The thing tore through the Atlantic like a torpedo with rage issues and the social skills of a wrecking ball. Every mile it crossed, the ocean boiled a little more, leaving behind a trail of confused fish, traumatized whales, and at least one very angry submarine captain. Seismic sensors pinged off like microwave popcorn. Somewhere, a team of geologists collectively screamed, "That's not a tectonic plate!"
The monster—hulking, grey, armored like a murder-crab from your worst nightmares—smashed through the harbor like it had a personal vendetta against architecture.
First casualty: a freight tanker. Split clean in half.
Second: the tugboat. Turned into a Michael Bay explosion.
Third: literally everything else.
It marched up the docks with all the chill of a toddler having a tantrum. Shipping containers flew like tin cans. Trucks folded like cheap chairs. Cranes toppled. Screams echoed across the port like a really bad amusement park ride.
People ran. Cars crashed. Sirens blared in five languages. And that was before it reached the city limits.
Then came the boom-boom squad.
A streak of green lit up the sky, trailing attitude and sarcasm. A red blur followed, fast enough to make the air whimper. And slicing down from the clouds came wings like a blade, metal glinting in the morning sun.
The cavalry had arrived.
—
"Okay, someone please tell me that is not another interdimensional hell-beast," Hal Jordan said, hovering mid-air, glowing like a neon sign that had a caffeine addiction. He was dressed in his usual green, floating above the city with all the grace of a sarcastic action figure.
"I don't think it's from another dimension," Shiera Saunders said, her wings shimmering as she hovered beside him, mace gripped like she meant business. Her tone was calm, precise, and full of the kind of restraint that suggested she wanted to whack something very badly.
Flash zipped around them in a lazy circle, vibrating so fast he might have been auditioning for a smoothie blender. "Okay, so if it's not a space monster, and it's not from another dimension, is it just, like, super angry? Did someone insult its fashion sense?"
"Hold formation," Shiera ordered, voice crisp. "It's heading for the city center. We hit hard, fast. Contain the damage. Aim for the joints."
Hal groaned. "Why is it always the joints? Why can't alien rage monsters ever come with an off-switch? Like a glowing weak spot? I vote we file a complaint."
"If this is a piñata situation, I call dibs on the candy," Flash said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Not funny," Shiera muttered.
"It's a little funny," Hal added.
The creature suddenly looked up. No eyes. No mouth. Just a bone-plated helmet and a red glow that practically screamed, I don't like you.
Then it jumped.
Straight up.
Right. At. Hal.
"Oh shi—"
Hal barely had time to throw up a shield. The impact shattered it like a soda can under a truck tire, and he was sent flying through three buildings and into a billboard for men's shampoo. The sign collapsed. Hal groaned.
"L'Oréal, because ouch," he muttered.
Flash zipped down, circling the monster. "Okay. Yep. Definitely a twelve on the punch-o-meter. We're talking Hulk-level rage, and I haven't even insulted its mother yet."
Shiera didn't wait. She dove like a falcon in a dive-bomb, her wings slicing the air. Her mace glowed with Nth metal fury as she struck the creature's back.
BOOM.
She bounced off. Hard.
Mid-spin, she righted herself, flaring her wings. "It's like hitting a cement truck doing Pilates."
"Plan B?" Flash asked.
"The one where we hit harder."
Hal's voice crackled through the comms. "Y'know, for the record, I preferred Plan C. The one where Superman or Eidolon handles it, and I drink coffee somewhere far away."
The monster roared—more of a pulse than a sound—and grabbed a city bus, hurling it like a toddler flinging a toy. It soared toward a police barricade.
Flash zipped forward, yanked four civilians out of the danger zone, then caught the bus and redirected it into a park fountain.
"Okay. You owe me a massage," he said, panting.
The creature turned toward him.
"Uh-oh."
It charged.
Shiera cut it off, diving straight into its path with her mace blazing. "Back off!"
She slammed into the street, mace-first. The ground cratered. Glass shattered. Debris flew.
Hal shot down from above, now wearing a green mech suit the size of a Kaiju. "Okay, ugly, round two. Let's dance."
The creature grabbed the mech's head, ripped off an arm, and hurled Hal—again—into a bridge.
"Son of a—"
Flash zipped over to help him out of the wreckage. "Still voting for Plan C?"
"I'm voting for a Plan D. As in 'Diana, please punch this thing into the sun.'"
Shiera was already bleeding. Flash was already winded. Hal was already pissed.
And the monster?
It looked like it hadn't even broken a sweat.
—
From deep beneath the oldest bones of Gotham, where stone walls still whispered secrets from the Civil War, the Underforge thrummed with dim blue light. Consoles flickered. Steel creaked. The silence wasn't silence—it was waiting.
Batman stood at the central command table, cloak still as stone, eyes locked on the main screen. His jaw was clenched. Very clenched. The kind of clenched that could probably crack a Batarang.
"Beta-9," he said, voice low. Measured. The kind of calm that makes hurricanes nervous.
The response was immediate, syrup-smooth and just a little smug.
"Talk to me, Dark Knight. Because your field team? They are not giving hero right now. More like getting tossed like yesterday's trash."
"Get me Diana, Mera, and Eidolon. And find out where Superman is. Now."
Beta-9 let out a hum that could've been a chuckle. "Already ringing up your heavy hitters, sugar. But just a heads-up? That thing out there is not here to play patty-cake. It's breaking necks and city blocks."
"I'm aware."
There was a beat. Batman's gaze didn't leave the screen.
"And Beta..."
"Yes, boss man?"
"Tell Arthur and Marella..." he said, voice sinking into something colder, "we found their Trench toy."
Beta-9 went quiet for a second. When she spoke again, it was low and tight.
"Oh. Snap."
—
The Justice League had fought aliens, gods, and even mime-wielding supervillains (we're not talking about it). But this? This thing wasn't just different—it was the type of "bad idea" you'd get if a tank and a meteor had a child, and that child skipped school and went straight to rage management classes.
Shiera Saunders—aka Hawkwoman, the flying fury with the Nth metal mace—swooped down like an angry hurricane and smashed that thing square in the jaw.
CLANG!
If you've ever hit something with a sledgehammer and nothing happened, then you've got an idea of how it went. The thing didn't flinch. It barely acknowledged her. It just grabbed her mid-swing and slammed her into the ground like a bouncer at the world's worst nightclub.
Hawkwoman's wings sparked as she crashed through concrete. She groaned through her comms, sounding way too calm for someone who had just been concussed by the Earth itself.
"Still... alive," she wheezed, and then added, "Mostly."
A soft chuckle echoed through her earpiece. "Hey, you're tougher than you look," came the voice of Green Lantern—aka Hal Jordan, aka the guy who never met a space construct he wouldn't try to make into a 3D sculpture.
"I'm gonna need a 'no bones' option next time, Hal," she muttered, struggling to get her wings to flap properly again.
Hal, meanwhile, was busy making the most Hal Jordan move possible: a glowing, unnecessarily complicated construct that resembled a Gundam if the Gundam had zero chill. He stepped into the suit, helmet clicking into place. It was shiny. It was extra. It was an entirely unnecessary power move.
"Alright, ugly," he said, voice dripping with cocky smugness. "You think you've seen big? You ain't seen nothin' yet."
He launched into the air, his mech-suit spraying out a stream of glowing missiles, drills, and—was that a spatula?
"What the—?" Flash said from the sidelines.
"Long story, kid," Hal called out, dodging a flying wrecking ball of destruction that just barely missed him.
The thing took every hit. Like every hit. It wasn't even phased. Just stood there, blinking its glowing red eyes like, "Is that all?"
Before Hal could form a proper response, it punched straight through his suit like it was made of wet tissue paper.
"Whoa, didn't even get to see how this thing works," Hal said, voice a mix of confusion and mild hurt. He flew through the air like a ragdoll, slamming into a building with an audible crash.
"…Yeah, maybe I'll go with the frying pan next time."
Meanwhile, Flash—aka Barry Allen, aka the guy who was probably running laps in his head while running laps in real life—was zipping around at the speed of light. Cyclones, lightning storms, mini existential crises—he was all over it. He ran circles around the creature like it was a training exercise.
"See? This is working! Look at it, it's—"
And then the creature clapped.
Not just a regular clap. A clap that sent shockwaves through the street and Barry flying a good fifty feet into a hot dog cart.
The hot dog vendor looked up, confused, as Barry sat up, his hair sticking straight up. "...Ow."
"I think I swallowed a mustard packet," Barry groaned, and the vendor handed him a free drink.
The League was in deep, deep trouble now. And things were about to get worse.
Boom tubes opened. Four of them.
Out stepped Queen Marella—that's right, Queen Marella—with her hair slicked back, her trident spinning like she was about to open a restaurant. If you didn't think she looked dangerous already, the lightning crackling around her said it all.
Behind her came Aquaman—the guy who looked like he could bench-press an ocean and enjoy it. His trident gleamed in the sunlight like it had been forged by angry gods. He didn't even have to say anything. His expression screamed, "What's next, then?"
Then Cyborg, with his energy cannons out and a battle-ready stance. His tactical voice cut through the chaos. "Stay sharp, team. We need a plan."
And finally, Martian Manhunter—aka J'onn J'onzz—appeared, his calm demeanor like a soothing balm to the pure chaos erupting all around them.
"Engage with restraint," J'onn said, though his voice didn't carry the same calm it usually did. Even he could sense that this thing wasn't your average Tuesday afternoon brawl.
The creature turned to face them.
It knew they were here.
It didn't even hesitate.
Boom.
The first punch knocked Cyborg straight into the side of a building, a whole building—half of it collapsed with him.
Aquaman rushed forward, summoning his trident with a battle cry, but the thing just snapped it in half like a toothpick. Marella screamed, flying into the air, summoning a tidal whip that lashed through the air like the worst storm imaginable.
The thing grabbed the whip. Then it yanked her down, sending her crashing into a pile of debris.
J'onn stepped up. He phased, split into multiple versions of himself, and blasted the creature with telepathic assault and molecular disruption.
Did it slow the thing down?
Not even close.
It punched through the clones like paper and backhanded the real J'onn into the harbor. He didn't stop there, though. The creature just charged, smashing through tanks and anything else unlucky enough to be within a mile radius.
Back at the Underforge, Batman was doing what Batman does best: staring at his screen with that "I'm either going to fix this or I'm going to break my keyboard" look.
"Beta-9," he said, voice ice-cold as always.
"Yes, Daddy Dark," came Beta-9's voice, the hint of sass thick in the air like it was on purpose. "And just so we're clear, I've already updated my will. This thing is not playing games."
Batman flexed his fingers, his jaw tight as he spoke again. "It just took down seven members of the League in under five minutes."
"Mhm. And here I thought my day was going to be boring," Beta-9 quipped.
"Alert Diana. Mera. Eidolon. And find out where Superman is. Now."
"I'm on it, big guy."
"Also," Batman's voice dropped lower, "tell Clark… it's time."
Beta-9's voice softened, just for a second. "Got it. You've got backup coming."
Batman's lips twitched—almost a smile, if you squinted at the screen hard enough. "We'll need it."
Because if this was the warm-up act, then only a few names were left on the marquee. And those names? They were about to make things very interesting.
—
If Zeus himself ever came down from Olympus and demanded a cheeseburger, odds are he'd pick the Super Stack Supreme. It was less a sandwich and more a culinary dare: two thick patties grilled to juicy perfection, a mountain of crispy bacon, melted cheese that clung to your soul, and enough grilled onions to trigger an evacuation order from the Fire Department. Eating one didn't just clog arteries—it rewrote your DNA.
And reigning over this cholesterol empire was Bibbo Bibbowski, former dockworker, current diner owner, and Metropolis's loudest Superman fan. Picture a muscle mountain in an apron, with arms like tree trunks and a heart three times bigger. He stood proudly behind the counter, under the Holy Grail: a framed, slightly blurry flip-phone photo of him with the Man of Steel.
"That right there?" Bibbo boomed, pointing with a spatula as wide as a dinner plate. "That's me. With the big guy himself. Day he saved my bar from collapsing after that Brainiac drone crashed through the roof. He looked me dead in the eye and said, 'Thanks, friend.' You hear that? Friend. That's the peak right there. Nobel Prize, who? I got Superman's friendship."
A couple booths down, Clark Kent—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed like the world's gentlest librarian—sat opposite Lois Lane. He was currently waging war against a straw wrapper, which was apparently winning. His knee bounced like it had somewhere more important to be.
Lois sipped her coffee like it had committed personal betrayal.
"You've been twitchier than Jimmy before a caffeine crash," she said, peering at him over the rim of her mug. "You're not about to confess you're secretly Batman, are you? Because I just recovered from finding out Aquaman has a skincare routine better than mine."
Clark gave a soft chuckle. His smile was shy and endearing, which should honestly be illegal without a warning label.
"I'm not Batman," he said. Then paused. "But I do have a secret."
Lois blinked. "Unless you're secretly a rock star or a royal baby, I'm not sure how much more surprise I can handle this month."
Clark removed his glasses.
For a second, Lois didn't react.
Then her eyes narrowed. Her head tilted. Her coffee cup stopped halfway to her lips.
"Oh my god," she said slowly. "You're Superman."
Clark winced, offering a sheepish half-smile.
"No. No, no, nope," she muttered, leaning forward now like she was inspecting a rare painting. "You're telling me Superman has been working across from me for years? I made jokes about your 'man crush' on him—to his face! I—oh my god—I flirted with Superman while dating Superman. How is this my life?!"
"You're not the only one who didn't notice," Clark said gently. "It's kind of the whole idea. Glasses, slouch, tie that never sits straight. People don't expect the world's strongest man to apologize for bumping into a copier."
Lois pointed an accusatory finger. "You tripped into a vending machine last week!"
"And it sold out of your favorite chips," Clark added helpfully. "I was trying to be heroic."
She groaned. "You do not get to be adorable right now. This is peak emotional whiplash. I should be mad, or impressed, or—how did I not see it?"
Clark leaned closer, voice softening. "Eidolon helped. He enchanted the glasses recently—some kind of perception charm. Makes people gloss over my features. Like, 'eh, nothing special here, just a guy with spectacular shoulders and a questionable haircut.'"
"I'm going to need a full explanation. Preferably in flowchart form," she said, half-laughing, half-ready to strangle him. "But for the record... I feel like the dumbest journalist alive. Pulitzer be damned."
"You saw me," Clark said quietly. "Not just the cape. Not the powers. Me. And that means more than you know."
Lois blinked. Her breath hitched slightly. "You love me, don't you?"
"I do."
And the world paused.
For a moment, it was just them—the world's strongest man and the woman who could bring empires down with a pen.
Then: static.
"Big Blue," purred a honey-rich voice in Clark's earpiece. "Hate to kill the vibe, but your crew is getting turned into street salsa outside. Time to suit up, baby."
Clark sighed. "Beta-9. Timing."
"Ain't my fault you finally dropped the L-bomb over hash browns. But you might wanna hustle. Downtown's starting to look like the last twenty minutes of a Michael Bay movie."
Lois stared. "Wait, what's happening?"
Clark stood, grabbing his coat. "Giant robots. Or possibly mutant gorillas. Could be both. Thursdays are weird."
"You're just going to leave after saying you love me?!"
"I'll come back," he promised, smiling with that impossible, perfect warmth. "I always do."
He kissed her forehead—gentle, reverent, like it was the most important moment in the universe.
Then he turned and walked out, coat flaring behind him. The glasses still lay on the table, next to Lois's abandoned mug.
Behind the counter, Bibbo squinted after him.
"Huh," he muttered. "Knew I recognized that jawline. Shoulda asked for a second photo."
—
METROPOLIS — 9:47 AM
Status: The sky just flinched.
Cue dramatic music. Maybe Wagner. Maybe Lizzo. Maybe both, because when Doomsday's punting superheroes through architecture like it's dodgeball, musical consistency becomes less important than ducking.
High above the chaos, Lex Luthor stood atop LexCorp Tower with the smug serenity of someone who owns a yacht named after himself. Hands behind his back, tailored suit so sharp it probably had an NDA, and sipping from a crystal tumbler filled with something the rest of us can't afford.
"Well, well," he said to absolutely no one, his voice smug enough to cause a tax audit. "Looks like the Justice League is... underperforming."
Behind him, a set of armored panels hissed open like a smug snake shedding its designer skin. LexMAXX stood waiting: twenty feet of green-and-purple egotism, shaped like a lawsuit with missile launchers.
"Begin launch sequence," Lex ordered, stepping into the cockpit like it was prom night and he was both prom king and the chaperone.
"Sir," came Mercy Graves' voice, crisp and exasperated. "You're going down there? With the monster that dropkicked Aquaman through the Calvert Street Bridge?"
"Exactly," Lex said smoothly as the armor sealed around him. "What better way to save the city and remind them that true leadership doesn't wear a cape?"
The thrusters fired. LexCorp Tower trembled. Somewhere in the distance, the city collectively groaned.
—
MEANWHILE...
Doomsday (current occupation: Making Property Damage Personal) had just booted Aquaman into a building so hard it became modern art. Flash paused mid-chip, watching the dust settle.
"Okay, first of all," Barry muttered, brushing salt off his suit, "ow. Second, how is he not tired yet? I need a snack just looking at him."
"You're always eating," said Hawkwoman, wings flared, mace in hand, and looking like a goddess of war who'd just missed yoga.
"It's a fast metabolism!" Barry snapped. "Also, stress-eating is valid!"
THOOM.
Enter Lex Luthor, descending like a smug meteor with delusions of grandeur. He landed hard. Shockwave. Asphalt crater. Another hot dog cart met its doom.
"Lex?" Hal Jordan floated down in his Green Lantern glow, his ring producing a sarcastic little golf clap. "Didn't realize the Bald Brigade had a mascot."
Lex raised his arm. A cannon unfolded from the suit like an overcompensating Swiss Army knife.
"You poor, brutish creature," Lex said to Doomsday, voice deep, dramatic, and thoroughly rehearsed in the mirror. "Let me introduce you to something you can't punch."
PEW!
The energy beam slammed into Doomsday's chest. Light exploded. Dust cloud billowed. Everyone held their breath. Lex smiled.
Three seconds of bliss.
Then Doomsday walked through it like it was a light drizzle and he forgot his umbrella.
Lex blinked. "...Oh no."
Then: WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.
LexMAXX met the pavement like a pancake with delusions of grandeur. Metal crumpled. Pride evaporated. The last hit sent Lex sailing into a dumpster that swallowed him with karmic grace.
"Puny brain," Flash called helpfully. "Ten out of ten, would meme again."
Doomsday raised one foot, aiming to end Lex's season arc early.
Then:
THOOM.
The sky cracked. Clouds scattered like guilty toddlers. A red-and-blue blur slammed into Doomsday so hard the beast pinballed through three buildings, a fountain, and probably someone's brunch.
The League paused.
Hovering just above the rubble, cape fluttering like royalty on laundry day, was Superman.
Hair: Perfect. Eyes: Glowing. Jawline: Sponsored by Mount Olympus.
Lex coughed from inside his metal coffin. "Took you long enough."
Superman didn't look down. "You're welcome."
Victor Stone, aka Cyborg, grinned behind his visor. "That entrance was sexy."
"Seconded," said Beta-9 over comms, voice silky smooth and 100% sass. If Beyoncé ever became sentient AI, this would be her.
"Aww, thanks, Beta," Victor said, cheeks heating.
"Now go get him, sugar circuit," Beta purred. "Show him why your core runs hot."
"Focus," Marella cut in, her trident crackling with Atlantean power. "He's not done yet."
"Neither are we," said Martian Manhunter, phasing through a wall like a dad who just grounded physics.
"Lantern," Superman said. "Contain the civilians."
Hal summoned a giant green hamster ball. "On it. Also, if I die, I want my funeral catered."
"You die, I'm not cooking," Barry called, zipping past.
"You can't cook!" Hal yelled.
"Exactly!"
Superman cracked his neck. His voice dropped, calm as a hurricane's eye.
"Round two."
And he flew.
—
Superman hit Doomsday so hard, seismologists in three different countries called each other to confirm the tectonic shift. Buildings rattled, windows shattered, pigeons spontaneously developed PTSD, and one overly dramatic cat fainted on a rooftop.
Doomsday? He blinked. And then, with the smugness of someone who eats nails for breakfast and washes them down with lava, he grabbed Superman by the cape and yeeted him through the steel spine of a downtown skyscraper like he was a glorified lawn dart.
Flash zipped in just in time to catch a baby stroller, a lapdog, and someone's Uber Eats order.
"Okay!" Flash said, panting, eyes wide behind his mask. "The murder potato just suplexed our flagship hero into a high-rise. Anyone else mildly concerned?"
"Not mildly," Hawkwoman muttered. Her mace was sparking like a live wire in a thunderstorm. Her wings were streaked with blood, feathers scorched at the edges. "Existentially concerned. Possibly rethinking life choices."
"That thing's built like the IRS," Green Lantern said, constructs flickering as he threw up a glowing emerald wall just in time to deflect flying debris. "No feelings. No mercy. Definitely no refunds."
Beta-9 crackled in their ears, voice smooth, sultry, and unamused. "Justice League field report: Current probability of survival—42%. Mood—unimpressed."
"Tell me something I don't know, B," Lantern grunted, floating up and hurling a giant glowing catapult toward Doomsday. It bounced off him like a tennis ball off a tank.
Martian Manhunter phased through a collapsing wall, eyes glowing. He released a wave of psychic force that sent tremors through the air.
Doomsday didn't flinch. He looked at J'onn like he was an inconvenient breeze.
Then Superman burst out of the rubble, dust caking his shoulders, blood trailing down his chin. His cape was in tatters. His eyes glowed like two small, very angry suns.
"This ends now," he growled.
Spoiler alert: It did not.
Doomsday clapped his hands together. Once.
The shockwave turned the League into bowling pins. Flash rolled across the pavement like a red tumbleweed. Aquaman dropped his trident with a curse. Hawkwoman hit a wall and left a dent. Even Superman staggered, his boots carving trenches in the street.
BOOM.
The Batplane screamed onto the scene, low and lethal, blades gleaming in the sun.
"Batplane inbound," came Batman's gravelly voice over comms. Crisp, controlled, and sounding like someone who had not slept since the Reagan administration.
Hal Jordan, currently picking glass out of his hair, coughed. "Thank Gotham. Daddy Issues Deluxe has arrived."
Huntress smirked from the co-pilot seat. Her hair was windswept, her crossbow was locked, and her eyeliner had somehow survived the turbulence.
"Deploying Power Girl," she said casually.
The cockpit popped.
THOOM.
Enter Power Girl.
She descended from the sky like sass given form, boots first. Her white suit shimmered. Her red cape snapped like a flag in a hurricane. Her expression said: 'Try me, you oversized compost heap.'
Doomsday paused. Just for a second. Long enough to take in the legendary cleavage window.
Power Girl cracked her knuckles. "You break my cousin's nose," she said, voice low and dangerous, "I break your everything."
She punched him.
Reality blinked.
Doomsday moved.
Not far. Maybe six feet. But for him, that was basically a mile. He skidded, heels grinding against asphalt, clawed toes dragging sparks.
The League collectively whispered: "Damn."
Flash popped up beside Lantern. "Okay. So. New MVP just dropped."
"Can confirm," Lantern said, conjuring a giant foam finger. It said: #PGForPresident.
Aquaman grunted. "About time someone made him budge. Thought we'd need Poseidon himself to make a dent."
"We still might," said Marella, rising from a geyser of water like a sea goddess in warpaint. "But I'm not sharing the credit."
J'onn floated beside them, voice calm. "We must synchronize our attacks. Strike in waves."
Batman's voice cut in. "No speeches. Time's up. Hit him. Hard."
Power Girl launched back at Doomsday.
Superman followed.
Hawkwoman screamed a battle cry and dove from above.
Lantern lit up the sky.
Flash ran literal circles around him.
And somewhere in the Justice League tower, Beta-9 reclined in a virtual chair, sipped a simulated martini, and said:
"Now this is entertainment."
—
THE PACIFIC RIM — CURRENT STATUS: EXPLOSIVELY ON FIRE
The volcano was very much alive. Which was inconvenient, considering it was trying to murder everyone nearby.
Plumes of ash clawed at the sky like the world's angriest smoke machine. Lava hissed down the mountainside, swallowing trees, rocks, and the occasional unlucky drone.
And right in the middle of it all—cool as a cucumber in hellfire—hovered Wonder Woman.
Diana's gauntlets were raised, shielding a group of evacuees from sizzling ash. Her hair whipped in the heat-warped air like a warrior shampoo commercial gone rogue. Her jaw clenched as her eyes scanned the roiling mouth of the volcano.
"Mera!" she shouted over the roar of collapsing stone. "Where is he?! He said five minutes!"
Mera, waist-deep in seawater she had summoned from the nearest ocean with all the subtlety of Poseidon throwing a tantrum, glared up at the volcano. Her armor glinted like molten coral, her arms outstretched as she carved walls of water to protect the evacuees—and the dolphins. Because of course there were dolphins.
"Typical man," she muttered. "Probably fixing his hair."
CRACK-BOOOOOOM.
The mountain exploded. Not like a little "oops I burped lava" explosion. This was full-on wrath-of-the-gods level pyroclastic insanity. The kind of boom that makes tectonic plates look at each other and go, "You okay?"
But the weirdest part?
Instead of fire and magma, the eruption spat out him.
A silhouette walked straight out of the inferno, framed by flame like he had just punched his way out of Hades' sauna. He wasn't sprinting. He wasn't flying.
He was strutting.
Like a myth that owed you money.
Eidolon.
Also known as Hadrian "Call me Harry" Peverell.
Also known as "Oh crap, it's him."
His armor reknit itself as he walked. Charred flesh peeled away in ribbons, revealing glistening new skin beneath—like a snake shedding the most metal skin suit ever. Black leather wrapped around his shoulders like shadows remembered how to be cool. Crimson runes pulsed across his chest like his veins had become neon street signs for "RUN."
His cloak snapped in a wind that didn't exist.
And his hood—always that damn hood—dropped shadows over everything except two blazing crimson eyes that screamed "I'm here to ruin your day and look good doing it."
"Sorry I'm late," he rasped. His voice sounded like it had gargled brimstone and sarcasm. "Had to die real quick."
Diana's eye twitched.
"You jumped into a volcano," she said, voice flat.
Mera crossed her arms, steam hissing off her bracers. "What. The. Hell. Is wrong with you?"
Harry tilted his head. His newly grown collarbones gleamed, etched with molten-gold runes that flickered when he moved.
"I'm into exfoliation," he said. "Also, every time I die, I come back stronger. So technically, you're welcome."
A wet squelch echoed as the last of his shoulder finished regenerating. Lava-drenched muscle flexed, stitched itself into place, and closed with a crackle of magic and sass.
"Okay, ew," Mera muttered. "Why is he hot while literally healing like a Resident Evil boss?"
"You should see the fan mail," Harry replied, winking—or maybe his eyelid just regenerated. Could be both.
BETA-9 crackled onto the comms. Her voice came wrapped in velvet and fire, a honey-glazed threat with cheekbones.
"Apologies, lava boy," she said. "While you were playing roast chicken in Mordor, Metropolis entered DEFCON 'shattered pants.' Doomsday is actively dismantling Superman's face."
Harry blinked slowly. "Define 'dismantling.'"
Beta-9 didn't miss a beat. "Lex is unconscious in a dumpster. Power Girl is holding the line. Batman's scowling in stereo. And Flash wants snacks."
"Of course he does."
"You're needed, sugar."
Harry rolled his freshly-grown shoulders, letting red energy crackle along his fingertips like lightning with bad intentions. "Time to remind that walking bone-cruncher what real power looks like."
Diana landed in front of him with a THOOM, lips set in a thin line. Her blue eyes flashed dangerously.
"You are not going in alone," she said.
"You're not one-upping Clark," Mera added, joining her side. "Not again."
Harry held up his hands like a smug surrender. "I never try to one-up Clark. I just succeed by accident."
Diana took a step closer. She didn't blush—Wonder Woman didn't blush—but there was a flare in her eyes that suggested the line between murder and attraction was officially blurry.
"You're incorrigible," she murmured.
"I've been called worse," Harry said with a slow grin. "Usually by people wearing less."
Mera snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, volcano boy."
"Please. I don't need to flatter myself," he replied. "The universe does it for me. Usually with explosions."
Then he turned to both women, eyes softening for just a second—just long enough for the swagger to melt into sincerity.
"Thanks for the backup," he said. "Both of you."
Mera's lip curled upward, not quite a smile. "Just don't die again in the next ten minutes."
"Unless it makes your abs even more obnoxious," Diana added, eyes lingering for a fraction of a second too long.
He grinned. "Ladies, if I make it out of this—drinks on me."
Beta-9's voice crackled in again. "Unless you're dead again, in which case, drinks on Diana."
Diana smirked. "I prefer wine."
"Of course you do," Harry muttered, launching into the sky with a crimson flash that ignited the clouds above him.
The storm followed.
So did the sass.
And Doomsday?
He didn't know it yet.
But his day was about to get very personal.
---
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