"Some wars begin not with a bang… but with the wrong story told twice."
---
The Stillness of Ink
The sun hung low over Gotham's skyline, gold light spilling across the neon sign of Quinn & Ink. Inside, the familiar whir of tattoo guns hummed like a mechanical lullaby.
Harley sat cross-legged on her chair, her goggles perched on her forehead as she shaded an elaborate phoenix rising from lotus petals across a woman's back. The design wasn't her idea — it was the client's — but Harley added her signature: a thin thread of blue flame curling upward like hope refusing to die.
[Image]
Across the shop, her three apprentices worked quietly.
Juno outlined delicate lacework on a forearm, Rick mixed color palettes with a brush between his teeth and Nadia, the youngest, traced orchids from a sketchbook.
The shop had rhythm. Life. Purpose.
Behind them, Ace practiced her focus — levitating a handful of marbles in a gentle spiral under King's watchful gaze. The air shimmered faintly, a low hum vibrating through the room like a heartbeat.
"Breathe, Ace." King murmured. "Power is not a hand that takes. It's a tide that moves."
The marbles spun slower, steadier. Ace exhaled softly, her eyes glowing violet before dimming back to calm.
"Better." King said. "Your restraint grows every day so does your understanding of your self."
Harley smirked. "She's doin' better than me when I'm tryin' not to buy another espresso machine."
King allowed a small smile. "She learns from good company."
Ace giggled and Harley winked at her. The sound of laughter, the hum of artistry, the faint buzz of creation. For a moment, it was peace.
But peace never lasted long in Gotham.
The Broadcast
At first, it was just static.
A faint distortion on the small wall-mounted TV above Harley's desk.
Rick frowned, tapping the side of it. "Think it's the signal again."
The static grew louder — then the screen went black.
A new signal emerged, crisp, direct, and utterly alien.
"My name is General Zod. I come from a world far from yours…"
The voice carried through every device in the world. Every screen, every phone, every tower.
Across the shop, the apprentices froze.
Ace's marbles clattered to the ground.
Harley's tattoo gun went silent.
On screen, the emblem of the Kryptonian military rotated slowly over a field of gray static.
"For some time, your world has sheltered one of my citizens. I request that you return this individual to my custody. To Kal-El — I say this: Surrender within twenty-four hours or watch this world suffer the consequences of your defiance."
The transmission cut out.
Silence.
The only sound was the faint ticking of the wall clock.
Harley blinked. "…Okay, that ain't our usual Gotham brand of crazy."
Ace looked to King, eyes wide. "He's… like Superman?"
King's expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the now-blank screen. "Yes. But not like him."
He turned, the light in his eyes reflecting the television's dead glass. "This is not a threat born of ambition. This is a creed born of loss."
Harley frowned. "You talk like you know the guy."
King didn't answer right away. His mind was already elsewhere. Deeper, further, beyond comprehension.
The Weaver's Paradox
That night, the shop was quiet. Gotham's usual sirens were muted, the city itself seemingly holding its breath under Zod's ultimatum.
King stood alone on the roof, overlooking the skyline. A solitary silhouette against the endless night.
The wind brushed past him, tugging gently at the shirt he wore, the faint hum of the King Engine pulsing softly within his chest.
He had seen Kryptonians before. He had read the stories, watched their arcs. Gods in human flesh, saviors and destroyers but something about this felt different.
Disjointed.
He closed his eyes and began to think aloud, though no one was there to hear.
"First Gotham," He murmured, "then Metropolis. Then Atlantis rose beneath the seas… each thread from a different tapestry."
His voice deepened, quiet but carrying an unshakable resonance.
"A universe that borrows from every telling, yet belongs to none. The DCAU, the DCEU, the animated films… even their timelines breathe through the same lungs now."
He frowned slightly, the faintest trace of irritation breaking through his calm.
"No rhythm. No structure. As though the storytellers have forgotten what tale they were spinning."
The city lights flickered below him as if in response.
"But still," he whispered, "this world continues to live… and they continue to hope."
From his pocket, he pulled a small raw gem, still glowing faintly with inner light. One of the many he had mined from the molten hearts of volcanoes. A symbol of order, of perfection in chaos.
He rolled it between his fingers.
"Continuity may fracture… yet meaning remains. Perhaps that is enough."
The Silent Oath
Down below, inside Quinn & Ink, Harley flipped the "Open" sign to "Closed."
"Big alien war comin', puddin'?" She asked quietly, half to herself, half to King.
He stepped down from the roof, landing beside her without a sound.
"Perhaps," he said. "But war is never about who strikes first. It's about who remembers what they fight for."
Ace peeked from behind the counter. "Are you going to fight Superman?"
King shook his head. "No. I'll stand beside him. This world deserves guardians not gods."
Harley folded her arms, smirking. "And what are you, big guy?"
King glanced at the dark sky, where faint clouds gathered. His voice was quiet. Almost reflective.
"An anomaly… in a story that forgot how to end."
Harley blinked, then chuckled softly. "You sure you don't wanna start writin' poetry? You'd sell a lotta books."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe one day."
He looked out the window again — toward the distant sky where, soon, Kryptonian ships would descend.
"Until then… I'll just keep this world steady."
The King Engine hummed once. Low and deep and the lights in the shop steadied as though the universe itself found its pulse again.
Read 38 chapters ahead on P.A.T.R.E.O.N
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