The Moon cracked.
Not exploded. Not shattered. It cracked—as if the heavens themselves realized something was wrong and tried to resist… and failed.
Vorax stood upon its surface, black and seething, his silhouette blotting out distant stars. Every breath he exhaled pulled lunar dust upward in spiraling streams, and with it, old moon rocks eroded to nothing—converted into data, into memory, then consumed. He was not just unmaking matter. He was unmaking the record of its existence.
Earth's telescopes picked it up first: a tremor across the Sea of Tranquility, a shadow that devoured light and telemetry alike. But it wasn't until the Moon's gravitational signature began to fluctuate that panic truly began to ripple.
And still, silence. Not even the gods dared speak his name.
---
Far below, Earth's atmosphere shimmered as something sharp sliced through the clouds.
A crimson rift tore open above Gotham City, stitched together with barbed wire and laughter.
The Batwoman Who Laughs emerged.
She descended not like a comet, but like a queen: arms outstretched, cape a tattered mantle of cackling shadows. Her smile stretched ear to ear, jagged and too wide, more carved than natural. Her eyes were pits of violet flame.
She landed atop the ruins of Wayne Tower, its spire long abandoned, now her throne.
"Citizens of Earth," she said, her voice echoing across satellites, hijacking every screen, every signal. "Your executioner has arrived… but don't worry. I brought gifts."
---
In the Hall of Justice, the air stilled.
Zatanna, Constantine, and Doctor Fate stood within a circle of ancient glyphs, deep in the ritual chamber. Candles burned low, spellbooks trembled as if afraid to be opened.
"She's here," Zatanna whispered.
"Right on time," Constantine muttered, lighting another cigarette with shaking fingers. "And that thing… that Vorax... he's on the bloody Moon."
Doctor Fate's helmet gleamed. "We are running out of variables. This ritual must succeed, or nothing else will matter."
Zatanna closed her eyes. "Begin phase two."
---
In the skies over Earth, the Batwoman spread her arms, and from the swirling storm behind her… something fell.
A corpse.
No—a transformation.
The body hit the ground in front of the United Nations building. It rose, twitching. Its face was once a hero. Blue Beetle. His scarab now grown into his spine, corrupted and alive with dark laughter.
His voice echoed with hers: "Accept the gift. Accept her."
He stepped forward—and knelt.
Then came another.
And another.
Across the planet, portals opened, and corrupted champions began to appear—some once villains, others heroes. Now all united by the same infection: a twisted belief that the only escape from Vorax… is to become his herald's disciple.
The Batwoman Who Laughs smiled. "I offer survival. You just have to laugh a little."
---
On the Moon, Vorax turned his gaze toward Earth.
He had no eyes. He didn't need them.
He felt every terrified prayer. Every frantic broadcast. Every satellite peering up into space like a terrified child watching the dark under its bed grow deeper.
His foot dragged across the surface of the Moon, and where he walked, lunar history died.
The footprints of Armstrong. Gone.
The ancient flag. Gone.
The subconscious memory of humanity's achievement, its great leap, its symbolic hope—devoured, like a flower swallowed by fire.
Earth trembled.
The sky grew heavy.
---
Back in the ritual chamber, the air changed.
Constantine coughed. Blood.
Zatanna gritted her teeth, chanting backward in a forgotten tongue. Fate hovered mid-air, golden light streaming from his fingers.
The air bent.
Then—a scream.
Raven burst through the doors, cloak fluttering, her eyes glowing white. Behind her, a trail of corrupted cultists, laughing with bloody mouths, their tongues marked with the Batwoman's symbol.
"She knows," Raven gasped. "She knows what you're doing. And she's sending her disciples."
Doctor Fate turned. "Then we must finish the ritual now."
"What exactly are you summoning?" Raven asked, stepping beside them.
Zatanna didn't look up. "Not what. Who."
A memory of hope. The only thing that could counter pure void.
A forgotten name, buried beneath the Multiverse's first scream.
---
On Earth's edge, the Batwoman Who Laughs floated above the upper atmosphere now, her grin wider than ever.
She whispered, "Come out, little birds. The curtain's rising."
And then she laughed.
And as she laughed, the Moon cracked again.