Death Korps of Justice Chapter 48: Siege of Los Angeles pt VI, a Warhammer + Young Justice Crossover fanfic

Guess who's back?

Chapter 48: Siege of Los Angeles pt. VI

Los Angeles

Shot after shot went into the heretic abomination, and yet each one was simply swallowed up by the writhing darkness surrounding him. All the while, the abomination smirked at him.

"Having performance issues, boy?" he mockingly asked as he tapped the ground with his cane, sending snarling tendrils of many-toothed shadows lashing at him. He hastily leaped behind a wrecked car for cover, only for the tendrils to slash and tear through the cover lie cheap tinfoil.

"Metas," he grumbled in irritation as he dodged and weaved, barely avoiding the hungry tendrils looking to feast on his flesh.

"Oh? Putting on a dance for me now? What an amusing sight?" the heretic laughed, casually leaning against his cane without a care in the world. It made Krieg's blood boil, and it gave him the focus to, in but a split second, bring his pistol back up for a lone snap shot straight at his forehead. Again, he shadows came alive to swallow the bullet, but it caused the tendrils pursuing him to pause.

Krieg was quickly out of their reach then, fresh ammo slammed in and then wildly firing at his target. Not one bullet struck true, but it kept the abomination too occupied to strike back.

"Alright, enough playing around." Until a literal tidal wave of darkness surged out from underneath the heretic's feet and rushed straight towards Krieg, swallowing everything and anything caught in its path. What a nuisance.

His grapple hook brought him high enough to just barely skip over the onrushing tide, only to find the heretic waiting for him, shadow-infused cane striking him straight in the chest with enough force that he felt something crack before launching him back and through a broken window, his back slamming against the wall with such force that all the air left his lungs in a silent gasp.

"Had enough yet?" came the mocking question from right outside the window as the heretic stood there, held aloft by his twitching shadows. Krieg could only give a feeble wheeze as he slowly forced himself back up again, ignoring the way his spine was screaming at him to lie still.

"No even close," he finally managed to spit out, hate and vitriol coloring every last syllable. The heretic laughed yet again.

"Good, was worried the fun was already over with." But even as he gloated, Krieg noticed something. There were a few fires burning in this bombed-out building, and the heretic's foul shadows were doing their level best to avoid them. As if they could not stand the heat.

Or the light.

"So, got anything else you wanna try before-" Krieg snatched his last flashbang from his belt and hurled it straight at the heretic's face. As usual, the shadows darted forward to protect their master, only to evaporate with a series of agonized shrieks as the whole room vanished in a blinding flash of light. Krieg did not even wait for his eyesight to return and charged straight at his target.

Instincts made him leap before impacting the wall, his eyesight then returning in the middle of his freefall. Below him, the accursed heretic was plummeting down without a single shadow around him. Less than three seconds before impact with the ground, and Krieg's grapple gun had already safely anchored him to the wall as he swung to safety, gun in hand as he took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The heretic slammed into the solid concrete, immediately followed by a bullet striking him in the abdomen. Tch, sloppy shooting on my part. A flick of a switch, and the grapple claw detached from the wall in time for Krieg to make a smooth rolling land on solid ground once more. He quickly stood back up again, gun at the ready. And so did his opponent.

"Alright, boy, you had your fun there," he snarled, clutching at his bleeding wound while a veritable swarm of angry shadows writhed and snarled at his feet.

"And I'm just getting started," Krieg fired back as he took aim.

"So am I." but the heretic proved faster as the shadows struck once more. Except it was not the heretic's shadows this time, but Krieg's own. He barely managed to catch the twisting movements at his feet, and frantically leaped aside. Still not fast enough as a barbed and serrated tendril wrapped itself around his leg and pulled.

Agony burned through Krieg's leg as vicious teeth tore through armor plates, boots, pants and flesh like they were peeling potatoes. His frantic sidestep quickly turned into a graceless tumble as chunks of flesh were ripped off his leg, and even more tendrils closed in for the kill. Ignoring the pain, Krieg calmly took aim and fired at the foul abomination, putting shot after shot down range. None struck their target, the infernal shadows refusing to let anything so much as touch their master.

But it made the tendrils back off long enough to Krieg to force himself back on his feet, even though his left leg was barely able to support his weight. Pain meant nothing to him, only the mission. But then he squeezed off his last bullet, and a lone tendril struck like a hungry viper, skewering him right through his right shoulder.

"I could have gone for your head, but that would have been too easy," the heretic snarled as he began to advance on him. Krieg tried to reload, but his accursed right arm refused to obey properly, only managing a few feeble twitches as he tried to force it up. Useless trash.

"I'm gonna make you suffer before you finally die." Already fed up with the monologue, Krieg tried to lunge forward. Maybe a fist down the throat would shut the bastard up. But the tendril in his shoulder coiled around and held him in place, refusing to let him take so much as a single step forward.

"Still struggling? Amusing, but futile?" a sinister smirk split his face as the shadows began to surround Krieg, growing fangs and mouths to no doubt devour him alive. Nasty way to go, all things considered.

"Any last words?" But the bastard was too focused on Krieg, and had completely neglected his surroundings as he was almost face to face with him. And Krieg made sure to keep it like that.

"Planning to talk me death, or too scared to do the deed?" he sneered, and the heretic scoffed.

"Empty bravado? How disappointing, I was hoping for more-" Alas, while Krieg would have been able to make ample use of that distraction to land a killing blow, the lone surviving soldier that had been trying to sneak up on the heretic was not as skilled. A single misstep, and the heretic was aware of the enemy trying to sneak up on him.

Credit where credit was true, the unknown soldier did not freeze or hesitate, he leaped straight at his target with a drawn knife. Straight into a solid wall of shadows that swallowed him whole.

"I hate interruptions from lesser vermin!" the heretic spat out, barely audible over the soldier's last terrified scream that was already fading away. But now the heretic was distracted again, and Krieg did not hesitate. The empty gun was discarded and a knife was quickly drawn. Shadows tried to block his free hand, but not fast enough to stop several inches of steel to slip into the heretic's back.

The filth scream in pain as he stumbled away, the tendril in Krieg's arm hurling him far away from his prey and sending him skidding along the ground. His whole body felt like one giant bruise, and his left leg had grown completely numb. Still he forced himself back up again. The fight was not over, and so neither was he.

But his enemy was still standing as well, the very shadows themselves howling with such fury that it rattled even his bones. Fear was a foreign concept to Krieg, one he had neither the time nor the inclination to become acquainted with, but he knew a lost cause when he saw it. Frontal assaults would not win against this fiend. Time to switch tactics. So he hobbled away, making for the nearby buildings to seek shelter within.

"Running away, are?! Never took the mighty Krieg for a spineless coward!" the cretin roared after him, but Krieg ignored him. His mind was on other matters. Needed supplies, needed equipment, needed a new plan. Fortunately, he had a plan. It was just the other two he needed.

Scavenging time.

Gotham

Fucking hell, that was too close. Though to be fair, it might still be enough if he did not get this bleeding tended to in time. Fuck, just trying to move sent lances of pain racing from his kidneys all the way to his mauled chest. Still in a better condition than the other guy.

"That'll teach you punks not to mess with Sportsmaster," he spat at the unmoving corpse pinned to the wall by a javelin, half his head smashed to a pulp with what was left of his brain leaking out onto the floor. He had been a tough bastard, powering through wounds that would have made most men keel over wailing in agony. Fucking Metas.

But he was dead now, and Sportsmaster still lived. Now it was just a matter of escaping and making sure he could live to brag about it. So he made to stand back up, only to fall back on his ass with a groan as the leg gave out under him. Well, so much for that idea. Guess he would have to swallow his pride and call the Bats to pick him up.

"Sportsmaster, do you copy? Traitor reinforcements have arrived, and they've cut you off! If you have an exit, use it now!" Or maybe not.

"Heh, fucking typical. When it rains, it pours," he grumbled to himself as he began crawling towards the escape hatch. "Yeah, don't worry your guano-covered ass about me. I'll be out and about before you know it."

Then he opened the hatch, and ended up nose to nose with a cultist coming up from the other end. One second of blinking, two seconds of blinking. Sportsmaster acted on the third, drawing his last knife and stabbing it through an eye and into the brain. Confused shouting erupted from behind the now lifeless corpse.

"Here, hold this for me," Sportsmaster quipped as he yanked out the knife and tossed a couple of grenades down with the falling corpse. Then he slammed the hatch down and bolted it shut. Muffled shouting for a couple of seconds, then a couple of loud booms that rattled the hatch, and then silence again.

"So much for that escape route," he growled before activating the comm unit again. "Scratch my escape route. I'm wounded and boxed in right now. How many assholes are coming in the main entrance?"

The silence on the other end was telling enough.

"Hold your position, I'll find a way to get you out," Batman finally answered.

Sportsmaster scoffed. "And how highly do you rate your chances of getting to me before they rip me apart?"

"I will find a way to you." Heh, trust the Bats to be an optimistic asshole that thought he could save everyone. By God was it grating.

"You do you, pal." Breathing was becoming difficult, so he did not bother arguing any further. Not that there would have been much more time for arguing, as he could already hear multiple footsteps stomping through the corridors.

"Hey, Bats. You even in the building yet?" He managed to ask, voice growing ragged. A moment of silence followed.

"Trying to make my way to the roof. Ran into some unexpected obstacles." Yeah, obstacles sure was one way to describe it. Sportsmaster could clearly hear the gunfire in the background.

"Meeting tons of new friends, eh?" He tried to joke, but his sentence just ended with a series of wet cough that left his chin splattered with blood. Oh, and someone was banging rather insistently on the escape hatch, not to mention that the previous footsteps were getting awfully close. Well, fuck.

Sportsmaster was man enough to recognize when the jig was up, and it sure as hell looked like his ticket was about to get punched one last time. But like hell he was gonna go quietly!

"Crocks don't quit without a fight," he growled as he drew his last explosive javelin, planning to ram straight up the ass of the first cocksucker that entered his field of view. That was when his eyes landed on the stockpiles of ammunition and explosives all over the place.

"You know Bats, when I first heard that my baby girl had gone and joined your junior team, I was actually a bit proud," he casually began whilst crawling into position. "Us Crocks, we don't do that well just letting our lives get yanked around by others. We all have our moments of rebellion where we stick it to the older generation and go our own way."

He had to pause for breath as the pain in his chest flared up. "Jade got going early, way earlier than I did in my youth. But Artemis, she was too much of a good girl to abandon her family, so she stuck around. Started to actually worry how much of the Crock genes she inherited before I finally got confirmation that she decided to be a hero of all things."

Batman did not say a thing, but Sportsmaster knew he was listening.

"Course, I couldn't tell anyone this. What would that do to my reputation? Big scary Sportsmaster, being all happy and mushy about his baby girl giving him the finger."

Another ragged chuckle that left more blood dripping down his chin. "But hey, not like I need to worry about you going and tattling on me, right?"

"No, because I'm dragging you straight to your daughter so you can tell her all this yourself in person."

That made Sportsmaster burst out laughing, which ended with him clutching his chest and wheezing in pain.

"Don't make laugh, it hurts too damn much," he wheezed out. By now, the footsteps were but moments away, and so Sportsmaster steeled himself for what came next.

"Take care of my baby girl now."

"Lawrence, wait! I can still-" Sportsmaster just yanked out the comm from his ear and tossed it aside.

"Showtime, assholes." Then he hurled his javelin into the biggest pile of explosives just as the first cultist entered. Sportsmaster just grinned at him and gave him the finger.

Then the javelin exploded.

"Well, this has certainly devolved into quite the mess," Azkillon remarked from atop one of Terra's boulders, watching the chaotic maelstrom that Gotham City had become tear itself apart far below him.

"So, what exactly are you gonna do?" Terra asked, a faint tremor in her voice. Understandable, as she was one of the few who had yet to bloody her teeth in true battle. Still, her time to earn her stripes had come at last.

"Me? Nothing much. But you on the other hand..." he could see the dawning realization come across her, and then the mounting terror.

"Me?" She squeked out with a tiny voice. Adorable and pathetic in equal measure.

"Indeed. Gotham is a lost cause, and I wash my hands of all involved parties. However, there is still one last service this city can provide: as a sacrifice." A massive gauntlet was placed on her shoulder. "And for such a mass sacrifice, I need a powerful force to carry it out."

Terra was quivering in her boots. "B-b-but such a large city- all the people- the amount of force- I don't think I can!"

"Of course you can. With your raw potential, there are few things you cannot accomplish," he assured her, and he was even only partially lying as well.

"But what about the faithful? All those loyal followers still fighting down there?" Hm, guess she still had a sense of morality within her. That would have to be rectified in the future. Unlike many of the others, Azkillon still had uses for the geomancer after this farce of a war was over.

"The Gods shall know the faithful from the unbelievers and reward them in the next life," he lied. Death meant failure, and the Neverborn never cared for failures.

Terra still looked highly uncertain, but she still nodded her head. "Alright, I'll try."

"No!" Azkillon immediately snapped at her. "You will do it, or you will not. There is no such thing as trying in this profession." Left unsaid was what would happen if she did not manage to do it.

Taken aback by the outburst, she nevertheless nodded and visibly steeled herself. Then she raised her hands, enveloping them in a golden aura as she tried to exert her will on the soil. A faint rumble was heard, and a few buildings gave a few minute trembles. But that was not enough, not even close.

"Harder, child. I want the city to sink into the sea itself," he commanded.

"I'm- I'm doing my best!" She protested, arms visibly trembling as she poured all of her strength into this.

"Do better," he snapped back, watching with growing disappointment as the city refused to budge.

"I- I can't do it! It's too much!" Terra was visibly sagging under the strain, and even the boulder they were standing on was slowly losing attitude. Azkillon placed a hand on her shoulder again.

"No, it's not too much. You just need a little... boost." Then his grip on the shoulder tightened as he called on the powers of the Warp and funneled them straight into the girl. The golden aura grew brighter and brighter, then its color began to twist and shape into something deeply unnatural. Terra's eyes flew wide open, now nothing more than twin orbs of glowing, pure unchecked power.

Then she threw her head back and screamed, a wail so loud that it echoed from one end of Gotham to the other. Such was its force that for a brief moment, all sides ceased fighting, heads on collective swivels. All was quiet, eerily so.

Then the ground rumbled, and pandemonium ensued.

All things considered, this was starting to shape up real nicely. A few bumps here and there, sure, and that sourpuss Azkillon and his cronies had really put a dampener on his mood. But now things were on the upturn, and things were finally getting spicy.

All in all, Joker was currently having the time of his life.

All around him, complete and utter chaos reigned supreme as everyone desperately fought tooth and nail for survival. No strategy, no sides, no care for allegiance, just a beautiful pandemonium with every lunatic for themselves. It was such a joyful experience that Joker decided to get personally involved in the melee as well, dancing and twirling about with pistol and knife in hand to cut down anyone that strayed too close, be they friend or foe.

By this was not the main event. Oh no, far from it. It was just an appetizer for the real show that was about to start. Because Azkie might have been a stiff and boring prick, but he was also a schemer. And just like all schemers, he could get real pissy if you messed up his wonderfully crafted plan. And when schemers got pissy, they got vindictive. And vindictive people overreacted.

Cue the banshee-like scream that suddenly pierced the air with such force that it even left his ears ringing for a few seconds. Silence fell over the whole city as everyone just froze up, stunned by the scream. And the Joker?

He smiled.

"And here weeee... go!" Barely had he finished his sentence before the ground started to rumble. Small tremors at first that rattled anything not bolted down, but quickly grew in intensity until the very buildings were shaking. That finally triggered the people's survival instincts as they promptly fled for cover.

Too little, too late.

A cracking noise, and suddenly the road itself split in half as the very ground heaved and cracked, opening great chasms that swallowed debris and men alike. Great skyscrapers swayed back and forth like trees in a hurricane before the support beams broke and they fell like dominoes in a storm of dust and debris.

Traitors and loyalists alike fled side by side, a great stampede of frightened cattle just trying to reach safety, an act of futility as building after building collapsed around them and the very ground opened up like ravenous maws. Thousands of poor souls were swallowed up by the collapsing city every moment, and the catastrophe showed no signs of stopping.

And then reality itself revolted. Below ground, cultist congregations had been performing their blasphemous rituals, swallowing every breath of life spent in this conflict. They were the first to die as their sanctuaries became their tombs, an act with unleashed all the stored energy in one chaotic swirl of Warp energy, tearing at the fabrics of reality itself like a maddened beast.

And then the Daemons came calling.

A small tear at first that then widened into a gaping hole bleeding madness into realspace, from which hordes of Daemons poured through, setting upon the terrified fighters with gleeful anticipation. They cared not for the collapsing city, only about harvesting as many souls before reality asserted itself again.

And in the midst of this carnage, the Joker laughed long and hard. Then, as if seized by an otherwordly force, he began to dance. A slow waltz at first, gracefully stepping around rubble and fleeing people, then he began picking up pace as he jumped and twirled with reckless energy.

A gaggle of Nurglings joined in, hands intertwined as they danced and laughed in a circle like children around a Christmas tree, putrid breaths washing over the Joker who merely clapped in delight before jumping clear just before the ground cracked open, sending the still giggling Nurglings tumbling into the dark.

A Daemonette joined him, joining hands as they danced together like a pair of lovers. They moved as one, spinning together with unnatural grace so they touched nothing but each other. The Daemonette placed a tender kiss on the Joker's cheek, its perfume worming its way into his nostrils before the Joker slipped free and danced on right before a skyscraper crushed the Daemonette.

The Joker jumped atop a car, hands outstretched into the air. Just in time for a Screamer to come swooping in, allowing the Joker to catch on and be carried aloft through the city streets. Swinging back and forth, he was awarded a wonderful view as screaming mortals were either dragged into the Warp or buried under the collapsing city. He could feel the slime and energy coating the Screamer seeping through his gloves before he finally let go and landed gracefully on his feet.

A Juggernout bellowed in fury and charged straight towards him, steam and blood pouring out of its mouth. Joker kept dancing, seemingly ignorant of the threat. Until the very last second, just before impact, that the Joker juked to the side, and the Juggernaut thundered past like an enraged bull trying to gore a matador. Again and again did the Juggernaut try to trample him, again and again it failed, splattering blood on him with every failed charge before Joker skipped into an alleyway right before the whole street collapsed.

Four times did Joker touch the essence of the Warp, and the Warp was displeased by how... mundane he really was underneath the makeup. Changes had to be made, and changes were implemented.

The very makeup the Joker used on himself sizzled and burned as it melted into him, his skin becoming bleached white, his hair turning tangled and sickly green like algae, eyes becoming an unnatural mixture of green and violet. And then the Glasgow smile began to bleed anew as the scars ripped themselves open again, displaying jagged fangs on the inside. But the blood did not run down his chin, it flowed and gathered around the gaping wound and hardening, becoming like macabre lipstick that framed his new and widened mouth.

And all the while, Joker never stopped laughing. For as his body changed, so too was his mind opened to the truth. About the world, the universe, reality itself. He knew the truth, and it was the greatest joke he had ever heard.

What else could a man do then but laugh?

With a final shuddering breath, Terra passed out, utterly spent after nearly sinking a whole city. Below them, Gotham slowly settled back down, the earth no longer moving now that it no longer received its mistress' command.

By now, only Azkillon's will and psychic might was keeping their boulder afloat. And from up high, Azkillon watched with disinterest as the dust finally settled on Gotham City. Beaten, broken, more ruin than city now.

But not utterly destroyed.

"Close enough, I suppose," he finally remarked before he conjured a portal and guided the boulder through. Chaos was done with Gotham, the rodents and the scavengers could do whatever they pleased with what was left.

Miami

"Keep pushing, we're almost there!" A ragged cheer came from the battered Atlanteans, one which was swiftly overshadowed by the wailing moans of the undead horde. But no matter how many Atlanteans fell, they pushed onward, forcing the pox-riddled horde back step by step.

The choking miasma still hung above them, leaving many a soldier gasping for breath, but scores of sorcerers had pooled their might to contest this unnatural poison. Whatever foul sorcery that created it was too strong to dispel, but they managed to weaken its potency and gradually push it back.

And now the army of Atlantis had nearly managed to carve their way through the cultist lines, and were within spitting distance of their king's holdout. But as they drew nearer, resistance stiffened along the entire line. Fresh formations of cultists, bodies swollen by bile and puss, were gathering in new trenchlines. Horrific abominations, their sickly bodies a grotesque mismatch of limbs and body parts that followed no rhyme or reason, were already lumbering forward with mewling war cries.

Even creatures from beyond this realm who reeked of the most foul of magic, were materializing out of the ether itself, giggling like excited children. And scattered among this blighted host, the great armored giants, the linchpins of whatever defensive line they occupied.

It was a grinding slugfest, one where valiant men and women gave their lives for every inch of ground taken, and where the hordes of hell seemed nigh on endless. And yet still the Atlanteans refused to yield, fighting on regardless of how many lives lost. Was it courage or madness that fueled them into such acts of unyielding determination?

To be honest, Gorm cared not either way. Because no matter what motivated them, their fate remained the same. All things rotted and decayed eventually, and Grandfather Nurgle would welcome all with open arms. For whatever loyalty these abhumans had to their king, it paled in comparison to the love of Nurgle. But no matter how much you loved your children, sometimes they needed to be disciplined to learn proper respect.

And Gorm was more than happy to dole out the proper discipline to these unruly abhumans, one heavy bolter round at a time. At full auto. And if the occasional servant happened to catch a stray round? Well, live and let live. Besides, surely Nurgle would look the other way based on how many unbelievers he was sending into his embrace even now, raking their battered lines with his heavy bolter. Not even their vaunted technology could keep them safe as bolter rounds tore straight through armor and flesh with the same contemptuous ease.

"Forward, my children! Grandfather demands more tribute to his garden!" He commanded, Atlantean energy weaponry harmlessly bouncing off his rusted power armor. The power of Chaos made even the flimsiest of material worthy of kings.

"Stand firm, Atlanteans! Drive these fiends back into whatever pit they crawled out of!" One of their numbers cried out, a black-haired youth with a nauseatingly healthy physique. Gorm scoffed and swung his heavy bolter towards him, unleashing a full barrage. Dozens of foolish warriors turned to red mist, but the youth was fast enough to conjure a magical barrier to shield himself. It only held firm for a precious few moments before shattering like ice, but it gave him just enough time to duck into cover. Tch, what a nuisance, now I have to go and-

"GORM!" A voice boomed out across the field, stopping Atlantean and abomination alike dead in their tracks from the sheer force behind it. Gradually, all eyes were turned to where the booming voice had come from. And there, limping his way out of the shelled-out mall, was king Orin, the Aquaman himself.

"Gorm! I have heard your accursed name from a thousand different cultists, all screaming for your aid before I cut them down! When will you stop hiding behind your slaves and face me like a man?!" He bellowed out in fury, blood dripping out of his mouth as he leaned against his trident for support. From his position in the rear, Gorm laughed.

"Brave words for someone so close to death's door, Atlantean! Tell me, would you still show as much bravado if deprived of your walking stick?" He asked mockingly, many of his servants dutifully laughing at their master's jest.

But Orin smiled.

"Would me putting aside my walking stick give you enough courage to actually face me?" He mocked right back, and the battlefield was as silent as a grave. And Gorm was no longer smiling.

He stepped off the platform he had been standing on. "I hate to deprive someone of the wonderful experience of the Grandfather's gifts." The heavy bolter was set aside in favor of a plague-encrusted Astartes knife, the rusted blade as long as a human's forearm. "But I shall make an exception in your case."

Orin tried to stand to his full height, but was struck by a series of violent coughs and almost fell over, his trident being the only thing keeping him upright as he coughed up blood and puss.

"Heh, seems like your precious trident is the only thing keeping you standing. Tell me, shall I fight the Trident instead of you?" By now, Gorm had stepped ahead of his host, facing the abhuman king alone out in the open.

Orin was not deterred and hobbled on. "I figured it was the only way to make you step up from behind your slaves. You seemed quite content to hide under their skirt when I stood proud and strong against them."

Gorm laughed. "Bold or arrogant? Hard to say at this stage, but it matters not in the end. You will still be dead no matter what."

"And so will you." That was the only warning Gorm received before Orin suddenly lunged forward with a speed and strength that he should not have been in possession of in his current state. He closed the last distance fast, too fast for Gorm to react. But he felt no fear, not even when Orin thrust his trident into his guts with a furious roar. Puss, maggots and rotten flesh spilled out of the wound, and Gorm just looked at the abhuman in disappointment.

"Happy now?" He asked, right before he plunged his knife through the abhuman's shoulder and straight towards his heart. A sign of the king's resilience that it was not an immediate killing blow, but his fate was sealed the instant Gorm drew blood.

"You will be remembered." A massive gauntlet closed around the abhuman's other shoulder, preventing escape. "As the king who died..." The knife was twisted as it slowly inched its way closer to the heart.

"For nothing."

But even with his body failing him, even as the toxins ate him alive from the inside out, even as his life was now measured in seconds, king Orin, the Aquaman, still found the strength to look his enemy in the eyes without fear and utter his last words.

"For Atlantis."

Then he activated his trident, a powerful weapon of science and sorcery that had been passed down through generations. A weapon capable of great destructive power when properly wielded. A weapon that Orin had been intentionally overcharging for days, turning a sacred sign of the royal family into a impromptu bomb.

It happened too fast for anyone to react. Even Gorm was still gloating over his inevitable victory when his end came. A blinding flash of light, shining brighter than the sun for a few precious heartbeat, engulfed the both of them with such intensity that it burned the eyes of those who looked. All sound seemed to vanish, like all had been engulfed in a vacuum. Then a deafening boom struck the field with such force that it flung everyone back.

And just like that, it was over. Where the two combatants had once stood, there was now but a crater, its surface melted and hardened into glass. Of Gorm and Orin, there was nothing left, not even ashes.

Star City