by CSyphrett
The air reeked of ash and decay as Danny Williams clawed his way out of a rusted dumpster, his wiry frame smeared with filth. “Why the #$%^ do I always land in a damn garbage can?” he roared, his voice echoing through the shattered remains of a city whose skyscrapers had been reduced to jagged husks under a blood-red sky.
The Nerve, standing calm amidst the rubble, tilted his blocky head, his pale eyes glinting with amusement. “Like calls to like, man.”
“#$%^ you and your mother,” Danny snapped, vaulting out of the bin with a squelch, his boots crunching on broken glass.
“Cool it, both of you,” Mike Redmon growled, his bald head gleaming in the dim light, his broken nose flaring as he scanned the desolate street. His fists clenched, ready for a fight, but even he felt the weight of this ruined world.
Adam Love stood with hands on hips, his sharp cheekbones taut as he surveyed the wreckage. “What the hell happened here?” he asked, his voice low, almost reverent, as if the city’s destruction demanded respect.
“Looks like someone dropped a nuke and kept going,” Que Dye said, his lean frame tense, his dark eyes darting to the skeletal remains of a billboard swaying in the wind.
Nikki Snow crouched, snatching a tattered edition of The Gotham Gazette from the pavement. Nikki’s fingers tightened on the newspaper, her eyes scanning the faded print. The date — October 17, 2005 — hit like a punch, and below it, a headline screamed: Superman Falls, Justice League No More. She froze, her voice barely a whisper. “This isn’t Earth-Three. We’re back in our world. But it’s the future… and we’re too late.”
Mike’s head snapped toward her, his fists unclenching for the first time as he peered at the date on the newspaper. “Wha–? 2005? That’s, what, almost twenty years from now? And Superman’s dead?”
Danny’s cigarette fell from his lips, his face paling beneath the grime. “Batman, Wonder Woman, the Flash — all gone? #$%^, what kind of hell did we stumble into?”
Adam’s gaze darted to a shattered statue in the distance, its broken cape and chiseled bat insignia unmistakable, despite the missing head. It was a memorial to the Dark Knight, now defaced with claw marks. “This is our Earth, all right,” he said, his voice hollow. “But it’s a graveyard.”
“Good gravy,” the Nerve muttered, his calm unshaken even as he took in the apocalyptic scene — crumbled buildings, smoldering cars, and an eerie silence broken only by the distant howl of wind. The Nerve’s pale eyes flicked to the decapitated statue of Batman. His lips twitched, a rare flicker of unease breaking his calm. “This is our world, all right. No heroes left, though.” His nonchalance grated on the others, but they knew better than to question his instincts.
Que’s lean frame tensed, his voice low. “No Justice League, no nothing. We missed the fight, and now it’s just… this.”
Mike’s head snapped up, his voice sharp. “Heads up — company.”
The five members of the Crime Syndicate emerged from the haze, their silhouettes menacing against the burning skyline. Ultraman’s blue suit and red U gleamed with menace, Superwoman’s lariat coiled like a snake, Johnny Quick’s red blur vibrated with restless energy, Power Ring’s green glow pulsed ominously, and Owlman’s gray cowl hid a calculating stare. The thieves tensed, hands twitching for weapons they didn’t have.
Owlman stepped forward, his cape billowing, his voice a cold rasp that cut through the silence. “You don’t want to be here — that much is evident,” he said, his eyes narrowing behind his mask. “Neither do we. Truce?”
Nikki’s jaw tightened, her stocky frame steady despite the Syndicate’s predatory presence. “Truce,” she said, her voice firm but wary. “How do we get home?”
Owlman tilted his head, studying her like a specimen. “Same way we got here, unless it’s a one-way trip. That manor you just left — it’s a nexus. It connects to my world, Earth-Three, and it touches this world, too.”
Mike snorted, his fists still clenched. “You sure about that, Bat-wannabe?”
“Not now, Mike,” Nikki snapped, shooting him a glare. “Save it for when we’re not stuck in Hell.”
Mike glowered but backed off, his eyes locked on Ultraman, who smirked like he was itching for round two.
“So we head to Washington — or Arnoldtown, this world’s D.C., whatever — and figure it out?” Nikki asked, her tone clipped, already weighing the risks.
“Exactly,” Owlman said, his voice smooth but edged with calculation. “Better we travel together than stab each other in the back when the real trouble shows.”
Nikki’s gut twisted — she knew Owlman saw them as cannon fodder, meat shields for whatever horrors Earth-Hell, for lack of a better name, had in store for them. Two can play that game, she thought, but kept her face neutral.
Ultraman’s voice cut through, sharp and urgent. “Problem, Owl.” He pointed down the street.
There, a horde of metal skeletons shambled forward, their rusted weapons — swords, axes, relics of some ancient war — glinting in the crimson light. Above, pterodactyl-like creatures with jagged wings swooped, their screeches blending into a chilling chant: “Hunter! Hunter!”
“Let’s move,” Owlman barked, his calm fracturing.
“Second that,” Nikki said, her voice tight as she braced for a fight.
Ultraman launched skyward, his fist punching a hole through the pterodactyl swarm, but their razor-sharp claws raked his skin, drawing blood that shocked him silent. Power Ring unleashed a torrent of green energy, blasting a wider gap, his ring’s glow flickering with strain.
Mike Redmon picked a direction and charged, his boxer’s instincts kicking in. His mind, a data processor honed by years in the ring, told him exactly where to strike. Each punch shattered a skeleton’s frame, metal crumpling like tin. The Nerve had called him a “super-boxer,” but Mike never believed it until now, a pile of broken machines growing around him.
Que Dye darted in, a stolen sword flashing in his hand, his super-speed turning the blade into a streak of lightning. He sliced through skeletons like they were paper, his lean frame a blur of motion.
On the other side, Johnny Quick matched him, his red suit a streak as he carved through the horde. “When this is over,” Johnny hissed, his voice venomous, “I’m coming for you, Speed Freak.”
“Bring it,” Mike shot back, smashing another skeleton. “But we’ve got these tin cans to scrap first.”
The Nerve slipped away from the chaos, his blocky frame moving with quiet purpose. He wasn’t a fighter — he was an entry man, a breaker of things. He discovered that the skeletons were using a subway to enter the battle, and he avoided them as he crept closer to it. His fingers brushed the crumbling subway entrance, its stonework soft and decayed like everything in this ruined world. He sensed its weak point, a pulse only he could feel, and drove his arm into the structure. The tunnel collapsed in a roar of dust and brick, silencing the “Hunter” chant for a fleeting moment.
He scanned for something to barricade the entrance, buying time for the uneasy alliance. Above, Ultraman, Superwoman, and Power Ring dominated the sky, their powers tearing through pterodactyls. Mike and the speedsters held the ground, a retreating wall against the skeleton horde. Adam and Danny flanked the edges, Adam popping in and out to knock back stragglers, Danny’s flames scorching anything that got too close.
Nikki bowled through a group of skeletons sneaking up behind, her mass shifting to crush them like a landslide. She grinned, reveling in the chaos — until she noticed the Nerve was gone. “Damn it, Nerve,” she growled under her breath, her smile fading.
“Hunter!” a skeleton shrieked in her ear, its rusted blade swinging.
Nikki dropkicked it, her mass lightening mid-air to send the thing crashing into rubble. She landed, bouncing back to her feet, her control over her weight seamless. But the skeletons froze, their chants stopping as if a switch had been flipped.
Owlman’s voice cut through, low and grim. “This isn’t good.”
The skeleton army parted like a rusted sea, their eerie chant of “Hunter! Hunter!” echoing through the smoldering ruins of Gotham City on Earth-Hell. A thin young man stepped forward, his short brown hair tousled, his dark suit pristine against the ash-strewn street. Behind his glasses, his eyes gleamed with a chilling mix of boyish curiosity and malevolent power. He stroked a skeleton’s metal skull, and it crumbled to dust at his touch, its collapse silencing the chant for a heartbeat.
“Yes,” the young man said, his high-pitched English accent cutting through the silence. “I’m Timothy Hunter. But you may call me your lord and master.”
Nikki Snow’s pale eyes narrowed, her stocky frame tense as she whispered to the thieves and the Crime Syndicate huddled beside her. “Get ready to scatter.”
Hunter’s gaze swept over them, a smirk curling his lips. “New heroes, come to challenge me?” he asked, his voice dripping with mockery, as if their defiance amused him.
Mike Redmon stepped forward, his bald head gleaming under the blood-red sky, his fists clenched. “We’re just passing through, kid. If ya don’t mind, we’ll go about our business and forget this little apocalypse ever happened.”
Hunter’s smile sharpened. “And what if I do mind?”
“Shut it, Mike,” Nikki hissed, her voice low but urgent, her hand gripping his arm.
“I’ll rip you a new hole,” Mike growled, flexing his chest, his boxer’s frame radiating defiance.
Hunter laughed, a high, manic sound that sent tears streaming down his cheeks. He adjusted his glasses, his mirth vanishing like a snuffed flame. “For that spot of trite comedy,” he said, his tone cold as ice, “I’ll kill you last.”
He raised a hand, and a blinding beam of light erupted, tearing through the pavement like a living blade. The thieves and Syndicate scattered, diving behind rubble. Power Ring threw up a green energy wall, his ring’s glow straining against the onslaught. The beam punched through, seemingly vaporizing him in a flash of emerald sparks, the skeleton army howling with glee.
Adam Love popped in behind Hunter, a scavenged sword in hand, his sharp cheekbones taut with desperation. He swung with all his might, but the blade shattered against an invisible barrier. Hunter shrugged, a casual flick of his wrist disintegrating Adam into a cloud of particles that drifted away on the wind.
“#$%^&$%^!” Danny Williams roared, his wiry frame igniting as he unleashed a dragon’s roar of flame, the heat scorching the air.
Ultraman’s eyes blazed red, twin beams lancing toward Hunter, while Superwoman’s golden lariat snapped out, looping around the warlock’s shoulders. Hunter caught the flames and heat-vision in his palms, his smirk unwavering, as if toying with children.
The Nerve moved silently through the skeleton ranks, his blocky frame weaving past their rusted blades. His pale eyes were locked on Hunter, his fingers twitching as he sensed the weak points in the chaos. The skeletons ignored him, their focus on their master’s display, but the Nerve had plans of his own.
Hunter clapped his hands, and the fiery energy twisted into a cascade of wilting flowers, falling harmlessly to the ground. “Give up,” Superwoman snarled, yanking her lariat tight.
Hunter’s grin widened. He grabbed the rope, and lightning surged up its length, crackling through Superwoman’s body. She convulsed, light bursting from her skin, and collapsed, unconscious, as Hunter tossed the lariat aside like a discarded toy.
Ultraman roared, slamming the ground with a fist, sending a shockwave rippling through the rubble. Hunter stumbled, lifted off his feet for a fleeting moment, his balance broken.
The Nerve stepped into the front line of the skeletons, having cut a swathe to get to this point. He knew the metallic things ignored him because they were waiting on Hunter to finish the rest and take him out. The Nerve had other plans.
Nikki seized the chance, her mass lightening to a feather’s weight as she leaped skyward. At the peak of her arc, she became heavy as a mountain, crashing down on Hunter with earth-shattering force, the impact carving a crater in the street. But a pulse of light erupted, flinging her backward, her body skidding through the debris, broken but defiant.
Hunter rose from the crater, rubbing his chest, his glasses askew, irritation flashing in his eyes. He’d barely stood when Que Dye and Johnny Quick charged from opposite sides, their super-speed a blur of red and motion. Hunter raised a shimmering shield, absorbing their blows, then twisted it into twin beams of death. Que’s form dissolved into smoke, and Johnny Quick vanished into nothingness, their screams lost in the wind.
Only Mike, Danny, Ultraman, and Owlman remained, facing Hunter across the ruined street. The Nerve stood apart, unnoticed, his calm unshaken.
Hunter adjusted his glasses, his smile smug. “Who’s next?” he taunted, his voice a blade of ice.
“I am,” the Nerve said, his voice steady, cutting through the chaos. All eyes turned to his blocky frame, untouched by the carnage, his pale eyes locked on Hunter.
The warlock’s brow arched, amused. “And what do you bring to the table? Strength? Flight? Invulnerability?”
“Nada,” the Nerve said, stepping forward, his lips twitching with a ghost of a smile.
Hunter’s grin widened. “Then hit me with your best shot, nobody.”
The Nerve raised a clenched fist, two fingers extended, and swung with deceptive speed. His strike pierced Hunter’s shield like a needle through fabric, his fingertips finding the precise point to shatter the warlock’s skull. Timothy Hunter crumpled, dead before he hit the ground, his occult army collapsing into piles of rusted scrap, their final chant dying in a wail of dismay.
“Sure thing,” the Nerve said, dusting his hands. “If that’s what you wanted.”
***
At Wintersgate Manor in the present, Baron Winters stood before a dying fire, its embers casting flickering ghosts across his pale face. The room was heavy with the scent of old wood and bitter wine, the air thick with unspoken costs. He swirled the last of his claret in its glass, his goatee framing a frown as he met the unblinking gaze of his leopard, Merlin, whose golden eyes gleamed like twin lanterns in the gloom.
“Another gambit won,” Winters said, his voice smooth but laced with a weariness that clung like damp fog. “That possible future timeline is cut off, that twisted version of Timothy Hunter no longer able to poison our present. But you know the price, old friend.”
Merlin’s tail flicked, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he sprawled before the cold fireplace, his stare fixed on the ashes as if they held answers Winters refused to see.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Winters said, his tone half-chiding, half-resigned. “I send them into the fire to save the world. Mike, Danny, the Nerve — they survived, didn’t they? Thieves today, but maybe heroes tomorrow in that fractured timeline. They’ve got the grit to rebuild something better, to rise above their pasts. A chance most don’t get.”
He paused, his cane tapping softly against the floorboards, the sound a quiet echo in the cavernous room. “And the five core members of the Syndicate — those twisted mirrors of our heroes — they’re not dead, you know. Ultraman, Superwoman, their ilk… they’re too stubborn to die so easily. They’ll claw their way back to Earth-Three, eventually. But while they’re gone?” His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. “That world’s a powder keg without its overlords. Alex Luthor and his Secret Society of Super-Heroes will have to fight it out with the rest of the Syndicate, not to mention any rival gangs that may seek to fill the vacuum. (*) Perhaps even those heroic counterparts of our thieves will step up as more than just the temporary foils to the Crime Syndicate that they were. It’ll be a spectacle to watch, Merlin, one way or another.”
[(*) Editor’s note: See Crime Syndicate of America: The Secret Society of Super-Heroes]
Merlin’s growl deepened, his eyes narrowing as if judging the man who played chess with lives. Winters drained his glass in a single, bitter gulp, the wine sharp on his tongue. “I don’t relish it either,” he admitted, his voice softer now, almost confessional. “Walking this line — sacrificing pawns for the greater good — it’s a cold game. But someone’s got to play it.”
He turned, his silhouette merging with the shadows as he walked away, his cane’s rhythm fading into the darkness. Merlin remained, his gaze lingering on the ashes, a silent sentinel in a house that whispered of prices yet to be paid.
The End