Planet Nebellion, refugee haven and Kree Outpost.
The outer reaches of the known universe;
Neutral territory.
War had come, and this was the end for Nebellion.
Projectiles were flaring above, the hellships were raining fire upon the encampments. The last bastion of Kree outriders placed on this backwaters planet were being destroyed. The sky had been turned black and the rain was acidic. The air stung to take in, each breath like hard labor. The sword hilt was shattered, the plasma blaster slung over his shoulder had run dry. All he saw were corpses of his fellow outriders and the civilians they were here to protect. He fired his handgun, once parademon down. Another shot, another kill. He advanced, pushing towards his fellow soldiers, towards his friends. Rolling under an incoming claw, he fired again. A loud explosion made his ears ring. He heard cries for help. He heard his friends. He rushed to their aid, finding four of his squadmates, protecting a small group of the local population. There’s a rush of emotions, almost enough to dare for hope.
“Captain Cal-Sur-Dar! Thank the stars!” One of his men yelped, returning fire on the parademons advancing. Cal-Sur-Dar aids them in their battle, taking position in the makeshift trench as he opens up his communicator.
“Reinforcements on my position! Attack Plan BX-09; Artillery at my flank, give me cover!” He barks orders and the militia forces answer.
The mortars behind him fire, and a pilot from an ally ship provides gatling fire, breaking free from the dogfight in the sky, the parademons ahead evaporate and the five of them manage to secure the civilians. A quick swig of water rejuvenates him. Maybe they can do this after all. He gets medical treatment and a chance to resupply.
Armed with new equipment, he rushes to the battlefield once more, flanked by his four squadmates. Slashing and shooting at every parademon in sight. But for every three the Kree forces take out, the Parademons take one of theirs. And the demon's numbers are near inexhaustible.
The battle has been raging for two days now. No rest, no breaks. No food and no sleep. Cal-Sur-Duran is tired and hurt. The enemies do not tire.
He is so very exhausted. Breath ragged, his armor has begun melting from the acidic rain. He knows full well that soon, nothing will protect him or the other outriders. With the outriders dead, nothing can stop the parademons and their masters from establishing a hellpit on this world, dooming it forever. Slaying all of the civilians and advancing their charge on the rest of the Kree Empire - and then, the universe.
The mortars are destroyed, and he no longer believes there’s an ally ship still in the sky.
He thinks about the mission. Fending off Apokolips. Saving the greater universe from this insurmountable threat. The super intelligence dictated that the outriders would be able to hold them back, and for the first time in Cal-Sur’s life… He doubts their supreme leader. They can’t do this, can they? Another slash, his blade pierces another demon, a shot is fired, followed by another. A friend is lost, and more parademons fly in from that fortress of doom hovering in the sky. There is nothing they can do, no orders left to give. No reinforcement to call for, no equipment to resupply with.
Isolated and forgotten. Abandoned to the cold arms of the uncaring reality of the universe. A claw slashes his face, he returns in kind with a barrel to a demon’s eye and a swift pressuring of the trigger, exterminating another vermin. Turning the demon into a mist of black blood. Once, he was appalled by such violence. Then, he grew to find it intoxicating. Now, it was numbing. He didn’t feel anything anymore. There was no hope, no chance of victory. They were alone.
Looking around, he realized that his squad had been defeated. Their position lost, nothing left but one last battle zone before the demons reached the unarmed civilian encampment and the heart of the planet.
It was just him. A captain with no army. He was alone.
He fell to his knees, dropping his rifle and sword, weakly aiming his sidearm at the incoming foes. Four legions of parademons marched on the horizon. His side was bleeding, he couldn’t feel his arm. Hopelessness crushing him. The rain breaking through his skin through cracks in the armor, each drop burning.
Suddenly a boom was heard from the sky, breaking through the clouds. Smashing through the blockade, something hovered above him, drawing the attention of the legions of Parademons ahead, stopping them in their steps as a distraction.
It was a small ship. Barely fit to carry ten men.
Suddenly, a beam of light was erected in front of Cal-Sur from the ship. From it, three beings emerged. One was holding a mace-like weapon, feathery wings on her back and a silver beak. The second had orange skin and eyes that burned like embers. Bearing the marks Cal-Sur knew well. He was a former slave of the Psions - one of the Kree’s business partners.
And in the middle stood he. Hulking in size, in a suit of armor of onyx and ruby, he radiated powe. A silver helmet upon his head, and eyes blazing with fury. Cal-Sur had no idea who these people were, but he could tell they were no friends of the parademons. The Thanagarian let out a screech as her Tamaranean partner erupted a wall of fire around them, buying them some privacy.
The behemoth of a man spoke, and his voice thundered. His eyes flickering as he looked at the forces ahead of them. More enemies filing in. As if… He wanted them to. The massive man then spoke to the Kree captain, his eyes still fixed on the enemies in the distance.
Cal-Sur’s hairs were raised, it was like being in the presence of nothing he had never imagined before. Tears were running down his face, mixing with the blood leaking out of the many cuts he had sustained. Staining the darkened battlefield. He did not understand who these people were, and he did not care. It wouldn’t matter, it couldn’t matter.
”Cal-Sur-Duran of the Kree Empire. You have lost much today. Perhaps more than anyone can bear. You are broken and defeated.” The stranger walked behind him, securing something. Cal-Sur couldn’t move to check.
The rifle in the ruby-clad man’s hand began glowing as it changed forms, turning into an ornate double-bladed glaive. The parademons were moving through the wall of fire, advancing on their positions. The Thanagarian tightened the grip on her mace. The Tamaraneans' eyes intensified in their glow, and fire erupted from his hands. The four legions had turned into forty. How can they be so many?
There were more parademons in front of them than Cal-Sur had seen during the entire battle. This was impossible. Who do these three think they are? There’s just three of them, they’re all alone. There’s nothing that can be done against such a crushing foe.
“Who… Who are you?!” The broken Kree Captain demanded to know, his voice hoarse and weak.
”Orion of Titan. We are Warmakers. The enemy is not insurmountable. They will fall. We do what we must.”
Cal-Sur’s eyes widened, he couldn’t believe it. There was no fear in any of these three. Walked past the kneeling Kree. His voice boomed once more.
”In a fight against an overwhelming opponent, you are standing against impossible odds. Learn this lesson well;
You will never stand alone."
Orion’s visor lowered over his face, obstructing the glowing red eyes.
”We hunt.” Orion reaffirmed to his two partners.
All three of them pushed the incoming forces with incredible speed in one direction each. Twirling the warglaive, it began spinning at an impossible speed. Orion charged the legions with incredible control of the weapon. The very first swing of his blade cut a parademon in two, then another six demons in the very same swing. Orion tore through the enemy while his two allies secured the perimeter, pushing the enemies towards their leader. Ripping and tearing through every foe in his path, no mercy and no hesitation.
Witnessing parademons getting brutalized, The Kree saw something in them. Within the hurricane of violence that was Orion he saw it on every parademon right before being destroyed. And then the emotion was inherited by next in file. In each and every one of the parademons, an enemy that had only ever expressed animalistic mindless violence, now displayed an emotion painted on each of their ranks. That very same emotion that Cal-Sur and his men felt when the flying Ziggaraut appeared at the start of the battle.
They were afraid. Like caged animals before the slaughter.
The demons could be made to Fear.
They were Warmakers, and war had come for the forces of Apokolips.
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