POV Erick
The pain throbbed like an incessant hammer in his head, echoing through every exposed nerve. Erick slowly rose from the crater that had once been a large boulder—a massive rock, now reduced to jagged fragments scattered across the hot desert sand, as if a meteor had collided with it. The impact had been brutal, enough to crack the surrounding ground into fissures stretching for meters, dust still suspended in the air like a fine mist that irritated his lungs. His vision was blurred, the edges of the world blurred in shades of beige and blue faded by the relentless morning sun. He blinked several times, trying to focus, internally questioning himself: "What kind of truck hit him?" It wasn't a literal truck, of course—it was something worse, something superhuman. His entire body ached, muscles protesting with involuntary spasms, and the black and gray suit, reinforced with advanced alloy plates he himself had designed, displayed fresh abrasion marks and dents. The helmet, hermetically sealed, buzzed with internal alerts, the holographic visor flashing red to indicate damage.
He looked ahead, forcing his eyes to adjust to the blinding brightness. There, a few meters away, was Superboy—the tall, muscular Kryptonian boy with disheveled black hair and eyes that burned with an inexplicable rage, as if Erick were responsible for all the evils in the universe. Superboy's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his fists clenched so tightly that veins bulged in his forearms. He roared low, a guttural sound that reverberated through the dry air, and his posture was that of a predator ready to strike. Erick felt a chill despite the heat—he knew that brute force, he had trained against it in simulations, but facing it for real was another story.
Inside his helmet's computer—an integrated system he had built with miniaturized quantum processors and neural interfaces—an alert flashed insistently: the noise system, designed to emit ultrasonic frequencies that disoriented Kryptonians, was damaged. The emission module had cracked on impact, virtual wires displaying connection errors, further worsening the situation. Without this tool, Erick lost a crucial advantage against someone like Superboy, whose super-developed hearing could be exploited. He cursed internally, weighing his options: the shield was still intact, strapped to his left arm, its vibranium-like material absorbing impacts; the utility belt had remaining, but limited, grenades; and his strength, enhanced by the fire element and rigorous training, kept him standing, but not invincible.
Looking directly at the now enraged Superboy, who stared back at him with eyes like lasers about to fire, Erick muttered, "Shit." The word escaped, laden with frustration and urgency. The air between them was heavy, the desert silent except for the wind that whispered among the distant dunes. Superboy bent his knees, preparing to leap and throw himself at him—a jump that would cover the distance in fractions of a second, with enough force to crush reinforced bones.
But before the Kryptonians could move, an explosion erupted exactly where Superboy stood, a flash of fire and shrapnel that illuminated the desert like an artificial sun. The ground trembled, sand being hurled high into the air in a dense cloud, and the sound was deafening, a roar that echoed off the nearby rocks like thunder. Erick instinctively raised his shield, protecting his face from the residual heat, while Superboy was thrown aside, rolling across the sand with a grunt of surprise. Looking to his left, Erick spotted the source: tanks approaching in formation, heavy armored vehicles with tracks screeching in the sand, painted in beige and brown desert camouflage, main cannons rotating to aim at them. Atop the tanks, uniformed soldiers—Bialian army uniforms, with helmets and tactical vests—were positioned on mounted machine guns, spitting bullets in continuous bursts. The gunshots traced trails of dust on the ground, drawing dangerously close, the smell of gunpowder mingling with the hot air.
Erick reacted instantly, putting his shield up to defend against the gunfire. The metal vibrated with each impact, absorbing the kinetic energy and dissipating it in harmless waves, sparks flying where the bullets ricocheted. His suit held up the rest, the layers of alchemical kevlar resisting punctures, but the noise was chaotic—soldiers' shouts in a language he recognized as Arabic mixed with military commands, engines roaring loudly. From the explosion that had occurred where Superboy stood, Erick saw a figure moving at high speed—a red and black blur, almost invisible to the naked eye, cutting through the air like a guided missile. The figure—clearly Superboy, recovered from the surprise—ran toward the tanks, his legs pumping with superhuman force, leaving furrows in the sand.
Once within approximately 30 meters, the figure leaped, soaring into the air in an impressive arc, its body spinning to maximize impact. It landed atop the lead tank like a living bomb, the metal crumpling under its weight, tracks snapping apart with a sharp screech. Superboy began to methodically destroy it—fists hammering the hull, tearing through armor plates as if they were paper, sparks and oil spurting. Soldiers were thrown about, bodies flying through the air in awkward arcs, crashing into the sand with dull thuds, some screaming in pain with broken bones. An adjacent tank attempted to rotate its cannon, but Superboy grabbed it by the turret, twisting the metal with a torturous creak, ripping it off whole and hurling it against another vehicle, causing a chain reaction of secondary explosions—munitions detonating, fire spreading through the formation.
Erick, seeing the chaotic situation—the desert now a battlefield with smoke rising in black columns, the sun reflecting off twisted metal—took advantage of Superboy's distraction. The Kryptonians were focused on destruction, momentarily ignoring him, which offered a precious window of opportunity. Erick moved quickly, his boots kicking sand as he ran toward Kid Flash and Artemis, who were a short distance away, sheltered behind a low rock formation. Artemis was kneeling beside Kid Flash, who lay motionless on the sand, eyes closed and breathing shallowly—completely unconscious, a victim of the earlier slap that had thrown him against the rock. She gently shook his shoulder, her face etched with worry and confusion, her green and black uniform dusty, her blond hair disheveled by the wind.
Erick approached, his shield still raised to block any stray shots from distant tanks. "Are you alright, Artemis?" he asked, his voice modulated by his helmet, but filled with genuine concern.
She looked up at him, frowning suspiciously. "How do you know my name?" Her hand instinctively went to the bow on her back, ready to draw an arrow, her muscles tense like bowstrings.
Erick paused, looking deep into her eyes—green and piercing, full of determination, but now clouded by gaps in memory. "Yes, you lost your memory," he confirmed, crouching down beside Kid Flash. The red-haired boy was pale, a bruise forming on his temple, his black tactical uniform torn in places. Erick activated the internal diagnostic: "Report." The helmet's computer, though not as powerful as its main AIs back home—Natasha, Morgana, Doc, and Engineer—was efficient enough for a general overview. Sensors scanned Kid Flash's body: stable vital pulses, but brain irregularities detected. "Nothing too serious," the system reported in a synthesized tone. "Just a brain contusion; he'll be weak for a few hours. Rest and monitoring recommended."
Erick nodded to himself, easily picking up Kid Flash and throwing him over his left shoulder—the speedster's weight was insignificant compared to his enhanced strength, his muscles taut but firm. He turned to Artemis: "Let's go. My computer detected that more reinforcements are arriving." The holographic visor flashed with alerts: radar signals indicating additional vehicles approaching from the north, likely more tanks and infantry, the Bialian army mobilizing en masse.
Artemis looked at him hesitantly, her eyes scanning the chaos around them—distant explosions, Superboy still demolishing tanks like broken toys. She didn't have much of a choice; alone, she would be easy prey. With a reluctant nod, the two began to run toward a direction Erick indicated as safer—a narrow valley between high dunes, offering natural cover against aerial views, the terrain uneven but navigable. Their feet sank into the soft sand, the sun beating down mercilessly, sweat trickling beneath Erick's helmet, but he maintained the pace, the fire elemental within him regulating his body temperature to prevent fatigue.
But at that moment, Erick's computer beeped urgently: "We are detecting approaching drones." The display showed silhouettes: unmanned aerial vehicles, armed with cameras and light machine guns, flying in reconnaissance formation.
Erick cursed, "Shit." He quickened his pace, shouting to Artemis, "Which way? Hurry up!" The system recalculated routes in real time, projecting internal holograms of alternative paths—avoiding open areas, using rocks as shields.
The two tried to run even faster, legs pumping, breath ragged in the dry air. Erick, with his superhuman strength, managed to maintain an impressive speed, even with the weight of Kid Flash on his shoulder. Artemis noticed this: he moved fluidly, with long, efficient strides, easily surpassing her despite the load. She gasped, trying to keep up, but the treacherous terrain made her stumble slightly.
Seeing that Artemis was falling behind—her athletic, yet human form, not comparable to his own—Erick paused for a split second, catching her and throwing her over his right shoulder. "Hold on tight," he murmured, now carrying them both as if they were light backpacks. The weight of the two didn't seem to bother him; his muscles, forged in years of pull-ups, bench presses, and elemental rituals, responded with vigor. He ran as if his life depended on it—and it did—feet kicking sand into clouds, the horizon blurring slightly. Of course, he wasn't anywhere near the speed the Flash reached—a supersonic blur—but Artemis noticed that he maintained a steady, rapid pace, about 50 km/h on uneven terrain, the wind howling in her ears.
However, the drones spotted them anyway—buzzing high like giant wasps, cameras spinning to lock onto targets. They fired at them, bursts of bullets tracing deadly lines in the air, dust exploding all around. Erick was forced to throw Artemis and Kid Flash to the ground—careful not to hurt them—rolling to the side and using his shield to deflect the lead raining down on them. The shield absorbed impacts, vibrating with each bullet, sparks dancing on the surface. Some bullets managed to get past the edges, hitting his uniform—tearing fabric, but thanks to his latest upgrades, the self-healing nanofiber material held up, dissipating the energy without deep perforations. Sharp pain in his left shoulder, but negligible—the elemental accelerated healing, tissues regenerating in minutes.
In the chaos, they heard a voice in their minds—clear, feminine, echoing like an implanted thought: "Guys, guys, I'm coming."
Artemis shouted, her eyes wide: "Are you listening to the girl in your head too?"
Erick nodded, his helmet filtering out outside noise: "It's Megan. She's our friend." He recognized that psychic presence—Miss Martian, with her Martian telepathy, a valuable ally.
Artemis looked confused, frowning: "Who?"
At that moment, Erick saw the drones colliding with each other above his head—a metallic crash, pieces flying in controlled explosions, something clearly supernatural, as if an invisible force had crushed them. Smoke rose from the wreckage falling to the sand.
At that moment, a girl with green skin and red hair descended—Megan, floating gracefully, her red and green uniform gleaming in the sun, her eyes glowing with telekinetic energy. "Guys, are you alright?" she asked, her voice now audible, concern etched on her alien face.
Erick stood up, shield still at the ready: "Yes, but we have to run. The army is approaching." The computer confirmed: more vehicles on the horizon, dust rising in distant columns.
Megan, still stunned, added: "Yes, we have to find Robin and Superboy."
Erick pointed north: "Superboy is in that direction. The problem is, the army is there too." His visor showed: Superboy still in the middle of the chaos, destroying tanks, but reinforcements were converging.
"We have to regroup," Erick decided. "Then we'll go back to save Superboy."
We could see on Megan's face that she didn't want to—her eyes darting in the indicated direction, almost impulsively taking off, her body tense as if ready to fly.
Erick called her: "Megan, we have to go."
Megan looked at him hesitantly, but nodded: "Let's go." She levitated higher, extending her arms, using her telekinetic power—an invisible aura enveloping the three of them, gently lifting them off the ground. Erick felt the gentle tug, his feet leaving the sand, floating in the air. Megan carried them in a specific direction—eastward, toward a distant oasis detected by Erick's computer, offering cover and distance from the conflict. The desert blurred below them, the cool wind relieving the heat, while the sound of explosions echoed in the background, gradually fading.
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