It started, as so many disasters do, with a beautiful morning.
David was in Metropolis—not for any particular reason, just passing through on his way back from a brief consultation with the Watchtower about patrol schedules. The city was gorgeous in the early light, its glass towers catching the sun like crystalline monuments to human ambition.
This is where Superman would have lived, David thought, hovering above the Daily Planet building with its iconic globe. This is where Clark Kent would have worked, where Lois Lane would have chased stories, where the world's greatest hero would have called home.
The absence felt like a wound.
In his universe, Metropolis was the City of Tomorrow—bright, optimistic, protected by the most powerful and compassionate being on the planet. Here, it was just another city. Impressive, certainly. Prosperous. But lacking that special quality that Superman's presence had always provided.
Maybe I could—
The thought was interrupted by a sound.
Not an explosion, exactly. More like the earth itself screaming. A deep, tectonic CRACK that David felt in his bones before he heard it with his ears.
He spun toward the source, his enhanced vision cutting through buildings and distance to identify the problem.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
Something was climbing out of the ground in the middle of Centennial Park. Something massive, gray, covered in bony protrusions that looked like they'd been designed by a nightmare. It was humanoid, vaguely, but wrong in every proportion—too muscular, too brutal, too violent in its very existence.
People were running, screaming, fleeing in all directions as the creature pulled itself free from the crater it had created. Cars were being tossed aside like toys. Trees were being uprooted. A food vendor's cart exploded into splinters as the thing's fist passed through it casually.
David's mind raced through his knowledge of DC villains, trying to identify what he was facing.
Gray skin. Bony protrusions. Emerged from underground. Overwhelming physical power. Seemingly mindless aggression.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no.
That's Doomsday.
In the comics, Doomsday was the creature that killed Superman.
Not "defeated." Not "injured." Killed. The actual, literal death of the Man of Steel, achieved through nothing more than overwhelming brute force.
Doomsday was, in many ways, the ultimate expression of anti-hope. A being with no personality, no goals, no desires beyond destruction. It couldn't be reasoned with. It couldn't be bargained with. It couldn't be reformed or redeemed or talked down from the ledge.
It could only be fought.
And usually, fighting it meant dying.
David descended toward the creature, his mind racing through options. In the original comics, it had taken everything Superman had—plus significant help from other heroes—to stop Doomsday, and even then, both combatants had ended up dead.
But I'm not Superman, David thought. I'm a Viltrumite. Different physiology. Different power set. Maybe I can—
Doomsday looked up.
Their eyes met.
And David saw nothing there. No intelligence. No malice. No emotion of any kind. Just an endless, bottomless hunger for violence.
The creature roared—a sound that shattered windows for blocks in every direction—and leaped.
David had approximately one-tenth of a second to process the fact that something the size of a truck was flying toward him at supersonic speeds before the impact hit.
The first punch felt like being hit by a planet.
David had taken hits before. He'd fought Solomon Grundy, traded blows with various metahumans, even tested his durability against some of the League's heavy hitters in sparring sessions. He'd thought he understood what "powerful opponent" meant.
He had been wrong.
Doomsday's fist connected with his chest and David flew—not under his own power, but as a projectile. He crashed through three buildings before he managed to arrest his momentum, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.
Okay, he thought, spitting out a glob of something that might have been blood. That hurt. That actually hurt.
He didn't have time to dwell on it. Doomsday was already following, crashing through the same buildings David had just inadvertently demolished. The creature moved with terrifying speed for something so massive, its bone-covered fists already swinging.
David ducked the first punch, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his hair. He countered with a right hook to Doomsday's jaw, putting everything he had behind it.
The impact created a shockwave that flattened everything within fifty feet.
Doomsday's head snapped back.
Then it snapped forward again, and the creature was smiling—if that rictus of exposed bone and teeth could be called a smile.
It liked being hit.
"Great," David muttered. "Just great."
The fight quickly moved out of the city center—not through any tactical decision on David's part, but because every exchange of blows sent both combatants flying in random directions.
David was learning, adapting, trying to find some weakness in the creature's seemingly impenetrable defenses. But Doomsday was adapting too. Every tactic David tried worked once, maybe twice, before the creature developed a counter.
He tried speed, blitzing around Doomsday faster than the eye could follow, landing dozens of hits per second. The creature learned to predict his patterns and caught him with a backhand that sent him through a parking garage.
He tried grappling, using his Viltrumite strength to lock Doomsday in submission holds. The creature simply flexed, its muscles generating enough force to break any grip.
He tried lifting Doomsday into the air, hoping to remove the creature's leverage. Doomsday grabbed him and threw him into the ground hard enough to create a crater twenty feet deep.
This thing is impossible, David thought, pulling himself out of the crater as Doomsday descended toward him like a gray meteor. It's like fighting an evolutionary engine designed specifically to counter anything I do.
That was, he realized, exactly what Doomsday was. In the comics, the creature had been created through a process of repeated death and resurrection, each iteration becoming more resistant to whatever had killed it before. It was adaptation given flesh. Evolution weaponized.
So how do I beat something that can't be beaten?
The answer, when it came, was not particularly comforting: I probably don't. I just have to survive long enough to get it away from people.
The fight moved north.
David wasn't entirely sure how. One moment they were in the outskirts of Metropolis, the next they were over open farmland, and then they were crossing into Canada. Each exchange of blows covered miles, the two combatants essentially bouncing off each other across the continent.
David was bleeding from a dozen wounds—something that had never happened to him before. His costume was in tatters. One eye was swelling shut. He was fairly certain at least two of his ribs were cracked, though they seemed to be healing even as he fought.
But he was also learning.
Doomsday was strong—stronger than him, possibly, in terms of raw power. But it wasn't smart. It fought on instinct, relying on overwhelming force rather than technique. It had no strategy beyond "hit the enemy until they stop moving."
David, on the other hand, had spent his first life studying the human body. He understood leverage, pressure points, the mechanical principles that governed physical combat. And he was discovering that some of those principles still applied, even at planetary power levels.
He couldn't overpower Doomsday. But he could redirect it.
The next time Doomsday charged, David didn't try to meet force with force. Instead, he sidestepped at the last moment, grabbed the creature's arm, and pulled, using Doomsday's own momentum to send it flying.
The creature sailed over a mountain range before crashing down somewhere in the Canadian wilderness.
David followed, pressing his advantage. He landed next to Doomsday before the creature could recover, driving his knee into its chest with all his strength. Something cracked—whether it was Doomsday's bones or the earth beneath them, he couldn't tell.
He followed with a barrage of punches, aiming for the creature's eyes, its joints, any point that might be more vulnerable than the rest. Green-gray blood splattered across his fists.
Doomsday roared and lashed out blindly, catching David across the face with a backhand that would have decapitated a normal being. David rolled with the blow, coming up on his feet a hundred yards away.
The creature was slower now. Damaged. But still coming.
Of course it is, David thought grimly. Doomsday doesn't stop. It doesn't tire. It just keeps coming until one of you is dead.
Well. If I can't stop it, I can at least lead it somewhere there aren't any people to hurt.
He turned north and flew, making sure to move slowly enough that Doomsday could follow.
The Arctic Circle was beautiful, in a deadly sort of way.
Endless fields of ice and snow stretched to the horizon, broken only by mountains and glaciers. The sun, low in the sky at this latitude, cast everything in shades of gold and blue. It would have been peaceful if not for the monster trying to kill him.
Doomsday had followed, as David had expected. The creature seemed incapable of letting an opponent escape—something about its biology or psychology compelled it to pursue until one or the other was destroyed.
Works for me, David thought, landing on a glacier and turning to face his pursuer. Out here, I don't have to worry about collateral damage.
Doomsday crashed down a moment later, the impact cracking the ice for a mile in every direction. The creature was visibly damaged now—missing several of its bone protrusions, one arm hanging at an odd angle, green blood freezing against its gray skin.
But it was still moving. Still fighting. Still coming.
"You know," David said, settling into a fighting stance, "in another universe, there was a hero who died fighting you. The greatest hero who ever lived. He gave everything he had to stop you, and it cost him his life."
Doomsday didn't respond. It probably couldn't understand language. But David kept talking anyway—partly because he needed to hear the words, and partly because he wanted to honor the man who should have been here.
"His name was Superman. And he stood for everything good in the world. Hope. Compassion. The belief that people are worth saving, even when they don't deserve it."
He clenched his fists.
"I'm not Superman. I never will be. But I made a promise to myself—that I would try to live up to his example. That I would use this power to protect people, not dominate them."
Doomsday charged.
David met the charge head-on, his fist connecting with Doomsday's face at the exact moment the creature's fist connected with his. The shockwave shattered the glacier beneath them, sending both combatants plunging into the freezing water below.
Underwater combat was, David discovered, very different from aerial combat.
The cold didn't bother him—Viltrumites were apparently resistant to temperature extremes—but the water resistance changed everything. His movements were slower, less precise. His punches lost most of their force.
Doomsday, on the other hand, seemed unbothered. The creature grabbed David by the throat and squeezed, its grip like a vice made of bone and malice.
David's vision started to darken.
No, he thought. No. I am not dying here. Not like this.
He brought his hands up between Doomsday's arms and pushed outward, breaking the creature's grip through leverage rather than strength. Then he grabbed Doomsday's head with both hands, pulled it close, and slammed his forehead into the creature's face.
Once. Twice. Three times.
On the fourth impact, something cracked.
Doomsday went limp.
David didn't waste time wondering if it was a trick. He grabbed the creature by the throat and swam upward, bursting through the ice and into the Arctic air. Then he flew—higher and higher, leaving the atmosphere behind, dragging Doomsday's unconscious form with him.
The stars wheeled around them as David climbed into the void. The Earth shrank beneath them, becoming first a marble, then a blue dot against the infinite darkness.
Only when they were properly in space—far enough that Doomsday couldn't possibly fall back to Earth—did David stop.
He looked at the creature in his grip. It was still unconscious, but he could see its wounds already beginning to heal. In minutes, maybe hours, it would wake up.
What do I do with you? David thought. I can't kill you—can I? Should I?
In the comics, Doomsday had been "killed" multiple times, but it always came back, more powerful and resistant than before. Killing it might just make the problem worse.
But I can't let it threaten Earth again.
An idea formed. A cruel idea, perhaps, but the only one that seemed viable.
David looked toward the sun—still massive and bright even from this distance—and began to calculate.
It took him an hour to reach the sun.
An hour of flying as fast as he could while dragging an unconscious monster behind him. An hour of watching Doomsday slowly regenerate, its wounds closing, its breathing becoming stronger.
An hour of wondering if he was about to make a terrible mistake.
When they finally reached the sun's corona, David stopped. The heat was intense—even his Viltrumite skin felt it, a pressure that would have vaporized any ordinary matter instantly.
Doomsday's eyes were opening. The creature was waking up.
"I'm sorry," David said quietly—not to Doomsday, because the creature couldn't understand and wouldn't care. But to himself. To the ideal he was trying to uphold. "I can't let you hurt anyone else. And this is the only way I know to stop you."
He released his grip on Doomsday's throat.
For a moment, the creature floated there, its eyes focusing on David with that empty, hungry stare.
Then David reared back and punched—putting every ounce of his Viltrumite strength behind the blow, channeling all his fear and fury and determination into a single, devastating strike.
Doomsday flew toward the sun like a comet.
David watched until the creature disappeared into the solar fire, swallowed by forces that even its impossible biology couldn't survive.
Then he turned and began the long flight back to Earth.
The trip home took hours.
David spent most of it in silence, processing what had just happened. He'd fought one of the most dangerous creatures in the universe. He'd survived. He'd won, or at least achieved something like victory.
But he didn't feel victorious. He felt exhausted. Damaged. Changed in some fundamental way.
That was nearly my death, he thought, watching the Earth grow larger in his vision. If Doomsday had been a little stronger, a little faster, a little smarter—I'd be dead. Actually dead, this time. No mysterious resurrection. No second chances.
The realization was sobering.
For all his power, he wasn't invincible. There were threats out there that could destroy him, given the right circumstances. And if he fell, who would protect the people he'd promised to save?
I need allies, David thought. Real allies. People I can trust, who can trust me. I can't do this alone.
Diana's face flashed through his mind. Batman's calculating eyes. The Teen Titans, young and brave. The Justice League, a family of heroes who protected each other as much as they protected the world.
Maybe it's time to stop being a solo act.
He was halfway through the atmosphere, Metropolis coming into view, when his communicator crackled to life.
"Omni-Man! Omni-Man, do you copy?" It was J'onn J'onzz's voice, urgent and relieved. "We've been trying to reach you for hours. What happened? Our sensors detected massive energy signatures in your vicinity, then lost track of you entirely."
"I'm fine," David said, his voice hoarse. "Had a run-in with something called Doomsday. Gray, covered in bones, extremely unfriendly. I sent it into the sun."
A long pause.
"You... sent Doomsday into the sun."
"It seemed like the only way to stop it."
Another pause.
"We will need a full debrief," J'onn said finally. "But first—Diana has been very concerned. She's asked me to inform her the moment you made contact."
Something warm flickered in David's chest. "Tell her I'm okay. I'll be at the Watchtower in twenty minutes."
"I'll let her know. And Omni-Man?"
"Yes?"
"Well done."
David smiled despite his exhaustion. "Thanks, J'onn. See you soon."
The Watchtower was in an uproar when David arrived.
Apparently, the fight with Doomsday had not gone unnoticed. Satellite imagery had captured parts of the battle, and news networks around the world were running constant coverage of the destruction. "MYSTERIOUS MONSTER ATTACKS METROPOLIS—OMNI-MAN RESPONDS" was the general theme, with various pundits debating what the creature was and whether Omni-Man's response had been appropriate.
David paid attention to none of this.
He had barely stepped out of the docking bay when Diana was there, moving faster than he'd ever seen her move outside of combat. Her eyes swept over him, cataloguing his injuries—the still-healing cuts, the fading bruises, the tattered remains of his costume.
"You're hurt," she said, her voice tight.
"I'm healing." David tried to smile. "Should see the other guy."
"This is not a joke, Nolan." Diana reached out and touched his face, her fingers gentle against his bruised cheek. "We watched the satellite footage. That creature nearly killed you."
"But it didn't."
"But it could have." Her eyes were bright with something that might have been fear, or anger, or both. "You could have died out there, alone, with no one to help you. Why didn't you call for backup?"
"There wasn't time. It was either fight or let it destroy Metropolis."
"There's always time to call for help. That's what the League is for."
David opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.
She was right.
He'd spent so long operating alone—even in his old life, he'd been the guy who handled things himself rather than asking for help—that it hadn't even occurred to him to call the League. He'd just... reacted. Done what needed to be done.
But that wasn't how heroes operated. Not real heroes, who understood that strength meant knowing when to lean on others.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I should have called. I'm sorry."
Diana's expression softened. Her hand, still resting on his cheek, moved to cup his jaw.
"Don't apologize. Just... don't do it again." She paused, something complicated moving behind her eyes. "I can't lose you, Nolan. Not now. Not when I've just begun to..."
She trailed off, her gaze dropping.
"Begun to what?" David asked.
Diana didn't answer. Instead, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his chest, her arms wrapping around his waist in an embrace that was both fierce and tender.
David stood frozen for a moment, completely unsure how to react. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he raised his own arms and returned the embrace.
They stood like that for a long time, in the docking bay of the Watchtower, with the Earth spinning slowly beneath them and the stars watching silently above.
David still didn't fully understand what was happening between them. But in that moment, holding Diana in his arms, feeling her warmth against his battered body, he thought he was beginning to figure it out.
Oh, he thought, the realization dawning with the force of a sunrise. She actually cares about me. Not just as a colleague or an ally. As... something more.
And maybe... maybe I care about her too.
It was a terrifying thought. But also, somehow, a hopeful one.
He held her tighter and let himself feel, for the first time in a very long while, like he wasn't alone.