Chapter 97: Mad Genius Grandpa
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The Jokester hadn't dragged Diamondhead very far when Dean's shimmering crystal form flickered, fracturing like glass before vanishing entirely. He slumped back into his human body, weak and barely conscious. His voice came out cracked, but laced with dry sarcasm:
"Mr. J… can't you call someone to help?"
The Jokester's eyes lit up, that unmistakable manic twinkle flaring to life.
"You're a genius, my sparkly savior! Of course!" he chirped. "I'll call Bane, he's massive. He can lift you like a bag of groceries and carry you home!"
Just imagining it sent a dull ache through Dean's lower back. He winced.
"Let's… let's not. Literally anyone else. Anyone but Bane."
The air cracked.
A bolt of violet lightning split the space before them, striking the pavement like divine punctuation. From the burning light stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man with sharp eyes and a lion's mane of dark curls. His coat billowed around him, crackling with residual static.
"Then let me do it," he said with calm confidence.
He approached the two with a nod of practiced diplomacy.
"An honor to meet you at last, Savior. I'm Alexander Luthor."
The moment Luthor's eyes fell on the Jokester, his expression twisted in to frown.
"Red Hood," he said calmly, noting the painted grin and blood-spattered garb, "I suggest you mask up. If the troops see your actual face, morale might… dip."
The Jokester made a theatrical gasp and touched his own face as if betrayed by it.
"You're so right. I'll wear my hood next time. Maybe something in black. Something tragic."
But before Luthor could respond, a tired chuckle came from the ground.
Dean, still sprawled and aching, looked up at the Jokester. His vision blurred, but his voice carried a warmth rarely heard in Gotham—or its mirror image.
"No need to hide." He smiled despite the pain. "A real leader doesn't hide behind a mask. Mr. J… maybe it was your face that rallied the rebels."
"They won't abandon you for the way you look. Your face—it's more monstrous than the devil's… and your smile, it's more sincere than any angel's."
Dean let his head fall back.
"Keep smiling, Mr. J. Smailu~."
The Jokester blinked—and then his eyes shimmered. Not with tears, but something dangerously close. He stood straighter, grin widening, almost reverent.
"Hahaha! And that's why you're the Savior. You've got better lines than our best writers!"
Luthor, meanwhile, stood silently. But his smile was tight.
This wasn't the plan. He'd wanted the Jokester hidden behind the mask of "Red Hood," a symbol that could be replaced when needed—exchanged like a pawn on a cosmic board.
But now?
Now he had a personality cult on his hands. He clasped his hands behind his back, his voice smooth but clipped.
"Mr. Savior's tastes are… unconventional," he said. "But this isn't the place for discussion. Let's return to the base. Quickly."
Though the Criminal Syndicate had ruled for five brutal years, Gotham still bred survivors. Innovators. Fighters. And the Rebellion, though battered, had found new momentum.
Their new base was unlike anything the Syndicate had—hidden within the Rock of Eternity, repurposed from myth into strategy. Once the realm of the wizard Zansa, it had become a fortified stronghold, accessible only through Luthor's magic.
Unlike the Lex Luthor of the main universe, this Alexander Luthor was steeped not in science, but in sorcery—wielding the power of Mazahs, not Shazam.
"Luthor's back! And he brought the Savior!"
"It's true! I saw it with my own eyes he shattered them all! We have a chance now!"
Word spread fast. The rebellion surged with hope again. Many had seen footage of the crystalline warrior slicing through the Syndicate's elite—of Dean standing defiant where all others fell.
For the first time in years, they believed.
But for Dean… it felt heavier than ever. The stares. The whispered awe. The expectation.
He could crush the Syndicate, yes. But the Anti-Monitor? That was something else entirely.
So long as that being lived, Earth-3's fate remained sealed. Even if he bought them time, he couldn't change the end. Because once the Anti-Life Equation took root, it would consume everything.
And these hopeful faces?
They would become fuel for its fire.
---
He was quickly rushed into medical treatment. Though he protested, the rebellion's lead doctor insisted—he had to be scanned, examined, healed.
The Horse Talisman from the magic set had accelerated his recovery. The verdict was clear:
"You'll live. But rest. Mandatory."
He was assigned the best recovery chamber, and the moment his adrenaline dropped, his consciousness unraveled.
Dean collapsed into sleep.
Luthor watched silently from the edge of the room, fingers twitching with restrained power. A subtle glow crept up his palms—violet, eldritch.
He pressed that energy gently toward Dean's slumbering form, whispering a subtle incantation.
Deeper… deeper… into his mind.
He needed answers. Visions. Leverage.
Who are you really, "Savior"?
SSSSSHHHH—
A sound tore through the spiritual plane like razor wire across silk.
Suddenly—
THWIP.
From Dean's sleeping head, tentacles of void-black shadow surged out—shaped like living ink, eyes flickering along their slick surfaces.
They latched onto Luthor's spiritual tether and ripped it apart.
"AAAGH—!"
He staggered back, hand clasped over his face. Blood spilled through his fingers, droplets spattering across the marble floor. He looked up at Dean with sheer terror in his eyes.
That… that wasn't normal. That wasn't human.
Without another word, Alexander Luthor vanished into mist.
Meanwhile, in the main universe…
Deep within her soul dimension, Raven, currently in her Third House form, floated among the swirling shadows and cosmic embers of her inner world. Her body was more essence than matter, layered in darkness, eyes multiplied and aglow like burning embers.
Beside her, Starfire hovered effortlessly, bright and radiant like a sunbeam piercing the void. They stood across from one another in the weightless ether, their voices echoing like thoughts across a still ocean.
"So… is this what you really look like?" Starfire asked, curiosity twinkling in her tone as her eyes traced the celestial contours of Raven's transformed form.
Raven didn't hesitate.
"Not entirely," she admitted. Her voice was cool, calm—centered. "This is just a state I prefer right now. It's… comfortable."
She paused, and her thoughts drifted—to Dean.
"I can shift back to my human form if needed. But I'm not in a rush."
Starfire's expression softened into one of quiet envy.
"I wish I could switch between forms like that," she said wistfully. "To be human… and Tamaranian… when I wanted."
Raven reached forward, gently pressing her clawed fingers to the sides of Starfire's face, looking her dead-on.
"Kory, except for your eyes, you're already indistinguishable from Earthlings," Raven said matter-of-factly. "And with the number of superhumans on Earth these days, you're more human than half of them."
The words were meant as comfort—and for a moment, they worked.
But then—Raven's body suddenly tensed.
All six of her glowing eyes burst into flame, flaring violently.
Starfire recoiled, startled. "Raven?! What is it? Is it the Trigon again? Or—"
Raven's voice was low. Gritted.
"No. It's a trap. One I planted… in Dean's soul." Her aura flared with rising fury.
"Someone's trying to invade him."
Her teeth clenched.
"UNFORGIVABLE."
A growl built in her throat—monstrous and murderous.
"HIS SOUL BELONGS ONLY TO ME."
---
Dean hadn't dreamed in a long time.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he didn't rest—he entered the system space. A liminal void. Still. Reflective. The pool shimmered beside him as he sat at its edge, legs dipped in memory and thought, weighing every next move like a chess master in check.
Before coming to Earth-3, he thought it was already over. That the world had been completely devoured by the Criminal Syndicate, that nothing remained but ashes and tyrants.
But then the Shenlong came—and everything changed.
The Anti-Monitor had destroyed only half the planet.
And the dragon-headed monster the Jokester mentioned? Dean was sure now: that was the fully powered Shenlong. He must've faced the Anti-Monitor head-on and lost—beaten so thoroughly he was reduced to a statue, six talismans scattered across Earth-3 like broken armor.
And then, somehow, he escaped. Slipped through the Pandora's Demon Box, dragging his broken pride into the main universe.
It was almost… pitiful.
But also dangerous.
"The Shenlong doesn't let things go. He's vengeful. And reckless."
Dean thought of an uneasy truth: there might still be a way to cooperate with him. Even as enemies.
"But I've already pissed him off too many times…"
He imagined the Shenlong grinding his fangs in frustration—especially now that Batman was probably chasing down the Riddler, who the Shenlong had possessed.
He'd laid low for centuries, building his plans like a spider weaves a web—and then Dean came along. A wildcard who knew the source of the spells. Who guessed the real puppet master. Who ruined a millennium's worth of plotting with one confrontation.
"If I were him, I'd hate me too."
Dean exhaled slowly.
His mind shifted to the prophecy.
"The 'Savior.' Why me?"
He knew only two types of beings could truly predict the future: magicians and speedsters. But the way the prophecy was phrased… the one who spoke it—he had a hunch.
"Was it… my mother?"
If so, why would she call him the savior? It wasn't like he'd done anything worth that title. Not yet.
"Unless…"
Unless she wasn't predicting something… She was remembering it.
Maybe saving Earth-3 was already written into history, and he was simply walking toward a fate that had already happened once before.
But it didn't feel that way. It felt like drowning in the future. Because when he looked ahead, all he saw was one face.
The Anti-Monitor.
The being that defeated Darkseid, shattered the Justice Legion, and turned entire timelines into dust.
Shenlong got turned into stone after fighting him.
And Dean?
He had a watch.
It held over 10,000 alien DNA samples. But most of them weren't fighters. The Omnitrix wasn't a weapon—it was made to foster peace, understanding, connection. So among all those forms… there were farmers. Diplomats. Children. Earthlings.
But one race stood out.
"Alien-X…"
The most powerful species in the Omnitrix.
Not a name, but a classification. An alien race known as the Outer Celestials—beings of near-omnipotence.
Reality distortion. Multiverse manipulation. Timelines bent like paper.
To Dean, Alien-X was like a weaker version of Doctor Manhattan—except not alone.
They had a society. A shared power network.
Where Manhattan stood as one, the Outer Celestials stood as many—and shared their strength freely.
A single Alien-X could rival a god.
A group of them? They were beyond gods.
If Dean could unlock that transformation, the Anti-Monitor wouldn't be a threat.
But then… Dean might become the threat.
Because Alien-X had one flaw.
The Trinity Core.
Three minds. Three wills. Every action had to be unanimously agreed upon. If even one part of Dean resisted, disagreed, or broke rank…
He'd be trapped. Lost inside the shared mindscape forever. A prisoner inside his own power.
"Alien-X is the answer to every problem… except the one you didn't ask."
Dean sighed. His mind shifted again. "Maybe I've been looking at this wrong. I don't need to defeat the Anti-Monitor. I just need to save people."
And that meant one thing:
Run.
It wasn't cowardice. It was a strategy.
If he could destroy the Syndicate before the Anti-Monitor returned, and evacuate the survivors from Earth-3, he could sidestep annihilation completely.
And, as it turned out… he knew where to get help.
Dean stood before the tag slot machine, eyeing the three open drawing methods available to him. His first draw from the random pool had already been wasted—bad luck that left a bad taste.
Unstable results would only lead to an unstable future.
The Pokémon pool? Tempting, sure, but Dean couldn't think of a single item in there that would actually help him with the crisis at hand. Not unless he wanted to throw a Poké Ball at the Anti-Monitor.
That left only one real choice.
He stepped up, fingers dancing over the screen, and entered two keywords:
[Universe] [Teleport]
Total cost: 300 points.
He had just enough—200 points from the hero he killed, 100 more from covering the rebels' retreat. A clean trade.
Dean exhaled and pressed the Draw button.
The slot machine roared to life. Lights flashed, music blared—a techno-futuristic melody that ratcheted up his anxiety with every note. Dean's heart thumped in sync with the beat.
"Come on… let this be good."
The spinning aperture finally slowed… and stopped on a black "Y"-shaped shadow.
The item cabinet rose slowly, hissing open. This time, instead of just a flashy jingle, there was also a voice—gravelly, sarcastic, and unmistakably drunk.
"[Hiccup~] I wasn't originally interested in joining this 'Dimensional Mutual Aid Association'—seriously, it sounds like a PTA meeting for multiversal burnouts—but Morty kept pestering me to help you out, so… here I am. Reluctantly providing some tech support. Cough. But you're gonna need a gargantuan—"
Static and background noise interrupted the rest of the message, but Dean was too stunned to care.
That voice was Rick Sanchez.
Ignoring the noise, Dean reached into the cabinet and retrieved the item. The moment he touched it, recognition slammed into him like a freight train.
[Name: Teleport Gun]
[Type: Weapon]
[Quality: ★★★★★★★]
[Attack Power: Normal]
[Attribute: Technology]
[Special Effect: Dimensional Teleportation]
[Description: The appearance resembles a handheld scanner. The glass chamber at the end holds an unstable green teleportation fluid. Usage is similar to a standard firearm: aim, pull the trigger, and fire the fluid to generate a portal. The portal can open a path to any location—or even a parallel universe.]
[PS: That bastard alpaca didn't give me the Pokémon I asked for. Just twelve Poké Balls and no instructions. So I gave you Morty's dead grandpa's teleporter gun instead. But I didn't include the recipe for the teleportation fluid. Haha, good luck with that!]
[Morty! You ready? We're heading to that alpaca's universe. Time to become Pokémon Masters! Rick and Morty adventure forever, baby!]
Dean stared at the ridiculous, rambling PS. Then his eyes shifted to the stars.
1
2
3
4
5
…6...7
Seven fucking stars.
It was real. This was the iconic Rick's Teleportation Gun.
He looked back at the slot machine and finally understood the design—familiar, tacky, unmistakable. A miniature of Rick's private toilet… only instead of a porcelain throne, there was a vending machine that sold miracles.
"So… my Goldfinger was partly built by Rick Sanchez."
Dean rubbed his temple.
"No wonder it looked so damn familiar."
He handled the gun with extreme care. The teleportation fluid sat in a plain-looking glass bottle—fragile and irreplaceable. If it broke, there was no recipe. No refills.
One shot. One chance.
Dean carefully stored the Teleport Gun in the system warehouse, making sure the glass didn't even rattle.
He replayed Rick's words in his head again. "Morty's dead grandfather… That's C-137 Rick. Wait—has Rick finally gotten his revenge?"
It would explain why he had time to mess around in the Pokémon universe.
"Guy's literally taking victory laps through the multiverse."
Dean couldn't help but smile.
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