A sound reminscient of thunder, a continuous booming as if reality itself ripped in the wake of the unimaginable terrors within, prepared as ever to pour across the familiar sight of stoic cities ripe for ruination. This methodology was commonplace amongst the vast Apokoliptian forces, though an attack of this scale, of this variety was perhaps unheard of, save for the climactic crisis occuring during the Fourth World's inhabitants falling into mortal bodies--namely that of a being who's enigmatic corporeal essence had briefly acquired the ultimate prize--and the still slowly reverberating cracks in the multiverse as a result, much of them fully expanded to their proper mass and frequency, while others were left irrepairable.
I have cried at times, during the brief, inexcusable moments of break from servitude, from the work by which my existence is made valuable to the Lord. It is through His undying mercy that I am reminded of the rebirth, the re-emergence given to me by the ashen pits of mighty Apokolips itself; terribly powerful in order to scorch away my ignorance, to bring about the unmatched warmth and divine light I only wish existence itself knew. I weep now not in fear of God's wrath, but in indescribable celebration of His acceptance of me, of the path which only He can illuminate.
Such past catastrophe however was no longer of any thorough importance beyond reference, beyond memory of cosmic beings within the multiverse who'd sought to seal away the fragments of a shattered god, yet failed, pointing only to the inevitable. As the universe spanning empire grew, the inevitable proved to be all the more likely. Godly beings of similarly vast power, who'd become infamous in their own schemes, their own planetary destruction, their own galactic holocausts had finally been considered, for the success of common and even identical goals was all important, beyond ego, beyond greed... for the time being.
When I was merely a child left to fend for myself during the periods of great war upon my home world, lost in confusion of to what I belonged, driven to madness and inescapable sorrow through the horrors of choice, it was He who took away the pain. Only the Lord was able to do that, nobody else. Through His command, through my willing servitude, I was finally given purpose. Chaos was the enemy. Life had burdened me with the falsehood of fulfillment via choice, the possibility of failure, the struggle, the prison of so-called 'freedom'. Life is a damning question, but I have seen now that Anti-Life is the answer I sought, and that which all life seeks if only it were willing.
Thanos, a constant threat, the greatly feared Mad Titan who's own scheming endeavors in some ways mirrored that of the Dark God, and on more than one occasion brought about his own arguably unmatched accomplishments against the mightiest beings of his universe or comparatively any other.
Brainiac, a being of methodical, genocidal precision, who's title as the Collector of Worlds is every bit as immeasurable in scope as it is horrifying and awe inspiring in the tireless efforts for the sake of absolute knowledge, of absolute evolution, of perhaps perfection, no matter how unfinished the satisfaction of hundreds upon thousands of planets felt.
Galactus, Eater of Worlds, of cosmic proportions, of power and versatility peaking above those proclaimed as the officiates of the entirety of existence itself, who's gluttony--much to the suffering of sentient life--was truly insatiable. A being who's minuscule efforts of empowerment hailed indescribable power for his Heralds, for those sworn into seeking out the unfortunate meals of the Hungry God.
They are of narrow mind, the sister planet of my home, shamelessly adhering to the falsehoods of the one purported as the Almighty New God, a blasphemous act within itself. For it was He who ended the tyranny of the old gods as the legend goes, His unwavering will that brought forth the reign, the revelation of God incarnate, Dreaded Darkseid in all his glory. New Genesians scream lies of a different beginning, of a poisoned mother and murdered brother, of God as a thief in his own power, perhaps to hide their own treachery?
The newfound numbers hardly faltered at such a point. Beyond the accumulative billions of warriors serving under the coalition, dozens to hundreds of comparatively notable threats were in the ranks, some as per an agreement of mutual benefit, yet most more than likely as a result of 'falling in line', of acknowledging the potential New Order and as was intelligent stepping out of the way of the enforced leaders.
Was it not God who saw the threat for what it was? 'The Source', capable of etching away the meaning I as a devout worshiper must spread through the cosmos? Such mysteries, the Lord spoke, were meant to be deciphered and if needed disposed of, if His Will were to reach all as intended, as it is prophesied. Examined, not gleefully sought after and followed by the bastards of New Genesis and their unquestioned 'Highfather'.
The invasion had struck mere hours ago, yet as was plainly upon the faces of the 'heroes' and 'villains' who pointlessly rebelled, an Earthly interpretation was of weeks passed, for some even years. The withering process was well under way, as Darkseid noted, viewing the commotion across the planet from an ironically similarly designed monitor room reminiscent to that within the now annihilated Watchtower. True, it was surprisingly quick-witted of the cybernetic human to immediately initiate a self-destruct sequence upon learning the situation, but the New God would be lying if he'd claimed the sight of the famed Watchtower of Earth-0 ceasing to be wasn't a deeply enjoyable one.
His might is absolute, His reach impossible, His mind unmatched by mortal and god alike. I exist only to serve him, to bring about the Gospel of Anti-Life. On this day, I am made an Angel of His awakening upon yet another Earth. Dearest Granny Goodness bid welcome to I and the lucky other few who were chosen to lead the second wave, the Second Coming of the Apokolips.
Such a plethora of humanoid organisms predictably united against the unparalleled onslaught at their proverbial doorstep. Mutants, meta-humans, and of course even those noble and moronic enough to attempt efforts without the slightest of noticeable ability. Kryptonians expectantly responded, two Batmen, surprisingly enough two Atlantean Kings, even an Avatar of the Green... though what caught the tyrannical god's attention at present was the counteractive use of Boom Tube technology to enable such comradery spanning universes. The intention was, naturally, to act as a rallying call to countless universes, complete with ensured arrival, yet Darkseid knew better than to assume the combined overriding/hacking prowess of Apokoliptian technolgy, Brainiac's own, as well as that of Thanos' armies were no longer a factor, and one for a hypothetical 'double-edged sword' that could truly bring about existence's armageddon.
I arrive via Boom Tube, the first instance of which I have ever been lucky enough to experience. It is on this day that I am truly blessed, truly brought into the all encompassing majesty of the Lord. I am piloting a more recently developed weapon of our righteous war called Mekkanoids, gigantic treading robotics armed to the teeth with all form of energized weaponry, razored saws, and riddled with piercing spikes. I am unable to observe my own moment of triumph, yet my eyes well up in mere thoughts of how powerful a tool for the Lord I must now be.
Arms firmly crossed behind him, the massive ruler of Apokolips glanced towards his pleasured adviser and assistant, the treacherous Desaad, who cycled through the available viewing frequencies within the room nearby, drooling and cackling. Under these circumstances the glaring New God would normally berate the torturer, yet Darkseid was all too familiar with the psychotic degree of pleasure he took in witnessing any form of pain, and if there was ever a time in which available viewing was at it's peak, it was at present.
I crash to the ground with great force with no less than a dozen Mekkanoids beside and behind me. According to Granny's briefing, we are in the Earth city known as 'Metropolis', specifically an area relating to a hospital. Taking in a long breath, I exhale and grab hold of the controls. Oddly enough, they feel stiff in my hands. I am confused, but I am confident to please the Lord this fateful day. I attempt to make contact with the other pilots, yet I hear clean silence.
Silently noting the arrival of the Mekkanoid distraction with faint interest, the New God's posture loosened ever so slightly, before the notoriously deadly blaring Omega Beams were hastily emitted from Darkseid's eyes, racing around and past his own head, across multiple corridors and even through to an entirely different, albeit enormous room in a matter of microseconds. There, it easily evaded the Parademons and fellow War Hound troops, and passed through the single closing Boom Tube...
I begin to sweat profusely near instantly, confusion finding and strangling me after avoiding it for so long. A feeble Lowly like myself brought in to serve directly under Lord Darkseid, yet it seems I have committed the ultimate sin of failing him. Upon closer inspection, I notice the only device operational is my headset. A malfunction? Impossible, not for this attack. To doubt the followers of God is to doubt Lord Darkseid himself. This must be Darkseid's wish, his will! I am to serve God through the only way true to his love: through death! THANK YOU! DYING FOR LORD DARKSEID IS FREEDOM, THE ULTIMATE FREEDOM FROM THE TURMOIL OF EXISTENCE! I ACCEPT YOUR DESIRES, 'O LORD, THOUGH I MAY BE UNWORTHY OF SUCH AN HON--
The Omega Beams strike the Mekkanoid with ferocious speed and power, seizing the surrounding area from the impact and completely obliterating the tank-sized machine, setting off a chain reaction of bombs among the arranged rows of stationary Mekkanoids, at first gradually but ultimately leading to a monumental explosion to be heard and felt for miles.
The main floor of the Daily Planet building was as lively as ever, phones ringing, keyboards clacking frantically, papers being shifted around as employees moved about just as erratically. All the while, the head of the paper, Perry White, switched back and forth between taking a long sip of black coffee from his official Daily Planet(�) mug, and shouting at specific employees regarding what stories he was being handed, his volume unchanging despite whatever his actual feelings about any given story were. An odd sort of hierarchy to the paper's workers existed, represented often by physical appearance more than a random visitor would tend to expect. Perry, naturally, didn't bother to shave during what was generally considered a slow period before Christmas itself came around, and yet that gave him all the more time to ride the asses of any fresh meat at the establishment, somehow foolishly assuming they'd have an easy time being hired during the holidays.
Younger, generally newer writers, editors, and photographers had more formal attire and desire to stay tidy in general, while the seasoned veterans of the business--such as Perry himself--tended to make the most minimal efforts at clothing professionalism, their responsibilities too vast for impeccable looks to play any factor in their lives anymore, not to mention an understanding of their own appearance having little to nothing to do with the perceived quality of the paper, outside of publicity shots. Jimmy Olsen, for example, was one of few within that transitional period; a well kept tie, business shirt, and ironed slacks, contrasting the looseness of said tie and the coffee stains left on the worn pants, not to mention a collar missing a button or two.
"Olsen! Thompson's got our front page story for tomorrow ready, but I needed the photograph and title for it last December! Hurry it up and show me what you've got!" White yelled, startling the young man who'd sworn he'd gotten the usual shout/sip routine down, without factoring in a change of the patterns aside a new month. He'd been working at the Planet for over two years now in spite of it feeling like a decade or two, yet it had seemingly paid off with the boss-man deciding the rookie deserved a shot at coordinating certain parts of the front page with it being "that special season and all that junk" as he'd eloquently put it. First he'd decided that the top picture would be his first challenge to impress with (along with a title if Thompson didn't get around to it), and next would be... a possibility of the front page side-piece being one of his own, as long as it stood out!
Whilst dancing through the usual afternoon churning of the machine that was the Daily Planet workforce, he finally arrived at Perry with a haphazard collection of his most confident ideas for the title of the piece he'd read all morning (totaling at least a dozen times) and the best selection of pictures both he and another photographer had gotten. "Sorry for the wait, sir! We've got the best pics of the Man of Steel you've ever seen! Fred and I had to wait until we were sure The Parasite was down, but what we've got of 'em both looks awesome! My favorite title is 'Parasite halted by Man of Steel'!" the energetic male concluded, staring hopefully at an observant Perry White. His expression remained neutral--which wasn't necessarily bad--while he filed through the papers. "Hm. I like that title Olsen, that's pretty good--concise. But my gut's goin' with 'Superman prevents Parasite rampage'. Use that third picture, with Superman standing over 'em, and those people in the back; makes the reader feel more involved. Crop it so that bit of flag is in the shot."
Olsen's narrow knees almost buckled at the reply. After circling the preferred title with his handy blue Sharpie, Perry considered the exchange done. It was over so quickly that he'd just barely managed to realize that Perry had complimented him, and approved! So much so, that for a moment he just stared at the man, his grip on the two ever important papers he'd been handed back just a little too tight. "Olsen? You with us?" the burly man quickly muttered, snapping his fingers in front of the boy's face. "You waiting for a treat? Get those to Lane, pronto! She's coverin' Bill's shift while he's sick." And suddenly, reality returned to the photographer's ecstatic mind. "Y-yes sir! But uh, I think she's out on a late lunch right now, with the short notice an--" White grumbled, rolling his eyes, before interrupting and briefly flailing his free hand around. "Alright, alright, fine. Just set 'em on her desk real fast and come right back, I'm walking over to check on Thompson's edits." The movement towards Ms. Lane's office had begun before Perry had even finished, Jimmy knowing full well that the boss's temper was never to be provoked.
Opening the door carefully, given that Lois had smacked Jimmy over the head with her purse the last time he'd stormed into her office, letting the gust of the door fling her impeccably organized papers about. The worst thing? That hadn't been the first, or even third time it had happened. Shutting the door behind him just as quietly out of some odd, irrational fear of the door still somehow managing to screw his entrance up, he then took a small step towards the right to flip the standard Planet office light-switch. Gosh! He couldn't help but always marvel at Lois having her own office, primarily due to it being the only one he'd been given permission to see. The framed, award winning story that had truly introduced the news media world to Superman of course remained in the center of the back wall, and the bright eyed male couldn't help but smile a little at how familiar seeing that picture had become.
Walking over to find a nice, relatively open spot on her desk to place the "sacred" (in Jimmy's mind) documents so as to not create a clutter, Olsen paused. The papers were all over the place, not to mention some visibly worn as if they'd been carelessly skimmed through and tossed aside; definitely not Lois' usual style. Had the extra hours thrown her off that much? Jimmy made no intention to criticize Lois, especially given how much of a hurry she was probably in for her break, he'd just learned over the months that she was a bit of a racehorse with her work in spite of her veteran status, and a few extra hours was never a visible hassle before. Making a quiet grunting exclamation to express 'well, that's weird!', he turned back to leave... "Hello, James Olsen" the gravelly, inhuman voice stated, just as the employee's eyes had met the armchair Lois kept to the right corner of her office nearest to the door, or rather, whom comfortably sat in it.
The return to reality was short lived, if not outright catapulted away to the stratosphere and beyond. Lounging eerily casually upon the chair nearly too small for his, gigantic, nearly 9 foot build was a monster that Jimmy had learned was not only maybe the biggest threat to Superman, but over the years the entire world itself, if not more. Words logically failed him, despite willing himself to utter the name, his entire body tenser that it had ever been, without question. Had he not been thoroughly educated about human anatomy over the eons, Darkseid might've thought the young Earthling's eyes were going to leap out of his head. A continuous shivering had exploded across Olsen's lanky body, with stifled breathing to match. His dilated eyes locked onto the ethereal, dimly glowing red crevices that just barely resembled eyes across the craggy, ashen visage; a slow burning that felt too otherworldly to even resemble the Man of Steel's. Every nerve in his body demanded he try to leave, or at least make a commotion to alert everyone else of the horror that had fallen upon them.
And yet, in spite of only witnessing it from a distance in a single instance, Jimmy was aware of some kind of beam the conqueror could fire without effort, and seemingly without following the laws of physics given how immediate its trajectory was. He had every desire to not be a coward, but the fear he felt, the confusion, the understanding that his hypothetical power in whatever this situation was ought to be a negative percentage left his mind reeling. What even was bravery, in these circumstances? What could he do? What made him he think even had a decision to make? And like that, he collapsed, the motion causing the numerous papers to fly about as if to taunt the young man. The observing god remained un-phased, almost expectant at these results. No matter; it wasn't the boy he'd hoped to encounter at this particular office.
Creation is such a fragile thing. Existence allows itself choice, variety, chaos. It is but an experiment, began by The Source as some form of archaic joke to those outside of its multiverse's parameters. Many a proverbial rebound of its structure have occurred throughout time, a cataclysmic event brought on through distortions of the fabric of reality, via unhindered escape of forces of the cosmos, via misplaced, terribly unbalanced distribution of the make-up from one universe to another, via the foolish manipulations of those ignorant of the powers they played with, unprepared for the consequences, as always. The lords of creation, the overseers of existence itself too often interfered, pretending to revitalize an inherently failing structure. Therein lies the greater issue; denial. A delusional demand for what is considered the only proper attempts at order, at civility.
What sin was this then? To end the charade? To accept a single universe, nay, the entire multiverse for what it truly was? 'Nature' was as good a word as any to describe the truth, the relatively unseen, unspoken but nonetheless inevitable rule of it all: even the most intelligent and powerful among us are eventually corrupted by the nature of the universes, ever persisting, despite attempts by all to stop it; caressing, kissing the boots of and paying tribute to a shattered relic of morality, using mere frail, broken hands to flail within the depths of the endless, crushing ocean, proclaiming a naive promise of emptying the seas of their water with no end in sight.
It had been made clear millenia ago, yet so few saw it; so few were willing to see it. Even those among his New God kin rarely accepted, if not downright fought against the tide. They were Gods, in a greater sense than mere physical might, in cosmic awareness, in capabilities to bend dimensions to their whim, even in acting as a 'pantheon' of forever waging worlds. They were concepts of reality itself, representations with no deceit of only title, but personifications of fundamental, existential forces constantly at war within the evolving experiment of life, at times given physical form to further their efforts, their own ideals. A dictatorship held the bitter taste of truth within the mouths, within the souls of the naive. He made no attempts at cloaking his intentions, at masquerading as though the mortifying fact of anarchy through naturally unconstrained diversity wasn't what kept a god ever awake, ever compelled...
Across numerous locations throughout the planet Earth, seeds had been planted in secret, alongside that of the purely material destruction being wrought throughout the populated, landmark cities like that of Metropolis. Two of the most essential, most important agents of the Dark God were transported with contrasting, yet intertwining missions of conquest--of the soul. Glorious Godfrey, fork-tongued and trusted member of Darkseid's Elite was given the task of unleashing to the fullest his always vigilant, engrossing rhetoric against the 'super heroes' in his news interviews and radio shows, who saw themselves above the law of fellow Earthlings, who acted more often than not with justification only by might. His own sister, Amazing Grace, set forth with the equally devastating, manipulative task of assembling a hopelessly ill-prepared force against these invaders, against the Anti-Life and much more so the unheard of legion consisting of godly beings even the Earth hadn't witnessed in such formation.
The fundamentalist members of the world's religions were sought after like precious gold, the key to beginning revolutions. Terrorist organizations defined by persecution, the poorly veiled unhinged minds of the average inattentive citizens within any nation, easily broken given crude pushes of their fears, their gullibility. And steadily the prejudiced found a new, seemingly divine voice to all of their worst nightmares, and were to be given redemption through the act of fighting the good fight against the outsiders that opposed them. Armageddon was foretold within vast examples of scripture, and at long last the day of reckoning was upon all. The fervor of speeches, of well rehearsed references to psalms was breathtaking to the growing numbers of followers. So often the message relied upon the hypothetical, the prideful, the certainty that only one form of ideology, of religion, of race, of gender must rightfully hold power to better the world.
Via the open view from a tower of Armaghetto resting beside one of countless statues erected in commemoration of his rule, Darkseid observed his own masterwork of tyranny, of servitude, of order. Hands clasped comfortably behind his back, the sight of the fire pit before him illuminated the maze-like expanse of Lowly dystopia, corpses strewn throughout un-patterned areas of the cities, their work completed and their purpose met. The hordes of broken Lowlies cowered, shrouded in the sparse shadows, few adorned in the most lenient definitions of clothing, their opportunity for suitable livelihood in any sense impossible, and now no longer wanted. This beauty of simplicity was indeed the ultimate goal, but foolish plans of achieving this on Earth-0 had long been abandoned, if not re-worked through the reluctant but beneficial process of allegiances forged in common goals. One participant of the alliance spoke to Darkseid directly, a particular part of his endeavors successfully completed, and the time arrived. Sensing a desired intensity from an old negligence, the massive figure turned away, his patience worn thin.
Insanity reigned now through what remained of the major cities of the world, even among many of the scavenging survivors within the withered city of Metropolis. Though factions were originally formulated by both persuasive New God parties, the end goal of course was the ensuing mayhem broadened by the hectic hunting of the Parademons, and the physical annihilation the world was facing now that the group's arrival had begun, not to mention the potential and predictable conflicts caused by other unwanted visitors throughout the turmoil. Boom Tubes birthing onslaughts of Parademons were finally closed, the portion of organic warfare resources of Apokolips whittled enough on this mission. Instead, Boom Tubes of a generally smaller width appeared through the more remote Mother Box activation of Amazing Grace and Glorious Godfrey, their voices now lost within the hate fueled masses, as intended. Earthly weapons of war crowded the streets of Metropolis and most major cities of the world, unleashing a different species of damnation.
An enormous boot-clad foot stepped down through the last stairway of the tower--a young, wounded girl protecting her infant brother in her arms is gunned down by a zealous, blood stained group within a nook of the remains of Metropolis. The parallel leg slowly rested unto the stone step--a vaguely religious homeless shelter within the many slums of Gotham is mercilessly bombed, any straggling survivors quickly beheaded with rusted blades or raped. The dreaded final, all-encompassing step down, before transporting himself and emerging onto the ashen soil of a brave new world, and an aged, legless man weakly nibbles at the arm of his late burnt love, tired, scared, hurting, cold, hungry, broken.
What quick work was needed to bring this world physically, mentally, and emotionally into the grave. To show the ugliness of humanity to match, to rival, to outweigh the less impassioned assaults against steel and glass, and all foundations of the planet. Dozens of meta-human resistors were known of, including a persistent businessman. Few others of a godly degree and unknown affiliation were detected, their unexpected involvement perplexing but not altogether worrying by any means. It was the doors of Heaven and Hell, the foundations of The Source itself and its closest, most empowered protectors that were to be given a metaphysical 'knock' by this proposed New Order, Earth-0 serving as little more than an important, multiverse-intrinsic toy to be dismantled in the largest of scopes, for display as a signal. No known higher dimension housed these lords of reality itself, thus a woeful display to act as a battle cry for rule of existence was deemed necessary.
It was no coincidence that the crumbled earth the gargantuan instigator nonchalantly stood upon was the same on which the Kal-El who'd lost dear Ms. Lane stood, though Darkseid's acknowledgment of such an event was nonexistent, inherent in the measure to which he did not care. A towering God quietly studied the mere man before him. The havoc that had now been enacted for days was briefly ignored, and hellish red eyes glared from a craggy visage solely at Superman and his rage. "... I feared boredom in the process of my descent, Kryptonian, but you are as always a source of entertainment, however fleeting. I have awaited your true arrival, and at long last the collective reinforcement brigade." In spite of circumstances, the tone across the gravely speech was simple, familiar, even casual. Both knew, of course, what was to come given what had already transpired and crescendo-ed. Muscular arms unfolded, his sickening mind now fully attentive. "Shall we... ?" Milliseconds, before inhuman momentum had the stone-like head crash against Kal-El's own, against his being, against his soul--against what Darkseid hated he represented by existing--with the force to level a skyscraper.
"My father, my king, my God, ... I only question the--" Silence, utter silence, save for the distinct, faint crackling of ethereal energy emanating from granite slits. An aspect of entropy, a force countering that of The Source itself in its power, as opposing to it as life once was to death. That time had passed upon Earth, seemingly as ancient and archaic as the concept of hope. The Kryptonian, known as his adopted home-world's savior, known as a symbol of righteousness and hope, had buried the mere idea of prosperity with him, lost to oblivion as his own atoms and essence had become. What stood in God's way, what relinquished his slaying of the idols considered Kal-El's companions? Just as worthy of praise and admiration, humanity pleaded.
The decaying of Earthly society was as easy a task as any the Dread-Lord had accomplished throughout eons. The ever prevalent seed of doubt, of fear, was all which truly needed to be nurtured. His suspicions of remnants of the Anti-Life Equation existing in the subconscious of the inhabitants was all Darkseid needed to choreograph a dismantling of the planet's soul, striking within emotions long before physical might became necessary to employ. Reverend Glorious G. Godfrey was as essential a tool for this machination as his equally persuasive sibling, the aptly named "Amazing Grace". The slow, steady burn of the metaphorical furnace that was unleashed on Earth helped to ensure its fall, come the Dark God's own arrival.
Godfrey's outcry against meta-humans, claimed superheroes, caught traction immediately, stoking the worries already infesting the minds of every world leader and especially that of ordinary citizens in an age of cynicism. Exploiting their nigh-obsession with religious fervor, with standing behind so-called enlightening truths to the universe and their all-important place in it; it was almost dull to the propagandist. The certainty of being right was all important, and to hell with any who believed otherwise to openly state their decrepit morality. Grace, for her part, beautifully manipulated those who still doubted the righteousness of Godfrey's words, becoming as synonymous with hope and truth to the minds of humanity as Superman himself once was, even following his demise.
It was only Grace's own "death"--via teleporting Omega Beams--which truly shattered the psyche of Earth. Whatever feelings of allegiance that had begun to be formed from humanity towards the Justice League were long since extinguished, and those who weren't caught in the now regime-like servitude towards Godfrey's sermons numbered too few to matter. His blatant acceptance of Darkseid as the God of scriptures who'd been foretold to bring about apocalypse did not sway his believers even slightly. It was He who'd grant them immortality and transport their souls to an incomprehensibly wondrous resting place. The ever increasing wait for such continued to be denied with delusion and accusatory excuses. "He's simply yet to smite all of the sinners! Eternal fortune awaits us yet! The final road, the OMEGA road to The Source shall be traveled!"
Kara Zor-El's conversion was the final piece of the puzzle, preying upon her mind a perfect representation of the long but futile struggle against Darkseid's inevitability. Panic, rampant among civilization, was not withheld from the factions of the League. A disorderly strike-force against the invaders left itself already vulnerable. Boom Tube transport to the Watchtower thanks to Supergirl allowed the fiendish Dr. Bedlam and Desaad to hack into Victor Stone's database, and by extension that of the entire League's mainframe. Defenses were dropped, psychologies toyed with and broken, heroes and heroines crushed beneath the God of Apokolips' boot. The burning wasteland once recalled as Earth took hold of its sickly survivors, and choked.
Countries became prizes for that of General Steppenwolf and the horrible creature Mantis, resources became scarcer than the worst of post-apocalypse theories had predicted, life for man consisted of servitude and slavery, and disturbing use as concubines by Darkseid and his underlings for most women. Children became indoctrinated immediately, fed false histories of existence only beginning alongside that of all of humanity's keeper, Father Darkseid. "Children of 'Seid" became the most loyal and insane, perfect gospel screaming shields against whatever rebel forces still limped on. Transportation of Earth became a parody, meshed with that of Apokoliptian anti-gravitational technology for use by the armies, and whatever distorted scrap heaps remained left for everyone else.
Darkseid, presently, surveyed from his tower, a garishly Gothic remodeled Daily Planet. His arms kept crossed behind his back in a gesture of nobility and unbreakable confidence against whomever desired to tempt death, his smoldering eyes locked onto the widened oculars of his first born, Kalibak, following a swift turn to face him in the midst of a complaint. Mention of their relations merely furthered his annoyance. "Captain Zor-El will remain within our ranks indefinitely, Kalibak. Whatever presumptions you have of seeing her future rebellion are insignificant towards my Will. Should such a time come, I will attend to it swiftly. This discussion is ended." The large, emotionless gray head turned away, and the conversation ceased.
Kalibak's massive form nonetheless stayed totally upright, no outward sign of disapproval, especially a sigh. His inner disgust at father choosing to continue to employ the Kryptonian female infuriated him deeply, truly turned his stomach. What good was she now, besides as a breeding unit? He'd learned weeks ago to not speak ill of the girl when father unhinged his enormous jaw via a small slap, but luckily, surveying his blood-children's minds was apparently beneath Darkseid's interest. Unintentionally stomping away due to his great weight, he paused when hearing the Dark God step towards him.
Death? Was patience worn irreparably thin? The maned face grimaced, bracing pointlessly for the worst. "Fetch the Batman, for me, Kalibak. Desaad tires of torturing young Batson, and I tire of learning of his incursions via Kanto's delayed tracking. You will not return without him, alive." Continuing on his way out, a question hang in the air, of whether Darkseid spoke of being banished without the breathing mortal, or instead, if his own corpse would be all that is brought back to this tower should he fail. Reluctantly, the prince wisely assumed both.
"As ever, Lucifer remained enigmatic, yet subtly, smugly precise in his words. Even so, like his past discussions with existential manifestations of unthinkable power--ranging from Dream to The Spectre, and many hierarchies in-between--Darkseid felt a strange... contentedness. A comfort in the blatant, overwhelming unspoken yet all too obvious challenge against a being who viewed his own capabilities as merely an insect, if that. It remained a certainty, even taking into account his ethereal, non-physical form as the platonic idea of evil, of tyranny. He'd succeeded once, long ago, in nearly dismantling many universes in his own dying fall through reality's frequencies, as perhaps a petty, perhaps an utterly stubborn statement against existence: I'm taking you with me.
He'd been considered a fundamental being across the Multiverse by The Source itself at a time, resurfacing his organic avatar against the so-called embodiment of its own wrath. And yet, it seemed the more distorted existence itself became, the more such a factor lessened in importance. Nevertheless, so long as evil, the shadow of prosperity and freedom embedded in decay and slavery, existed, it appeared to some degree that so too would Darkseid, in one form or another.
... Or did it? Throughout millenia, Uxas was no slouch in studying reality around him, questioning the laws of creation, and most prominently which could be bent or even broken if approached specifically. In spite of his best efforts, as well as his greatest desires, he felt truly certain of only one thing deep within his soul. Existence, in all of its varied forms and machinations, at its core, was never stagnant. Indeed, it was this chaos that so enraged and fueled him. The hierarchy, in many ways, could falter at any moment, laying waste to any unfortunate enough, including he.
He was familiar with the truths Morningstar stated, to a maddening degree of unease. He was selfish, he was cruel, he was paranoid, he was merciless, he was "evil", to a synonymous degree. Like that of the Devourer he'd had a chance encounter with eons ago, he was true to his nature, his purpose, unflinchingly. He made no arguments against the blueprint of what he consisted of, as laid out by the First Fallen Angel himself. The underlying fact that Lucifer no doubt knew just as well was that he simply did not care. The obsession was too great, it defined him. A disturbingly curious grin carried with it the same awe as his final statement. The way forward was... clear? Was his role in this production to be altered, or stricken altogether?
"Always the esoteric lecturer, Morningstar. I recall on some occasion being told that there may be a form in which I can aid--or perhaps, to be truthfully blunt, amuse you? Please, make your intentions clear at your own leisure, 'Devil'. What lies ahead?"
"Freedom", the angel claimed. A chance at a new life, a new purpose of existence rather? Even in times of genuine surprise, the New God was not one to be visibly taken-aback, ever prepared with a reflective statement, a dry retort, or at the very least a seemingly impassive glance, his quite literally smoldering eyes sufficient enough to expound upon the static, ominous rock he portrayed given his visage. His was the shore of the multiverse, cracked yet unwavering, splintered yet stable, that the hazardous, unpredictable waves of existence crashed against, mocking him, ebbing away at his soul--assuming had been left for the majority of his being.
He found himself wholly and utterly dumbfounded. Barely a handful of moments throughout his eon spanning life could be counted. The moment he found his first and ultimately only love in Suli, the day he learned they would soon have a child, the eternity in which he became aware Suli's own death had been via his own wicked mother's meddling, his decison to murder Drax for his naive optimism before claiming both the Omega Force and the throne of Apokolips for himself. The seraph had prattled on beforehand of the death of God, nevermind the irony of such an entity being unaware of such inevitability. Only now did Darkseid acknowledge those words.
He was a creature of instinct, though that motive could just as easily have been fateful as circumstantial. He was evil, in its truest sense. Lucifer, Dream, The Spectre, they oversaw the pillars of the multiverse itself, or at the very least manipulated them. The New Gods, however, the role Uxas had taken was something else, something conceptual, fundamental not as grander facilitators, but true personifications of absolutes all life co-exists with. War befit the role Orion held for the eternal struggle he foretold, both internally, among his own pantheon, and conflict throughout existence in all of its forms.
Darkseid was just an unspeakable name Uxas had chosen from New Godian scripture, for the being he now represented was merely the idea of "Evil" manifested, pulling against each vibrational frequency, yet too vast to fully enter any singular universe, lest it collapse from the weight of such imbalance. The atrocities of Adolf Hitler and any dictator who so emphatically came as a pure example of evil, the apathy and indifference of those who willingly chose to strive for nothing in relation as the crushing power of hopelessness that only served to embolden atrocities, the cruelty of a single act of malice in murder, or attacks of an emotional nature.
These acts and motives expressed themselves in all variety across all planets, all universes. It all came to a head in the form of "Evil", of Darkseid and his influence bleeding into the planes. Evil was Darkseid. Tyranny existed as evil in its most absolute, for the hold, the strangle of freedom and by existension righteousness that remained immovable was the most horrifying of all. In short, whether he Uxas remained as he was or not, he fulfilled a fundamental role, both in ruling the damned Apokolips and beyond. He'd expressed on more than one occasion an understanding and acceptance of the fact that on some level, the path he treaded was beyond him in reach.
Defiance? Against the preordained? By a tyrant? The irony was nearly too much to bear. So much so, that the Dark God released a lofty cackling. His enormous frame shook ever slightly, almost as though the volume and impossibly low pitch reverberated like an earthquake, a steady explosion from his core. It was no show of amusement for the sake of intimidation, no stroking of the ego. He knew with whom he spoke; narcissism all but flew out the window. No, he simply couldn't contain the absurdity of it all. Could The Source itself blame him? Unlikely.
"What would you have me do, playful Lucifer? Abandon my pursuits? Relinquish my role? I speak without egoism among you, as always, yet we both know a gradual imbalance will be birthed from this endeavor." His arms crossed, out of habit, mind still racing, confusion at the forefront of what Morningstar supposedly spoke of. He stepped to the side plainly, facing away. "I have been removed before, and the divine energies have spread to infect mortals and meta-humans alike in an attempt to fill the void. I had expected you prepared my execution, even before your retort. The same factors, more or less, still stand. My planet, my dimension requires a ruler, a representative. What are you truly suggesting?"
What sad things these mongrels are. Of course, scattering around like scared rodents, like feeble colonies of bugs. They're scrambling in fear, ready to be squashed. Even with my good sight, I can only make out the simplest of figures leaving the building, running away on their old scraps. The black wave of smoke wont help to hide the mortal, his armor is too bold to make seeing him a problem. Huff, glaring, ignoring the smile clever Kanto has, standing behind. Father is angry, and Kanto feels this is funny? He should feel lucky that his guess is right, or Kalibak would make being clubbed to death a hundred times worse than the pain Father would give.
This ship is too small. No. Too much cargo, too many slaves. Parademons crammed in, because Kanto insists. Kanto is foolish. Today, Kalibak claims the carcass of what angers father, what makes him hate his son. Parademons will only get in the way, slowing him down. They will move, or be moved. Or die. Batman will die, and Kalibak will finally live with Father's love. Desaad was silent during contacting Kanto. Why? Does he think Father will be disappointed? I'll kill him next, because Father will be happy to let me, he'll reward me with that too. Love and being made his new adviser will follow this human's death.
"How positively quaint this particular situation is! Such buffoonery, even for one of the only survivors of the obliterated heroic brigade! This 'ingenious' mortal as Bedlam calls him from time to time is stupid enough to face us alone, no doubt completely presuming we've come thoroughly prepared to bring him down, and the damned building if necessary, for good measure, and for Lord Darkseid!" Kanto rambles on like usual with his weird, human accent, because he thinks he's allowed to. The ill slaves he's brought are nodding, too dead to understand, but agreeing with hearing Father's name. They're stumbling, chains clinking, excited and scared, staring at the Parademons. Kanto always likes to see the weak slaves react, so he speaks of Father again and again. Nothing gives me a worse pain in my head. "Then, of course, as Lord Darkseid knows, there's also the fun of his lady fr--" "YOU WILL BE QUIET NOW, KANTO THE ASSASSIN, OR I WILL STOP YOUR NOISE COMPLETELY!" I roar, raising my club to his face.
A slave dies, smacking against the wall like a toy, breaking just as easily. Her blood and guts rain down on the others, pulled away towards the wall as she moved. They are also badly hurt now, but it doesn't matter. One of them screams with joy and surprise, "ANTI-LIFE JUSTIFIES MY DEATH!", and the others stomp and shout too, "DIE FOR DARKSEEEIIID!". The first one slams its head against the wall with all it has, and I cannot tell what its gender is it is so feeble. Blood erupts from its nose, but then the Parademons do as Kanto told them and restrain the slaves, even as another tries to bite at the first, to help give them the meaning they're waiting for. "Always so serious, 'prince' Kalibak!" he taunts, even as I growl behind my tusks. "The Batman is mine to kill, Assassin. Do not interfere, lest you taste my wrath" I mutter.
Finally, it is time. The monitors I'm facing all center on Batman, studying him in every way, his heart especially. Good. It will be a relic soon. Kanto opens the door while I move to the side, and I jump down. The concrete crumbles a little, but not enough to worry about. I take in the sight of this gnat, for the first time in many months, since the attack. He is scarred still from those battles, yet he stands like a statue, like the ones made of Father, and greets me. "You remember me, human? How sweet. I might have forgotten you without your pointy cowl." The ship lands behind us, as I hear the chains of the slaves and sounds of the soldiers, stepping out onto the dying ground.
Kanto is probably still inside, watching closely... smiling. My eyes will not leave this worm, no matter what. "Mighty Darkseid is tired of you, human!" I bellow, slowly lifting my spiked club until I see it beside me. I hold it tightly like a hand reaching out from oblivion, seeing, hearing Father's ultimatum once more. "AS AM I!" Power explodes all across me; I am swift like Kanto, focused on my prize like Steppenwolf, strong as Kalibak the Cruel will always be! I charge, roaring now with rage to silence all who mock me! Nearing the small human, I leap, my hefty foot ready to mean his chest. I know this one acts faster than expected, but I will meet his barrages! Crashing down, I swing my mighty club like a bat towards his head, wanting to make this bat stop breathing.
Chaos had it's uses, like any other behavior. Utilized appropriately, it would provide unique opportunities to manipulate situations, to initiate a particular sequence of events in small doses, or without restraint provide the perfect means to effectively disable the internal workings of a team, an organization, or entire civilizations; all the better to successfully conquer planets, and thus, in time, galaxies. And yet, in no uncertain terms, some remaining degree of control was demanded, at an eventual point. At it's most dangerous, heightened levels, the chaos of imbalance within the universe begat death on an incalculable, endless scale. Of course, losses were unpreventable within a quest bent on warring to acquire dominance, alongside disposing of pesky insurgents considered too dangerous to be simply enslaved, or, often, made an example of for such a reason; martyred . In rare cases, naturally, the core of Apokolips itself needed to be fed, leading to sacrifices of worlds for the betterment of Darkseid's birth-planet, and center of control in relation to the overarching empire.
But, amid such suffering, such death, the consideration of pulling the entirety of existence into the depths of oblivion was nonsensical, provided the Dark God's death did not become foreseeably inevitable. Ruling over reality in order to reshape it blatantly required it's survival. At this time, circumstances did not call for that desperate action, but the stakes being gambled amounted to the same outcome for all of existence; albeit, by another's hand. Thanos, known unanimously by the moniker of "Mad Titan", had located yet another means to, in time, bring about the death of all. How, exactly? Darkseid could only theorize the most likely methods, but observations of a laser directed at a nearby star, alongside knowledge of a stolen Lantern Battery, indicated attacking the Emotional Spectrum energy sources in order to unbalance the universal forces they embodied, eventually extinguishing them.
Observation of both certain individuals and locations, via external technological means as well as an intense, psionic cosmic sense able to observe beyond galaxies, beyond even dimensions, were of utmost importance to the Lord of Apokolips, and Thanos was not only no exception, but of particular interest. Truthfully, Darkseid had been watching Thanos for hundreds of years in scattered intervals through one means or another, yet a personal confrontation had never occurred, despite moments of inconsequential encounters between the Titan's forces and off-shoots of Apokoliptian owned beings. Death had been etched into the fates of countless planets by the Titan's own hand, steadily removing celestial bodies, one after another, to what end? Supposedly gaining the attention, favor, even love of the entity of "Death".
Utterly childish.
Through his actions, everything Darkseid sought to control was under fire, obliterated without a care besides hopes of impressing a woman, a state of being--or lack of. Thanos of Titan, intelligent and mighty as he is, had tread carelessly in hopes of a delusional love interest; one that Darkseid imagined would more than likely never truly grant him what he desired. He'd stepped upon the goals of the Dreadlord, metaphorically spat in his face, diminishing what was to be obtained, alongside an unknown amount of crucial information regarding the details of the Anti-Life Equation itself, no doubt. This newest escapade, as had been decided, would be the breaking point of a god's patience.
With a thunderous boom, an aptly named Boom Tube manifested miles away from the Black Order base. 3 fully armed Apokoliptian war ships emerged from the portal, accompanied by the uncompromising Lord for which the pilots and various other soldiers fought. Direct action on Darkseid's part was exceedingly rare regardless of the nature of an assault, but the severity of the situation, he felt, called for his personal involvement. Desaad, Steppenwolf, Kalibak, etc. were nowhere to be seen, as had been demanded. Despite the firepower available, an understanding existed that the initial priority would be the recovery of the Indigo Battery.
This lead to only two of the three warships approaching the moon, one emitting a powerful beam of destructive energy while smaller attack ships poured out of the opening hatch in droves, engaging in combat with the base's own defenses. The other, traveling dangerously fast into the orb's atmosphere, carried a few dozen infantrymen and a handful of Pacifier androids--massive, blood red robots equipped with a specialized gun for one of their two arms able to unleash atomic flames reminiscent of the firepits of Apokolips itself, famed to scald even the hide of Kryptonians. For the infantry, standard energy rifles and gravity accentuating laser guns, in essence tripling the weight of any given individuals caught in their path, effectively immobilizing even the superhumanly strong, and possibly crushing to death those of weaker constitution.
As the fight seemingly began, the commander of the attacking faction appeared beside John Stewart, not bothering to look in his direction as he focused on his mission. A certain irony existed, Darkseid knew, in allying himself with not just the Green Lantern Corps (and any others who'd be arriving), but Stewart in particular, regarding the aftermath of an odyssey he and Highfather had sent the Corpsman and other members of the Justice League of cosmic proportion. Brief as this allegiance was bound to be, Uxas gave no impressions of allowing past grievances to interfere in their task--especially something like the GLC being slaughtered by two thirds in it's early incarnation for daring to attempt a usurpation of his planet, or anything related.
"I will trust that your message was received by all relevant parties willing to participate, Lantern Stewart" the gravely voice uttered. "With any luck, their arrival shall come sooner rather than later, given the importance of the problem we face" he added after a pause, with some level of mockery. "There is a need to determine the strategy towards our fundamental goal of retrieving the Lantern Battery, and relocating it to it's proper place. I propose, specifically, addressing Thanos ourselves--perhaps with the primary task left in your capable hands."
Screaming, crying, shouting, coughing, roaring, straining, dying. Whispering of prayers for deliverance and forgiveness. These were the only organic sounds across the majority of the hellscape of Apokolips. Work was the only constant, by all accounts the only form of existence; work, in the name of their Lord and Master, their God. What few Lowlies left outside of the mines and factories, the equally horrid torture chambers and science installations, dwelled in the dirty and dismal ruins, left to decay due to their already pathetic health. They lived as small, feeble, huddled masses amid the ever crumbling debris. These slum areas or "sectors" appeared as the most abysmal areas of the planet, where the sick and old collapsed on a near constant basis, a clearly bleak lack of resources not speaking well towards their ultimate fates in the hands of their desperate, broken compatriots.
Was their fate worse than those taken to work--very literally--to death? These horrific circumstances were difficult to argue, much less comprehend. Among the only light-sources on the blackened, toxic planet were the gigantic, roaring fire-pits scattered throughout. Each provided power to the world conquering machine that was the endlessly expanding Apokoloptian army, as well as the ever present source of the withering of the planet's core itself. Poisonous fumes continuously added to the deadly atmosphere, the furnaces fed with remnants of destroyed machinery and their share of logically suicidal workers. Beneath the fire-pits, chaotic clangs from the hammering of work echo throughout the interconnected mining caverns, nearly as overwhelming as the raging shouts of the guards commanding it. Crowded factories nearby, above ground, release a steady, monotonous hum of belt motors, interrupted only by the harrowing wailing of workers lashed with barbed whips and jabbed with scathing electric prods.
Such cries of pain resided most heavily, however, within the halls of torture installations; specifically those within Armagetto, the planet's capitol. Heavily guarded by machine and monster alike, the enormous buildings hid well the most hellish of rooms in nearly a dozen or so floors beneath ground. Each gradually smaller area was more agonizing, more focused on learning the most distressing conditions for multitudes of different species of life via varying complex and crude sciences, the stenches alone near cause to black out without proper uniforms applied to the scientists. Scars, infections, pools of blood and other fluids, unraveled contents of beings only just able to be considered still among the living. These centers of the greatest abhorrences in existence fittingly enough were seemingly observed by the eyes of the Dark God himself, in the form of a central tower designed in his likeness. The Tower of Rage loomed, in all of its glory, with the aptly named orphanage of The Happiness Home adjacent to it, the most brutal of training facilities.
One installation in particular was being used to its fullest capacity, belonging to the well respected and feared scientist, the notorious Dr. Bedlam. Within the second to lowest level, one of numerous millions of experiments was being enacted by him personally, despite other figures within the room facilitating it. As was the case in many of these rooms, regardless of who among Darkseid's Elite they belonged to, an operating chair was at its center, surrounded by all manner of the most advanced, yet often crude technology known throughout the multiverse itself. The machinations utilized primarily the original designs of Apokoliptian make, but during many of the most severe of tests, newfound weaponry was exploited, dismantled, studied, rearranged for new purposes and new, lethally enhanced degrees.
A terribly pale, feeble Hunger Dog lay heavily confined, appearing nearly stick-like in appearance, especially in comparison to the hulking metals that held and monitored him. How many prior experiments the individual had endured only the monster Bedlam himself knew, for the limits of a humanoid's survival varied from species to species, and often proved surprisingly resistant, given time to recover. Considering the upcoming situation, the doctor didn't expect the test subject to remain useful, thus they would be given merciful escape. Moving methodically, yet casually, an air of experience was present among all of the individual operators. Vocal communication of what actions to initiate seemed entirely unnecessary, processes typed in, dials turned, buttons pressed, without even a single nod between the 5 to give confirmation. The machine strapped to the subject's head came to life with a loud hum, slowly heightening in pitch as dials were turned further.
Physical writing of the results on paper was totally unnecessary, so many different monitors displaying heart rate, body heat, and a dozen or more aspects with beyond Earthly science precision. The room so many floors below ground was naturally chilling, but, of course, these factors were taken into account. At least 2 to 4 cameras were also present, recording the subject's face and body from different distances, but ideal viewing angles; each capable, of course, of altering their positioning throughout the experiments. The overall lighting was presently almost obnoxiously bright, including that of the screens. This, of course, had been a recent change to the room in preparation for this test, overtly intentional. The humming of the machine so tightly connected to the victim steadily became drowned out, by no less than the blaring noise pressed against their ears, the speakers resembling headphones, but of monstrously larger build, and designed to focus the sound as heavily on the subject's own ears as possible.
Silence, except for an incoherent, apparently droning noise. A continuously looped recording, made during one of the most recent war cries of Apokoliptian forces whilst overtaking a planet; once called Rukvol, if he remembered correctly. Roars and yells had abounded, following the earth-shaking "boom" made by the opening of Boom Tubes to announce the end of that world's freedom. Its existence as screams made by individuals became more apparent as the volume increased, at first minute by minute, then second by second, despite it consisting of the roar of thousands. At 130 decibels, the pain threshold had been crossed, its intensity resembling that of an Earthly jet engine from a distance of 30m. Heart-rate skyrocketed, sweat breaking out across the narrow body as it struggled uselessly, the restraints far too durable to be broken. One of the standing figures in the room walked towards a wall, and lowered the switch, beginning the test in full.
Total darkness, a blackness better fitting the depth within the planet that the room sat in. The recording machinery kept functioning, but without emitting any form of light. It was then that the grunting and whimpering became screams, child-like in their arching pitch, their dragging beyond the capacity capable from a single breath. Chronic Nyctophobia, a fear of the dark that, as had been theorized, would result in such intense fear, such intense adrenaline output in this particular being's body that it would die after a prolonged period. It had been found nearby a fire-pit alone, openly in view of it, which had been the first suggestion of it not solely seeking the pit for its warmth. It was only now that the full extent of this fear would be put to the final test, in combination with overly intense noise, contrasting with the previous study which had relied on silence. What the Lowly didn't know, of course, was that the entire upper level of the installation had been renovated, emptied in order to place two gigantic, horn-like machines that took up nearly the entire 20x10 feet provided by the room, and were directly connected to the device upon his head.
Thousands of gallons of water could be heard from a short distance, rushing and roaring about on either side of the two giant acoustic structures within their own, thickly built tubes, used to absorb the actual intensity of the sound. At 165 dB, the subject's screaming was at full force, permanent ear damage having been enacted 15 decibels ago. Whirring of the cameras re-positioning, pressing forward. He writhed, shaking about uselessly in the dark, his continuous sweat now draining through a series of holes in the floor directly below the chair. A heart attack had begun, multiple muscles within it now overused, one having torn itself apart. Over the course of around fifteen minutes, the experiment was considered completed, the desired data collected. Now... now came the removal of the subject, and extra data for the sake of it. The main dial was turned, volume increased ever further to 180 dB, rupturing the ear-drums instantly, blood escaping from what little space the speakers left, dripping down across his neck and body, but mostly flooding within. His existence would continue for minutes, at best, if conditions were kept as is.
The rushing water was expelled from the above room, no longer acting as a barrier. 210 dB, reminiscent of an Earthly Space Shuttle launch from a distance of 300m. The room itself shook, the headphones visibly began to wither, but the scientists stayed still, docile. Organs then burst from the vibrational pressure as the intensity rose to 220 dB, lungs collapsing, kidneys rupturing, the stomach tearing open, the heart becoming a mess of gallons of blood and tissue, drowning the insides; electrical activity of the damaged brain had ceased utterly seconds before. Instantly, the machine was shut off, the lights returned. The testing was over, and now the mess of the body would be disposed of with ruthless efficiency. The Animates, in their identical features, moved robotically, displaying just how often this disposal process had been performed. But, this task would have to wait, for Bedlam's full attention was now upon the arrival of individuals in the lowest level, which he himself stood in, alongside his ever patient Master.
Like dolls, the Animates within the above room clattered to the floor, now as lifeless as any mannequin. The energies of consciousness returned to the more distinctive android body of Dr. Bedlam below, before being released again into two Animates that had been lying in wait beside one of the largest machines the doctor had ever built. It was the two Animates who took Barry Allen's unconscious body from Eobard Thawne seconds after he'd entered, while the inhuman, robotic voice of Dr. Bedlam greeted he and his comrades with a bow. "I welcome all three of you to Apokolips, gentlemen. It is an honor and privilege to meet such masters of the Speed Force at long last..." he crowed, while the androids he controlled brought The Flash to arching, encircling devices arranged as if to hold a large, absent sphere. Resisting the urge--as instructed by Lord Darkseid--to explain the technology he'd created to act as the perfect holding cell of Mr. Allen, Bedlam merely let the androids do their work.
Once the device was rendered operational, one of the two faceless Animates stepped in front of the mechanism, before its limbs, torso, and even head suddenly appeared to open, revealing a hollow doll. Barry's body was placed awkwardly inside, the shell slightly larger than his frame, but more than able to suffice. Then, as the consciousness left, a now entrapped, armored Barry fell with a thud. Its durability was not to be doubted however, especially for the purpose it would be serving. Dropping the incredibly rigidly armored body into the apparatus, the remaining Animate returned to the control panel, activating it. The familiar BOOM! of New God Boom Tube technology repeated numerous times, 6 portals appearing around the area Barry lay, including one below him. Manipulating the frequency, and reversing the polarity, Barry rose, before being halted by the localized dimensional pressure output from the portal's above, beside, behind, and in front of him.
Having experimented with Boom Tube technology, Dr. Bedlam and Darkseid's personal advisor and master torturer, Desaad, had created the perfect trap. The outward pressure applied was enough to crush even a superhumanly enhanced human body with ease, given the horrible injury it could apply to most New Gods. There was no question to it--without the Animate protecting him, Barry Allen's body would be crushed to death. What's more, the Animate was special, in having been created with monitoring connections to the cell itself. With Barry's tries at escape a certain eventuality, the vibrational energy released would be absorbed, the pressure converted to the power supply of the portals themselves, increasing the potential damage to be done to his body. Examining and recording the nature of the Speed Force energy had been the initial purpose of this excursion to begin with, beyond what Thawne himself had explained to Darkseid. As 3 more Animates from the corners of the room came to life to watch over the cell, Bedlam made his leave through a personal Boom Tube portal, entirely confident that escape by Barry's own hand was made impossible, at risk of certain death.
The behemoth of a God treaded forward, arms crossed behind his back as they often were, one hand clasped by the other. His stony features revealed little emotion, though the burning, soul-crushing eyes did little to indicate nicety. Thawne appeared bloodied, despite his cheery demeanor, his own costume that which Darkseid was familiar with; far less puzzling than the uniform he'd been wearing upon their first chance meeting in Metropolis involving a diseased Superman. The other two speedsters, August Heart and Hunter Zolomon, were individuals Darkseid had of course researched long before this alliance, and though they hadn't met, he admitted great deals of respect for each of them, especially in volunteering for aiding research. "Greetings, Hunter Zolomon, Eobard Thawne, August Heart... be assured that dear Barry Allen shall stay in confinement, and constantly watched." A portal appeared behind the four of them, under the divine tyrant's own power, that lead to perhaps the most lavish room upon the planet, a section of Darkseid's Tower of Rage where he and his Elite ate and conversed. "Shall we take our leave from this place? Perhaps you wish to enjoy the finest pleasantries found across the multiverse? Food, drink? Discussion amongst the four of us to create a more perfect union?" the gravelly voice asked, as a rocky, gloved hand gestured towards the room.
The chair struggles, much to my detriment. Pocket dimensions, universes which invert the common laws of physics to unthinkable degrees, metaphysical realms ruled over by immemorial entities beyond description; they are lost to me now. I race through the myriad streams of consciousness made available to me within the simplistic 5th plane of reality, as time as I know it, unnaturally, bends behind me, collapsing. Only what waits in the near future is hazily clear, and it is not good. Through the machinations of an imperceptible force, the Mobius Chair's capabilities are dulled, making attempts to reverse the specific order of events—leading to what may be the inevitable end of sentience as the multiverse perceives it—impossible. What lies ahead for the planet called Earth is thus far restrained, yet all possibility of my preventing it has been methodically prepared for.
Element-X, the power source of my inter-dimensional vehicle, emanates now from an edge of the Source Wall made too erratic, too unstable for venture to be safe, lest I be trapped within it's walls myself, and the chair unprotected. Perhaps I could have avoided this, foreseen the purpose behind Dr. Bedlam's experiments with the frequencies possible through Boom Tube technology, but the conception of Darkseid's seeming demise held to my mind like a sign of hope, as though such naivety were appropriate for a New God of my experience. As if to symbolize the inexorable, the glow of my godly energy is appearing to fade the more I travel. Desaad, ever the skilled imitator, made use of the opportunity, consistently convincing even the most loyal of followers that the visage he held was indeed the Dark Lord's. Those who might've held doubts were on missions away from Apokolips, specifically the brutish Kalibak and eager Steppenwolf. I, for my part, maintained the charade, conversing with “Darkseid” as I'd always had, despite Desaad fully knowing I knew better.
Should I have expected that in his death, his eternal soul still lingered, empowered by the souls of fallen pantheons he had slayed eons before? Even I hadn't been aware of the scope of divinity Uxas had slaughtered, absorbed into himself, and making quick work of any signs of the victim's existence, the scripture unwritten, the memories extracted, the followers extinguished. Trapped within the Source Wall, escape seemed impossible, for even the mighty Yuga Khan, father of Darkseid, remained immersed in it's hold. Blood, as I've first experienced it, is starting to seep from the orifices of my face, signaling my time is short. A fragment had cracked, but the immensity of the Dark God's soul thankfully prevents it's emergence upon the multiverse—or so I'd thought. Grail, youngest of Darkseid's offspring and only daughter, acts within the shadows, her dear father revealing some way to inhibit my sight...
Manifesting as though within a dream, a pained screech of energy announces me, and I am face-to-face with the young mortal by the name of Richard Grayson, disciple of Batman. Time ceases around us, his two-wheeled vehicle halted as if it were a toy. My chair that I cling to struggles ever more, it's power clearly all but spent. The life force dissipates, unfeeling towards the amount of effort made to reach this human. A sickening joke, he might think, to see what had been a New God present himself and collapse, unintelligible in his last moments. Through sheer, terrified will, I attempt to make sense of words and thought, fighting against the Black Racer's oncoming arrival. As I speak, time has already begun to continue, though slowly, the equivalent of death rattles emanating from the Mobius Chair as sporadic sparks of energy. I take in his bewilderment, and wish I could offer understanding. What should be concise statements are scattered with nuance or cut short as my brain falters. “Mortal, you are... will become...” my gasping, bloodied throat made useless as I die, words caught in gurgling coughs. “God is... a frame...” are not ideal parting words, yet my time is ceased.
I arrive via Boom Tube, the first instance of which I have ever been lucky enough to experience. It is on this day that I am truly blessed, truly brought into the all encompassing majesty of the Lord. I am piloting a more recently developed weapon of our righteous war called Mekkanoids, gigantic treading robotics armed to the teeth with all form of energized weaponry, razored saws, and riddled with piercing spikes. I am unable to observe my own moment of triumph, yet my eyes well up in mere thoughts of how powerful a tool for the Lord I must now be.
Silently noting the arrival of the Mekkanoid distraction with faint interest, the New God's posture loosened ever so slightly, before the notoriously deadly blaring Omega Beams were hastily emitted from Darkseid's eyes, racing around and past his own head, across multiple corridors and even through to an entirely different, albeit enormous room in a matter of microseconds. There, it easily evaded the Parademons and fellow War Hound troops, and passed through the single closing Boom Tube...
It had been made clear millenia ago, yet so few saw it; so few were willing to see it. Even those among his New God kin rarely accepted, if not downright fought against the tide. They were Gods, in a greater sense than mere physical might, in cosmic awareness, in capabilities to bend dimensions to their whim, even in acting as a 'pantheon' of forever waging worlds. They were concepts of reality itself, representations with no deceit of only title, but personifications of fundamental, existential forces constantly at war within the evolving experiment of life, at times given physical form to further their efforts, their own ideals. A dictatorship held the bitter taste of truth within the mouths, within the souls of the naive. He made no attempts at cloaking his intentions, at masquerading as though the mortifying fact of anarchy through naturally unconstrained diversity wasn't what kept a god ever awake, ever compelled...
Via the open view from a tower of Armaghetto resting beside one of countless statues erected in commemoration of his rule, Darkseid observed his own masterwork of tyranny, of servitude, of order. Hands clasped comfortably behind his back, the sight of the fire pit before him illuminated the maze-like expanse of Lowly dystopia, corpses strewn throughout un-patterned areas of the cities, their work completed and their purpose met. The hordes of broken Lowlies cowered, shrouded in the sparse shadows, few adorned in the most lenient definitions of clothing, their opportunity for suitable livelihood in any sense impossible, and now no longer wanted. This beauty of simplicity was indeed the ultimate goal, but foolish plans of achieving this on Earth-0 had long been abandoned, if not re-worked through the reluctant but beneficial process of allegiances forged in common goals. One participant of the alliance spoke to Darkseid directly, a particular part of his endeavors successfully completed, and the time arrived. Sensing a desired intensity from an old negligence, the massive figure turned away, his patience worn thin.
It was no coincidence that the crumbled earth the gargantuan instigator nonchalantly stood upon was the same on which the Kal-El who'd lost dear Ms. Lane stood, though Darkseid's acknowledgment of such an event was nonexistent, inherent in the measure to which he did not care. A towering God quietly studied the mere man before him. The havoc that had now been enacted for days was briefly ignored, and hellish red eyes glared from a craggy visage solely at Superman and his rage. "... I feared boredom in the process of my descent, Kryptonian, but you are as always a source of entertainment, however fleeting. I have awaited your true arrival, and at long last the collective reinforcement brigade." In spite of circumstances, the tone across the gravely speech was simple, familiar, even casual. Both knew, of course, what was to come given what had already transpired and crescendo-ed. Muscular arms unfolded, his sickening mind now fully attentive. "Shall we... ?" Milliseconds, before inhuman momentum had the stone-like head crash against Kal-El's own, against his being, against his soul--against what Darkseid hated he represented by existing--with the force to level a skyscraper.
I race through the myriad streams of consciousness made available to me within the simplistic 5th plane of reality, as time as I know it, unnaturally, bends behind me, collapsing. Only what waits in the near future is hazily clear, and it is not good. Through the machinations of an imperceptible force, the Mobius Chair's capabilities are dulled, making attempts to reverse the specific order of events—leading to what may be the inevitable end of sentience as the multiverse perceives it—impossible. What lies ahead for the planet called Earth is thus far restrained, yet all possibility of my preventing it has been methodically prepared for.
As I speak, time has already begun to continue, though slowly, the equivalent of death rattles emanating from the Mobius Chair as sporadic sparks of energy. I take in his bewilderment, and wish I could offer understanding. What should be concise statements are scattered with nuance or cut short as my brain falters. “Mortal, you are... will become...” my gasping, bloodied throat made useless as I die, words caught in gurgling coughs. “God is... a frame...” are not ideal parting words, yet my time is ceased.