Ravens. About time they showed up—perched up upon the frames of anything they could find. 

The jets had few as well, but the number up on the glistening metal was a fraction of what was circling us, of what was stealing away every little scrap of meat they could from the desert.

Heck, I was willing to bet a novice could take a gun and kill one by firing somewhere in the general postcode. And truthfully, it might even be fun taking an MG42 and dumping a few belts—just to see the carnage.

'Huh. When did I get so violent?' Not that it matters. Not really. The only thing that does is that no one else finds out. After all, even if you know how to make pigs fly, no one will know it until they see proof in good order. And then you would be arrested because this is a superhero world, and a lesson on animal cruelty is more important than the fact that you could make a fucking pig fly. 

Nevertheless, Ravens. They were scooping in even as I turned the ignition on the bike up, which, to be honest, looked more like a Frankensteined ATV than anything else, that too with a shit ton of armour plates bolted on. 

Feeling for the two pistols on my belt one last time, I confirmed they were there and clipped my feet on the gear switch next to the bike stand. 

And then, with the flick of a switch. The engine roared a defining song, and the blood-eyed birds all gave me their eyes and cried together as the gears switched and I torqued the accelerator. 

'More flesh! To the slaughter!' The blackbirds seemed to chant—were they chanting for me? No, they were for anyone, anything, anything willing to spill more blood. 

But if they were rooting for me, I wasn't listening, for all I could hear was the sound of sand being ripped apart as the tires–somehow–managed to keep pushing forward and blitzing me down the dune. 

The engine beneath me felt searing hot as the accelerator went to drive it even faster. I looked down at the speedometer and caught sight of the [160] flashing on the digital speedometer. 

"Wonder which side the birds are rooting for," I whispered over the air, and Barbra jumped to answer, "The dead, Vandal, they root for the dead to increase, for more food. But if I had to pick, it would be the monsters killing everything in sight." 

"Well, then, let's tryin' make the fan-favourite team lose, shall we?"

"Just be careful…" 

"I will try," I lied i.e. I only turned the accelerator harder. 

The engine kept roaring like a buzzsaw, and waves of sand kept flying as I kept pushing. And somehow, against what should have happened it kept getting faster—it's insanity. 

Insanity, what else did I expect from a comic book world? Common sense? Well, that shoved a .50 Cal up its ass and died long ago, or maybe it was lit dynamite?

Not that either helped. I didn't have any dynamite. And a fifty-cal bullet is anti-material much more than it is anti-demon yet it is pretty much the only viable choice I have left, the hardened woody carapaces that these demons here possessed make even 7.62 worthless. Very different from the Watchtower where a 9mm was enough to gut those bare-meat monsters. 

At least I had the god of the battlefield's blessings. Arty. It had at some point switched from destroying Demons with fire and tungsten to burning a path straight through the desert for me. 

Anything I could see in front of me was being set alight as more and more shells were delivered. Almost as if to prove the point, a shell flew over me, whistling into the air and landed over demons that were emerging on my right, the sand travelled with the shockwave and managed a light slap on my clothes before falling off due to the speed. 

Another one followed suit and this time to my left, much closer, my wheels almost spun out of control to join the sand in flying away with the shockwave. But my body realised it and forced it to hold. 

"Too close for comfort!" I spat into the mic.

"No choice," Came a gruff voice, some military man, Barbara must have connected us, "We read heat signatures next to you."

"Aye," I acknowledge, he had his reason but that didn't make me feel good, "Keep it far, please."

Anger roared from the other side, "If YOU had NOT accelerated out of nowhere or at least warned us you wouldn't have had this problem!" 

When I accelerated after talking to Barbara…? 

Oops. 

"Sorry, I will keep it in mind." 

He grunted, "Just help us make sure we don't end up killing you." 

———

——

—

Laser to laser, the two Kryptonians met, and eye to eye they tried to fry each other. 

Kara didn't think she'd ever come to this point but here she was, cutting a sharp ninety in the sky to dodge another beam from her mind-fried cousin. 

They kept their distance in the skies, she didn't go all out against him, and her heart wouldn't let her but he had no such reservation—his punches hurt, they hurt like hell but she had a team that kept him. 

And so they were stuck, Damien stood ready under magic veils but this fucker just refused to follow her close enough for Damien to chance it. 

Slicing away another laser with her own she glanced over the battle for any ideas, it was then she noticed the sound of an engine roaring. 

What? Her head snapped to the source, a bike grinding through the desert with a very familiar rider, straight through artillery. 

Something hissed in the air. 

Again her neck snapped to it—Superman was pissed. His eyes pointed down and red light gathered around them by the second. "Oh fuck me," She spat out as she turned her whole body towards him. The sound barrier scattered and the air felt hot against her skin as she slammed into him full force. His saliva slashed on her cheek as her punches buried deep into his stomach, tossing him back like a ragdoll. But he was quick to create distance between them. Again, the fucker. 

And then her radio rang, Oracle, "Mira is trying to get to Raven. Cover her," Supergirl wanted to scream at her, but she didn't, a soldier does not do that instead, she calmly said, "Fucking tell me beforehand!" Well, it wasn't as calm as she had hoped but she was sure Superman was about to fry the girl.

God freaking dammit. 

———

——

—

'Like a jackhammer was being pounded over your coffin,' Jason had heard these words being used to describe what it felt to live underground in a warzone. He had never thought he would live out those words though. 

Like mini earthquakes, each time a shell landed it struck the dirt loose, and the ground shook a little, thank God they were in too deep for the real feels. 

"You sure this is gonna work?" The Blue Beetle asked, his hands holding a bullet that had been hollowed out of its contents leaving only the metal part of it.

Jason took a breath as Miss Martian continued to scan the pulsating abomination with her eyes, they were getting somewhere, hopefully soon. 

The green alien but in, "You are gonna puncture the CNS, it should work." 

"You sure?" Blue couldn't help but ask.

She didn't say but he knew her answer. Everyone did. 

"We gotta try anyway." 

"Found it," She jerked towards them, "Right in the middle of the blob." 

His eyes shifted from her to the blob, it was like an amoeba, well, an amoeba of flesh and he could only ask, "And where is that?" 

She stopped, the thing was absurd, it had organs, yeah, but they were so conjoint, even she was not sure it was the CNS she had painted and he had to hit that. With a needle-like bullet when he couldn't even see it. So she came to a decision, "I will aim you." 

"Aim me?" His brows raised instantly but she didn't answer. Rather flying behind him and sliding her arms underneath.

He flushed under his mask, a red creeping on his cheeks. But before he could stutter his armour shifted, the scarab was moving it, from his arm a gun formed, but it was different from the one's had seen. It was split in two at the barrel, an upper jaw and a lower one. 

And blue lightning started spinning between the jaws. A railgun. 

She pulled her arms under his, gently grabbing his wrist and using it like a handle to aim the bullet, moving it carefully as level-headed as she could. But it was not the same for Blue Beetle who pressed down his breath and kept going and let her hands guide him. 

Then, she stopped her movement, holding the railgun steady she whispered, "Aim true."

He responded. Not with his mouth but rather with the crunching of the jaws of his railgun, the ear-splitting sound of thunder leaving his barrel—and a scream of agony from the abomination.