by CSyphrett
The night clung to Georgetown’s outskirts like a shroud, the air thick with the scent of wet moss and decay. Wintersgate Manor loomed before the six thieves, its gothic spires clawing at the starless sky, a relic that could’ve been ripped from a nightmare inspired by The Munsters or The Addams Family. Its windows gaped like hollow sockets, and the silence was so absolute it seemed the house itself was holding its breath.
Ernest “Que” Dye, lean and wiry with a restless energy, shifted on his feet, his dark eyes flicking nervously to the manor’s shadowed facade. “This the place, Love?” he whispered, his voice sharp as a blade, betraying the speed that thrummed in his veins.
Adam Love, all charm and sharp cheekbones, flashed a grin that didn’t quite reach his hazel eyes. “Trust me, Que. This dump’s a gold mine. Old money, older secrets.” His tailored jacket hung loose, hiding the tension in his frame as he tried to sell the job to himself as much as the others.
Nikki Snow, short and barrel-chested, crossed her arms, her pale face etched with skepticism. She shot a glance at Mike Redmon, whose bald head caught the faint moonlight, his broken nose and stubbled jaw giving him the look of a boxer past his prime. Her eye-roll said it all: This is a bad idea. Mike, dubbed the Fist, grunted in agreement, his massive hands flexing instinctively.
“Let’s get this $#%^ over with,” Danny Williams snarled, his voice raw as the cigarette he crushed in his calloused palm, the ember hissing out against his skin. His lean frame moved like a coiled spring as he shed his leather jacket, letting it hit the ground with a dull thud. In a blur, he vaulted the manor’s iron gate, his boots barely touching the spikes.
“Time’s a-wasting,” Mike rumbled, his gravelly voice cutting through the night. He gripped the gate and swung himself over with the ease of a man who’d broken more than bones in his time. His nickname wasn’t just for show — his fists were a force of nature.
The last two followed: Adam, with a cocky swagger; Nikki, her steps heavy yet deliberate; and the silent one, known only as the Nerve, his blocky frame moving with eerie calm. His pale eyes scanned the manor like it was a puzzle, his lips twitching as if he sensed something the others didn’t.
As they crept toward the manor, fat snowflakes began to drift down, unnatural in the humid D.C. night. Mike frowned, his breath clouding in the sudden chill. “Snow?”
“What the #*$%*%?” Danny spat, glaring at the sky as if it personally offended him.
“Forget it,” Adam said, waving a hand, though his confidence wavered. “Let’s see what’s inside.”
“I don’t like this,” the Nerve murmured, his voice soft but heavy, like a warning carved in stone. His fingers twitched, as if feeling the manor’s pulse.
“Stuff it, Nerve,” Mike snapped, his patience as thin as the snow dusting his shoulders.
Nikki, undeterred, reached for the heavy oak door. It swung open with a groan that echoed like a dying breath, revealing a maw of darkness. The group hesitated, then stepped inside, the air thick with dust and the faint tang of iron. A flickering glow drew their eyes to a cavernous room where a fire roared in a stone hearth, casting long shadows that danced like specters.
There, lounging in a high-backed chair, sat a man in pristine white formalwear, an anachronism against the modern night. His dark hair was slicked back, a goatee framing a face that was both regal and predatory. A cane rested across his lap, and a glass of wine gleamed like blood in his hand.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Baron Winters asked, his voice smooth as velvet, his eyes glinting with amusement as he turned to face them. A leopard — sleek, golden, and unnervingly silent — slunk from the shadows to sit at his side, its gaze pinning the thieves in place.
The group froze, their bravado crumbling under the weight of those twin stares. Nikki, ever the anchor, stepped forward, her voice steady despite the leopard’s low growl. “Word on the street says you’ve got a fortune stashed here. Hand it over.”
Winters took a slow sip of his wine, his smile never wavering. “Surely,” he said, gesturing lazily toward a shadowed doorway. “It’s in the next room.”
Que and the Nerve exchanged a glance — Que’s wary, the Nerve’s unreadable — before slipping through the doorway. The silence stretched, broken only by the fire’s crackle. Seconds became minutes, and they didn’t return.
“What the #$%*& are they doing in there?” Danny growled, his temper flaring as he stormed toward the door. He vanished into the shadows, swallowed by the same darkness.
Mike’s fists clenched, his eyes narrowing at Winters, who sipped his wine with infuriating calm. “What’s going on, man?”
“Perhaps they’re struggling with the safe,” Winters offered, his tone maddeningly casual, as if discussing a minor inconvenience.
“Maybe there ain’t no safe,” Mike growled, stepping closer, though he kept the leopard in his peripheral vision. Its tail flicked, and he swore it smirked.
“There most certainly is,” Winters said, rising with a fluid grace that belied the tension in the room. “Allow me to show you.” He glided toward the doorway, his cane tapping softly. Nikki led the others after him, her heart pounding but her face set. Mike trailed, wary of the leopard, which stayed by the fire, its eyes never leaving him.
Winters crossed the threshold, the thieves close behind. A heartbeat later, he stepped back into the room — alone.
“It’s no wonder your agents die so often,” a voice spoke from the shadows. A cloaked figure emerged, a golden medallion glinting at his throat, his face obscured by unnatural darkness. The Phantom Stranger’s presence was like a chill wind, his stern gaze fixed on Winters.
“What’s your point?” Winters snapped, one eyebrow arching, his composure fraying.
“I’m surprised at your choices,” the Stranger said, his voice dripping with disdain, “and your methods of recruitment.”
“I don’t tell you how to run your affairs, Stranger,” Winters retorted, his tone sharp. “Don’t lecture me on mine.”
“So long as the job is done,” the Stranger replied, his form dissolving into the darkness like smoke.
“Everyone’s a critic,” Winters muttered, glancing at his leopard, Merlin, who blinked slowly, as if in agreement.
***
The air was thick with the stench of mildew and rust, the alley’s damp brick walls closing in like the jaws of some unseen beast. Ernest “Que” Dye stumbled against the slick surface, his lean frame shivering as the cold bit through his thin jacket. “Where’s the damn house?” he muttered, his voice a sharp hiss, his dark eyes darting to the shadows that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
Mike Redmon, broad and solid as a bulldozer, scanned the narrow passage, his bald head gleaming faintly under a sickly streetlight. “This ain’t D.C.,” he growled, his broken nose casting a jagged shadow. “Hell, this don’t even feel like Earth.” His fists clenched, the nickname the Fist feeling all too apt in this unnerving place.
Adam Love stepped to the alley’s mouth, his sharp cheekbones catching the dim light as he peered into the street beyond. The city sprawled under a sky that seemed too low, too heavy, its buildings twisted into grotesque parodies of familiarity. “No kidding,” he whispered, his usual charm replaced by a wary edge. “This place feels… wrong.”
“#$@#$@#$!” Danny Williams roared, erupting from a rusted trash bin like a demon from a pit, the lid crashing against metal with a clang that echoed like a gunshot. His wiry frame was smeared with grime, his wild hair framing a face twisted in fury.
“Could’ve been worse,” the Nerve said, standing stock-still, his blocky build and pale eyes unnervingly calm amidst the chaos. His voice carried a strange serenity, as if he saw something in the shadows the others missed.
“How?” Nikki Snow snapped, her stocky frame tense as Danny vaulted from the bin, landing with a squelch on the wet pavement. Her pale face was etched with doubt; the Nerve’s bizarre optimism always set her teeth on edge.
“Could’ve been neck-deep in elephant crap,” he replied, his tone flat as the starless sky above.
Nikki rubbed her temples, a low groan escaping her. “Fantastic. Just what I needed to hear.”
“We’re not in D.C.,” Adam said, his voice tight as he studied the alien cityscape. “Not Metropolis, either. This is… something else.”
“Freaking wonderful,” Mike said, his sarcasm as sharp as a blade.
***
At the head of a polished obsidian table in a dimly lit meeting room stood a man in a gray cowl, his face shadowed, his presence cold as a blade. Across from him, a hulking figure in a scuffed blue suit lounged, his dark hair slicked back, a red sigil on his chest pulsing like a warning. A brunette woman in black coiled a golden rope, her eyes glinting with predatory grace, while a red-clad blur vibrated at the table’s edge, unable to sit still. A man with a green-glowing ring clenched his fist, the light flickering as if in pain.
“We’ve got a problem,” the cowled man said, his voice a low rasp, gloved hands spreading out a map beneath the spotlight. “Those vigilantes hit our operations again. They’re getting cocky.”
The man in blue snorted, his dark eyes blazing with fury. “Thought he was just a washed-up fighter, but that bald thug hits like a damn freight train,” he growled, cracking his knuckles with a sound like snapping bones. “Next time, I’m breaking his back.”
“They’re not just do-gooders,” the brunette said, her voice a sultry venom. “They’re a pestilence. That stocky broad dropped a whole skyscraper on me. Shifted her weight like a living wrecking ball. I still feel the bruises.”
The red blur stilled, revealing a lean figure with a cruel smirk. “Their speedster’s the worst,” he hissed, his voice sharp as a razor. “Guy’s fast — almost as fast as me — but he’s all tricks, no style. Left me eating asphalt. I owe him a broken neck.”
The green-glowing man rubbed his ring, wincing as its light sputtered. “Their teleporter popped in and snatched my constructs mid-air,” he muttered. “Cocky bastard. And that fire-spitter? Burned my safehouse to ash before I could blink.”
The cowled man’s eyes narrowed, his mind a churning engine of calculation. “The real threat’s their breaker. He doesn’t fight; he dismantles. He touched my gear, and it crumbled like chalk. He senses weak points — objects, people, doesn’t matter. They’re not just vigilantes; they’re a machine built to take us down.”
The man in blue leaned forward, his grin feral. “They’ve been hitting our operations for months — safehouses, smuggling rings, even our black-market tech. They think they can clean up this hellhole.”
“They’re delusional,” the brunette said, her rope coiling tighter. “This world’s ours. They’re not saving it — they’re just begging for a grave.”
“The question is — what do we do about them?” the man in blue said, arms folded.
The cowled man brought up a screen at monitor station. “I’ve already set up electronic trackers that will be tripped the moment they show up in public. They won’t slip through our nets again.”
The red blur vibrated, his voice a venomous hum. “Fine by me. I say we stuff ’em all in a boxcar and burn it down with them in it.”
“Patience,” the cowled man said, his tone icy as a winter wind. “We need to know how they keep slipping our traps. We watch, we wait, and when they surface, we crush them.”
A sudden blare of alarms shattered the silence, red lights flashing across the monitors. The cowled man’s fingers danced over a control panel, his eyes narrowing as a grainy feed showed six familiar faces in an alleyway. “It’s them,” he said, his voice sharp with recognition. “They’re here. Move.”
***
“Let’s figure out where we are,” Nikki said, her voice firm despite the unease coiling in her gut. “Then we make a plan.”
“Right. Que, you’re with me,” Mike ordered, striding into the gloom, his heavy steps echoing off the walls. Nikki and Adam exchanged a quick, wary glance before heading the opposite way, their shadows merging with the darkness.
“Why do I always get stuck with the pyro?” the Nerve muttered, trailing Danny down a third path, the alley swallowing them like a hungry maw.
Danny blew a small flame from his lips to ignite his cigarette, the glow casting his gaunt face in harsh relief. “Shut it,” he snarled, smoke curling from his mouth like dragon’s breath.
The Nerve paused, his gaze sweeping the alley, his fingers twitching as if sensing a hidden pulse in the air. He raised a hand, hesitated, then spoke softly. “Uh… do we know anyone in green who flies?”
“Nope,” Danny said, squinting through the haze. “Why?”
The Nerve’s eyes locked on a faint shimmer in the sky, a silhouette descending like a vulture circling carrion. “Because we’ve got company,” he said, his calm unshaken.
***
Nikki Snow and Adam Love moved down a street that felt like a warped echo of Gotham, its buildings leaning inward, their facades etched with names that didn’t belong. The air was heavy, laced with the faint tang of ozone, as if a storm brewed just out of sight. “This feels like Gotham’s evil twin,” Adam murmured, his tailored jacket out of place in this grim cityscape.
“Same,” Nikki said, her eyes narrowing at a sign reading Zucco Tower. “But the names are all wrong. Like someone rewrote the city.”
“Like it’s playing a sick joke,” Adam added, his usual swagger dimmed by the creeping dread. “We need a newspaper, something to pin this place down.”
“Hold that thought,” Nikki said, her voice dropping as a shadow fell across the street. A woman descended from the sky, her brunette hair whipping in the wind, her black one-piece suit gleaming with an S-shaped insignia that felt both familiar and perverse. Her boots touched the pavement soundlessly, her presence radiating a cold menace.
“Adam,” Nikki whispered, her heart pounding but her stance firm. “We’ve got a situation.”
***
Mike Redmon and Que Dye moved through the shadowed streets, their boots scraping against cracked pavement that seemed to pulse with malice. The city was a warped labyrinth, its buildings leaning inward like predators sizing up prey, their spires clawing at a sky choked with murky clouds. Looting was a distant thought; survival burned in their minds, the need to find a way back home gnawing like a festering wound.
“Gonna break that smug bastard in Georgetown in half,” Mike growled, his broad frame tense, his broken nose casting a jagged shadow under a flickering streetlamp. The memory of Baron Winters’ sly smile fueled his rage like gasoline.
“Save it,” Que shot back, his lean body vibrating with restless energy, dark eyes scanning the rooftops. “We’ve got bigger problems.” He pointed upward, where a figure descended, a silhouette in blue that cut through the haze like a blade, his red cape snapping in the unnatural wind. Whoever he was, he sure looked a hell of a lot like Superman.
Mike’s fists clenched, his nickname the Fist feeling all too fitting. “Great. And he’s got a buddy.” A blur in red streaked toward them, the air shrieking with its speed, a predator’s grin flashing in the gloom.
***
“I’ve got to admit, you’ve got some stones, showing your faces around here,” a voice sneered from above, sharp and venomous. A man in green hovered, his silhouette haloed by a sickly glow from a ring on his finger. He looked almost like Green Lantern, but the cruel twist of his mouth and his malevolent manner said otherwise.
Danny’s cigarette hit the ground, his wiry frame already moving as he back-flipped out of the path of a massive green fist that erupted from the ring, its force splintering the pavement. The Nerve wasn’t so lucky. The blow caught him square, slamming his blocky frame into the ground with a sickening crunch, leaving a crater in its wake.
The thieves had guessed correctly — they weren’t on their world anymore. Baron Winters’ trickery had hurled them into Earth-Three, a dark mirror world where heroes were villains, and villains were heroes. This wasn’t Green Lantern; this was Power Ring, a member of the Crime Syndicate of America, his ring a weapon of terror rather than hope.
“Damn it!” Danny cursed, his throat igniting as he exhaled a roaring torrent of flame and smoke. Power Ring’s shield flared, deflecting the fire with a hiss, then morphed into a battering ram, aiming to crush the fire-breather. Danny danced across the rubble, leaping from car to lamppost, his agility a blur as he dodged the relentless assault. “#$%^ you!” he spat, his voice raw with defiance.
The Nerve rose from the crater, dust clinging to his blocky frame, his normally placid face twisted with rare fury. His pale eyes locked on Power Ring, who was too focused on Danny to notice the lumbering threat. With a guttural roar, the Nerve charged, his blunt fingers striking the villain’s spine with surgical precision.
Pain exploded through Power Ring’s body, his green constructs flickering out as he gasped, clawing at the air. “Get off!” he choked, but the Nerve flung him aside like a ragdoll. Power Ring crashed through a car’s Plexiglas window, blood streaming down his face as he slumped, unconscious, his ring dimming.
The Nerve exhaled, his rage fading like a dying ember. He rubbed his face, muttering, “Too damn old for this.” His calm returned, but his eyes lingered on the chaos, sensing something deeper in this twisted world.
***
The woman stood before them, her brunette hair whipping like a storm, her black one-piece suit gleaming with a warped S insignia that mocked everything familiar. “I’ve waited too long for this, heroes,” she purred, her voice a venomous caress as she uncoiled a golden lariat that crackled with unnatural energy.
Nikki Snow and Adam Love exchanged a glance, their instincts screaming danger. Adam vanished with a pop, his teleportation leaving a faint ripple in the air, while Nikki ran, her stocky frame impossibly light, her feet barely touching the ground.
The woman — Superwoman, though they didn’t know it yet — scanned the rooftops, her lariat snapping out like a viper, looping over Nikki’s shoulders and pinning her arms.
Nikki froze, her body suddenly immovable as Superwoman tugged, expecting an easy pull. But Nikki’s mass shifted, rooting her like a mountain. The Amazon’s eyes narrowed, unprepared for the resistance.
A pop sounded behind Superwoman’s ear. She spun, but Adam’s fist was already there, cracking against her jaw. “You dare strike the granddaughter of Mars?” she roared, her backhand sending Adam hurtling toward a storefront. He vanished mid-air with another pop, reappearing unscathed.
Nikki seized the moment, letting the lariat pull her skyward. Her mass surged, heavy as a collapsing star, and she slammed Superwoman into the pavement. The street shattered, swallowing the Amazon in a cascade of rubble and sewage. Nikki landed lightly, her mass shifting back, as Adam popped in beside her, breathing hard.
“Let’s move,” Adam said, wiping sweat from his brow. “That dollar store Wonder Woman hits like a damn tank.”
“Why’d she call us heroes?” Nikki muttered, already running, her mind racing to make sense of it all.