detected rapid underwater movement. Massive, powerful, relentless. It was heading straight for the conflict zone from the Mariana Trench's depths.
"Doomsday…" Alex muttered, watching the tracker near the coast. The question hung heavy, unanswerable: Whose side would he choose?
***
Before the newly freed Granny Goodness, two figures materialized: Martian Manhunter and Zatanna. The sorceress was already studying the complex runes floating around the old woman.
"She's trying to reshape the continents!" Zatanna stated, her voice tight with the weight of the threat.
Granny Goodness smirked, her "kindly" mask cracking to reveal a venomous core.
"Oh, heavens!" she exclaimed with mock horror. "And here I thought all you were good for was prancing on stages in a harlot's costume and muttering backward nonsense! Shameful! But yes, dearie, I'll reshape your pathetic defenses, and you… can't stop me."
Martian Manhunter stepped forward, his voice the epitome of calm courtesy:
"May I know the name of such a powerful and… beautiful sorceress?"
Granny Goodness feigned embarrassment, pressing a hand to her cheek.
"Oh, what a gentleman! You may call me Granny Goodness, dear. For there's none kinder under the sun."
"Charming nickname," J'onn continued, tone unchanged. "But your true name? It must be worthy of admiration."
Her kindly mask dropped instantly, her face twisting into a sneer of condescending disappointment.
"Oh, sweetie…" her voice dripped with saccharine venom. "Such a cute attempt. Think I don't know those ancient tricks? Names hold power. But you thought to ask directly?" She laughed, a hollow sound. "That's not even child's play—it's… touching naivety. Here I thought I faced a clever boy, not a pitiful trickster trying to fool his sweet ol' Granny! Well, if you play foolish games, you win foolish prizes."
She snapped her hand. A massive orb of crimson flame materialized and hurtled toward Martian Manhunter, whose face froze in horror. The orb passed through. J'onn's figure shimmered and dissolved—an illusion.
The real Martian Manhunter was already acting from afar, using the time bought by the decoy. His telepathic probe, invisible and intangible, slipped through the Furies' guarded but not impervious minds. The chance of Granny revealing her true name was near zero. But her minions? Their psychic defenses, though strong, were far weaker than hers. Deep in one mind, he found it: Granny Goodness. He relayed it to Zatanna instantly.
Zatanna, receiving the telepathic packet, smiled. She pulled out the bio-capsule.
".hcamots s'ssendooG ynnarG otni tropeleT"
The magic worked, bypassing defenses. The capsule didn't breach the barrier—it materialized inside Granny's stomach. The old woman flinched, sensing the foreign object.
Zatanna cried out in pain, collapsing to her knees as if struck physically. Blood streamed from her nose, her eyes webbed with burst capillaries. Her hands shook, barely holding her upright. Casting a backward spell was grueling; using a true name to teleport with precision through top-tier autonomous defenses demanded inhuman focus and a monstrous drain of personal power. It wasn't just a trick—it was a magical violation of reality, and the backlash nearly tore her apart.
"What the—?!" Panic flashed in Granny's eyes. She tried to magically encapsulate the object, isolate it. But Zatanna, anticipating this, had enchanted the capsule to disintegrate upon containment attempts. Its shell cracked.
Granny Goodness, sensing the threat, acted with primal resolve. Her clawed hand, twisted by magic, tore toward her own stomach to rip out the danger. But her autonomous defenses triggered. Click-Teleport. She vanished, reappearing elsewhere. The barrier didn't just move her—it "reset" her position in reality, stabilizing her body. Physically removing the object became impossible; the barrier flagged it as a threat and teleported her again.
"BITCH!" Her scream of rage and despair tore through the air. Too late. Thick, woody vines erupted from her mouth, nose, even ears. Leaves unfurled instantly. Her body convulsed, skin cracking as bark overtook it. In seconds, where Granny Goodness stood was only a gnarled, unnaturally fast-grown tree, its roots greedily burrowing into the desert sand. The "Kindly Granny" fell, a victim of her own invulnerability for the second and final time.