| Gotham - October 1
Jason Todd walked through downtown Gotham one afternoon, a strange unease gnawing at him. The city remained as bleak as ever—gray skies, cracked streets, and that familiar stench of smog and crime—but lately, things felt… different. Fewer sirens echoed in the distance, fewer gunshots punctuated the alleyways. Gotham felt almost peaceful—or at least as peaceful as Gotham could ever get, which still put it near the top of "most crime-ridden cities in America."
Growing up on the streets had sharpened Jason's instincts, and right now, they screamed that something was off. The gangs were still running, their bosses still breathing, and Batman still prowled the rooftops, but the chaos had quieted. Civilians weren't getting caught in crossfires as often, as if the gangs had suddenly agreed to some unspoken truce. It wasn't obvious yet, but Jason could feel the change humming under the surface.
His childhood had been hell. His parents fought constantly; his mom battled depression and addiction, while his dad, Willis Todd, taught him to steal just to survive—skills that eventually landed Willis in prison. He died there, framed for one of Penguin's crimes.
Left alone to care for his mother in Park Row, Jason did whatever it took to survive—pickpocketing, hustling, stealing. He'd even considered joining a gang once—the Red Hood Gang, of all things—after another street kid told him they looked out for their own.
That was when he met Joseph Bell. Or maybe he was going by Luthor back then.
At first, Jason assumed he was a drug dealer. The man carried fat stacks of cash every time they crossed paths, and in Gotham, that usually meant one thing. But Joseph wasn't pushing drugs—he ran a software company. And he was strong, freakishly strong. Jason still remembered trying to bolt after being caught stealing and being stopped mid-step, Joseph's grip like iron around his wrist.
Instead of turning him in, Joseph offered him a job—testing video games—but only if Jason went back to school. Jason didn't buy it at first. In Gotham, nobody gave handouts without strings attached. So he checked the guy out, expecting to find something dirty. When everything came back clean, he decided to take the risk.
Two weeks later, he was still there.
Walking up to the BellCorp building downtown, Jason nodded at the guards who recognized him and waved through.
"Good afternoon, Jason. How was school?" asked Mr. Jack, the CEO, finishing a conversation with the receptionist.
"It was fine," Jason said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Catching up on stuff I missed is a pain, but I'll manage. Can I play GTA today?"
Gotham Theft Auto was still in development—a massive open-world action game set in Gotham itself. Jason loved it. For a kid with a rough past, playing it was cathartic.
School, on the other hand, was another story. After years surviving on the streets, learning to sit still and trust people was… weird. Everyone knew he was the kid from East End, and even if they didn't say it to his face, he heard whispers behind his back. More than once, he reminded himself he wasn't in the streets anymore—or someone would've gotten a beating.
Playing GTA helped keep those urges in check. There was something oddly calming about imagining a smug classmate as a random NPC he could run over in-game.
"I told you no," Jack said, giving him a pointed look. "It's too violent. You'll be testing the new MyCraft update instead."
Jason shrugged. Disappointing, sure, but he couldn't complain—he was getting paid to play video games. What guy would hate that?
He owed it all to Joseph. He'd thank him next time they met.
Everything in Jason's life was finally looking up.
Well… almost everything.
If only he could get his mom to stop using.
**
| ??? - ???
Klarion had been drifting through time and space ever since Nova killed his beloved familiar, Teekl—severing his link to the mortal plane.
His poor Teekl. Ten thousand years old, still only a child.
Now, Klarion roamed the cosmos, from his birth sixteen billion years ago to the ever-changing present.
How dare Nova harm such a precious creature? Wasn't he supposed to be a hero?
In attempts to regain power, Klarion tried anchoring himself to various objects, but the first time he did, he was dragged before the Lords of Chaos.
They scolded him endlessly for aligning with Vandal Savage—"a glorified Lord of Order," they called him—and declared they would appoint a new agent of Chaos on Earth. Klarion already knew who they meant.
Child.
The name made him seethe. He wouldn't allow that sadistic brat to take his place. Earth was his playground.
Why couldn't they see the chaos he and Savage had unleashed? The sinking of Atlantis, the rise and fall of countless empires, bringing a Starro creature to ancient Babylon—and all the deeds of several iterations of the Light. Centuries of glorious chaos!
And there was still so much more he could've done. Splitting Earth into two dimensions—one for adults, one for children—that would've been fun. They just didn't understand genius.
Before he could argue, the Lords cast him out, leaving him to drift helplessly through non-linear time, powerless and forgotten.
He would never forgive them.
Eventually, Klarion felt a faint flicker—a trace of his energy near Teekl's death. Using the last of his magic, he pulled himself toward the source.
Good news: he wasn't drifting anymore.
Bad news: he still couldn't manifest physically.
The object now holding his Chaos essence resisted him. He couldn't even tell where he was, trapped in a realm of endless darkness.
Still, all he needed was one living being to touch the object that bound him. Then he could escape.
It might take centuries, but time meant little to a being as old as Klarion.
He sat cross-legged, resting his chin in his palm, muttering as his grin stretched unnaturally wide.
"When I get out," he whispered, "they'll see real chaos. And now…"
He exhaled, amused by the absurd stillness.
"Now we wait."
**
| Citadel Homeworld - October 2
Harry Hokum leapt off the operating table, purple energy crackling around his hands as he floated midair. The procedure had succeeded.
The Psions had attempted to clone what little Daxamite DNA they'd salvaged, but the results were disappointing. Only after extensive study did they discover a peculiar compatibility between human DNA and Daxamites.
Seizing the opportunity, Hokum reached out to Intergang, who trafficked fifty-two humans off Earth for experimentation. The Psions were granted full freedom. Unfortunately, none had meta-genes; brutal modifications twisted most into abominations that died screaming. The few survivors were thrown into arenas for entertainment.
Then, abruptly, they lost contact with Intergang—their only link to Earth. A shame, but by that point, Hokum had already taken all he needed.
Cloning continued. Many prototypes failed; Daxamite DNA proved unstable, constantly degrading or collapsing. To stabilize missing sequences, the Psions incorporated Gordanian DNA—and that finally worked.
The resulting hybrids were powerful: creatures with Daxamite strength and durability without reliance on a yellow sun. They lacked heat vision, x-ray sight, and freeze breath, but were less vulnerable to the Daxamite weakness of lead. More importantly, they inherited Gordanian ferocity, their innate hunger for war and conquest.
They were beyond human.
They would be his soldiers. His legion. His empire. He would call them… Viltr—no, that name was taken. Gordanites. Yes. That would do.
The Gordanites would scour the stars in his name, bringing entire systems to heel. Komand'r had grown insubordinate of late, hiding behind the excuse of ruling Tamaran. She would kneel again once she witnessed his new might.
Hokum underwent the procedure himself. His meta-gene made him an ideal subject, and the Psions were eager to push limits. They spliced perfected Gordanite DNA into his body, combining it with the genome of the human survivor from the arena.
The result was transcendent. Hokum now absorbed and manipulated energy at will, flew, and possessed superhuman strength and blinding speed.
He was more than a man. He was evolution's apex, the universe's rightful ruler. Not even the Reach's scarab warriors or the Lanterns of Oa could stand against him or the legions of Gordanites he would soon breed.
His campaign to dominate the Vega System—to crush the Omega Men and subjugate Euphorix—could wait. Why remain an advisor to the Citadel any longer? The Citadelians were grotesque, weak things pretending to be conquerors. He would cast them down, rule in their place, and carve a new dominion from the bones of their empire.
He would become the light that purged the stars of imperfection.
"Sir, is everything to your liking?" asked a nervous Psion scientist.
Hokum's lips curled into a thin smile. "Yes," he said. "This new power pleases the Czar."