I probably looked like a madman standing there in the middle of the street, staring up at the massive billboard that loomed over the city like an accusation. The garish lights of 'The Seven' reflected off every glass surface, casting distorted reflections of capes and heroes I knew all too well. Except here, they felt... wrong, hollow.

The Vought logo glared down at me like an all-seeing eye, and a bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Well done, Kent. You've just earned yourself the title of my second-favorite mentor." Not that the competition was all that fierce.

After the biotech-controlled Justice League incident, I needed a break. The constant grind, the betrayal by the woman I thought I loved, Pamela, with her fixation on someone who wouldn't give her the time of day, it had all taken its toll. My demonic side had started to slip the leash, and I came dangerously close to taking out Red Hood and Nightwing just for getting in my way. A break wasn't just needed; it was mandatory.

So, I turned to Kent, hoping he could help me find my mother, Mazikeen of the Lilim. Instead, the senile old bastard opened a portal that dumped me here, in a world where heroes were more concerned with brand deals than saving lives.

I'll kick him into a Lazarus Pit when I get back. But first, I have to survive long enough to make it back.


Dealing with the Triad was honestly a cakewalk.

The supes they sent my way? Laughable.

Back home, even Gotham's non-suped criminals had a certain grim tenacity. These idiots? Just cocky shitheads who thought I was a weak human. Hell, even the worst fighter in the Bat-family could've handled the bastards I've fought here. Sorry, Steph.

These guys were shifty, low-tier supes supplying the Triad with Compound V. It's funny what they'll spill when you're holding them by the ankle over the edge of a rooftop, their fear doing most of the talking.

When I walked into the Noodle Palace, the Triad members were quick to jump me, but after going toe-to-toe with Wonder Woman, this was just another Tuesday. Taking these guys down wasn't even worth mentioning, easy, but time-consuming. Three weeks. Three weeks of dismantling criminal operations, beating the shit out of cocky supes, and collecting evidence of Vought's shady dealings.

This isn't my home, and I sure as hell don't plan on staying here. Yet the moment my boots hit the ground, I was knee-deep in crime-fighting. What started as a means to an end, getting cash, food, a place to stay, quickly became an endless grind. I was scouring for a magical way back, but after one disappointing trip to a so-called magic shop that turned out to be a parlor trick sideshow, my life here became pretty much this.

In the basement of a rundown hideout, I sighed as I looked at the woman in the makeshift prison. She twitched as my unfamiliar voice cut through the silence in Japanese. "They're afraid of you," I said, cocking my head toward the gagged and bound goons. Their eyes were wide with terror, not of me, but of her.

"I'm going to let you out," I continued, taking a step toward the cell. The men thrashed in their bindings, desperate to warn me, but I ignored them. "I swear, if you attack, I'll knock you out."

Her form remained still, but I wasn't fooled. I've seen Batman himself try to hide surprise from me when Damian and I played ninja. She tensed, and the second I opened the door, she pounced like a wildcat.

I leaned back lazily, letting her cat-like strikes miss by inches. Each swipe was followed by a step forward, pressing into my space, trying to throw me off balance. Her fighting style was an unrelenting barrage, meant to overwhelm.

"Stop it," I commanded, ducking and weaving around her blows. But she ignored me, taking advantage of my evasive moves to make a break for the exit.

Big mistake.

One of my newer demonic abilities, a shadowy claw that could work like a grapple, manifested as an extension of my hand and shot forward, yanking her back with a force that would've snapped a normal human's spine.

"I'm not here to fight, but I'm not going to let you go on a rampage either," I warned. Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say, because she was back on her feet in seconds, eyes burning with fury. "If you don't knock this off, I'll put you over my knee."

She paused for a split second, thrown by my tone, then lunged again.

I'd had enough. When she charged this time, I met her halfway with a low kick to the knee, stopping her dead in her tracks. The crack of bones was unmistakable, but I didn't flinch. From what I remembered, she had an impressive healing factor, one that let her shrug off injuries that would cripple anyone else.

With a fluid motion, I grabbed her by the neck and hoisted her up, slamming my elbow into her chin. Even with her accelerated healing, knocking someone like her out was no easy task. Her narrowed eyes met mine, and to my surprise, a smirk curved her lips.

"Oh fuck, you like a good fight," she sneered, the smirk deepening as she slammed our foreheads together.

Kimiko was a vicious scrapper, a dogfighter who thrived on chaos. But I was made of sterner stuff, with an arsenal of fighting styles that kept me one step ahead of her bullish strikes.

Eventually, like the sun setting type of eventually, I managed to wear her down. She was fast, relentless, but I had the stamina of a demon and the training of the world's greatest fighters. When I finally deprived her of oxygen, my legs wrapped tightly around her head, her struggles slowed, then ceased.

I sighed, catching my breath as I scooped her up. Carrying her limp form, I made my way back to my temporary base of operations. This wasn't the end of our fight, not by a long shot. But for now, she was done.

And so was I. For today.


She crept closer, believing I hadn't noticed she was awake and armed with a makeshift weapon, ready to crack my skull. "Sit down and eat your breakfast," I said without turning around.

Kimiko, ever the silent one, didn't even gasp in surprise. Instead, she rushed me, her iron rod poised to strike.

I sighed, letting my demonic half surface just enough. In a fluid motion, I whirled around and slammed my foot into her knee, making her buckle before grabbing her by the neck. I hoisted her up effortlessly, letting her get a good look at my shadowy demonic form. I wasn't a morning person, especially when someone interrupted my meal.

"Knock it off, Kimiko," I growled, watching her flinch slightly at the sound of her name. "I've had a long night, no, scratch that, a long three weeks. Fighting you again would be a serious pain in the ass." I dropped her to the ground, relaxing a bit when she didn't immediately start swinging. "Don't get it twisted, though. I could take you down without breaking a sweat."

This world was one of science, but I was a half-demon and the protege of the Sorcerer Supreme, Kent Nelson. Here, magic was the ultimate trump card, and I had more than enough to go around.

To her credit, Kimiko didn't back down easily. The people in this universe might be unhinged, but they had nothing on the maniacs back in the DC-verse.

I turned back to the makeshift breakfast bar and set the plates in front of the stools I'd scavenged. "Sit down and eat," I repeated, returning to my meal while my mind sifted through the intel I'd gathered on the Shining Light group, the bastards behind the supe terrorists.

I flicked the tablet over to her, letting her see the dirt I'd compiled. I'd been robbing these wankers blind in some places, and dropping their nastiest secrets to the Feds when it got too grim, even by my standards. Human trafficking was a special kind of vile, but I hadn't yet hit the jackpot: Compound V.

She looked over the grim dossier, her expression hardening. When she crushed the tablet in barely restrained fury, I just sighed and handed her another one. In this era of waste, people tossed out broken tech like candy. Software issues were easy to fix; getting reliable Wi-Fi, on the other hand, was a nightmare. But thanks to Babs' lessons and a series of pings across the country, I avoided getting tracked like a rookie.

"I don't kill, Kimiko," I said, keeping the tablet just out of her reach. She glared at me, but it was more like a child being scolded than a superhuman thirsty for blood. "These scumbags will spend the rest of their lives rotting behind bars."

Bruce was my hero. Is my hero. In both lives. But just because I admire him doesn't mean I agree with him on everything. Men like the Joker don't deserve another chance, let alone dozens. Human traffickers are in the same category. You don't get to ruin someone's life, selling them into a living hell, and expect me to care about your well-being.

Concepts like justice and law might be arbitrary, but human decency isn't.

Kimiko took a moment to process my words, then a vicious smirk crept across her face. She cracked her knuckles, clearly pleased with my perspective. "Yeah, yeah, you're a scary badass," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "Now sit down and eat. Afterwards, we'll get you some clothes that don't look like they've been through hell."

It took all my willpower to keep my eyes on hers.

Getting her out of those filthy rags was necessary, no matter how strong your healing factor is, infectious grime was no joke. Dressing her while she was unconscious felt a bit too weird, so I draped a blanket over her and left clean clothes nearby. Sue me, I hadn't expected to need female clothes.

She shrugged nonchalantly and took a seat at the bar, eating her food with a ghost of a smirk still on her lips as I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead.

Fresh off a heartbreak, I really shouldn't be so quick to notice, but even still… boobs. Last night was clinical, really, just a task that needed doing. This morning, though, was becoming more of a flaunt type of situation.

I let out a long breath and mentally chastised myself. "Focus, Ammon," I muttered under my breath. "You're here for answers, not distractions." She smirked and popped her back, thursting her… "I wonder if I could find a way for Kent to be the Sorcerer Supreme forever?" I mused aloud, half-joking, half-serious. Dealing with this universe's version of 'heroes' and villains was already exhausting, and I wasn't even close to finding a way home, and I really shouldn't be looking for anything close to relationship.

But then again, causal, no focus idiot.

Kimiko shot me a curious glance but said nothing, her eyes flicking over the tablet's contents. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she absorbed the grim reality of what the Shining Light Liberation Army was doing. Her expression hardened as she processed the details, human trafficking, forced experimentation, children being turned into ticking time bombs with subpar Compound V. The kind of horror that turned your stomach, even if you were half-demon.

"Yeah, I know," I said, my voice softer now. "It's bad."

She didn't respond verbally, just cracked her knuckles again, the sound sharp and decisive. It was clear that she was ready to tear apart anyone involved in these operations, limb from limb. And honestly, I didn't blame her.

"I don't kill, Kimiko," I repeated, though the words felt heavier this time. "But I'm not going to save their lives either."

She tilted her head, a silent question in her eyes.

"Some lines can't be uncrossed," I explained, my tone resigned but firm. "But that doesn't mean I'll let them off easy. These scumbags will spend the rest of their lives rotting behind bars, paying for what they've done. But say if someone who was hurt by them, the type of hurt that caused scars on their soul, then I wouldn't be akin to stop them."

Kimiko seemed to understand, even if she didn't entirely agree. The ghost of a smirk returned to her lips, as if acknowledging the compromise between our philosophies. She continued eating, her movements steady and deliberate, while I kept my gaze firmly on the intel.

After breakfast, we'd gear up, head out, and do what needed to be done. But for now, there was a brief, fragile peace. The calm before the storm.


POV Shift

Stan Edgar sat in his office, eyes scanning the files laid out before him. For once in his long career managing this cesspool, he found himself at a loss.

Speedsters with shredded leg muscles, beaten bloody before they even hit the ground.

Pyromancers scorched by their own flames, then left bloodied.

Tanks, who could withstand a direct hit from an eighteen-wheeler at a hundred miles per hour, crumpled and beaten bloody.

Someone, or something, was dismantling supes like they were nothing more than empty wine bottles in Queen Maeve's drunken grip.

Thankfully, these particular supes were past their prime, dime-a-dozen has-beens. Their absence from the spotlight was more a blessing than a problem, making it easier for Vought to keep the situation out of the media. The last thing Edgar needed was a frenzy over a mysterious figure capable of taking down supes. That kind of attention could destabilize everything.

What little he'd gleaned from the scattered reports suggested there was a leak of Compound V. This vigilante, this enigma, was tearing through the Shining Light Liberation Army and their allied supes. But it wasn't out of any political motive or misguided sense of justice. No, these idiots were nothing more than junkies hooked on what Edgar assumed was a subpar knockoff of V, using it like a narcotic.

Stan leaned back in his chair, the creak of the leather the only sound in the room as he considered his options. He briefly toyed with the idea of deploying the Seven to handle the situation. It would be an easy solution, but why bother? If this vigilante wanted to dismantle the Shining Light group, he was inclined to let them do the dirty work. It saved him the trouble, and the potential fallout could be managed.

But he wasn't about to let this situation play out without oversight. He wasn't a fool. The vigilante, whoever they were, seemed to have a moral code, taking down criminals with surgical precision, and notably, with zero collateral deaths. That level of control was rare and potentially useful.

He pulled up footage from a recent bank robbery gone wrong. The attackers moved quickly, incapacitating civilians with ruthless efficiency. This wasn't a PR stunt by some Godolkin University graduate. It was a genuine robbery by hardened criminals. And yet, they were taken down without the assailant, the vigilante even being properly captured on camera, just a grainy, indistinct blur on the CCTV footage.

Perhaps this vigilante could be brought under his thumb. They were clearly a do-gooder, albeit a dangerous one. If he could harness that power, they might be useful. But if they proved to be just another unpredictable wildcard like every other so-called superhero, well… when they outlived their usefulness, Edgar had no qualms about sending Stillwell's lapdog to deal with them.

A rare, unrefined snort escaped him at the thought. The idea of someone beating Homelander bloody, as these lesser supes had been, was undeniably amusing. Homelander was a headache, an overpowered, egotistical nightmare. The mere possibility of him being taken down a peg was almost worth the risk.

But that was a thought for another day. For now, he'd watch, wait, and plan. Because in this game, the one with the most information always had the upper hand.


A/N - Published - 2024/08/26

Yo, bit of a story beat that refused to escape me after I watched a what-if vid, of Batman in his prime ending up in the Boys universe, though this will be a dimension-hopping romp, (That's if I actually continue it.) with Ammon Lilim, (my OC from The Kind Freak), trying to find his way back to his 'home' universe, but he can't just ignore those in need.

Takes place after chapter 18, in his point of view.

The Boys, Marvel, Injustice, etc.