Chapter 7: Origins - Part 7
Part 1
Apokolips burned.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. The entire world was on fire, and had been for as long as recorded memory stretched back—a planet-sized forge where suffering was the fuel and tyranny was the product, hammered into shape on anvils of despair.
The sky was a roiling nightmare of crimson and black, massive clouds of ash and superheated gas churning in perpetual storm patterns that never broke, never rained, never offered relief. Lightning crackled between the clouds in jagged forks of sickly green and sulfurous yellow, illuminating the landscape below in brief, hellish flashes that revealed more horror than any sane mind wanted to process.
The ground itself seemed alive with malice: cracked obsidian plains that glowed dull orange from the magma flows beneath, vast industrial complexes that stretched to the horizon—factories and foundries belching black smoke, their chimneys like the fingers of skeletal hands clawing at the sky. Rivers of molten metal carved channels through the landscape, their surfaces bubbling and hissing, the air above them shimmering with heat distortion.
And everywhere—everywhere—the parademons patrolled.
They filled the sky in swarms that blotted out what little light penetrated the perpetual smog, wings beating in discordant rhythm, claws extended, eyes glowing that toxic green that marked them as slaves to the Omega Effect. Their screeches echoed across the wasteland, a constant reminder that Apokolips was watched, that disobedience meant death, that freedom was a lie told to children before reality crushed them.
Some flew in tight formations, soldiers on patrol. Others clung to the sides of the massive industrial towers, standing sentinel like gargoyles carved from nightmare. A few fought in the distance—tearing at each other in mindless aggression, the weak culled by the strong, natural selection weaponized and made doctrine.
At the center of this world of ash and iron and suffering, rising like a monument to absolute power, stood the stronghold.
It was difficult to call it a castle—the word implied something from fairy tales, something with beauty or nobility or history worth preserving. This was none of those things.
The structure was vast, a mountain carved into brutal geometry, all sharp angles and oppressive mass, constructed from the same black stone that formed Apokolips's crust but reinforced with alloys that could withstand orbital bombardment. Towers jutted skyward like spears thrust into the belly of heaven, their tops crowned with energy projectors that crackled with barely contained power—defensive systems capable of vaporizing fleets.
The walls were smooth, featureless, broken only by narrow slits that glowed with the same sick green as the parademons' eyes—observation ports, weapon emplacements, or perhaps just decorative cruelty, windows into the abyss that stared back.
Massive gates—each one the size of a city block—stood closed, their surfaces etched with glyphs in a language older than most civilizations, words that promised dominion and despair in equal measure. Above the gates, carved into the stone itself, was the symbol that ruled this world:
Omega.
The icon was simple, elegant, perfect in its malevolence. And it belonged to him.
---
Deep within the stronghold, past corridors that echoed with distant screams and the rhythmic pounding of machinery, past chambers where scientists conducted experiments that would make gods weep, past throne rooms and war rooms and torture chambers that all served the same purpose—
—at the absolute heart of Apokolips, in a chamber so vast its ceiling disappeared into shadow—
—Darkseid sat.
The throne was carved from a single piece of obsidian, black as the void between stars, polished until it reflected nothing, absorbed everything. It rose behind him in jagged spires that mimicked the towers outside, a seat of power that had been sat upon for millennia, grooves worn smooth by the weight of a tyrant's body.
And Darkseid filled it completely.
He was massive—not merely tall, but vast, presence amplified by sheer physical enormity. Even seated, he dominated the chamber, a living monument to strength and conquest. Nine feet, perhaps more, broad-shouldered to the point of inhumanity, built like a god who'd grown tired of pretending to be anything less.
His body was granite given life: dark gray skin cracked and fissured like weathered stone, deep lines running across his torso and arms like the surface of a planet subjected to tectonic violence. The cracks glowed faintly from within, pulsing with dull orange light—magma beneath stone, fury contained but never extinguished. Each breath he took seemed to make those fissures brighten, just slightly, as if his very existence was an act of contained destruction.
His eyes were red—not the crimson of blood or the scarlet of sunset, but a deeper, more terrible red, the color of stars dying in violent supernovae. They glowed from within his skull, sourceless, unblinking, fixed forward with the weight of absolute certainty. Those eyes had watched civilizations rise and fall. Those eyes had seen heroes kneel and gods beg. Those eyes promised one truth: resistance is meaningless.
He wore armor that was as much symbol as protection: a dark blue breastplate that gleamed dully in the chamber's dim light, edged with goldenrod accents that traced geometric patterns across the chest and shoulders. The shoulder plates were broad, reinforced, emblazoned with circular designs that echoed the Omega symbol. At the center of the breastplate, a circular red gemstone pulsed faintly, synchronized with his heartbeat—or perhaps it was his heartbeat, power made manifest.
His helmet was dark blue as well, covering the crown and sides of his head, leaving his face exposed—because Darkseid wanted you to see him, wanted you to know exactly who was breaking you. Goldenrod accents traced the chin, the temples, the brow, framing features that looked carved from the same stone as his body. No hair. No softness. Just angles and mass and the undeniable reality of dominance.
Dark blue bracers covered his forearms, reinforced at the edges with black plating, and emblazoned across the back of each hand was the Omega symbol in goldenrod—a warning, a promise, a signature left on every world he'd conquered.
A black belt with goldenrod trim cinched his waist, the Omega symbol repeated there in red, glowing faintly. Dark blue faulds hung from his hips, and his legs were protected by matching kneepads connected to heavy dark blue boots that had crushed the throats of beings who'd thought themselves untouchable.
Darkseid was silent.
Perfectly, absolutely silent.
Before him, suspended in the air by technology older than written language, floated a holographic display—massive, three meters wide, rotating slowly to offer multiple angles.
It showed Galvan Prime.
The small jade sphere hung in space, rendered in perfect detail, and overlaid across its surface were real-time tactical feeds: drone swarms engaging Plumber forces, Green Lantern constructs shattering under hammer blows, the fifteen black-armored Knights cutting through defenders like a scythe through wheat.
And at the center of it all, descending toward the Central Archives, was Vilgax.
Darkseid watched.
His expression did not change. His eyes did not narrow. His breathing remained steady, slow, the rhythm of tectonic plates grinding.
But he watched.
---
The chamber's entrance groaned—a sound like the gates of hell opening—and a figure scurried in, small and hunched and radiating the particular blend of obsequiousness and cruelty that defined Apokolips's inner circle.
DeSaad.
He was thin, almost skeletal, draped in robes of deep purple and black that hung off his frame like burial shrouds. His skin was pale, sickly, stretched too tight over bones that seemed ready to tear through at any moment. His face was angular and sharp, dominated by eyes that gleamed with fevered intelligence—the eyes of someone who'd spent lifetimes perfecting the science of suffering and still hungered for more data.
He moved with a shuffling gait that belied his speed, crossing the chamber in moments, and when he reached the base of the throne's dais, he dropped to one knee, head bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the cold stone floor.
"My lord." His voice was reedy, sibilant, every syllable dripping with practiced reverence that barely concealed the ambition beneath. "Forgive the intrusion."
Darkseid did not acknowledge him. His gaze remained fixed on the hologram, on Vilgax's armored form breaching the Archives' walls.
DeSaad waited, trembling slightly—not from cold, but from the proximity to power so absolute it warped the air itself.
Finally, after a silence that stretched just long enough to remind DeSaad of his place, Darkseid spoke.
"Speak."
The word was not loud. It did not need to be. It resonated, deep and final, the sound of mountains shifting, of inevitability made audible.
DeSaad lifted his head just slightly, eyes flickering to the hologram, then back to the floor—looking directly at Darkseid was a privilege earned through decades of service and still revoked at a moment's notice.
"My lord, I... I must question the wisdom of this." He gestured weakly toward the hologram, hand trembling. "Vilgax. The Chimera Sui Generis. If he obtains the technology he seeks on Galvan Prime, if he acquires this... weapon they've been developing..."
DeSaad's voice dropped, weighted with the gravity of what he was saying. "His power will grow exponentially. He already commands a fleet that rivals our own. His conquest of Sector 2814's outer worlds proceeded with... disturbing efficiency. If we allow him to arm himself further—"
"You believe we should intervene." Darkseid's tone did not rise. Did not shift. It simply was, a statement of fact drawn from DeSaad's implication.
"I—yes, my lord. I believe we should strike now. Send the Furies. Dispatch an armada. Crush him before he becomes a threat we cannot—"
"No."
The word fell like an executioner's blade.
DeSaad froze, mouth half-open, the rest of his argument dying in his throat.
Darkseid finally turned his head—a slow, deliberate movement that brought those burning red eyes to bear on his advisor with the weight of a collapsing star.
"A direct clash with Vilgax at this juncture would deplete our forces." His voice remained level, calm, but beneath it ran currents of cold calculation that had orchestrated the fall of a thousand worlds. "His Knights—the clones he has fielded—possess strength that rivals even our elite. A protracted engagement would cost us ships, soldiers, resources we cannot spare."
He gestured toward the hologram with one massive hand, the Omega symbol on his bracer catching the light. "Our numbers have already been diminished by the war with New Genesis. Highfather's resistance has proven more... persistent than anticipated. We cannot afford a second front."
DeSaad's eyes widened, realization dawning. "Then we—we allow him to—"
"We allow him nothing." The words came edged with something darker than anger—certainty. "Vilgax operates under the illusion of independence. Let him maintain that illusion. Let him expend his resources conquering worlds we would have claimed eventually. Let him believe he is building an empire."
Darkseid leaned forward, just slightly, the obsidian throne groaning under the shift in weight. "And when he has made himself a target too large to ignore, when the universe turns its attention to *him*, when the Lanterns and the Thanagarians and the Kryptonians and all the self-righteous guardians of order mobilize to stop him..."
The ghost of a smile touched his stone-carved lips—humorless, predatory, a expression that promised suffering beyond comprehension.
"...we will step into the vacuum left behind. His conquests will become ours. His technology, ours. His empire, absorbed into the New Gods' dominion. And he will have served his purpose: weakening our enemies without costing us a single soldier."
Silence filled the chamber, broken only by the distant rumble of machinery and the faint screech of parademons beyond the walls.
DeSaad stared at the floor, processing, his brilliant, twisted mind racing through the implications.
"As always, my lord, your wisdom is... unparalleled." He bowed lower, pressing his forehead to the stone this time. "I spoke out of turn. Forgive me."
"You spoke out of ambition," Darkseid corrected, voice flat. "You see threats because you hunger to eliminate them, to prove your worth. This is useful. But do not mistake tactics for strategy."
He gestured dismissively, a flick of one gauntleted hand. "Our focus remains the original plan. The invasion of Earth. The harvesting of its population to replenish our parademon armies. The planet is ripe, its defenses scattered, its heroes distracted by petty conflicts. That is where our attention must lie."
DeSaad nodded rapidly, relief washing over him. "Of course, my lord. The preparations proceed on schedule. The Boom Tube coordinates are—"
"DeSaad."
The advisor froze mid-sentence.
Darkseid had not raised his voice. Had not moved. But his eyes—those burning, terrible eyes—fixed on DeSaad with the weight of neutron stars colliding.
"Are you questioning my decision?"
The question was quiet. Almost gentle.
And it was the most terrifying sound DeSaad had ever heard.
"I—no! No, my lord! Never!" He prostrated himself fully, arms spread, body trembling, every syllable dripping with desperation. "I live only to serve! Your will is absolute! I would never—I—please, forgive my insolence, I spoke only out of concern for—"
"Leave me."
DeSaad scrambled to his feet, bowing repeatedly as he backed toward the entrance, never turning his back on the throne—protocol drilled into him through centuries of survival.
"Yes, my lord. At once, my lord. Thank you, my lord. Glory to Darkseid. Glory to—"
The massive doors groaned open, then slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the chamber like a coffin lid closing.
Darkseid was alone.
He turned back to the hologram, watching as Vilgax's forces secured the Galvan Archives, as the last Green Lanterns fell, as the small jade world burned.
His expression did not change.
His breathing remained steady.
And in the silence of his throne room, surrounded by the symbols of his dominion, Darkseid resumed his vigil.
Watching.
Waiting.
Planning.
Because Darkseid was many things—tyrant, conqueror, god among insects.
But above all, Darkseid was patient.
And in the fullness of time, everything—everything—would kneel.
-------------
Vilgax moved forward Each step was deliberate, measured, the heavy thud of his boots against the floor a metronome counting down to inevitability. His massive frame filled the corridor between workstations and shattered terminals, black armor gleaming dully in the emergency lights, crimson circuitry pulsing in rhythm with something that might've been a heartbeat—or might've been the armor itself, alive and hungry.
His red eyes—those terrible, glowing eyes—locked onto Azmuth with the focus of a predator that had finally cornered prey after a long, exhausting hunt.
The tentacles beneath his face writhed slowly, and when he spoke, his voice resonated through the chamber with the deep, grinding authority of tectonic plates shifting beneath the world.
"Where is it, Azmuth?"
Not a question. A demand.
Azmuth backed away, small feet scuffing against debris-strewn floor, his bulbous green eyes wide but his expression carefully neutral—the face of someone trying very hard to look confused rather than terrified.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about." His voice was reedy, higher-pitched than he'd intended, but he forced himself to meet those burning eyes. "You've destroyed my laboratory. Killed my colleagues. If you're looking for something specific, perhaps you could—"
Vilgax chuckled.
The sound was low, dark, devoid of genuine amusement—the laugh of someone who'd heard every lie, every deflection, every desperate plea, and found them all equally pathetic.
"Playing the fool is not your strongest suit, First Thinker." He took another step forward, closing the distance, looming over the tiny Galvan like a mountain over an ant. "You, who engineered the Ascalon prototype. You, who cracked the genetic cipher that allowed cross-species DNA manipulation. You, who have spent the last three years in absolute secrecy, building something that made the Guardians of Oa mobilize their forces to protect."
His lipless mouth curved into something approximating a smile beneath the writhing tentacles, and it was worse than any snarl.
"Do not insult my intelligence by pretending ignorance."
Vilgax leaned down, bringing his face closer to Azmuth's, close enough that the Galvan could feel the heat radiating from those eyes, could smell the faint metallic tang of the armor's internal systems, could see his own reflection distorted in the black nanotech.
"Give me the Omnitrix."
The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
For the first time, the device had a name—spoken aloud, dragged from secrecy into reality by a voice that promised there was no escape, no negotiation, only surrender or annihilation.
Azmuth's gills fluttered rapidly, his tendrils twitching with barely suppressed fear, but he forced his voice to remain steady. "No."
The single syllable echoed in the ruined chamber, impossibly loud despite its brevity.
Vilgax's eyes flared brighter, crimson intensifying until they seemed to burn through the shadows.
"No?"
"You heard me." Azmuth straightened as much as his six-inch frame allowed, shoulders squared, jaw set with the stubborn defiance of someone who'd built a career on refusing to accept limitations. "The Omnitrix was created for peace. To foster understanding between species. To prove that power doesn't require conquest, that strength can be shared rather than hoarded."
His voice grew stronger, fed by conviction that overrode self-preservation. "I will not allow it to fall into the hands of a tyrant who would use it to subjugate the galaxy. You can destroy me. You can burn this entire planet to ash. But you will not have it."
For a heartbeat, Vilgax stared down at him, expression unreadable.
Then he surged forward.
The movement was explosive—zero to full charge in an instant, black armor blurring, one massive gauntleted hand reaching out to crush the defiant little frog who'd dared tell him no—
WHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRR.
A sound cut through the tension—high-pitched, rising in pitch and intensity, the unmistakable whine of a weapon reaching critical charge, energy building to catastrophic levels in the span of a single second.
Vilgax's head snapped sideways, instincts screaming threat—
FWOOOOOOM.
The energy beam hit him like the fist of an angry god.
Pure concentrated plasma, superheated to temperatures that made stars jealous, slammed into his chest with the force of a railgun firing at point-blank range. The impact crater in his armor glowed white-hot, nanotech struggling to compensate, to absorb, to survive, and for a fraction of a second—just a fraction—Vilgax's forward momentum **stopped**.
Then physics remembered who was in charge.
Vilgax was launched backward, boots leaving the floor, body tumbling through the air in a graceless arc that ended with him crashing through a wall. The reinforced metamaterial that had withstood the siege outside shattered like glass, chunks of blue-green plating exploding outward in a spray of deadly shrapnel. Vilgax's body carved a furrow through the rubble on the other side, skidding to a halt thirty meters away in a cloud of dust and sparks.
Silence.
Then, slowly, Azmuth turned his head.
Standing in the corridor entrance, silhouetted against the emergency lighting and wreathed in wisps of superheated vapor still rising from his weapon, was a figure in full Plumber armor.
The armor was standard-issue, black and gray composite plating reinforced at the joints and vital areas, designed to withstand everything from knife fights to orbital re-entry. The Plumber insignia, glowed green on the chest plate, proud and defiant. But this suit had modifications: reinforced pauldrons scarred with decades of use, extra utility pouches along the belt, scorch marks and dents that told stories of a hundred battles.
And the helmet.
Unlike most Plumber helmets—which left the face visible, offering only a transparent visor for environmental protection—this one was sealed. Completely. The faceplate was smooth, featureless, dark-tinted composite that reflected nothing, revealed nothing. No eyes. No mouth. Just an unbroken surface that turned the wearer into something anonymous, something other.
It was the helmet of someone who'd learned that keeping your face hidden kept you alive.
The figure shifted, adjusting his grip on the weapon resting on his shoulder—a massive energy cannon, easily four feet long, barrel still glowing cherry-red from the discharge. The design was old, military-surplus from the Plumber arsenal's early days, the kind of gun that prioritized raw stopping power over elegance. Steam vented from cooling ports along the sides with soft hisses, and the power coil running its length pulsed with residual charge.
The figure lowered the cannon with a grunt—half exertion, half annoyance—and let it drop to the floor with a heavy metallic clang that echoed through the chamber.
"Too old for this." The voice was gravelly, weathered, filtered through the helmet's vocal processors into something flat and mechanical but still undeniably human. Male. Tired. "Way, way too old for this."
Azmuth's eyes widened, recognition flooding through him despite the concealing helmet.
"Max Tennyson." The name came out half relief, half exasperation. "Where the hell have you been this whole time?"
Max—because it was unmistakably him, even hidden beneath armor and anonymity—rolled his shoulders, joints popping audibly. "I was preparing to take my grandkids on a road trip." His tone was flat, deadpan, the voice of someone stating an objective fact. "You know, normal grandpa stuff. Campfires. S'mores. Teaching them how to identify edible plants."
He gestured vaguely at the destruction around them—the shattered walls, the burning rubble, the distant sounds of battle still raging above. "Then I heard about this shit storm. Figured I should check it out."
A pause. Then, quieter, tinged with genuine weariness: "There's a reason I'm retired, you know."
From the rubble across the chamber came the sound of shifting debris—stone grinding against stone, metal scraping metal—and then a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the floor like a subwoofer turned up too loud.
Vilgax rose.
He pushed himself upright with slow, deliberate movements, black armor smoking, the chest plate scorched and cracked where the beam had struck—deep fissures spiderwebbing across the nanotech, exposing underlayers that glowed faintly purple. His helmet had partially retracted during the impact, revealing his face again: pale-green skin, writhing tentacles, and those burning red eyes now fixed on Max with an intensity that could've melted steel.
Purple blood—thick, viscous, wrong—seeped from a cut above his left eye, trickling down the side of his face and dripping onto his shoulder with soft plinks that echoed louder than they had any right to.
Recognition flickered across Vilgax's features, surprise giving way to something darker—hatred distilled to its purest form, aged like fine wine until it became poison.
"Max Tennyson." The name was a curse, spat with venom. "The bane of my existence."
He straightened fully, ignoring the damage to his armor, ignoring the blood, his massive frame radiating menace that filled the chamber like a physical presence. "How poetic. The architect of my greatest humiliation, arriving just in time to witness his final failure."
Vilgax's lipless mouth curved into a predatory smile beneath the tentacles. "Tell me, Magister—did you come here prepared for death?"
Max tilted his head slightly, the featureless helmet betraying no emotion, no fear, nothing but calm assessment.
"Quick question," he said, tone conversational, almost bored. "Are you a clone, or the real deal?"
Vilgax's smile faltered—just for a fraction of a second, barely perceptible, but there.
Azmuth, still pressed against the far wall but now watching the exchange with fascination, spoke up. "He's a clone. Obviously." His voice carried the certainty of someone stating a mathematical proof. "And a flawed one at that."
He pointed one delicate finger at Vilgax's face, at the purple blood still dripping from the cut. "True Chimera Sui Generis physiology produces crimson blood. That purple coloration indicates unstable genetic sequencing—likely third or fourth generation cloning degradation. The Knights outside are probably first-gen, which is why they're more stable. But this one?"
Azmuth's eyes narrowed, scientific curiosity overriding self-preservation. "This one was rushed. Grown too fast. The cellular replication errors are already manifesting. Give him another week and he'll start experiencing systemic failures."
Max nodded slowly, as if Azmuth had just confirmed a suspicion. "Then this should wrap up pretty fast."
Vilgax's expression twisted—rage and humiliation warring for dominance on features not designed for either. His tentacles writhed violently, purple blood spattering the ground, and a low snarl built in his throat.
"You dare—"
The black nanotech surged.
It flowed upward from his collar like living shadow, liquid metal racing across his jaw, over his mouth, covering his face in a smooth, seamless shell that erased his features entirely. Within seconds, the knight's helmet had reformed: angular, imposing, the T-shaped visor glowing crimson as the armor sealed itself completely.
The voice that emerged was deeper now, filtered through the helmet's systems, stripped of individuality and made other—a weapon speaking rather than a being.
"Flawed or not, I am still Vilgax. And you, Tennyson, are still mortal."
The armor's circuitry flared bright red, pulsing in rapid rhythm, and the air around Vilgax began to shimmer with heat distortion.
Max didn't move. Didn't reach for a weapon. Didn't shift into a defensive stance.
He just stood there, featureless helmet reflecting the crimson glow, and waited.
Because Max Tennyson had fought beings like this before.
And he was still here.