Fear Once Again

The thirtieth battleship erupted into a massive fireball, its destruction accompanied by the panicked screams of its crew. Superman emerged from the inferno, his body unharmed, and without hesitation, he shifted direction, locking onto the next target. His red and blue streak cut through the darkness of space like a comet, faster than any tracking system could follow.

To the remaining fleet, Superman was an unstoppable force. His speed rendered him invisible to the naked eye, his movements so precise and rapid that he seemed like a ghost weaving through the formation. The fleet's advanced sensors caught fleeting glimpses of him—a blur, a distortion in the void—but nothing they could lock onto.

What made their fear even worse was the simplicity of Superman's attacks. This wasn't some advanced weapon or technological marvel tearing their fleet apart. It was just him—a lone figure in a cape, using nothing but his fists to dismantle warships designed to withstand interstellar combat. To the soldiers on board, the sight was nothing short of nightmarish. Superman's presence was a mockery of their training, their technology, and everything they believed about warfare.

Yet, not even Superman's seemingly invincible momentum was unstoppable forever.

He shot toward the next battleship, ready to strike. His fist, glowing faintly with the kinetic energy of his flight, crashed forward. But instead of tearing through the hull like before, he hit something invisible—a barrier that seemed to stretch across the vacuum. A loud, clear sound echoed in his ears, like glass shattering. 

The barrier fractured into shimmering shards, scattering into the void like broken mirrors. Superman powered through it, breaking apart the floating fragments as his red and blue form streaked toward the ship. But as he turned to check the damage, his brow furrowed in surprise. The ship was still there, untouched. It floated calmly in formation, as though nothing had happened.

Superman stopped in place, scanning his surroundings. 

Everything was silent.

That silence was unnatural. For Superman, the vacuum of space was rarely quiet. His super-hearing extended across unimaginable distances, picking up the faint hum of starship engines, the mechanical whirs of weapons systems, and even the distant voices of soldiers issuing commands. He could hear the soft vibrations of Earth below, its surface alive with sound. But now, all of that was gone. His ears detected nothing but emptiness.

And then, from the void, something began to emerge.

At first, it was barely perceptible, a faint ripple in the darkness. Then, like a painting taking shape, intricate structures began assembling themselves. Two long, spiraling tails curved outward, forming a circular arc that expanded and twisted. Metallic lines wove through the space, tracing a complex web that grew larger by the second. Sheets of metal unfolded like petals, connecting the lines and forming strange, translucent shapes. Spheres, wires, and plates floated into place, their surfaces glowing faintly as they locked together.

Within moments, the entire scene transformed. The stars behind the fleet became a kaleidoscope of reflections, distorted and fragmented by the massive structure now taking shape. The galaxy itself seemed divided, each piece reflecting off the strange machinery like a hall of mirrors.

On the mothership, cheers erupted. Soldiers who had been paralyzed with fear moments before now celebrated, their hope rekindled.

The bishop had arrived.

The bishop wasn't just a leader of the Church—he was its creator, the being who had founded its empire. Long ago, he had been a scientist, born into a civilization on the brink of destruction. Physically frail and without any special abilities, he had been overshadowed by the warriors and leaders of his time. But while others fought to survive, he turned to technology, seeking a way to transcend his limitations.

In time, he succeeded. The bishop abandoned his mortal body, replacing it with an advanced, self-sustaining machine. His consciousness became one with the technology he created, allowing him to surpass the boundaries of mortality. Over the centuries, he had erased all traces of his former self—his name, his face, his weaknesses—until only the machine remained. Now, he claimed to be a god of technology, untouchable and immortal.

"Dimensional shifting detected," Friday's voice broke through the tension. "He's using advanced spatial manipulation to trap Superman in a localized dimension."

"Can Superman break out of it?" Charlie asked, his voice calm but focused.

"If he flies fast enough, yes," Friday replied. "Alternatively, he could target the source. The manipulator—the bishop—should be nearby."

Charlie activated Superman's super-sensory system. The interface displayed a burst of information, but Superman's senses weren't limited to the visuals on Charlie's screen. Superman's vision extended beyond human comprehension. He could see at the microscopic level, detect wavelengths invisible to the naked eye, and process energy signatures across vast distances.

It didn't take long for him to find the target. Hidden within layers of metallic constructs, a faint, irregular object flickered, almost invisible. But Superman's eyes locked onto it instantly.

"There," Charlie muttered, his lips curling into a determined grin. "Time to end this."

Superman moved, his body bursting forward with a surge of speed that rippled through the void. The air around him seemed to warp and bend as he accelerated, closing the distance in seconds. His fist shot forward, colliding with the hidden figure in a devastating blow. The impact unleashed a shockwave that rattled the floating machinery, sending fragments flying in all directions.

The bishop reacted quickly. The machinery around him shifted, forming a defensive wall of spinning plates and energy fields. He retreated, his mechanical form glowing faintly as he unleashed an invisible counterattack. The strike was faster than light, a weapon capable of piercing planets and reducing them to dust.

The attack hit Superman head-on, knocking him backward in a spiraling arc. For a moment, Charlie's screen shook as the impact registered, but Superman recovered quickly, his cape rippling as he stabilized himself mid-air.

The bishop hesitated, his confidence shaken. His weapon, designed to destroy worlds, had barely left a mark on the intruder. Worse still, Superman's counterattack had breached his defenses. This was no ordinary enemy.

"You're not getting away," Charlie growled, his voice echoing through Superman's resolve. 

Superman surged forward again, faster than before. The bishop's machinery shifted into new shapes, creating barriers and weapons to slow him down. But Superman plowed through them all, his fists smashing apart every obstacle in his path. The bishop's retreat grew desperate as he unleashed his final weapon—a single point of starlight, small but impossibly bright.

"Antimatter," Friday warned. "If it detonates—"

Superman didn't hesitate. His hand shot out, swatting the particle away like a speck of dust. The antimatter exploded harmlessly in the distance, its energy dissipated before it could cause harm.

The bishop, for the first time in centuries, felt something he hadn't experienced since abandoning his mortal form.

Fear.