Demons (Damirae)

Chapter Fifty-One

Taking his seat, Cyborg gestured to Green Lantern, indicating that it was his turn. Blinking with sticky eyes ('hey, it was a rough day at work!'), Hal shoved his seat back, rising to his feet and regretting life. Sometimes, it was incredible being a Justice Leaguer -fighting against those with plans to rule the planet and receiving the love of the public (especially the ladies)- but shit these guys were boring!

This day, as a matter of fact, had been drawn out and mentally draining. Why, if one interesting thing were to happen today, Hal would-

CRASH'

The Leaguers were in action. All of them out of the building in seconds. With the bright city lights glaring and the waxing moon grinning down at them, the heroes raced forwards across the stone courtyard (the Flash reaching the commotion first).

Superman was the first to see it. The group. All breathing, beating, speaking like humans. The shaky, adrenaline-altered du dum.du dum.du dum of their hearts thumping out of synch. The swirling, white tendrils exhaled through their noses and mouths. All of it was human.

Yet, accessorising these attackers was an arsenal of weaponry emanating power. Not kyrptonian, or any other alien power Clark had come across in all his years; something different. In their arms, these would-be assailants cradled what appeared to be guns (monsters of burnished metal mounded in to chunking weapons with glimmering white peeking out at odd junctions). What the whitish parts were, Clark didn't know, though he figured that had something to do with the energy surging from the group.

Come to think of it, that was a heck -rather, Hell- of a lot like the power radiating from the Titan's empath. Purely coincidental? Perhaps.

Not entirely crossing to meet the black-clad group (twenty-seven individuals), the Justice Leaguers present faced them, striking one of those fabulously powerful poses they managed to pull of flawlessly every single time.

"What is if that you want?", Wonderwoman opened, her voice as forceful as the lasso at her waist.

A man steeped forth from those before them, tall, plain, angry, noting so special. With a full audience of passers by and police- at a safe distance- the man responded in an ill-tempered shout.

"YOUR DEATH!"

And he charged. The stupid man.
Did he truly believe that a gun could prevent Superman from flattening him.

Soon to be followed by his 'friends', the man ran at the Kryptonion, gun in arm, scream leaving his mouth. Meeting the challenge with little enthusiasm, Clark stepped off the courtyard floor, striding leisurely towards the riled mob as his fellow teammates launched at the gun-carriers.

Holding all faith that his bullet-resistance would prevail, Clark drew nearer to the man who'd spoken, one arm raised, palm flat.

"Why don't you just-"

The Southern-Alien was cut short by a rippling pain striking his shoulder, tearing the flesh and forcing red to seep from the wound.

That was no bullet.

Clark's eyes travelled from the gaping wound to the man, thinning as they pinned the individual with a glare fitting of Superman's power. Cocking his head, the Kryptonian moved like a viper, striking the man in a millisecond. A well-placed blow (light enough so as to only render the man comatose) and he was unconscious.