Rain hammered the cracked concrete of the Gotham alley, mixing with the thick, metallic tang of fresh blood. Slade Wilson tightened his grip on his Promethium broadsword, his boots sliding slightly on the slick pavement. Across from him stood a towering meta-human, muscles bulging with chemically induced rage and eyes glowing a sickly green. Chemical enhancements coursed through the monster's veins, granting it strength that could rival a Kryptonian's lesser feats. "You're out of your depth, old man," the beast roared, lunging forward with fists like wrecking balls. Dodging left, Slade let the brute's momentum carry him past, slicing a shallow gouge across the giant's thick thigh. Black blood spurted, but the creature barely flinched, spinning around to catch Slade in a devastating bear hug. Ribs groaned under the pressure of the meta-human's enhanced grip, the carbon-fiber armor of Slade's suit compressing dangerously. Slade spit blood inside his orange-and-black helmet, his single eye narrowing as he calculated the force needed to break the hold. His enhanced brain worked nine times faster than a normal man's, analyzing the structural weakness in the brute's stance. Pressing his thumbs directly into the monster's eye sockets, he ignored the wet squelch and the agonizing scream that followed. Every agonizing sensation was just data, a signal to be processed and discarded in favor of absolute victory. Before the creature could collapse, a blinding flash of violet light erupted from the wet asphalt beneath them. Air rushed out of Slade's lungs as a gravity-defying pull dragged him downward, tearing him away from his opponent. Colors bled together into a sickening smear of neon and shadow, the cold rain vanishing in an instant. Reality itself seemed to fold like paper, crushing his chest and twisting his limbs in directions they were never meant to go. Control, the one thing he prized above all else, was stripped away in a heartbeat. To be powerless was to be dead, and the terrifying sensation of falling through the void made his enhanced heart hammer against his ribs. Gravity reasserted itself with brutal force, slamming him face-first into a shifting, scorching surface. --- Heat, dry and suffocating, hit him like a physical blow. Gasps of dry air filled his lungs, burning his throat as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Coarse, reddish-yellow sand poured off his shoulder plates, whispering against the metal. His tactical HUD flickered wildly inside his helmet, static buzzing in his ear before the display stabilized. "Warning: Extreme ambient temperature detected," a synthesized voice chimed in his ear. "Atmospheric composition: Breathable, low moisture." Squinting against a blinding glare, Slade looked up to see two massive, brilliant spheres hanging in a copper-colored sky. Twin suns beat down on a vast, undulating ocean of sand dunes that stretched out to the horizon in every direction. Gotham was gone. This was not a magic trick by some low-rent magician like Zatanna, nor was it a Boom Tube from Apokolips. Silence hung heavy over the desert, broken only by the low, whistling wind that whipped fine grains of sand against his armor. Slade stood up slowly, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. Biological systems adapted quickly, repairing the micro-tears in his muscle tissue from the previous grapple. Where was he? Reaching down, he checked his utility belt, finding his signature dual blaster pistols, his customized assault rifle, and his Promethium sword. Everything was intact, though covered in a fine layer of grit. A sharp crack suddenly echoed over the dunes, followed by a succession of high-pitched, metallic pops. It sounded like gunfire, but the pitch was entirely wrong—sharper, cleaner, accompanied by the distinct smell of ozone. Curiosity, tempered by absolute caution, guided his steps as he kept low, moving up a steep dune to peer over the crest. Below him, in a shallow basin, a chaotic skirmish was unfolding. A rusted, tank-like vehicle lay tilted on its side, black smoke billowing from its exposed undercarriage. Several short, hooded figures clad in brown robes were scurrying around the wreckage, shrieking in high-pitched, guttural voices. "Utinni! Utinni!" they cried, firing small, blocky blasters that spat bright rings of blue energy. Firing back at them from behind rock formations were taller, humanoid figures wearing mismatched armor plates and dusty ponchos. These larger attackers held long, sleek rifles that fired brilliant red bolts of superheated plasma. One of those red bolts caught a hooded creature directly in the chest, vaporizing its robes and sending it flying backward. No gunpowder. No bullet casings. Such energy weapons operated on a level of technology that exceeded standard Earth military gear. Slade watched with cold, analytical precision, his tactical processor cataloging the firing rates, projectile speeds, and destructive capabilities of the weapons. He noted that the red plasma bolts melted solid rock on impact, indicating extreme thermal energy. "Identify language," Slade muttered, activating the translation matrix in his suit's computer. His HUD scrolled through thousands of Earth databases, returning zero matches for the frantic shrieks of the hooded creatures. However, the attackers in ponchos were shouting in a harsh, clipped dialect that sounded vaguely familiar to his linguistic processor's core phonetics. "Flank them!" one of the armored humanoids barked, his voice amplified by a crude helmet comm. "Don't let them ruin the cargo!" Slade's tactical processor analyzed the syntax, quickly building a translation bridge based on root galactic vocalizations. Within seconds, the alien tongue began to translate into clear English text on his visor. Apparently, these hooded creatures were scavengers, defending their salvage from a band of ruthless raiders. Survival in an unknown territory demanded information, and the best way to get information was to capture a survivor. He unholstered one of his modified blasters, checking the power cell with a practiced flick of his thumb. A sudden whistle from above made him dive to the side. Superheated plasma struck the crest of the dune where he had been lying, instantly glassing the sand into a jagged shard of green obsidian. "We've got a lurker on the ridge!" a raider shouted, pointing a long rifle toward Slade's position. "Kill it!" Three of the raiders turned their weapons toward him, unleashing a volley of red energy bolts. Slade rolled down the slope, using his enhanced reflexes to dodge the incoming fire as the sand exploded around him. Adrenaline surged through his veins, replacing the lingering disorientation with a cold, focused resolve to dominate this battlefield. He didn't know this planet, he didn't know these people, but he knew how to kill. Coming out of his roll, Slade rose to one knee, raising his blaster pistol and firing three perfectly spaced shots. Heavy kinetic rounds from his weapon tore through the air, catching the lead raider in the throat. Blood sprayed, and the man collapsed, his rifle clattering to the ground. Remaining raiders paused, clearly shocked by the sheer speed and lethality of the stranger's counterattack. "What kind of slugthrower is that?!" one of them yelled, retreating behind a boulder. Slade didn't give them time to adapt. He sprinted down the dune, his enhanced physical speed making him a blur against the shimmering heat waves. Closing the distance in seconds, he vaulted over a jagged rock formation, coming down directly in front of the second raider. Before the alien could raise his rifle, Slade's Promethium broadsword cleared its scabbard with a sharp hiss. A single, horizontal sweep severed the raider's weapon and his chest plate, leaving a clean, diagonal line of dark blood across the sand. Third raider scrambled backward, frantically trying to reload his overheating blaster rifle. Slade stepped forward, his heavy boot pinning the raider's wrist to the ground with enough force to shatter bone. Sickening crunch echoed through the canyon, followed by a high-pitched scream of agony. "Who are you working for?" Slade demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly quiet. Translation matrix in his helmet broadcast his words into the local dialect, sounding harsh and commanding. Raider gasped, his eyes wide with terror as he stared up at the terrifying orange-and-black mask. "J-Jabba..." the raider whimpered, clutching his broken wrist. "We're under Jabba's contract... please..." Slade's mind logged the name. Jabba. A local warlord, most likely. Before he could press for more information, a strange vibration shook the ground beneath his feet. Low rumbling filled the air, vibrating through the soles of his boots. Surviving hooded scavengers scattered into the canyons, abandoning their wrecked vehicle in a panic. Something else was coming. Slade released the raider, stepping back and scanning the horizon with his single eye. His tactical HUD detected a massive energy signature approaching from behind the eastern dunes. A hulking, green-skinned alien with a sonic rifle rounds a sand dune, its beady eyes locking onto Slade as a blood-curdling roar echoes across the desolate landscape.

Chapter 1: Scarlet Skies, Twin Suns