The night in Gotham City was a cloak of black velvet, interwoven with snowflakes that danced lazily in the frigid air, like confetti thrown by an indifferent god. The thermometer read below zero, and the biting wind from the Gotham River carried a whisper of improbable promises—promises of calm in a city that rarely granted such a luxury. Erick and Artemis walked arm in arm along the sidewalk illuminated by old lampposts, their steps synchronized in a comfortable, almost romantic rhythm. Erick wore a thick black wool coat with a high collar, leather gloves, and a scarf, although his inner fire elemental kept him warm like a walking furnace. He kept up appearances, after all: no one in Gotham would question a man bundling up against the cold, but displaying immunity to the weather might attract unwanted glances. Artemis, beside him, was wrapped in a dark green cashmere coat, a gray scarf wrapped around her neck, and lined boots that clicked softly on the ground. Her blonde hair escaped from beneath a woolen hat, and her arm gripped Erick's with a familiarity that had grown from night patrols to something deeper, more intimate.
They had just left the Regency cinema, a restored art deco theater in the Uptown district, where neon lights flickered against the snow piled on the marquees. The film had been Scary Movie 4—a sloppy parody of horror films, full of recycled jokes and dated references. Artemis wrinkled her nose, her breath forming white clouds in the air as she complained.
"I can't believe we wasted two hours on this. The first ones were hilarious—full of absurdities that actually worked. This one? It looked like they threw everything at the wall and saw what stuck. And what stuck was... nothing."
Erick chuckled softly, the sound muffled by the scarf he had loosely wrapped around his neck. "I agree. I expected more. The first ones had perfect timing, sharp satire. This one was just lazy. At least the popcorn was good—and the company even better." He squeezed her arm lightly, a subtle gesture that made her smile slightly, her green eyes sparkling under the streetlights.
They turned toward Gotham's Central Park—not New York's, but a local version, a verdant oasis (now white with snow) in the heart of the city's elite. It was an affluent area, surrounded by skyscrapers, patrolled by private police and state-of-the-art surveillance cameras funded by Wayne Enterprises. Crime was minimal there: street thieves preferred the alleys of Crime Alley, and villains like the Joker rarely ventured in. Still, Erick knew better than anyone—Gotham had no "safe" areas. Just less dangerous ones. The park was lit by ornamental lanterns, its paths cleared of snow by maintenance crews, and in the center, a frozen lake gleamed like a silver mirror under the waning moon. Families skated there: children laughing as they glided awkwardly, parents holding hands for balance, the sound of blades cutting ice mingling with the wind.
Artemis stopped, tilting her head toward the lake. "Look... Shall we go skating too? It's been a while since I've done something like this—normal, without arrows or fighting."
Erick smiled, his brown eyes fixed on hers. "I agree. Let's go. It might be fun to watch you slip on the ice instead of on rooftops."
They approached the edge of the lake, renting skates at a nearby cabin. But before they could put them on, the world exploded into chaos. A deafening roar echoed from the center of the park, near the playground—an orange fireball soaring into the sky, followed by a shockwave that sent snow flying like dust. Screams rang out: children crying, parents running. Erick felt the air warm momentarily, his elemental reacting to the distant heat.
"Shit," he muttered, his eyes narrowing at the rising smoke. "I guess our plans are ruined."
Artemis was already tense, her hand instinctively reaching for where her bow would be if she weren't at a civilian gathering. They looked at the lake: the skaters froze for a second, then panic set in. Families slid desperately to the shore, blades scraping across the ice in a cacophony of fear. From the epicenter of the explosion—a smoking crater in the snowy lawn—more people came running: couples, the elderly, all fleeing from something still invisible.
Erick and Artemis exchanged a glance. Without hesitation, Erick unwrapped his scarf and tied it around his face, covering it from the nose down, leaving only his eyes and dark hair visible. It looked like an improvised mask, but functional for concealing identity in a city of vigilantes. Artemis did the same with hers, her sharp features now shaded, ready for action.
"Let's go," said Erick, his voice muffled but determined. They raced against the current of fleeing foothills, their trained muscles propelling them through the soft snow, leaping over banks and trimmed bushes. The smell of sulfur and burnt metal filled the air, and as they approached the crater—a ten-meter-diameter hole, churned-up earth and melted snow—Erick's blood ran cold despite his inner fire.
Floating above the crater, mounted on a colossal space motorcycle—a chrome-plated vehicle with flaming thrusters, exhaust pipes roaring like beasts, and mounted weapons that resembled starship cannons—was a figure Erick recognized from memories of his past life: Lobo, the infamous intergalactic bounty hunter from DC Comics. Lobo was a dark legend in the comics—a Czarnian, the last of his race after committing genocide on his own planet in a rebellious adolescence. Standing six feet three inches tall, his skin was a pale gray, like the ashes of a dead world, marked by ancient scars that snaked like dry rivers. A thick, shaggy beard framed his square jaw, blending into the long, wild hair that fell over his broad shoulders in greasy strands, black as the void of space. His eyes were red wells, gleaming with primal fury, pupils dilated like those of a nocturnal predator. Thick fur covered his muscular arms—veins bulging like cables beneath the skin, biceps the size of melons—and his chest, exposed by his sleeveless black leather jacket, glistened with sweat and more fur, a wild carpet that descended to his abdomen, defined by years of cosmic battles. The jacket was adorned with stitched-on alien skulls, rusty zippers, and patches of destroyed planets. Black pants, ripped at the knees, wrapped around legs like tree trunks, spiked combat boots pressing against the motorcycle pedals. Wrapped around his left arm, a chain as thick as a human arm ended in a sharp hook, jagged with barbs that dripped a corrosive fluid. At his waist, a colossal holster housed a giant weapon—an alien-caliber revolver, its barrel wide enough to swallow a grenade, decorated with faintly pulsed Czarnian runes. Lobo was smoking a thick cigar, its pungent smoke rising in spirals, its smell mingling with that of the explosion.
Lobo wasn't just a mercenary; he was the Main Man, the ultimate hunter. Immortal thanks to his Czarnian regeneration—capable of recovering from decapitations, nuclear explosions, and even atomic disintegration. His strength rivaled Superman's, his speed allowed him to dodge bullets, and his durability allowed him to survive the vacuum of space. Armed with his Spacehog motorcycle—an interdimensional machine that traveled faster than light, equipped with nuclear missiles and force fields—Lobo hunted bounties throughout the galaxy, leaving trails of destruction. He killed for pleasure, drank alien beer in lethal quantities, and his loyalty went only to the highest payout. In DC lore, he has faced the Justice League, Green Lanterns, and even Darkseid, always coming back for more. His code of honor was twisted: he fulfilled contracts to the letter, but betrayed allies for fun. Erick, with his comic book memories, knew that Lobo was unpredictable—a villain who could be a reluctant ally or a mortal enemy, depending on the day.
At the bottom of the crater, lying on the smoldering earth and melting snow, was she: Starfire. Koriand'r, princess of Tamaran. Torn, soot-stained purple clothing barely covered her slender, athletic body, revealing deep cuts, purple bruises, and recent burns. Flaming pink hair fell in disheveled strands across her face, her skin a vibrant orange like an alien sunset, her large green eyes filled with terror and confusion. Her arms were bound by massive shackles—two blocks of alien metal, as thick as bricks, magnetically fused together, immobilizing her like a prisoner of war. She shivered in the Gotham cold, her breath ragged, lacking the warrior-like posture Erick knew from the comics. This Starfire seemed younger, more vulnerable—perhaps newly captured, perhaps traumatized by the forced interstellar journey. Erick's blood ran cold: he hadn't expected to find a Tamaranean—much less one in Lobo's clutches—so soon.
Out on the periphery, Erick spotted a family in distress: the father, a middle-aged man in a winter coat, lay on the ground with his leg twisted at an awkward angle, the exposed bone gleaming white in the snow. The mother, desperate, held a crying baby in her lap with one arm and tried to lift her husband with the other, while a child of about three clung to her leg, sobbing.
"Artemis, help that family," Erick ordered, his voice low but urgent. At the same time, via an implanted neural chip—connected to his cell phone via a quantum link—he sent a mental message to his AIs: "Maximum security alert, activate. Activate protocol zero." Protocol zero was the worst-case scenario: total mobilization of defenses at the Hargrove complex, surveillance drones, Baymax on alert, and automatic calls to the Justice League via encrypted channels that Erick had discreetly hacked.
Artemis nodded and ran to the family, helping the mother lift the father while calming the child. Erick, in turn, leaped into the crater—legs propelled by enhanced strength, snow flying around him—landing with a soft thud in front of the girl. He knelt, eyes on hers, voice soft despite the mask. "Calm down... I'm here to help." She blinked, confusion mixed with fear—clearly she didn't understand what he was saying, or the trauma was blocking her. She tried to flinch, but the shackles immobilized her. Erick gently placed his hand on her head, transmitting a wave of calming warmth via elemental energy, like a living blanket. "It's going to be alright."
Then he stood up, turning to Lobo. His voice echoed loudly, authoritatively, masking the cold sweat running down his back. "Lobo! This is Justice League jurisdiction. You know very well you can't invade this planet!"
Lobo, relaxed on the hoverbike—propellers humming softly, cigar between his teeth—tossed the smoldering stump aside. He clicked a device on his wrist—a universal translator, a multifunctional watch with a holographic screen—stuck his pinky finger in his ear to casually clean it, and spat. His voice came out in a guttural, hoarse Czarnian language, but the device translated it into hoarse English: "Repeat that again, I didn't understand a damn thing you said."
Erick swallowed hard, his heart racing. "This is the Justice League's jurisdiction. You... You know what it means to infringe on that jurisdiction?"
Lobo laughed—a sound like stones rolling in an avalanche—tilting his head. "Bug, do you think I care about anything? I'm just after my reward." He pointed the hook at the girl, who cowered behind Erick, her green eyes filled with terror. This wasn't the Tamaranian warrior Erick knew from the comics; this one looked young, broken, lacking the iron will of Tamaran.
Erick glanced over his shoulder, seeing her fear, and turned back. "I already messaged the League," he shouted, partially true—their AIs had alerted them, but the response depended on who was available. Batman on patrol? Flash on a mission? Superman… he hoped not, but luck wasn't his strong suit. "They'll be here in a few moments, and you don't want to face Superman, do you?"
Wolf grinned broadly, his sharp teeth gleaming, his red eyes sparkling with excitement. "Perhaps I want to, child."
Chapter 84: The Hunter's Fury – Desperate Escape and the Kiss of the Stars
Lobo's words echoed in Erick's mind like distant thunder, laden with a primal menace that sent a chill down his spine, despite the eternal fire burning at his core. "Perhaps I want to, child." That hoarse, guttural voice, with a cosmic accent that seemed to emanate from stellar abysses, carried not only contempt but a sadistic amusement that Erick recognized from the fragmented memories of his previous life. He knew what Lobo represented: a near-immortal being, a force of nature that regenerated from mortal wounds, who had been expelled from both heaven and hell in comic book variations—if this universe followed the same pattern, Erick didn't want to test it. Before him loomed perhaps the most dangerous being he had ever faced, a bounty hunter who saw entire planets as playgrounds for his violence. The Gotham night air, already cold and snowy, seemed even more oppressive, the flakes falling like ashes from a world in flames. Erick felt the weight of reality fall upon his shoulders: there was no easy escape. He was strong, honed by years of training, inventions, and the elemental fire, but this? This was a walking calamity, a hurricane of gray muscles and red eyes that devoured hope.
Erick took an instinctive step back, the snow crunching beneath his boots, his brown eyes fixed on Lobo's, staring unblinkingly at that infernal glare. His heart pounded, a war drum in his chest, but he forced his mind to calm down, channeling the discipline forged in his basement of inventions. In his mind, via an implanted neural chip—an invisible quantum link to his AIs—he sent an urgent command, the mental words echoing like a desperate whisper: "How long until reinforcements arrive?"
The answer came almost instantly, in the calm and coordinated voice of Natasha, the AI coordinator: "We received news of Kid Flash, Superboy, Aqualad, and M'gann. They will be here in approximately 15 minutes." Erick felt a chill run down his spine, as if the Gotham wind had penetrated his skin despite his coat. Fifteen minutes? It seemed like an eternity against a monster like Lobo. He mentally pressed: "And the League?"
Natasha responded efficiently, but the digital tone carried a note of gravity: "There was a devastating earthquake in South Korea. Superman, Flash, Aquaman, and other key members are there, handling the rescue. Few available members were able to come to your aid. The situation is critical, but they have been notified. Superman is on his way. Estimated arrival time: 20 to 25 minutes."
Twenty minutes. Erick swallowed hard, cold sweat mingling with the melting snow on his masked face. He saw the pressure as a visor tightening around his skull—not enough time to survive a direct confrontation, but enough to perhaps gain a chance. His eyes still fixed on Lobo, he sent another command: "My suit. I need it now." He knew there was no escape; he would have to fight, both to protect Starfire's life and to protect himself. The alien girl, her orange skin trembling in the cold, her green eyes filled with terror, depended on him now. Erick felt a visceral urgency, a controlled panic driving him: he couldn't fail, not here, not when the DC universe had thrown him into a cosmic trap so early.
Natasha replied, "In approximately three minutes, the suit will be arriving via stealth drone." The mental processing took only a second—a blink of an eye in the real world—but for Erick, it was an eternity of feverish planning. He still stared at Lobo, the Czarnian floating on the space motorcycle with a relaxed posture, as if this were just another routine hunt. Knowing there was no immediate escape, Erick decided to buy time, stretching the seconds like elastic bands until reinforcements arrived. His voice came out firm, masked by the scarf, echoing in the smoking crater: "Who hired this hunt?"
Lobo grinned broadly, revealing sharp, cigar-yellowed teeth, his red eyes gleaming with malevolent amusement. "It's none of your business, brat." The reply was short, dry, lacking the garrulous chatter Erick remembered from some comic book variants. Shit, Erick thought, this Lobo isn't as talkative as the other versions—or maybe he just particularly hates me. Time slipped away like sand, and Erick felt the urgency tighten in his chest, his heart racing like an overworked engine. He needed more delay, more precious seconds.
Discreetly, beneath his winter coat, Erick activated the watch on his wrist—a camouflaged device integrated into his personal arsenal. With an inaudible click, a thin needle emerged, penetrating his vein with surgical precision, injecting the luminescent blue liquid of Venom A. The serum coursed through his veins like liquid fire, expanding muscles in visible waves: arms swelling, chest widening, legs thickening. Erick grew ten centimeters taller in seconds, his winter clothing tightening uncomfortably against his now hypertrophied body, seams stretching to their limit. Veins bulged like raging rivers, pulsing with raw power. The transformation came with a wave of euphoria mixed with fear—strength multiplied seven or eight times, heightened resistance, but still, against Lobo? It was a palliative, not a solution.
Lobo noticed immediately, his red eyes narrowing with predatory interest. He grinned even wider, tilting his head like a wolf assessing prey. "Hmm, so you're full of tricks. Let's see if you can amuse me." With a speed that blurred reality, Lobo drew the colossal weapon from its holster—the alien revolver roaring to life, its smoking barrel pointed directly at Erick.
Time seemed to slow down for Erick, his senses heightened by Venom A capturing every detail: the smell of cosmic gunpowder, the glint of runes on the barrel, Lobo's finger pulling the trigger. He moved with superhuman speed, turning his back to Lobo in a fluid spin, leaning down to grab Starfire by her handcuffed arms. His fingers closed around her with urgent gentleness, feeling the tremor of her orange body against his. "Hold on tight," he murmured, though he knew she didn't understand. From the soles of their feet, flames erupted like rockets—the fire elemental manifesting in makeshift thrusters, propelling them skyward in an explosive ascent.
The gunshots echoed like thunder, alien bullets cutting through the air with luminescent trails. Erick felt the heat scrape his skin: a bullet grazed his left arm, tearing tissue and flesh in a line of burning fire, blood gushing hot. Another passed through his temple, opening a shallow furrow that burned like acid, his vision blurring for an instant. On his right thigh, a deep tear made the muscle protest, and on his left ankle, a superficial wound sent excruciating pain down his legs. He groaned, Venom A already working to coagulate, but panic overwhelmed him: he had narrowly escaped. High in the sky—snow falling around like deadly confetti—Erick realized the bitter truth: Lobo had missed on purpose. Those shots were a game, a test to see how long the prey would last.
Below, Lobo laughed, the space motorcycle roaring to life, flaming blue thrusters propelling it upwards. The weapon still smoked in his hand, smoke snaking through the cold air. "So you still have more tricks up your sleeve. Let's see how far you can go." He turned the motorcycle in an elegant arc, accelerating toward Erick with speed that made the air howl.
Erick felt panic tighten around his chest like a claw—the urgency was palpable, each second a countdown to annihilation. He spun his body in the air, landing perpendicular to the ground, and pumped more flames to his feet, propelling himself forward in a desperate escape. His clothes burned in the process: shoes melting to ashes, trousers tearing to the ankles, exposing skin marked by bulging veins. The wind howled in his ears, snow whipping his face, but Lobo was faster, the motorcycle cutting through the sky like a maddened comet. The Czarnian spun the chain wrapped around his arm, the serrated hook spinning like a deadly propeller, and threw it with lethal precision.
Erick tried to dodge, twisting his body in the air, but the current was relentless—faster than his maneuver, striking his shoulder with brutal force. The pain exploded like a supernova, bones grinding, muscles tearing. He was hurled down, spinning uncontrollably, shielding Starfire with his body. They fell from about twenty meters high, the imminent impact a death sentence. Erick spun at the last second, leaving Starfire on top of him to cushion his fall. They collided with the snowy ground in an explosion of earth and snow: first a tree split in two with a deafening crack, branches flying like shards; then another, trunk cracking like broken bone. Finally, they rolled onto a park bench, wood and metal shattering under the combined weight, landing meters from the park entrance.
Pain radiated throughout Erick's body—possibly fractured ribs, a throbbing shoulder, bullet wounds bleeding profusely. Venom A worked furiously, regenerating tissue at an accelerated pace, but the effort left him breathless, his vision blurred. He realized, with a pang in his heart, that it had been a terrible choice of direction: families were still running from there, screams echoing, chaos spreading like wildfire. But in the heat of the moment, the only thing on his mind was to escape, to survive another second. He looked at his chest, where Starfire lay, her head resting on his torso, her body trembling uncontrollably. Her green eyes were glazed with fear, her skin pale orange in the cold. "Are you alright?" Erick murmured, his voice hoarse, knowing she didn't understand, but the calming tone was all he could offer.
Above, Lobo hovered on the motorcycle, laughing—a guttural sound that echoed like a curse. He drew his weapon again, barrel pointed downwards, finger on the trigger. Time seemed to freeze for Erick: the urgency was overwhelming, an impending calamity threatening to engulf him. He was no match for it; his power, his inventions, everything seemed insignificant against the Main Man.
But then, a metallic clang: a manhole cover flew through the air, hitting Lobo hard on the head. The impact didn't do any damage—Lobo barely blinked—but it made him turn his head, his red eyes fixing on the young, blond-haired figure. Artemis, still masked, had thrown the object with archer-like precision, buying precious seconds. Her green eyes met Erick's for an instant—a mixture of determination and fear, a reminder that he wasn't alone.
Erick seized the opportunity: flames erupted again from his feet, propelling him skyward once more. The wind howled, snow blinding, but Lobo ignored Artemis, speeding away in pursuit. Erick felt despair growing—the motorcycle's speed far exceeded his makeshift flight, the Czarnian closing the distance like an inescapable predator. He tried to accelerate, pumping more fire, but before he could gain momentum, the current came again: spinning, striking his back with devastating force. Erick screamed, excruciating pain radiating, and they were hurled down once more, crashing into the park wall. The impact was cataclysmic: bricks exploding, concrete cracking, Erick bursting through the barrier like a human bullet, rolling onto the snowy street on the other side.
He staggered to his feet, Starfire still in his arms, coughing up blood. He mentally thanked the idea of integrating Venom A into the watch—a safety system that had saved him from immediate death. In his mind, Natasha updated: "One minute until the suit arrives." Erick looked around: there was no more running. The Wolf hovered above, toying with them like a cat with mice, its red eyes full of amusement. The urgency was suffocating—each breath a struggle, each second a battle against panic. He knew the only way to communicate with Starfire was physical, a gesture of trust amidst the chaos. Seeing the precarious situation, the cosmic predator laughing up there, Erick gently cupped her face, feeling her cold orange skin against his warm palms. Their eyes met—fear in hers, determination in his—and he kissed her, a desperate gesture of connection, a beacon of hope amidst the calamity.
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