Julius's POV
"We're sending her to Hell," Constantine said with a wicked grin in his Liverpool accent, and I stared, unsure where to even begin.
"I'm sorry, what?" I asked.
"Hell," he repeated, like it was the Great Barrier Reef, or Mount Rushmore, or some other tourist destination George could portal us to.
"You can't actually mean like Hell, hell—like from the Bible? Hell?"
"The very same," he said deadpan. "Where do you think all those demons I called up came from? Demon 'R' Us?"
"I don't know… some kind of hell-adjacent dimension?" I said weakly.
"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint," he said, "there's no creative spin or quirky interpretation. Just fire and brimstone, and never-ending torture." He had a far-off look in his eyes like he was speaking from experience, and not just as a visitor.
"Well, lucky for us, I know the guy who runs it," Constantine said with a toothy smile. "He's agreed to help us out."
"You know Lucifer Morningstar!" Shelim lit up—a fact that I found perplexing, considering the topic of discussion. "He throws the best parties. Got invited to his club when I was in LA once. Highlight of my year."
"An eternity of torment?" George said cruelly. "Couldn't have happened to a better person. I bet she'll take it so much harder because it's him." He nudged his sister, who looked deep in thought.
"Lucifer Morningstar doesn't do anybody favors, not without expecting something in return."
"Ah, well… it's simple, really. He wants us to rescue the daughter of an interdimensional god of evil from a cult of fanatics desperate to see him emerge in this new world and deliver her to Themyscira."
I almost choked. "Just that, huh?"
"In exchange for holding her in Hell forever," Constantine said. "He'll personally guarantee it, even—provided we can get there in the first place."
"How much time do we have?" Gina asked.
Constantine looked down at his watch. "Starting now? About ten minutes."
—
Queen B's POV
I watched the fight with bated breath through the lens of Luthor's satellite and many on-site cameras. It was a marvel they could keep track of the violence at all.
Artisan was breathtaking—ruthless, arrogant, tactical, and not afraid to spend blood and manpower to secure victory. I felt a small measure of sadness and relief when she didn't anticipate Luthor's final gambit.
Her survival would mean getting personally involved and making sacrifices none of us wanted to make.
Vandal would have to call on favors from many, many supervillains who owed him their lives and use an ancient piece of portal technology he'd been holding onto for centuries. If he was to be believed, it should transport her to a dead world a few solar systems away. I doubted it would delay her for too long, given her new abilities, but it should buy us some time.
R'as would have to volunteer his Lazarus Pit to cleanse the more powerful metas sorcerers and meta-humans in our service who were loyal to Artisan and use them as foot soldiers if need be.
Luthor would have to activate several of his Gen 3 Genomorphs and more powerful metas, and place himself at R'as al Ghul's mercy to escape the penalty of the Vow he entered, leaving me to make the greatest surrender of all—letting Bialya remain under the oppressive thumb of that pig, Rumaan Harjavti.
I scowled, grateful that my face was hidden from the other members.
I could have made Bialya a modern superpower. A jewel of Africa. Now, I would have to delay my ambitions yet again.
Whatever kernel of respect I had for Artisan quickly morphed into black hatred when I discovered she had survived and was making her way to Vegas to recover, and that one of her hackers had penetrated Luthor's firewalls.
He tried to cut them off, but by that point it was too late. Artisan had our locations, and with her powerset, there was scarcely a place on the planet we could hide from her for long.
The channel remained quiet as we mourned our collective loss of peace of mind.
"I suppose his pride wasn't enough in the end," I spat. "He should have used a bigger bomb."
"To what end?" R'as asked. "It wouldn't have mattered after she recovered her techniques."
"Indeed," Brain hummed. "Her versatility is most impressive. What I wouldn't give to understand the genetic markers and unique biochemistry that allow for such a strange power expression."
I almost snorted. Brain and his obsession. "Be careful what you wish for, doctor. With Klarion gone, we have one less layer of protection against her magic."
"Agreed," Vandal said. "We will have to accelerate our timetable. I will have Luthor deploy his teams immediately. Prepare to rendezvous at Nanda Parbat."
—
Artisan's POV
The world narrowed into streaks of blue and white as I tore through the air, shielded from view by a flap of space I warped with Sky Manipulation. I crossed the ocean without disturbing the air much, arriving on the conflict-soaked shores of North Africa. From there, I made my way inland, skirting the Sahara until I found Greater Bialya, a nation balanced on a knife's edge.
The ceasefire agreement Luthor had brokered still held, even as both sides plotted to break it decisively through weaponry and meta-soldiers secured from unconventional sources.
Several Middle Eastern countries were supplying General Rumaan, and Luthor and the Light supported Queen B.
They had dragged out the war artificially, all to deliver the perfect coup de grâce that was yet to be determined by Queen B.
I suspected it had something to do with Project Starro—their superhuman control scheme—but I couldn't quite piece it together yet.
I suppose I'll have to ask Queen B before I pull her spine from her body.
From a distance, I could instantly tell something was wrong in Queen B's stronghold. Familiar voices screamed as they were torn apart.
My people. I accelerated, shattering the sound barrier multiple times.
I arrived just in time to catch the end of the violence through by X-Ray vision—Queen B and two strange-looking skeletons surrounded a battered sorcerer. The strange people hefted them into the air with some kind of telekinesis, while Queen B buried a knife in their neck and tore out their throats.
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