Chapter 10: Origins - Part 10
On Earth, in the city of Metropolis, the invasion by parademons had escalated from catastrophic to apocalyptic.
What had initially appeared to be mindless destruction—buildings demolished, fires spreading, civilians scattered in panic—revealed itself, upon closer inspection, to be something far more sinister. The parademons weren't just attacking.
They were harvesting.
Screams tore through the smoke-choked air as the creatures swooped down in coordinated strikes, claws extended, targeting not buildings but people. A woman in a business suit, still clutching her briefcase like it might somehow protect her, was snatched from the pavement mid-sprint, her shriek cutting off abruptly as leathery wings beat the air and carried her skyward. A teenage boy, separated from his family, barely had time to raise his hands before talons closed around his shoulders and lifted him—kicking, sobbing—toward one of the glowing Boom Tubes that hung in the sky like festering wounds.
The portals pulsed with sickly yellow-gold light, their edges crackling with energy that tasted of ozone and wrongness, and through them the parademons dragged their captives—dozens, hundreds, an endless stream of humanity being funneled into the void beyond.
Where they were going, no one knew.
But the screams that echoed back suggested it was nowhere good.
---
A parademon—wings tucked, claws extended, eyes glowing toxic green—clutched a middle-aged man in a torn jacket, carrying him toward a Boom Tube with mechanical efficiency. The man struggled weakly, limbs flailing, voice hoarse from screaming, but the creature's grip was iron.
Fifty feet.
Thirty.
The portal's light washed over them both, sickly and cold—
WHAM.
A massive emerald car—perfectly rendered down to the hubcaps, glowing with contained Will—slammed into the parademon from the side with the force of a freight train. The construct shattered on impact, exploding into fragments of green light, but the momentum was enough. The creature was sent spinning, wings crumpling, grip loosening.
The man fell.
Gravity claimed him, pulling him toward the pavement thirty stories below, wind tearing at his clothes, and for a heartbeat he was weightless—suspended between sky and earth with nothing but terminal velocity waiting.
Then a green glove—oversized, cartoonish, perfectly functional—materialized beneath him and caught him with the gentleness of a parent cradling an infant.
The construct lowered him to the street, setting him down on trembling legs, and the man collapsed immediately, gasping, sobbing, alive.
Hal Jordan—Green Lantern—descended beside him, emerald aura flickering around his form like captured starlight.
His uniform was a masterwork of Will made manifest: deep green and black fabric that seemed to drink light, form-fitting but not restrictive, designed for movement and protection in equal measure. The Green Lantern symbol—a stylized circle bisected by a horizontal line, glowing bright against the darkness—dominated his chest, proud and defiant. Green aura lines traced across the suit in geometric patterns, pulsing faintly with each heartbeat, each exertion of Will, mapping the flow of power from the ring on his right hand to every extremity.
White gloves covered his hands completely, practical and clean, and a simple domino mask—green, seamless, almost part of his face—concealed his identity while leaving his jaw and mouth exposed. His expression was grim, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes—visible through the mask's openings—sharp and focused.
He looked down at the rescued man, who stared up at him with the wide, uncomprehending eyes of someone whose reality had just shattered and been hastily glued back together.
"You're safe now," Hal said, voice steady despite the chaos roaring around them. "Get to a shelter. Move."
The man nodded mutely, scrambled to his feet, and bolted into the smoke.
Hal watched him go, then turned his gaze upward—toward the Boom Tubes still vomiting parademons, toward the fires consuming the skyline, toward the madness that had descended on Metropolis in the span of an hour.
How the hell did this escalate so fast?
Six hours ago, Hal Jordan had been in Gotham, arguing with a brooding lunatic in a bat costume about whether "asking nicely" was a viable strategy when approaching an alien who could benchpress mountains.
Three hours ago, they'd arrived in Metropolis with a simple mission: talk to Superman. Show him the strange box Batman had recovered from the creatures placing identical devices in cities across the globe. Ask if he knew what they were. Maybe—maybe—get some answers.
Simple.
Clean.
Diplomatic.
Then Superman had attacked them.
Well—
Okay, fine, Hal had maybe started it. A little. The whole "we come in peace but also we don't trust you" vibe probably hadn't helped. And Batman's tendency to lurk ominously in shadows while cross-examining people like a prosecutor definitely hadn't endeared them.
But still.
Punching first, asking questions never—that was supposed to be Hal's move, not the Boy Scout's.
They'd barely escaped the encounter, forced to team up just to evade Metropolis PD (because apparently heroes fighting in broad daylight was frowned upon), and retreated to regroup.
And then the box had activated.
The strange, geometric thing Batman had been carrying—sleek, humming with alien tech, covered in symbols none of them recognized—had suddenly split open, light pouring from the seams, and transformed into a swirling vortex of energy that tore a hole in reality itself.
A Boom Tube.
And through it, the parademons came.
Now Metropolis burned, and Hal Jordan was trying very hard not to think about how catastrophically their "simple diplomatic mission" had gone off the rails.
No time for that. Hero up. Do the job.
He clenched his right fist, feeling the ring pulse warm against his finger, and shot skyward on a pillar of green light.
Duty called.
---
Meanwhile, down on the streets where smoke hung thick as fog and the air tasted of ash and fear—
Ben, Kevin, and Gwen ran.
Not jogging. Not hurrying.
Running—full sprint, lungs burning, legs pumping, hearts hammering against ribs like they were trying to escape—because the parademon behind them was relentless.
It had been chasing them for three blocks now, screeching that horrible metallic shriek that set teeth on edge, wings beating the air into submission, claws extended and hungry. Every time they turned a corner, it followed. Every time they ducked into cover, it circled and found them. It was toying with them, the way a cat toys with a mouse before the kill.
Ben's sneakers slapped pavement, backpack bouncing against his spine (why hadn't he dropped it? Why was he still carrying schoolbooks while running for his life?), breath coming in ragged gasps.
Kevin was ahead, black hair wild, hoodie torn at the shoulder, one hand grabbing Gwen's wrist and pulling her forward when she stumbled. "Keep moving! Don't look back!"
But Ben looked back.
Couldn't help it.
The parademon was close—maybe twenty feet, diving low, claws reaching, eyes glowing that sickly green—
THWACK.
A blur of red and yellow materialized from nowhere, moving so fast it left afterimages burned into the air, and slammed into the parademon's shoulder with a sound like a baseball bat hitting a side of beef.
The creature went spinning, wings crumpling, momentum reversed, and crashed into a storefront with an explosion of glass and bent metal.
The blur skidded to a stop in front of the kids, sneakers squeaking on pavement, and resolved into—
The Flash.
His costume was a marvel of kinetic energy made fabric: deep crimson red that seemed to vibrate with barely contained speed, form-fitting and sleek, made of material that looked almost liquid in the way it caught light. A bold golden lightning bolt sat centered on his chest inside a white circle, sharp-edged and angular, crackling with implied motion. Gold accents traced his shoulders, ran down his sides in subtle lightning patterns, and formed a V-shaped belt at his waist that hummed faintly with stored velocity.
Bright yellow boots covered his feet, red lightning streaks spiraling up the calves, soles reinforced for friction that would melt normal rubber. Red gloves encased his hands completely, fingers twitching with residual kinetic energy.
The cowl was streamlined—red mask fitted tight, large white eye lenses that completely concealed his eyes while leaving his mouth, nose, and jawline fully exposed. He was smiling—genuine, warm, the kind of smile that said everything's going to be okay even when the world was literally on fire.
He looked at the kids—three terrified ten-year-olds covered in soot and shaking with adrenaline—and his smile widened.
"Hey there!" His voice was bright, energetic, carrying none of the weight of the apocalypse happening around them. "You guys okay?"
Ben opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
What came out was: "I—you—Flash—you're—I mean—we—uh—"
His brain had short-circuited. The Flash. The actual Flash. Standing right there. Talking to him.
Kevin elbowed him. "Breathe, dude."
The Flash's smile softened. "Hey, it's okay. Take a deep breath, son."
Ben inhaled—shaky, ragged, but controlled—held it, then exhaled slowly. His heartbeat slowed. Just a little.
"We're okay," he managed, voice steadier now. "We're—yeah. Okay."
"Good man." The Flash nodded approvingly, then glanced at all three of them. "Listen, I need you to head to safety. There's a shelter two blocks east—big concrete building, you can't miss it. Police and emergency services are setting up there."
He crouched slightly, bringing himself to their eye level, and his expression turned serious—just for a moment, the mask of lightheartedness slipping to reveal genuine concern beneath.
"Stay together. Stay smart. And before you know it, this'll all be over." The smile returned, bright as sunlight. "Stay safe, okay?"
Before any of them could respond—
He was gone.
Just—gone, vanished in a streak of red and gold that left a vacuum in his wake and the faint smell of ozone.
Ben blinked, staring at the empty space where a hero had been standing a heartbeat ago.
"Did that just—"
"Yeah," Kevin said.
"The Flash just—"
"Yep."
"—saved us."
"Uh-huh."
Gwen grabbed both their arms, voice sharp with urgency that cut through the awe. "Can we fanboy later? When we're not in the middle of a war zone?"
Right. Yes. Survival now, existential wonder later.
The three of them took off running again—east, toward the shelter, toward safety—while behind them the city continued to burn and heroes fought battles too big for children to witness.
But Ben couldn't help glancing back one more time, searching the smoke-choked sky for another glimpse of red and gold.
Heroes are real, he thought, and despite everything—despite the terror and the chaos and the certainty that this night would haunt his dreams—he felt something warm bloom in his chest.
Hope.
---
***
Meanwhile, in the cold vacuum of space above Galvan Prime—
Max Tennyson's ship hung against the backdrop of dying stars, engines humming softly, and for one brief, glorious moment he allowed himself to believe he might actually make it.
The planet behind him was a shrinking jade sphere, still burning, still dying, but behind him. Distance. Safety. Escape.
The Omnitrix pod sat secured in the co-pilot's seat, strapped down with crash webbing, pulsing faintly with that steady green glow that had become both comfort and burden.
Max's hands rested on the controls, trembling slightly—not from fear, but from exhaustion and the adrenaline crash that always came after survival.
Just need to reach the hyperlane. Jump to FTL. Get lost in the void where no one can follow.
He was reaching for the navigation console when—
WHAM.
The ship rocked, violently, alarms shrieking to life as the defensive shields flared red. Sparks erupted from a panel to Max's left, and he was thrown against his restraints hard enough to bruise.
"What the—"
The rear display lit up, showing what had just hit him: a laser cannon blast, superheated plasma trailing vapor as it dissipated against his shields.
And beyond it—
The Chimera Warhammer.
Vilgax's flagship hung in space like a malignant moon, all brutal angles and obsidian plating, weapon ports glowing with barely contained violence. It had followed him. Tracked him through the chaos of Galvan Prime's orbital space, and now it was right there, close enough that Max could see the crimson circuitry pulsing across its hull like exposed veins.
Oh no.
Max's stomach dropped, cold dread settling in his gut like lead.
So much for sneaking away.
The Warhammer was massive—easily a hundred times the size of Max's scout vessel, bristling with enough firepower to glass a continent. Against it, his ship looked like a rowboat facing down a battleship.
The weapon ports flared.
FWOOM. FWOOM. FWOOM.
Plasma bolts screamed through the void, superheated and vicious, and Max's hands flew across the controls—dodge left, roll starboard, throttle up—muscle memory from forty years of not dying kicking in.
The first bolt missed by meters, close enough that his proximity alarms screamed. The second grazed his port shield, draining it by thirty percent in an instant. The third—
Hit.
The impact slammed into his rear quarter, and the ship bucked, throwing Max against his restraints again. Sparks rained from the ceiling. The lights flickered. And the tactical display showed hull integrity dropping into the yellow.
"Okay," Max muttered, jaw clenched, hands white-knuckled on the controls. "You want to play? Let's play."
He banked hard, reversed thrust, and brought his own weapons online—twin plasma cannons mounted beneath the hull, Plumber-standard but well-maintained, capable of punching through light armor at close range.
Max sighted, breathed, and fired.
Twin emerald bolts lanced across the void and struck the Warhammer's forward plating—superficial damage, barely scratching the surface, but defiant.
"How's that feel?" Max growled.
---
Inside the Chimera Warhammer, chaos reigned.
The bridge—a massive chamber dominated by holographic displays and tactical consoles—shook from the impact of Max's return fire. Sparks erupted from a damaged terminal. Drones scurried to repair systems, chittering in mechanical languages.
And on the throne—elevated above the chaos, carved from black stone and draped in the shadows of absolute authority—sat Vilgax.
His black knight armor gleamed dully in the red emergency lighting, crimson circuitry pulsing in rhythm with his fury. The helmet was retracted, revealing his face: pale-green skin, writhing tentacles, and those burning red eyes fixed on the tactical display showing Max's fleeing ship.
Clone or original? Impossible to tell. The armor hid any imperfections, any flaws. He looked perfect.
And he was furious.
His lipless mouth pulled back in a snarl, tentacles lashing, and when he spoke his voice resonated through the bridge like the growl of tectonic plates grinding.
"No being shall deny me my prize."
He rose from the throne—nine feet of black-armored wrath—and pointed one gauntleted hand at the tactical officer.
"Damage the ship. Disable its engines. Then prepare boarding parties." His eyes narrowed, glowing brighter. "I will take the Omnitrix personally."
---
Back on Max's ship, alarms continued to wail.
Max's fingers flew across the navigation console, pulling up star charts, calculating trajectories, running scenarios through his head at speeds that would've impressed most tactical AIs.
Can't outrun them. Can't outgun them. Can't hide.
But maybe...
His eyes narrowed, focusing on the Warhammer's schematic displayed on his threat assessment screen. The ship was huge, yes. Powerful, yes.
But it had weaknesses. Every ship did.
The control room—the bridge where commands originated—was located in a reinforced section near the prow, shielded but not invulnerable. If he could triangulate its exact position, if he could charge his cannons to maximum output, if he could take one perfect shot—
Max's hands moved, rerouting power from life support to weapons, overcharging the plasma coils, his ship groaning in protest as systems were pushed past their safety limits.
The targeting reticle appeared on his HUD, overlaid across the Warhammer's hull, searching, calculating, adjusting for distance and velocity and the ship's slight rotation.
There.
A weak point. A seam in the armor where the bridge's shielding met the outer hull.
Max inhaled.
Held it.
Fired.
The plasma bolt screamed from his cannons—brighter than the others, hotter, overcharged to the point of instability—and crossed the void in a heartbeat.
It struck true.
The Warhammer's bridge exploded, armor peeling back like burned skin, atmosphere venting in a glittering spray of ice crystals, and the massive ship shuddered, suddenly headless, command systems offline.
Max allowed himself a grim smile.
Still got it.
---
Inside the Warhammer, drones swarmed the damaged bridge, scrambling to reroute systems, to restore control, their mechanical voices overlapping in panic.
Vilgax stood amidst the chaos, unmoving, and his rage was a physical force that made the air feel heavy.
His prey was escaping.
The Omnitrix—the key to absolute power, the tool that would make him unstoppable—was slipping through his fingers.
Unacceptable.
"Prepare my pursuit craft," Vilgax snarled, turning toward the exit. "Now."
Moments later, a smaller ship—sleek, predatory, still larger than Max's scout vessel but maneuverable—detached from the Warhammer's underside and accelerated, thrusters flaring white-hot.
Vilgax sat in the pilot's seat, hands on the controls, red eyes fixed on the fleeing speck ahead.
The chase was on.
---
Max saw the pursuit ship launch and cursed.
"Of course. Of course he has a backup plan."
His hands moved to the hyperdrive controls, fingers dancing across the interface, charging the faster-than-light engines that would let him jump into the void and vanish.
Behind him, Vilgax's ship closed the distance, weapons charging.
Max glanced at the Omnitrix pod, still secured beside him, still pulsing softly.
Can't let him follow me to Earth. Can't let him know where it's going. The secret has to stay buried until the chosen wielder is ready.
His jaw clenched.
Which means I have to stop him. Here. Now.
Even if it costs everything.
Max's hand hovered over a photograph clipped to his console—faded, creased, beloved.
Him, Gwen, Ben, and Kevin at a park last summer. Ice cream cones. Laughter. Ben with chocolate smeared on his face, Kevin mid-prank, Gwen rolling her eyes but smiling.
I'm sorry, kids, Max thought, throat tight. Looks like I won't be taking you camping after all.
He activated the hyperdrive.
Vilgax did the same, reading Max's move.
BOOM.
Both ships accelerated, reality warping around them as they punched through the fabric of space-time and vanished into the superluminal void.
And as they raced through dimensions humans had no names for, weapons charging, destinies colliding—
Max Tennyson made peace with the fact that he might not survive the next five minutes.
But the Omnitrix would.
And that was enough.
( Hi, author here , sorry for the slow update, am trying my best to improve, but I'll to post faster from now on, like always please leave a comment and tell me what you think so far)