New SHAZAM in Flashpoint World - Chapter 20
Chapter 20: The Doomed Charge
The hours following Alternate Barry’s successful, if terrifying, re-immersion into the Speed Force were a blur of tense preparation and grim anticipation within the echoing confines of the Batcave. Zod’s twenty-four-hour deadline was a rapidly evaporating window, each tick of an unseen clock a hammer blow against their dwindling hopes. News channels, monitored on the vast, central screen of the Batcomputer, had begun to report strange atmospheric phenomena, unidentified objects tracked on long-range military radar, and a growing, global sense of unease. The prelude to invasion.
Alternate Barry, now vibrating with a renewed, almost manic energy, zipped around the cave, testing his regained speed, a crimson blur against the dusty grey stone. He was still raw, still processing the jolt of nearly dying twice, but the Speed Force was a healing balm, and the sheer joy of being The Flash again was a potent antidote to his earlier despair. Tracksuit Barry, while immensely relieved, watched his alternate self with a mixture of pride and profound anxiety, occasionally offering quiet advice on control and finesse, lessons learned from his own more extensive experience.
Bruce Wayne, a figure of stone and shadow, had retreated into a deeper, more focused version of his earlier stoicism. The grudging agreement to help had apparently reactivated dormant protocols, flickers of the old Batman stirring beneath the layers of cynicism and grief. He moved with a slow, deliberate purpose, analyzing the incoming data streams on Zod’s fleet, his brilliant tactical mind, however rusty, beginning to formulate strategies, calculate odds, and prepare for what he clearly viewed as an almost certainly unwinnable war. He spoke little, his commands, when they came, were curt, precise, and brooked no argument.
Jack, in his Super Jack persona, found himself an observer for much of this. He was a living weapon, a divine powerhouse, but he was no strategist, no seasoned general. He watched Bruce work, a strange mixture of fanboy awe and profound unease churning within him. This was Batman, stripped of his prime, running on fumes and bitter resolve, yet still undeniably Batman. The Wisdom of Solomon allowed Jack to follow the complexities of Wayne’s analysis, to understand the terrifying implications of the Kryptonian fleet’s capabilities, but it offered no easy solutions, no magical counter-strategies. It only confirmed how astronomically outmatched they were.
The main focus of Wayne’s physical preparations was a suit of armor, something clearly beyond standard military grade, that was being assembled in a cordoned-off section of the cave with the help of automated robotic arms. It was charcoal grey, almost black, heavily plated, with a reinforced cowl that hinted at the iconic silhouette. It wasn’t sleek or elegant; it was brutalist, functional, designed for survivability and perhaps to augment an aging human’s strength, to allow him to stand on a battlefield populated by gods and monsters. Jack noted the various hardpoints, the specialized compartments – this was a suit built for war, equipped with contingencies he could only guess at.
“The fleet has breached the outer atmosphere,” Bruce announced, his voice devoid of inflection, cutting through the low hum of the Batcomputer. On the main screen, a terrifying image resolved: a phalanx of massive, black, V-shaped Kryptonian ships, like a swarm of colossal, predatory insects, descending through the upper stratosphere, their forms briefly igniting with re-entry heat. “They’re holding a high geostationary orbit, but several smaller ships are detaching, likely scout or troop carriers. Their trajectory indicates a probable interest in major population centers. We can’t allow that.”
“So, where do we meet them?” Tracksuit Barry asked, his voice tight.
“Somewhere remote,” Wayne stated. “Somewhere the collateral damage will be… minimized.” He brought up a topographical map of a vast, uninhabited desert region several hundred miles from any significant city. “Here. We draw them out. Make our stand.”
The logistics were discussed with grim efficiency. The Flashes, of course, could run there in minutes. Jack could fly. For Bruce, an older, heavily modified version of what Jack recognized as the Batwing – more an armored gunship than a sleek stealth fighter – was already being prepped in a hidden launch bay.
The journey to the desert was a somber affair. Jack flew high above the Batwing, a crimson and gold sentinel against the darkening sky, the two Flashes streaks of red lightning far below. The world beneath them seemed oblivious, still caught in the initial stages of confusion and dawning fear, unaware of the cataclysm poised to erupt in one of its most desolate corners.
They arrived as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the western sky in angry hues of orange and purple. The desert was vast, empty, a stark, beautiful, and utterly indifferent landscape of sand dunes, rocky mesas, and dried-up riverbeds. The air was cool, the silence profound. It was, Jack thought with a grimace, a perfect place to die.
And then, the sky began to fall.
One by one, like malevolent stars being born, the Kryptonian ships pierced the stratosphere, descending with an eerie, silent grace that was far more terrifying than any roaring engine. They were immense, their black, angular hulls blotting out the remaining light, casting the desert into a premature, oppressive twilight. A colossal mother ship, the Black Zero from his movie-fueled nightmares, hung impossibly high, a dark god overlooking the coming slaughter, while dozens of smaller, sleeker troop carriers and gunships detached, fanning out, their intentions unmistakable.
Jack landed softly on a flat, rocky outcrop, the two Flashes skidding to a halt beside him. A short distance away, the Batwing touched down with a whisper of its advanced engines, and from it emerged Bruce Wayne, now fully encased in his new, armored Batsuit. He looked like a golem of vengeance, a dark, formidable figure, the iconic cowl casting his face in impenetrable shadow. He moved with a stiffness that betrayed his age, but also with an undeniable, resolute power.
The four of them stood there, a tiny, disparate band against an overwhelming armada. Jack in his bright, almost offensively optimistic Shazam suit. Batman, a creature of darkness and grim purpose. The two Flashes, vibrating with barely contained speed and nervous energy. They were an absurd collection of hope, despair, and raw power, facing down an extinction-level threat.
A tense, suffocating silence descended, broken only by the faint whisper of the desert wind. They waited. The Kryptonian ships hovered, a silent, menacing constellation, their dark undersides promising untold destruction.
It was in this pregnant, terrifying pause, with doom literally hanging inches above their heads, that Jack’s coping mechanism, his dark, gallows humor, finally broke through the tension that was threatening to choke him.
He let out a short, nervous laugh, the sound shockingly loud in the stillness. He glanced at his companions: Batman, a stoic black statue; Tracksuit Barry, his jaw tight, his eyes darting across the sky; Alternate Barry, practically vibrating out of his boots.
“Anyone else,” Super Jack said, his voice carrying a deliberate, if slightly shaky, lightness, “feel like we’re the world’s weirdest garage band about to play for a really hostile audience?”
Alternate Barry managed a weak, terrified grin. Tracksuit Barry just shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips, though Jack thought he saw the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. Batman, predictably, remained impassive, his attention fixed on the descending Kryptonian ships.
The joke, lame as it was, had momentarily pricked the bubble of unbearable tension. Underneath the forced levity, Jack was terrified. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the steady thrum of divine power within him. This was it. The moment he’d seen in the movie, the moment he’d read about in countless comics. The impossible battle, the desperate last stand. He was a fanboy about to live out the ultimate, and quite possibly final, superhero crossover event, with himself inexplicably cast as one of the lead characters. His life, he reflected with a sense of profound, almost comical disbelief, had taken a very, very strange turn.
As if in response to his thoughts, the first wave of Kryptonian troop carriers began their final descent, their sleek, black forms angling towards the desert floor. The battle for Earth was about to begin.