Superwoman: Unchained Power by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Superwoman-Unchained-Power-1258186578

Superwoman: Unchained Power ANIMATION

The Velocity of Mourning

The universe had suddenly become a museum of taxidermied intentions. In the grand ballroom of the Panopticon, the air was no longer a gas but a gelatinous solid, a thick slurry of nitrogen and oxygen molecules that had forgotten how to vibrate. Johnny Quick stood at the center of the stillness, his chest heaving, though the air he drew into his lungs felt like inhaling pulverized glass. He clutched the Epoch Shard—a jagged, pulsing sliver of obsidian and starlight—to his ribs. He had done it. He had shattered the clock of the world.

Around him, the elite of Earth-3’s underworld were caught in a grotesque tableau. A waiter was suspended at a forty-five-degree angle, a fountain of champagne erupting from a bottle like a crystal sculpture of a dying star. Ultraman was frozen in mid-laugh, his mouth a cavern of arrogant marble, a hand resting on the shoulder of a trembling senator who would now be trembling for eternity. Even the dust motes were fixed in place, a trillion tiny diamonds hanging in the stagnant light of the chandeliers. It was the ultimate heist. In the silence of the absolute, Johnny Quick was the only living pulse in a universe of stone.

He began to walk, his boots making no sound because there was no air to carry the vibration. He felt a manic, jagged glee. He could strip the rings from their fingers, the secrets from their pockets, and the hearts from their chests before the first second resumed its march. He turned his gaze toward the dais, toward the throne where the Queen of the Syndicate sat. He wanted to see her frozen. He wanted to see the look of regal indifference finally halted by a power greater than her own.

Superwoman sat perfectly still. Her dark hair was a frozen wave of midnight spilling over shoulders that could bear the weight of continents. Her gown, a shimmering skin of midnight silk, clung to her with predatory grace. Johnny smirked, stepping closer, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Not so untouchable now, Lois," he whispered, knowing his own voice existed only inside his skull. "Even the goddess has to wait for the clock to tick."

Then, the goddess blinked.

It was a slow, deliberate movement, the wet slide of an eyelid that should have been locked in the amber of the Shard’s influence. Johnny froze, his knees suddenly turning to water. The Epoch Shard pulsed in his hand, its rhythm stuttering. Superwoman didn’t move her head; she simply shifted her gaze. Her eyes, two pools of violet fire, locked onto his with the precision of a hawk marking a field mouse. The silence of the room, which had been a sanctuary moments ago, suddenly felt like a tomb being sealed from the outside.

"You always were a fidgety little creature, Jonathan," she said. Her voice didn't travel through the air. It resonated directly in his marrow, a vibration of pure, agonizing silk. "You think you’ve caught the world in a trap, but you’ve only succeeded in locking yourself in the cellar with me."

Johnny tried to vibrate his molecules, to slip into the super-speed that made him a god among men, but his limbs felt encased in lead. The Shard’s power had leveled the playing field, but it hadn't leveled the hierarchy. Superwoman rose from her throne. She didn't move like a human; she moved like an idea, a slow-motion catastrophe unfolding in a world of statues. Every step she took seemed to reclaim the space around her, the frozen air shattering into microscopic shards of light as she passed through it.

"How?" Johnny stammered, his mind racing faster than his body could ever hope to follow. "The Shard... it’s absolute zero in the temporal stream. Nothing moves. Nothing!"

"For those who are slaves to time, perhaps," Superwoman replied, her voice a seductive caress that made the hair on his neck stand up in terror. She glided down the steps of the dais, her movements fluid and terrifyingly graceful. "But some of us have grown beyond the petty ticking of a clock. You stole a toy from the gods, little thief. Did you think the mistress of the house wouldn't hear the rattle?"

She stopped inches from him. The scent of her—ozone, crushed roses, and something ancient and metallic—overwhelmed him. She was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at, a beauty that felt like a sharpened blade held against the throat. She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Her touch was impossibly cold, yet it burned.

"You’ve created such a beautiful graveyard, Johnny," she whispered, her eyes
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