The golden liquid finally drains away, leaving a cold emptiness around me. The robotic spiders retreat, their metallic clicks echoing in the chamber as they finish the final adjustments to my restored body. I rise slowly, feeling the icy floor of the ship beneath my tentacles. The Super Soldier Serum courses through my veins—or whatever I have now—and my body is larger, denser, a war machine sculpted from flesh and metal. 98% restored, the system said. Nearly perfect. But "nearly" isn't enough for who I am now. Who I have to be.
"Sir, your condition is stable. Orders?" The robotic voice cuts through the silence, and a drone floats toward me, projecting a hologram of my domains. I scan the list—six planets, six conquests—but one name glows brighter than the rest: Czarnia. The original Vilgax's memories come in flashes—not of battles or subjugation, but of a cold transaction, a deal sealed in some shielded intergalactic market. I bought Czarnia years ago, shortly after the massacre that lunatic, Lobo, left as his signature. A ruined planet, a tomb sold for scraps. Back then, it was just another trophy for the collection, an investment I never bothered to visit. Until now.
"Prepare the ship. We're going to Czarnia," I say, my deep voice resonating in the room. The robots move in sync, and I walk—or rather, drag myself—to the command throne. I sit, the weight of the implants in my arms reminding me that this body is still new to me, even if it feels so familiar. I look out the ship's window as Earth isn't empty. Ben, the Justice League, all of that can wait. Czarnia is my chance to rebuild, to turn a graveyard into something useful.
As the ship jumps to warp speed, I think of Lobo. In my past life, as a comic book fan, I knew who he was—the "Main Man," a bounty hunter with a sick sense of humor and strength to rival the gods. He wiped out Czarnia on a whim, and I—or rather, the original Vilgax—saw an opportunity. I bought the planet from some greedy broker, a deal made over transmitters without ever setting foot there. The memories say it was a world of warriors, but what's left? Scraps, probably. Scraps I can shape.
"Sir, we're minutes from Czarnia. We've detected life signs—weak, but present," a robot informs, snapping me out of my thoughts. Life signs? That's unexpected. My chest—or whatever this is—quickens. "Approach slowly. I want a full scan before we dig in," I order, drumming my fingers on the throne. Life on Czarnia could be an advantage… or a problem.
But before I descend, I need more. This body, strong as it is, isn't the Vilgax that Ben fears, that the universe respects. I rise from the throne, ignoring the slight tremor in my legs—a residual effect of the tranquilizer, I assume—and walk to a sealed chamber at the back of the room. "Open the armor compartment," I say, and the robots obey. A wall slides open, revealing it—the classic Vilgax armor, lavish as a war relic.
It's a masterpiece of red and black metal, with refined contours and a sheen that reflects my own ambition. The muscle-enhancing tubes, the visor that amplifies my sight, the weight that turns every step into an earthquake—it's all there, untouched since the original Vilgax last wore it. In the show, this armor was his symbol, the thing that made Ben break out in a cold sweat just hearing the sound of its footsteps. And now, it's mine.
"Sir, the armor is in perfect condition. Do you wish to equip it?" the robot asks, hovering by my side. "Yes," I reply, almost in a growl. "If you're stepping onto Czarnia for the first time, let it be as the conqueror they must fear." The drones approach, bringing the pieces one by one. First, the boots—heavy, with claws that fit my tentacles like a second skin. The metal hums as it connects, and I feel a surge of energy climb up my legs. Then the chest plates, snapping onto my torso with a crushing snap. The tubes link to the implants in my arms, injecting something—a stimulant, perhaps?—that makes my muscles swell even more.
Finally, the helmet. Or rather, a mask. It slides over my face, the visor igniting in red, and for the first time since I awoke in this body, I see as Vilgax. The world sharpens, system data streaming directly into my vision. Strength: enhanced. Endurance: maximum. Presence: unquestionable. I roll my shoulders, feeling the armor's weight meld with my body as if I were born for it. Maybe I was.
"Armor status: 100% operational," the robot announces. I take a step forward, the floor trembling beneath me, and smile—this time, I feel the gesture behind the mask. "Perfect," I murmur. "Now, I am Vilgax."
I look out the window as Czarnia looms on the horizon—a gray, cracked planet, its scars visible even from space. My planet. My first visit as its owner. And if there's life down there, they'll learn quickly who's in charge.
POV ???
My name is Lyra, but almost no one uses it around here. My mother calls me that sometimes, when the weight of memories doesn't leave her mute. On Czarnia, names are luxuries that don't mean much—what matters is what you can do with your hands, your legs, your rage. I was born after the massacre, daughter of a survivor who saw our people reduced to dust by Lobo. She raised me in the ruins, teaching me to fight before I could even speak properly. I grew up with the sound of wind carrying ashes and the smell of burnt metal in the air. This is my world—a tomb someone stole but never bothered to visit. Until today.
My life is simple, if you can call it that. I wake before the moons fade from the sky, grab my machete—a crooked blade I pried from a wrecked ship—and head out to hunt with the other young ones. The mutant creatures that crawl around are all we have to eat, aside from the few twisted roots that still sprout from the cracked soil. It's not easy. They're fast, full of teeth, and I've lost friends to jaws we didn't see in time. But I'm good at it—quick, strong, with reflexes my mother swears come from Lobo's plague. She says the Czarnians of old were kind, that they built cities and walked together. I don't know what that was like. I only know how to survive.
People look at me differently here, and it's not just because of my strength. My mother says I'm beautiful—a beauty she calls "dangerous," as if it's a weapon I didn't ask for. My skin is pale, almost white like the bones scattered across the ruins, but it glows faintly under the moons' light, a contrast to the red eyes I inherited from the plague. My hair is black, long, and wild, falling in messy waves I rarely bother to tame—I don't have time for vanity. I'm tall by the others' standards, with long legs that let me outrun anyone in the group. And, well, my mother laughs sometimes and says I "inherited the curves of the ancestors"—my breasts are full, firm, the kind that stretch the makeshift shirt I wear, and my hips are round, strong, shaped by years of climbing rubble and hauling carcasses. I don't think much of it, but the looks from Zorak and the others remind me it's something that doesn't go unnoticed. To me, it's just another part of the body that keeps me alive.
I don't think I'm special because of it. Beauty doesn't fill your stomach, and here, no one has time for mirrors. My mother says that, before, Czarnian women used these curves to dance at feasts, to charm those they loved. Now, they just help me balance when I run or carry more weight. Still, sometimes I catch her looking at me with a sad smile, like she sees a piece of the past in me. "You could've been a queen," she murmurs. I just shrug. Queens don't exist on Czarnia. Only beasts.
We live in small groups, scattered across what's left of the planet. My group has about ten people—me, my mother, Zorak, who thinks he's in charge, and other young ones like me, all born after the end or survivors young enough not to give up. Zorak's a brute, tall and broad, with scars he flaunts like trophies. He survived the massacre because he was in a cave, they say, and now he thinks that makes him the leader. I don't like him—he looks at me in a way that makes me want to shove my machete in his face—but he's strong, and strength is what keeps us alive.
Everyone here knows Czarnia was sold. My mother heard it from an old man who picked up a signal years ago, a message saying someone had bought the planet in some galactic market. "Our tomb became property," she said, her voice dripping with venom. No one knows who it was—just that they never showed up. We kept living, or at least trying, figuring the "owner" didn't care about a dead planet. Until today.
I was hunting with the group—tracking a three-headed mutant beast through the rubble—when the sky changed. It wasn't the usual ash storm. A shadow fell, and the ground shook with a roar that seemed to swallow the air. I looked up and saw it: a ship, massive, red as fresh blood, tearing through the clouds. My machete nearly slipped from my hand. "It's him," Zorak grunted, gripping his makeshift axe. "The owner." I don't know how he knew, but I felt it too—a weight I couldn't explain, like the planet had woken up to face whoever claimed it.
The ship landed nearby, crushing an old plaza my mother says used to be beautiful. I ran to see, hiding behind a broken pillar, my heart pounding so loud I could barely hear the others. A figure stepped out—tall, green, with tentacles writhing like living things. He wore red and black armor, heavy, making the ground quake with every step. A mask covered his mouth, and his eyes glowed like fire in a visor that seemed to see me even from so far away. Robots floated behind him, weapons humming. He wasn't a savior. He wasn't a destroyer. He was… an owner. As if every stone, every bone, every one of us already belonged to him.
Zorak stepped forward, as always, the idiot playing king. "Who are you?" he barked, axe ready. The stranger stopped, and his voice cut through the air like a blade: "I am Vilgax. Czarnia is mine. And you will serve me." It wasn't a question. It was law.
My mother pulled me back, her hands trembling. "He's not Lobo," she whispered. "Lobo killed for hate. This one wants to use what's left." I don't know what's worse. Vilgax looked at us like we were tools, not people. Maybe he'll bring something—food, weapons, a way out. But the way Zorak gripped his axe, the way my fingers tightened on my machete, said he didn't have us yet. Not fully.
(I'm here to inform you that, even though I've already said which DC universe we're in, I'm going to make some small changes, why? Because I can and I want to)