Erick Costa lay at the bottom of the makeshift crater, his body sunk in a chaotic mixture of damp earth, melted snow, and mangled tree trunks—branches shattered like broken bones, roots exposed like veins ripped from the ground. His head was above water, exposed to the frigid Gotham night air, but the rest of his body was submerged, pressed down by layers of debris that resembled a natural tomb. Pain was a constant now, a dull throbbing radiating from every muscle, every cracked bone. He blinked slowly, his vision blurred by blood and sweat, trying to get his bearings. How much time had passed? Minutes? Hours? Lobo's final blow had left him dazed, a sharp sting to the mind as if his brain had been shaken inside his skull. The fire elemental still burned faintly in his chest, a stubborn spark that kept him conscious, but Venom A was at its limit—the serum that multiplied his strength and physical resistance, forcing muscles to contract beyond human capabilities. He felt his ribs as if they were loose fragments, his lungs burning with each shallow breath, and his right arm throbbing where the plasma had dissipated, leaving superficial burns on his skin.
With a primal grunt, Erick pushed himself up, his flaming hands digging into the soft earth, his muscles hypertrophied by the serum trembling with the effort. The ground gave way a little more before collapsing, and he forced himself out of the hole, earth trickling down his back like gravel. His body protested with every movement—as if he'd been hit by a runaway train, entire cars crashing into him in succession. Legs weakening, he knelt first, then slowly rose, the world spinning in vertigo. The snow around him evaporated with the residual heat of his elemental, creating a mist that enveloped him like a spectral cloak. He didn't know how long he'd been out of it—long enough that the silence of the park was broken only by the howling wind and distant sirens echoing from the city.
Suddenly, a heavy thud echoed—like something massive falling to the ground, followed by another. Erick raised his head, his vision clearing enough to see a large hand, clad in gleaming black armor, emerge from the darkness and begin digging at the earth above his submerged body. Precise, powerful mechanical fingers removed debris with surgical efficiency. He recognized it immediately: Baymax, the guardian robot he had created to protect his family, now in combat mode, armor activated for maximum defense and strength.
Baymax helped him to his full height, red optical sensors flashing in analysis. Erick leaned on the robotic arm, still dizzy, and turned to Baymax. His voice came out hoarse and broken: "Where's my armor?"
Baymax pointed in a nearby direction, his synthetic voice calm and modulated: "There, sir." Erick followed the gesture. He frowned, wondering how he had missed it: in front of him, like a somber monolith, stood a rectangular cube approximately two and a half meters high, its surface opaque and black, without visible seams, as if carved from space obsidian. It was the portable container for his ID10 armor—a stealth drone that his AIs had sent in response to protocol zero, camouflaged for discreet delivery in emergencies.
Erick limped toward him, each step an agony—legs trembling, ankles swollen, Venom A keeping him upright by sheer chemical stubbornness. Baymax followed beside him, sensors monitoring vital signs. "Sir, I don't recommend you return to combat. Your situation is critical: multiple rib fractures, moderate internal bleeding, contusions to vital organs. Even with your elemental regeneration, you will need rest."
Erick shook his head, ignoring the ringing in his ears. "Venom will... will heal me."
Baymax paused, processing. "It won't work, sir. Venom is just a mask—it forces your muscles to stay together, forces fractured bones to temporarily align, but it doesn't change the fact that they're broken. It tears veins and flesh to maintain structural integrity, but that comes at a huge price: metabolic overload, risk of organ failure, potential addiction. It's like trying to hold up a falling wall with duct tape—functional for a while, but catastrophic in the long run."
Erick stopped, breathing deeply despite the excruciating pain. He looked toward the city, where distant explosions illuminated the snowy horizon—orange flashes followed by echoes of sirens and screams. "I have no choice." His voice was low, determined, laden with a fury amplified by the elemental. He limped the last few meters to the monolith, touching its cold surface. A red light scanned his body—retina, thermal signature, DNA—and an automated voice announced: "Authorized." The door opened like a curtain of shadows, a membrane of energy that prevented internal vision, guaranteeing privacy even in open fields.
Erick entered, the interior lighting up with holographic panels and robotic arms. The door closed behind him, sealing him in a cocoon of technology. Inside, mechanical sounds echoed: drills humming, soldering crackling, hydraulic actuators hissing as if something were being assembled in real time. It was the process of adapting the ID10 armor—the bulky alloy adjusting to his hypertrophied body, systems integrating with his neural chip. Erick stood still, feeling the plates close around him, the weight of 569 kilograms distributed by the actuators that made him as light as a jacket. The HUD lit up on the helmet: critical vital signs, energy in 20 standard minutes, weapons online.
After exactly twenty seconds, the door opened again. Erick emerged, now clad in armor: two and a half meters tall, dark gray plates with bluish reflections, shoulders as broad as doors, an angular helmet without a human face—just an inverted T-shaped polarized visor, red sensors glowing. He walked with firm steps, without limping, as if the fractures were a mere illusion. The Venom A still pulsed in his veins, but the armor compensated, actuators supporting the weight and movement.
He turned to Baymax. "Take the box back." The robot nodded, picking up the now empty monolith—compacted for transport. Erick paused, adding, "And I have another job for you."
.....
Erick flew over Gotham, his armor propelled by elemental flames in his feet and back—integrated thrusters amplified the elemental energy, creating trails of fire in the snowy sky. His closed helmet filtered the frigid air, a HUD projecting data: speed 150 km/h, altitude 200 meters, scanners detecting urban explosions. It was the first time he'd used the suit in real combat, in a critical situation. He didn't know the exact limits of its strength and defense—simulated tests indicated immense resistance, the strength to lift tanks, but no equipment to measure its peak power. Now, it was time to prove it.
While flying, he communicated with his AIs via neural link, voices echoing in his helmet like digital ghosts. Doctor, the medical analyst AI, spoke first: "You should stop right now. Your body is experiencing critical damage: multiple rib fractures, mild lung puncture, internal bleeding. Surgery will be necessary for complete repair. Even with your elemental regeneration, it will take days—weeks, perhaps—for full recovery."
Erick replied coldly, his assertive voice cutting through the wind: "I have no choice."
The doctor insisted: "Yes, we do. Stop and wait for reinforcements."
Erick ignored him, his eyes fixed on the distant explosions. "Inject me with Venom again. One more time."
There was a pause—almost a bewilderment in the AIs, programmed to optimize and protect Erick at all costs, but devoid of true emotions. It was as if the algorithms hesitated, calculating risks. Doctor responded: "If you do that, you'll put a gigantic burden on your body. In addition to existing injuries, Venom will aggravate everything. We'll only be recording your condition—it will keep you together temporarily, but the price is organ failure, possibly death from cardiovascular overload."
Erick felt the weight of the decision, but his mind was forged in steel. "I know that. There are certain moments when we have to put our lives at risk. Because otherwise, I'm sure I won't have what it takes to go all the way." He paused, his voice gaining intensity. "Do you think the big players, when the time comes to stop me, will have pity on me? No. This is the moment for me to break and forge myself. And not only that—there are people who depend on me."
The AIs fell silent, obeying the order. Erick felt the armor's internal needles pierce veins, injecting the blue liquid. His body expanded again—muscles swelling, height increasing by ten centimeters, from 1.78 to 1.88, adding the armor to almost 2 meters total. The E10 alloy adjusted fluidly, plates expanding to accommodate without compromising mobility. A euphoria washed over him, as if all pain had vanished—fractures masked, hemorrhages temporarily stopped, energy pulsing like pure adrenaline. But Erick knew the truth: he was destroying his body from the inside out, veins tearing microscopically, organs overloaded. Perhaps it was his last night.
He gave a grim smile beneath his helmet, doubting it. The DC universe had tested him before; he would survive to exact his revenge.
POV Artemis
Artemis wiped the blood from her forehead with the back of her hand, a warm, sticky line tracing the path of the open wound from one of the collateral impacts of the battle. The metallic taste filled her mouth, mingling with the biting cold of the Gotham night, but she barely registered it. Her green eyes were fixed ahead, paralyzed by the scene unfolding on the cracked street, illuminated only by flickering streetlights and the distant glow of sirens.
Lobo stepped with deliberate calmness on Superboy's chest, the heel of his boot crushing the "S" symbol on the Kryptonian hybrid's uniform. Conner grunted softly, his hands trying to grip the Czarnian's ankle, but without the strength to move an inch. With his left hand, Lobo held Aqualad by the neck, lifting the Atlantean as if he were a rag doll—Kaldur'ahm struggled weakly, water dripping from his tribal tattoos, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and impotent fury. In his right, he held M'gann suspended by the neck, the green Martian trembling, her white telepathic eyes failing to penetrate the monster's mind. Lobo smiled—a wide smile, sharp teeth gleaming in the dim light, as if it were all just a particularly amusing game. He wasn't sweating, he wasn't breathing heavily. He was just having fun.
On the street corner, Robin leaned against the crumpled hood of a wrecked patrol car. The hood was folded inward like aluminum foil, fist marks left by Lobo himself minutes before. Dick Grayson—normally the most composed, the most strategic—stared at the scene with an expression Artemis rarely saw on him: utter bewilderment. His blue eyes were wide behind his mask, his mouth slightly open, as if his brain was still trying to process the impossible. He knew who Lobo was. Everyone knew. But knowing and seeing were different things. In a few minutes, the hunter had dismantled the entire team—Superboy thrown like a toy, Aqualad suffocated, M'gann mentally expelled with a simple frown, Wally knocked down by a stomp that cracked the asphalt, and himself thrown as if he weighed nothing. Robin gripped the remaining batarangs so tightly that his knuckles were white. He couldn't conceive of it: they were going to lose. For real. In minutes.
Artemis turned to Starfire, who was in worse shape—pale orange skin from the cold and panic, glazed green eyes, rapid, shallow breathing. The Tamaranean had fallen to her knees, her handcuffs now loose thanks to a quick trick by Robin minutes earlier, but the emotional weight held her to the ground more than any metal. Artemis bent down, holding her by the shoulders.
"Let's get up. Just once. I'll help you."
Starfire looked up in confusion, but nodded. With a combined effort, they stood up. Artemis felt the girl's raw strength—even exhausted, even traumatized, Starfire rose with extreme ease. But her eyes were distant, lost. Artemis thought, with a tightness in her chest: We don't have the strength to do anything. All this is useless. I'm just... a human. Against this.
Lobo noticed their movement. His smile widened even further, sinister, predatory. He tossed M'gann and Aqualad aside like trash—bodies falling with dull thuds onto the melting snow. He stepped harder on Superboy's chest, using him as a stepping stone to calmly descend toward Artemis and Starfire. Each step was deliberate, boots crushing cracked asphalt, as if nothing in the world concerned him. The air felt heavier around him, an oppressive presence that made the Gotham cold seem welcoming in comparison.
Artemis instinctively recoiled, her back hitting a cold, damp brick wall. There was nowhere else to go. Starfire huddled beside her, her hand gripping Artemis's arm for comfort—or perhaps just to keep from falling. Artemis felt the girl tremble, the raw panic, and hated herself for having nothing to offer but herself. That's Lobo, she thought, but the words wouldn't come out. What would? He was a force of nature, a cosmic genocidal maniac who laughed at Kryptonians. And they were... nothing.
The Lobo approached slowly, as if savoring their fear. His red eyes gleamed with a primal hunger. "Tucanelas," he murmured, his voice hoarse and amused. "Let's play for real now."
Then, from the sky, came the impact.
A dark shape collided with Lobo with titanic force, raising a cloud of dust, snow, and shattered asphalt. The sound was deafening—as if a missile had hit the ground in the middle of the street. The shockwave made Artemis and Starfire flinch, their ears ringing. From the wreckage of the impact, echoes of blows began: rhythmic thumps, bursts of energy, metal grinding against metal. Until, amidst the dust and smoke, an incandescent light blazed—intense orange flames rising like a column of living fire. The light exploded in a detonation that made their eardrums vibrate, heat licking the air even meters away.
Lobo's body was hurled backward by the epicenter of the explosion, flying like a cannonball until it collided with the facade of a closed shop—windows shattering, brick walls collapsing, the Czarnian disappearing inside the establishment in a shower of debris. The cloud of dust and smoke rose high, obscuring vision for what seemed like an eternity.
When it dissipated, Artemis, Starfire, and the others who were still conscious—Robin crawling upwards, Kid Flash coughing, Superboy struggling to his feet—saw who had been at the epicenter.
A tall man, clad in completely black armor with iridescent gray accents, bulky, angular plates, shoulders as broad as garage doors, a closed helmet devoid of a human face—just a polarized visor in the shape of an inverted T, cold red sensors glowing. He hovered slightly above the ground, residual flames dancing on the soles of his feet and his back, elemental thrusters still active. The armor was brutal, industrial, a walking fortress that seemed to defy gravity itself.
He turned first to his fallen companions: M'gann coughing, Aqualad propping himself up on one knee, Superboy struggling to his feet. Then he looked at Kid Flash, who stared back in disbelief. Finally, his eyes—or sensors—locked onto Artemis and Starfire.
The helmet retracted with a hydraulic hiss, plates opening like mechanical petals. Erick Costa's face appeared—marked by dried blood, blue eyes burning with an intensity Artemis had never seen, jaw clenched, veins bulging in his neck. He was alive. Bruised, destroyed inside, but alive. And stronger than ever.
Robin murmured incredulously, "Erick...?"
Artemis felt the air escape her lungs. They hadn't imagined it. They hadn't imagined he had this—an armor that looked like it came from a technological nightmare, a power he had hidden even from the team. Starfire gripped her arm tighter, her green eyes wide.
Erick turned to Kid Flash, his deep, sharp voice coming through the helmet communicator: "Get them out of here. Get everyone out of here." He pointed at Artemis and Starfire. "After you do that, come back and start evacuating this part of the city. Now."
Kid Flash nodded without hesitation—a red blur passed by Erick, lifting Artemis and Starfire into his arms in one fluid motion. "Hold on tight," Wally said, and vanished in a gust of wind, carrying them away from the epicenter.
Erick turned back to the destroyed store. Dust still lingered, but he didn't wait. The flames at his feet intensified, and he charged forward. The armor hummed with energy, actuators compensating for every fracture, every internal hemorrhage. He knew the body was falling apart from the inside—the Venom A duplicate was a ticking time bomb—but he also knew there was no other choice.
From inside the store came a hoarse laugh. Lobo emerged from the rubble, his jacket torn, his gray skin marked by burns that were already regenerating. He wiped blood from his lip—his own blood, for the first time—and gave a wide smile.
"Finally," he growled. "A toy worth breaking."
Erick didn't answer. He just advanced, fists clenched, flames dancing on the joints of his armor. Gotham's night was about to catch fire.
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