Omen Dickford was a modestly successful man in life. He currently had a job and a roof over his head while studying his first year of college, but he wasn't exactly well-liked by his peers and coworkers, and he certainly wasn't well-loved by the women he dated.
He wasn't good with people; he and everyone around him could guess so much, for the simple reason that Omen couldn't really see them as people. Omen knew this was far from normal, and very well was Omen a step away from complete sociopathy. Omen saw everyone as a means to an end; everyone had their fate after all, and it was their job to follow the script, whether they knew what was written or not.
Omen was tall, 6'3", with broad shoulders, lean muscles, and a kind of quiet menace in the way he moved. His skin was light, his hair long, straight, and dark, and his black eyes looked sharp under soft, smooth features. He didn't have a beard or any chest hair; if he did, he would be closer to a bear than to a man.
The job he had was as a cleaner and handyman at a local antique shop, a simple, classic job, boring as only it could be. Sometimes he considered stealing the antiques—people stole all kinds of stuff nowadays, so he could probably get away with it—but he had no idea what they could even be worth. The owner usually sold them based on vibes, and he didn't know any other store that could buy the antiques off him.
He'd probably wind up stealing one, sooner or later, and getting caught doing it. So, three days after stealing a medallion, Omen rested sprawled across his bed in his new apartment in Gotham as the faint hum of cars, smog and the city outside was muffled by the paper-thin walls of his crappy apartment, leaving the room with enough silence for it to be considered quiet.
The small apartment was sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a desk, and a pile of clothes hastily thrown into the corner on top of a chair Omen had "recovered" from being thrown away as trash by a business besides his workplace.
Then, suddenly, his peaceful sleep was shattered.
Omen's eyes snapped open as a sharp, blinding pain exploded in his head, his hands quickly shooting up to clutch his forehead, and a muffled, dry scream escaped his throat, barely audible through the blanket tangled around his face.
His mind felt like it was being torn apart, as if something foreign, like a needle, was forcefully invading it. Memories, vivid and alien, poured into his consciousness like a raging flood. 'What the hell is happening?!' he screamed in his thoughts, each breath coming out in short, panicked gasps. 'Am I dying? Is this some kind of villain attack?!'
As the minutes passed, though it felt like an eternity, gradually and little by little, the pain subsided, leaving Omen drenched in sweat and trembling in his bed as if he had run a marathon. He pulled the blanket off his face, gulping in air like a diver starved of oxygen.
"What… was that?" he said out loud, his voice trembling as he sat up and ran his hands through his black, silky hair. His heart was racing, and his mind began to sift through the memories now imprinted on his brain.
'Two lives… Two people. Who are they? What is this?' Omen's mind raced as he tried to make sense of the flooding influx of information. It was a mess of unsorted information, like trying to read two books at once while someone yelled in your ear, or watching two movies, one in 3D and one with subtitles. Slowly, though, it all began to make sense.
"I'm still me," he whispered, his voice firmer now as he reassured himself that he was still himself "I'm still Omen Dickford. That… thing, whoever it was, failed."
It became clear to him that someone, or something, had tried to take over his body, a transmigrator, most probably, like in those stories he sometimes read online. But for some reason, they had failed. Instead of possessing him, they had left behind their memories and something else behind as their consciousness was torn apart.
As the realisation dawned on him, Omen's eyes widened, and he jumped to his feet, pacing the small room. "This can't be real," Omen said, his voice tinted with disbelief as the information began to make sense. "This can't be happening."
The memories painted a horrifying picture of the future. Omen saw flashes of events that hadn't yet occurred, terrible battles, destruction on an unimaginable scale, the first invasion of Apocalypse, the resurrection of Trigon, and the eventual defeat of the Justice League, among many other events from various universes and timelines.
'All of that… and there's nothing I or anyone can do?!' he thought, his stomach churning with dread. 'No. No way. This is too much,' His breathing quickened again as panic threatened to consume him. Still, then, something shifted like gears falling into place; a new sensation coursed through Omen's veins, the power of a being way higher than anything else in the universe, one that any of his latest memories had seen.
It started in his eyes, a faint warmth that made them tingle, and then spread to his tongue. It wasn't unpleasant, in fact, it was exhilarating, like chains were finally lifted from his body, 'This is... a 11th dimensional power... I'm above anything, since they all are comic book characters, and I'm real, that means...'
Bringing a hand to his face as if to confirm he was still himself, Omen blinked, and for a moment, his vision seemed sharper, clearer as he realised what he was; his tongue tingled with a strange, almost electric sensation as he imagined what he would do.
The transmigrator might have failed to take over his body, but they had left something behind, a parting gift if one willed, the power to alter reality.
As Omen stood there, still processing the sensation of his newfound freedom, his thoughts began to twist and darken; a sly grin spread across his face as the true nature of the mind became clear to him.
The first thing Omen did with his new powers, and probably the riskiest move he'd ever make, was reach out across the multiverse to scan for any cosmic big shots. He looked for gods, demon lords, interdimensional watchdogs, anything that could challenge him.
To his surprise, there was basically nothing; his multiverse was empty compared to the one in the transmigrator's memories, or at least, he was so strong that no entity could detect him or do anything to him. There was no Presence, no Spectre-level beings. That worked perfectly in his favour, as far as he could tell, he was now the most powerful thing in existence.
The second thing he did, way more important to him, was to install a rule, a kind of universal law that no matter what happened, Omen couldn't be killed, sealed away, or taken out in any meaningful way unless it was through something sexual. If anything like that happened—death, defeat, erasure, whatever—time would rewind exactly twenty-four hours.
Not only that, but he'd be told exactly what had gone wrong, and it would stop automatically even if he did nothing about it.
Once that was done, he snapped his fingers and teleported away to start his sex slave harem,
The warehouse he landed in was a filthy dump, the kind of place that reeked of piss, oil, and gunpowder. Rusty metal walls, crates stacked in every corner, dim lights flickering like a horror movie. It was the Joker's current hideout.
There he was—the Joker himself—standing in the middle of the room with Harley Quinn by his side and a few goons hanging around, each of them holding a gun or a crowbar, talking loudly about a plan to blow up a local orphanage.
Joker looked exactly like he did in the old animated show of the transmigrator memories, The Batman, or something like that: he wore a slick, purple suit, a bright yellow shirt, his face painted bone white, red lips curled into that fake grin, and yellow teeth that made your skin crawl. His green hair was slicked back with grease, and his eyes had that wild twitch like he was always about two seconds away from losing it, true in gothamite fashion.
Harley was next to him, in her classic jester outfit, tight, glossy fabric not too far from latex, split down the middle, red on one side and black on the other. Her domino mask clung to her face, and the jester cap bounced slightly every time she moved alongside her fat ass. The suit hugged every curve of her body as if it had been painted on. Her nipples were clearly visible through the fabric, and the camel toe was impossible to ignore.
The outfit showed off her perky tits, a narrow waist, and a thick, round bubblebutt that looked almost too good to be real. She didn't have the massive tits of Power Girl or Wonder Woman, but she didn't need to with that fat ass.
"Hey, punk, " the Joker said, the first one to notice Omen as he suddenly appeared on his warehouse-turned-base, "I don't care what kinda shady meta-human you are, but you better think real hard if this is worth the—"
Before he could finish his sentence, Omen lazily pointed at him, and Joker's head exploded like a watermelon, spraying gore all over Harley and the floor, making the goons freak out and raise their weapons, pointing at Omen.
"I don't care about any of this," Omen said coldly, flicking his finger again. Joker's head reformed in a blink, his maniacal laughter filling the room like nothing had happened.
"HAHAHAHAHA! How funny!" Joker cackled, spinning around like it was all a joke while Harley stared at him, wide-eyed and shaking, not knowing whether to scream or pass out.
"Alright, alright," Joker said quickly, holding his hands up like he was making a deal, "he says he doesn't care what we do, long as we work under his eyes and don't kill anyone too important." He turned to Omen, still grinning, "That right, boss?"
Omen nodded in agreement, already setting mental chains in place inside the Joker's twisted brain; it wasn't just controlling him, but rewriting parts of his personality and the brain itself, inserting blocks to prevent rebellion or double-crossing. Joker was now bound to him, loyal without knowing it, a puppet that thought it was free.
"Since you all work under the gaze of Portent," Omen said, not bothering to think of a better villain name, "I don't expect too much trouble."
The goons lowered their weapons, nervous and quiet now as Omen looked at Harley, "Harley. You're coming with me."
She blinked, confused. "Huh? Wait, what?"
Omen didn't bother to answer Harley's questions; he just turned around, and a second later, Harley vanished with him. Joker didn't even try to stop him; he just stood there and smiled, waving as Omen took Harley to fuck her brains out, like it was the best joke he'd heard all year.
Harley followed Omen out of the warehouse into the dark night on the outskirts of Gotham, where the air smelled like garbage and smoke, just like always. One of the Joker's goons was standing by the curb, next to a sleek black limo with tinted windows and shiny wheels.
Omen walked straight up to him and gave an order, "Drive us downtown."
The goon blinked, confused as to why a pretty boy was giving him orders, "Who the hell are you?" he asked, raising his gun halfway. But then Harley stepped forward and stood next to Omen, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
"It's fine," Harley said, rolling her eyes. "This guy's in charge now."
The goon didn't say a word; he just lowered the gun, opened the limo door, and stepped aside. Omen slid into the seat like he owned the world, because in a sense, he did, and Harley followed, a little slower, her ass swaying as she climbed in.
Inside the limo, everything was black leather and dim yellow lights. It was quiet, except for the low hum of the engine. Harley sat across from Omen, fidgeting with the jester tip on her hat as she kept glancing at him, not saying much.
The guy had just blown Joker's head up and put it back together like it was nothing. She wasn't scared exactly, but her gut told her to be cautious of the man before her; he was scary, but certainly not the smiling Batman scary.
Omen broke the silence first. "Do you like money, Harley?"
Harley blinked. "Duh," she said in that high, playful voice, "who doesn't? I mean, I ain't gonna pick it over Mister J, but I ain't dumb either."
Omen leaned back and opened his legs wide, his dick already rock-hard and huge, thick and pulsing, the head twitching slightly, making a tent, covered in the limo's soft light. "Since you love money," he said, "how about I pay you to have rough, nasty, degrading and humiliating sex with me?"
Harley stuck out her tongue and made a face, half-joking. "What, like a whore?"
"I'll pay you ten million dollars," Omen said, like it was pocket change, making Harley blink again as her head tilted. "Ten million? As in real money? American money?"
"Yes," he said, smirking. "I can wire it wherever you want, all you gotta do is get on your knees and earn it."
She hesitated, licking her lips. Ten million was a lot; the Joker never paid her anything. Hell, she paid for his shit most of the time. She had her own crappy apartment, cheap clothes, and always needed to hustle on the side when she wasn't pulling jobs. With this money, she could finally have a more decent life while also helping the Joker.
"…Fine," she said finally, narrowing her eyes, "but if you're screwin' with me, I'll bite your dick off, capiche?"
Omen grinned widely as he heard Harley accept, "Deal. But first…" he pointed at her with a lazy wave, "you need a proper name. Something lewd. Something dirty. Come up with a nickname for yourself. A whore name."
Omen smiled as he already imagined what he would do to Harley. "Great, then, first, you have to come up with a lewd, degrading nickname for yourself," Omen said, finally noticing a bottle of champagne in the middle of the Limo seat, then leaned forward and grabbed the chilled bottle of champagne from the ice bucket beside him.