Erick felt the world slowly crumbling into fragments, as if time had decided to prolong his suffering only to savor the end. The armor, once an invincible fortress of E10 alloy, was now a prison of twisted, smoking metal, its crumpled plates creaking like broken bones with each shallow breath. His body—already destroyed by endless minutes of fighting—was a map of pain: ribs reduced to shards that pierced his lungs, internal organs crushed like ripe fruit, blood oozing from cracks in his shattered visor, mingling with the sweat and soot that covered his swollen face. His right eye was almost closed by the swelling, his nose throbbing with a constant stream of viscous red, deep cuts on his neck pulsing like exposed veins. The Venom A, duplicated and injected to the limit, still forced his muscles to contract, but the rebound came like a silent avalanche — each cell screaming in agony, the fire elemental reduced to a dying ember in his chest.
Life flashed before his eyes. Not once, but twice.
The first: from her original childhood. Then, the reincarnation—the cold cradle in Gotham, memories of a past life flooding in like flashes of light, the terror of a universe where gods walked and monsters devoured worlds. Training in the dark basement, inventions born of desperation, Artemis smiling under the moonlight, Starfire trembling in her arms, the family sheltered in Hargrove Manor. Every victory, every defeat, every stolen kiss, every oath of absolute power. Everything unfolded in slow motion, a tapestry of pain and hope that now unraveled.
He looked at Lobo's boot descending onto his head. The colossal heel, studded with alien spikes, blocked the snowy Gotham sky like a black moon about to eclipse his existence. The Czarnian grinned up above, sharp teeth gleaming, red eyes gleaming with the wicked glee of one savoring the final moment. Erick felt the air freeze in his lungs. The only thing he could think, clear and crystalline as a bell tolling for the last time, was: I'm going to die.
There was no more time. No more tricks. No more armor, no Venom, no elemental fire that could save him. He closed his good eye—the left one—accepting death like an old friend who had finally come to collect his debt. His body relaxed within the wreckage of the armor, muscles surrendering, mind emptying into a strange, empty peace. He expected pain. He expected the end.
But nothing happened.
No impact. No skull crushing. No final cracking of bones and metal. Just silence. A silence so absolute it felt like a scream.
Erick opened his eyes, confused, the world spinning in a blur of vibrant red. Intense, deep red, like the heart of a dying star. The red of a cloak billowing in the wind, of eyes burning with solar power, of hope arriving too late. He tried to understand, but dizziness came like a tidal wave. Everything spun: the destroyed block, the ruined buildings, the evaporated snow, Lobo's face distorted into a gray blur. Darkness swallowed him in a soft, relentless embrace, and the world went dark.
POV Superman
Clark Kent flew faster than the wind, faster than sound, faster than anything Earth's gravity could contain. The air ripped open around him in a cone of blue plasma, the red cloak crackling like a living whip behind him. He didn't need X-ray vision to sense the urgency—the panic of the young heroes reached him like desperate radio waves, a silent scream that crossed the Atlantic and echoed in his Kryptonian mind. The League was busy: a devastating earthquake in South Korea had sucked in Superman, Flash, Aquaman, and half the core members. The worst possible time. Always the worst possible time.
He sped up, fists clenched, jaw locked. Below, the ocean passed like a dark blue blur, then the American coast, then the lights of Gotham—a city that never slept, but now seemed awake in a nightmare. With his telescopic vision, he located the epicenter: an entire city block reduced to ruins, smoking craters, buildings crumbling like houses of cards, melted snow in rivers of black mud. And at the center, chaos.
He saw Lobo first—the immense, naked, and bloodied Czarnian, foot raised to smash someone's head into the ground. And that someone... was Erick. The young vigilante, the boy who had become an essential part of the youth team, was there, destroyed. Superman activated his X-ray vision, and the horror hit him like a punch to the chest.
Erick's body was a wreck. Ribs shattered into fragments that pierced collapsed lungs, internal organs crushed and bleeding, vertebrae cracked, veins torn open spilling blood that Venom A tried in vain to staunch. It was unimaginable that he was still alive—or that he had lasted so long.
Superman didn't hesitate. He descended like a comet, fist clenched, and struck Lobo's torso with a punch that echoed like divine thunder. The impact was cataclysmic—the Czarnian was hurled miles away, his body flying like a cannonball, crashing through evacuated buildings in a trail of controlled destruction. The displaced air created a shockwave that caused remaining windows to shatter.
Superman landed in the center of the crater, knees bent, his red cape settling around him like a flag of hope. He turned to Erick, his heart heavy. The boy was completely knocked out, unconscious, his body limp within the wreckage of the armor. With his X-ray vision, Clark saw every fracture, every hemorrhage, every millimeter of damage that defied logic. It was a miracle he had survived this far.
She knelt down, her careful hands reaching out to touch him — with the gentleness of someone who knows that one wrong touch could make everything worse.
But a voice emerged from the shadows, low and hoarse, like the whisper of a predator that never sleeps.
"Superman. Leave it to me. Take care of the other one."
From the darkness of the rubble, Batman emerged. His black cape billowed like the wings of a living bat, the white eyes of his mask gleaming cold and determined. He knelt beside Erick with the surgical precision of someone who had seen too much death. Gloved hands touched the boy's neck, checking his pulse, while the utility belt already released stabilizing injectors.
Superman opened his mouth to speak — to ask about the boy's condition, about the young people, about what the hell had happened there — but Batman cut him off before he could even utter a word.
"I know." The voice was pure ice. "Get that madman out of my city."
Clark nodded, needing no further words. The mutual respect between them was ancient, forged in thousands of battles. He stood, his blue eyes hardening into solar steel, and rode toward the horizon where Lobo had been thrown—a distant grey blur, already rising from the rubble.
As he flew, the Man of Steel felt the weight of the night. Gotham burned behind him, but Erick was in safe hands. Now, it was time to end the hunter.
POV Batman
Batman couldn't blame himself looking at the young man's mangled body. He hadn't expected that, while he was battling Killer Croc in Crime Alley, Gotham would descend into this kind of cosmic chaos. The emergency signal—that encrypted code used only in extremely critical situations—had struck him like a bolt of lightning in the middle of the night, cutting through the darkness of his tactical thoughts. He understood the gravity of the situation the instant Robin's distorted voice pierced the communicator: Lobo. The intergalactic hunter. The sadist who laughed at Kryptonians and left planets in ruins. Batman sped the Batmobile through the dark streets, tires screeching on the snow-covered asphalt, his heart—that muscle he swore he'd shielded years ago—tightened with worry he wouldn't admit aloud. When he reached the epicenter of the chaos, where he expected to find Lobo already in the midst of carnage, a small weight lifted from his chest when he saw Superman already there. The red cape waved like a flag of hope amidst the chaos of crumbling buildings and smoking craters.
He saw Superman approach the boy to take him to safety, but he knew the Man of Steel had to stop Lobo. The priorities were clear. Batman approached from the shadows, his black cape merging with the darkness as if it were part of it, his steps silent despite the weight of his utility belt. Just as Superman was about to touch Erick's body, Batman emerged, his deep, controlled voice cutting through the icy air: "Superman. Leave it to me. Take care of the other one..."
In Superman's orange eyes—those eyes that carried the weight of two worlds—Clark perhaps didn't even know that a mixture of relief and urgency shone within them. Superman opened his mouth to say something, perhaps a question about the boy's condition, about what the hell had happened there, but Batman already knew what he was going to say. "I know." The voice was pure ice, sharp as a blade. "Get this madman out of my city."
Superman nodded, needing no further words. He vanished as if teleported, but Batman knew the truth: he had moved at a speed no human could keep up with, a blue and red blur cutting across the sky toward the horizon where Lobo had been thrown. Now only silence remained, broken only by the wind and the crackling of distant fires.
Batman knelt beside Erick. The young man's body was a ruin that defied logic. Using the advanced sensors in the left lens of his mask—Wayne technology integrated with real-time biometric analysis—he saw everything with cruel clarity. Vertebrae completely destroyed, bone fragments piercing the spinal cord at critical points. One lung submerged in blood, collapsed like a punctured balloon, the other struggling for air in shallow breaths that barely moved his chest. Limbs broken in multiple places—left femur in three places, radius and ulna of the right arm pulverized, ribs transformed into shards that tore through internal organs. Blood leaked profusely from cracks in the destroyed armor, the Venom A still forcing the body to remain together like a cruel mask. Batman was surprised—it wasn't surprise, it was pure astonishment—that this young man was still alive. Any other human would have died ten times over. But there was Erick, breathing, stubborn, with a strength that went beyond the flesh.
He quickly pulled a broad-spectrum painkiller injector from his utility belt—a custom formula he himself had developed for metahumans in shock. He applied it to Erick's exposed neck, the needle penetrating with surgical precision. Erick's body trembled slightly, but the visible pain in his muscles eased somewhat. Batman also noticed something strange: the young man's body was swollen, expanded. The boy, who should have been at most 1.68 meters tall, now seemed to have grown 20 centimeters. Hypertrophied muscles, veins bulging like cables, bones elongated by some chemical compound still circulating in his blood. That was a question for another time.
Batman carefully adjusted the young man's body—gloved hands positioning broken vertebrae to prevent further spinal cord damage, supporting his neck to stabilize his spine. As he did this, he sent a mental command to the Batmobile: "Come. Exact location. Medical mode activated." The vehicle responded with a silent signal, already approaching through the evacuated streets.
At that moment, Batman heard something thud with the ground—a heavy, metallic, yet strangely soft thud. He rose in a fluid motion, already drawing explosive batarangs from his belt, blades twirling between his fingers, ready for combat. But what emerged from the shadows was not an immediate threat. It was a fat robot, coated in a black layer that made it even more bulky, its red LED eyes blinking in a friendly mode. The chubby form contrasted with the reinforced armor underneath—a design that Batman immediately recognized as Erick's work.
The robot spoke in a calm, gentle synthetic voice: "Greetings. My name is Baymax. I was created by Master Erick for protection and medical care."
Batman wondered silently. He had no prior knowledge that Erick had created this robot. Two options came to mind: either the boy had actually built the robot, or it was a trap orchestrated by some assassin—after all, there was an intergalactic mercenary involved. He looked at Baymax, his voice low and controlled: "How can I prove that you were really created by Erick?"
At that moment, Baymax extended his palm. A blue hologram projected, showing a complete scan of Erick's body—exposed fractures in red, a collapsed lung in dark blue, broken vertebrae in yellow. Batman recognized the patterns: it was a precise medical hologram, with markings of authorship that only Erick would use. He lowered his batarangs, but remained on guard.
"Contact Miss Artemis," said Baymax. "She can corroborate my story."
Batman activated the communicator. First he called Robin. "Dick, over here. I need Artemis on the line." A few seconds passed before Artemis's voice—on the encrypted channel—came through, breathless and full of emotion.
"Batman, this is Artemis. How is Erick?"
Batman replied with controlled coldness, "He's not okay. He's extremely injured."
On the other end, he heard Artemis's stifled sobs, as if she were holding back tears with all her might. "I'll take him to the hospital," Batman said, but Baymax gently interrupted:
"Sir, I would like to request that he be taken to Hargrove Manor."
Batman frowned. "And why?"
"We have the necessary facilities there to heal his body. No human doctor could treat his body. He might very well go into an operating room and never come out again."
Batman heard Artemis's voice on the intercom, crying openly now, the ambient sound on. "Artemis," he said, his voice firm but with a note of understanding. "Confirm."
With a choked voice, Artemis replied, "Yes. At the Hargrove mansion, Erick has highly complex operating rooms. Please... take him there."
Batman saw the pain in her voice—it wasn't just concern, it was deep fear, the kind of fear only those who truly love feel. He was in a dilemma. A traditional hospital meant public safety, but also exposure and the limitations of human medical care. Hargrove Manor meant advanced technology, privacy, a real chance of survival. He looked at the young man lying there, his body swollen and broken, and made his decision.
At that moment, the Batmobile arrived, its headlights cutting through the darkness like the eyes of a predator. Batman looked at the young man, then at Baymax. "Baymax, help me put your master's body inside the Batmobile."
The robot approached with surprising delicacy for its size, inflatable arms extending with surgical precision. Together—Batman supporting the head and spine, Baymax supporting the torso and legs—they safely placed Erick inside the vehicle's medical compartment. The Batmobile automatically adjusted the supports, monitors switching on to stabilize vital signs.
Batman got into the driver's seat, his voice firm on the communicator: "Artemis. You and the team are heading towards Hargrove Manor. Understood?"
On the other end, Artemis's choked voice responded with an "okay" laden with relief and fear. The Batmobile sped through the night, taking Erick to the only place where he might be saved.
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