by CSyphrett
Mike Redmon’s fists twitched, a surge of raw power coursing through his veins as Ultraman dropped from the bruised sky, landing so close Mike could feel the heat radiating off the villain’s blue suit. The Crime Syndicate’s twisted Superman loomed, his dark hair slicked back, the red U on his chest pulsing like a warning in the flickering light of Earth-Three’s warped streets. The air crackled with menace, the city’s jagged skyline leaning in like it was watching.
“Give it up, Fist,” Ultraman growled, his voice a low rumble of smug certainty. “You’re punching above your weight, and I’m gonna enjoy breaking you.”
Mike’s lips curled into a defiant smirk, his bald head gleaming under a sputtering streetlamp, his broken nose casting a shadow like a boxer ready for war. “Big words for a cheap Superman ripoff.” He swung, his fist a blur, smashing into Ultraman’s jaw with a crack that echoed like a gunshot. The villain didn’t flinch, his steel-gray eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
“My turn,” Ultraman said, his grin splitting wide to show teeth. His fist rocketed toward Mike’s head, a blue streak moving so fast the air screamed.
Most would’ve been crushed, but Mike’s calculating mind was sharper than any blade. He tilted his shaved head two inches left, the punch grazing his ear with a searing whistle. A counter-jab would’ve been his instinct — hook to the jaw, cross to the ribs — but this wasn’t some street brawler. This guy was super-trouble, and Mike knew better.
Instead, he grabbed the red U on Ultraman’s chest, his fingers digging into the fabric, and hurled the villain into a storefront. Glass shattered in a glittering cascade, the impact shaking the street. Mike’s brain screamed: This guy’s a damn tank. Get out before it gets ugly. He shot a glance at Que.
Across the street, Que Dye was a whirlwind, his lean frame a blur as he traded blows with Johnny Quick, the Crime Syndicate’s red-clad speedster. Their supersonic dance tore up the pavement, shockwaves rattling windows as they dodged and struck in a frenzy of near-misses.
Johnny’s sneer was all venom, his eyes burning with sadistic glee. “You’re slow, punk,” he taunted, his voice a distorted hum. “I’m gonna carve you up.”
Mike waited, his boxer’s instincts timing the chaos. As Johnny zipped past, Mike’s fist snapped out, catching the speedster below the ear with a crack that sent him spinning into a brick wall. The impact left a spiderweb of cracks, Johnny slumping in a heap.
“Let’s bolt,” Mike said, his voice low and urgent, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Way ahead of you, man,” Que replied, his words clipped as he grabbed Mike’s arm. In a heartbeat, they were gone, a blur streaking through the twisted streets.
***
The thieves regrouped in the grimy alley where they’d first landed on this nightmare world, the air thick with the stench of rust and despair. Earth-Three’s Crime Syndicate — an evil mockery of the Justice League — had them marked, mistaking them for doppelgängers who’d crossed these heavy-hitters before. The group huddled in the shadows, their breaths shallow, unaware of Owlman, the Syndicate’s gray-clad schemer, watching from a rooftop like a vulture circling carrion.
“These bastards want us dead,” Nikki Snow said, her stocky frame tense, her pale eyes scanning the alley. “Or whoever they think we are. We don’t have the juice to take on the evil twins of the JLA.”
“Speak for yourself,” Mike growled, cracking his knuckles. “I could go another round with that blue-clad wannabe.”
“Yeah, and get your head caved in,” Danny Williams snapped, lighting a cigarette with a flick of flame from his lips, his wiry frame coiled with irritation. “Fighting a Superman clone’s a death wish, Fist.”
“We’re screwed,” the Nerve said, his blocky form eerily calm, his pale eyes distant as if reading the alley’s pulse. “Unless we find someone who can hop dimensions and get us the hell out of here.”
Mike snorted, leaning against a damp wall. “Great plan, baby boy. You got a trans-dimensional taxi driver on speed dial?”
The Nerve’s lips twitched, a rare spark of inspiration flickering in his gaze. “That guy in Washington — Winters. If he’s on our world, he’s gotta have a double here, too.”
Nikki’s brow furrowed, her voice sharp. “Winters? The creep who sent us to this hellhole? You’re betting on him having a twin?”
“Got a better idea?” Adam Love shot back, his sharp cheekbones catching the dim light, his tailored jacket scuffed from their earlier scrapes. “If there’s a Baron Winters here, he might know how to reverse this mess.”
Que shifted, his lean frame buzzing with restless energy. “Hold up. How do we get to this world’s Washington with the Super Fiends hunting us?”
Before anyone could answer, a soft tinkle cut through the air, followed by a crimson mist that erupted in the alley. The thieves’ eyes widened, but the sedative gas was too fast, clawing at their lungs. One by one, they crumpled — Nikki cursing under her breath, Danny’s cigarette falling from his lips, the Nerve’s calm unshaken even as he hit the ground.
Owlman descended from the rooftop, his gray cape billowing like a storm cloud, his cowled face unreadable. The Crime Syndicate’s disgraced doctor crouched over the fallen thieves, his gloved hands probing with clinical precision. “Well, well,” he murmured, his voice cold as a scalpel. “What do we have here?”
His eyes narrowed behind his mask, studying their faces. These were the heroes — or enemies — he’d clashed with before, yet… not. Something was off, and Owlman’s calculating mind churned, piecing together the impossible truth of their arrival on Earth-Three.
***
Que Dye’s eyes snapped open, his pulse racing as he found himself shackled to a cold metal rack, the chains biting into his wrists and ankles. His lean frame thrummed with restless energy, but his super-speed was useless against the heavy restraints. A quick glance around revealed the others — Nikki, Mike, Danny, Adam, and the Nerve — strapped to identical racks in a sterile, shadow-drenched room that reeked of antiseptic and rust. They were caged like lab rats on Earth-Three, and Que’s only thought was escape, even if it meant leaving the others behind.
He gripped the wrist chains, his hands blurring as he rubbed them against the rack’s edge. Sparks flew, smoke curling from the friction, until the links snapped with a sharp crack. Que’s jaw tightened — freedom for his hands, but his chest, waist, knees, and ankles were still bound. He couldn’t vibrate through solids like the Flash, but he could damn well shake until something gave. His body thrummed, the chains rattling like a drumroll, abrasions stinging his skin as he pushed himself to the limit.
A low groan broke the silence. The Nerve stirred, his blocky frame shifting against his restraints, pale eyes glinting with eerie focus. Without a word, he flexed his thick fingers, prying apart a chain link with surgical precision, as if the metal itself whispered its weak points. A flick of his fingertip snapped the lock on his wrist manacle, the sound echoing like a gunshot. He reached across to Adam’s rack, yanking out an IV dripping a sickly green fluid. A sharp pinch to Adam’s arm jolted the teleporter awake, his eyes wide with a surge of pain like fire in his veins.
“Jesus!” Adam gasped, his sharp cheekbones taut as he shook off the haze. “What the hell was that?”
The Nerve didn’t answer, already working on his remaining chains, his fingers bending metal like clay. Que’s rack shattered with a deafening crash, his speed breaking the last of his bonds. He darted to Mike and Danny, delivering sharp slaps to their faces. “Rise and shine, knuckleheads.”
Mike groaned, his bald head jerking up, his broken nose flaring. “Watch it, speed freak.”
Danny’s eyes fluttered open, his wiry frame tensing as he clutched his head. “What the $&*^%*& is this place?” he snarled, his voice raw with fury.
Adam teleported free of his chains with a pop, appearing beside Nikki and shaking her shoulder. “Up and at ’em, boss.”
“Go ‘way,” Nikki mumbled, her stocky frame slumping, her pale face half-buried in her arm. “Five more minutes.”
Adam smirked, grabbing her shoulder and popping in and out of existence, dragging her through a split-second of disorienting limbo. Nikki staggered, her eyes snapping open as she swung a fist at his arm. “Do that again, and I’ll break your face,” she growled, her voice thick with exhaustion but sharp with authority.
“Sorry, Nik,” Adam said, rubbing his arm with a mock wince. “Figured you’d want in on the jailbreak.”
Mike shook his head, his fists clenching. “Where the hell are we? This ain’t no prison.”
“Feels like a hospital,” Que said, rubbing the raw skin on his wrists, his dark eyes scanning the sterile walls, their peeling paint and flickering fluorescent lights screaming neglect. “But this is some other world. Nothing’s what it seems.”
“What the $&*^%*& is going on?” Danny demanded, his cigarette-less hand twitching as if craving a spark. “First we’re fighting evil Superman, now we’re lab experiments?”
The Nerve, silent until now, snapped the door’s lock with a soft tinkle of metal giving way. He peered into the corridor beyond, its dim lights casting long shadows. “No cameras, no guards,” he said, his voice calm but heavy, like a storm brewing. “Something’s off.”
Nikki’s eyes narrowed. “Off how?”
The Nerve didn’t answer, stepping into the hall, his hand brushing the wall as if feeling its pulse. His strange talent let him sense the weak points in anything — metal, stone, even people — and this place was screaming secrets. The others followed, their bickering fading as the weight of their situation settled in.
At a T-junction, the corridor split: one path led to more rooms, the other to a desk where nurses moved with mechanical indifference, their white coats stark against the grimy walls. The Nerve frowned. Was this a hospital?
“What’re you doing, hotshot?” Que’s voice cut through, his lean frame tense as he caught up, his eyes flicking to the nurses.
The Nerve raised a hand, ready to strike, then relaxed when he saw it was Que. “Checking the place out.”
“Nik said to wait,” Que said, his voice low but firm. “Don’t go rogue.”
“Whatever,” the Nerve replied, his tone flat but his eyes sharp, scanning the hall. “This place has a nervous system, and it’s lying to us.”
“I’ll wait here,” said the Nerve, watching the nurses and doctors walk up and down in the hall. Strangely enough, no one seemed concerned about the two of them standing there.
“I’ll wait with you,” Que said.
“You can trust me not to do something rash,” said the Nerve.
Que raised an eyebrow. “You still sore about Widener? ‘Cause that was your fault, man. You didn’t have to put him in a coma.”
“He ran his mouth instead of doing his job,” the Nerve said, his voice calm but edged with steel. “Got us pinched. I don’t play nice with screw-ups.”
“Point is, you don’t think,” Que shot back. “We’re in enough trouble without you pulling stunts.”
Nikki stormed up, her pale face flushed with irritation, the others trailing behind. “What’s with you, Nerve?” she snapped. “Trying to get us killed?”
“Nada,” the Nerve said, his lips twitching as if amused by her anger. Nikki rolled her eyes — she’d heard that before. The last time he’d said “nada,” he’d rigged a trap that saved their skins when a heist went south.
Nikki Snow’s pale eyes narrowed as she watched the nurses glide through the hospital’s dim lobby, their movements too smooth, their faces blank as if carved from wax. Not one spared a glance at the ragtag crew of thieves, and that set her nerves on edge. “Something’s wrong here,” she muttered, her stocky frame tense. “We need to get out. Now.”
“Agreed,” Mike rumbled, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s find a way out before Superdude or his buddies show up.”
“Or worse,” Danny muttered, his fingers sparking as he fought the urge to burn something.
She led the way to an emergency staircase, its rusted steps groaning under their weight. The idea of finding this world’s version of Washington, D.C., flickered in her mind — a long shot, but better than waiting for Superwoman or her Syndicate pals to finish what they started. Nikki wasn’t eager to face that brunette Amazon again, not after their last scrap. Mike might think he could take Ultraman one-on-one, but Mike thought he could take anyone. Foolish bravado wouldn’t get them home.
The group descended, their footsteps echoing in the claustrophobic stairwell. In the lobby, a few orderlies shot curious glances, but the thieves ignored them, pushing through the glass doors into the humid night air of Earth-Three. The city loomed, its skyline a jagged mockery of Gotham, all sharp angles and flickering neon.
“Need wheels,” Mike said, his bald head catching the glow of a streetlamp, his broken nose flaring as he scanned the lot.
“There,” Adam pointed, his sharp cheekbones taut as he spotted a beat-up van, its paint chipped like old scars. With a pop, he teleported inside, the locks clicking open with a satisfying snap.
The Nerve, his blocky frame looming, raised a hand. “Can I drive this time?”
“Hell no,” Danny Williams snapped, his wiry frame bristling as he lit a cigarette with a spark from his lips. “You fell asleep last time, genius. Nearly got us nabbed.”
“That was three years ago,” the Nerve said, his voice calm but edged with mock offense. “Give a brother a break.”
“Back seat,” Mike growled, sliding into the driver’s seat, his massive hands gripping the wheel like it owed him money.
“I’m a great driver,” the Nerve protested, his pale eyes glinting with amusement.
“Back seat,” Nikki commanded, climbing into the passenger seat, her tone brooking no argument. “We don’t need you plowing into a cop car again.”
Que snickered, sliding in behind Mike. “Yeah, let’s not relive that disaster.”
Adam settled in behind Nikki, shaking his head with a wry grin. Danny and the Nerve took the rear, the Nerve grumbling under his breath. “Y’all are gonna regret this when I save your asses.”
“Keep dreaming,” Danny shot back, blowing smoke. “And if you don’t shut up, I’m lighting you up instead of this cigarette.”
The Nerve smirked, raising his hand and vibrating his forearm in mock terror. “Oh, I’m terrified.”
***
High above, Ultraman’s eyes peered into the distance, tracking the van as it peeled out of the lot. “They’re moving,” he growled into the receiver in his ear, his blue suit a stark silhouette against the sky.
“Stay on them,” Owlman’s voice crackled, cold and precise. “Whatever they used to arrive in our world, we want it.”
Ultraman grinned, a predator’s leer. “Fine by me. All I care about is crushing the Fist.” He launched into the air, the city blurring below as he followed the van south. His heat-vision itched to torch the vehicle, but he held back — for now. The Fist was his, and he’d savor breaking him.
***
Mike cranked the van’s radio, heavy metal blaring as they sped down the highway, the city’s twisted spires fading in the rearview. He glanced at the gas gauge, its needle flirting with empty. “How much cash you got, Nik?”
“Five hundred, give or take,” Nikki said, rummaging through her pockets, her pale face set in a scowl. “Enough for gas and maybe some food.”
“Gas and a Whopper,” Mike said, his stomach growling louder than the engine. “We need a map, too. This ain’t our turf.”
“Bludhaven’s exits are up ahead,” Nikki said, pointing to a sign. “Pull off there. We’ll swap plates, too — someone’s probably reported this heap stolen.”
“Tell me about it,” Mike muttered, veering toward a neon-lit strip of gas stations and fast-food joints. He pulled into a Burger King, the lot bathed in sickly yellow light. The thieves piled out, stretching cramped muscles, their casual swagger masking the tension of being hunted. High above, Ultraman hovered, his eyes like twin embers, waiting for them to move.
After refueling and grabbing a stack of burgers, they hit the road again, switching drivers every few hours — except for the Nerve, whose protests were met with a chorus of “no way.” The hours bled together, the highway stretching through a landscape that felt wrong, its colors too sharp, its air too heavy.
As they reached the outskirts of what should’ve been Washington, D.C., a sign loomed: Arnoldtown, D.C. The name sent a chill through Nikki. Further on, they found this world’s Georgetown, now called Benedictus, its streets eerily familiar yet alien.
Mike pulled the van up to a large house that mirrored the Wintersgate Manor where their nightmare began. Its gothic spires loomed, windows glinting like eyes in the moonlight. “This is it,” he said, his voice low.
The Nerve tilted his head, his pale eyes narrowing. “He’s waiting for us.”
“How the #$%^ do you know that?” Danny snapped, his fingers sparking with irritation.
“Call it a hunch,” the Nerve said, his lips twitching with that eerie calm. “I’m psychic like that.”
“More like psychotic,” Adam quipped, his grin strained but sharp.
The thieves scaled the manor’s wall, their movements practiced but heavy with dread. The door creaked open at Mike’s touch, revealing a darkness that seemed to swallow the light. They stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of dust and something sour.
A minute later, a green bubble shimmered on the lawn outside, dispersing to reveal Superwoman, Johnny Quick, and Owlman, their silhouettes sharp against the night.
Ultraman swooped down, landing with a thud that cracked the earth. “They went in,” he growled, his voice thick with anticipation. “And they didn’t come out.”
Owlman’s eyes narrowed behind his cowl, his voice a cold rasp. “Then we follow.” Ultraman pushed the door open, and the Crime Syndicate stepped into the manor’s maw, their footsteps echoing like a death knell.