Darkness.
Which, for me, is weird. Normally when I pass out, I get dreams. Or lectures. Or Zatanna shaking me awake, demanding I Venmo her the fifty bucks I borrowed during that Vegas exorcism. (Spoiler: I don't have Venmo. I have ancient blood magic and emotional trauma.)
But this time?
Just... nada. Blank screen. Existential buffering.
And then: light.
Then color.
Then—what the Helheim?
I'm standing in the middle of a giant spiral library. Not Hogwarts-library-with-the-smell-of-old-books kind of place. More like "if M.C. Escher and Lisa Frank had a baby, then fed that baby glitter, LSD, and the secrets of the universe."
Books float by like lazy birds. Stars drift between shelves like they're trying to find their horoscopes. The ceiling flips between night and day like it's indecisive and undercaffeinated.
And in the background?
Humming.
Soft. Beautiful. Ancient. Like the universe is singing lullabies to itself.
I glance down. Yep, still me. Wings? Check. Blood-stained chest wound healing like Wolverine on protein shakes? Double check. But everything feels... sharp. Clear. Like I'm seeing in IMAX 4D while also mainlining the emotional weight of existence.
"Cool," I mutter. "So either I'm dead, or I passed out so hard I landed in a concept album."
"You're not dead," a voice purrs from behind me—feminine, amused, and just a hair's breadth away from divine. "Though if you keep talking like a discount Deadpool, I might be tempted to fix that."
Now, listen—I don't scare easy. I've traded insults with Darkseid. I've out-snarked Constantine. I once flirted with Death while high on phoenix tears and basilisk venom (true story—she found it adorable).
But something in me already knows what I'm about to see.
So I turn.
And holy mother of magical metaphors.
She's standing at the top of the spiral staircase like she owns the place. She probably does. She's got hair like fire underwater—cascading waves of crimson and gold that burn and float at the same time. Skin kissed by starlight. Eyes that look straight through me like I'm not so much a person as an interesting equation.
Her dress is made of embers and dreams and every late-night poetry line I ever considered too cheesy to say out loud. She's radiant. Regal. Ridiculously hot in a way that should be illegal in at least fifteen dimensions.
And she looks my age. Sort of. Her posture, though? Her presence? Definitely gives off "I watched galaxies form while sipping cosmic tea" energy.
She smiles, the kind that should come with a warning label and an insurance policy. "You're trying to decide whether I'm going to kiss you or kill you."
"Why not both?" I say automatically, because sarcasm is my favorite armor and I forgot how to shut up around god-tier women sometime around my fourth near-death experience.
She laughs. The sound makes the books vibrate and the stars giggle. "You're fun."
"And you're terrifying," I reply, grinning through the static in my spine. "Seriously, who are you? Please don't say something cryptic like 'a concept.' I just got skewered by a radioactive rage monster who thinks subtlety is for cowards. I'm not in the mood for a riddle."
She glides down the stairs, every step ringing like a prophecy being written. "I am the Flame of Beginning."
…
I blink. "The… what-now?"
"You've heard of me," she says, one brow arched. "The helmeted one spoke my name."
"Doctor Fate," I mutter. "Yeah. He said I was the 'Wielder of the Flame of Beginning.' I figured that meant I could shoot dramatic fireballs and make villains cry. Not that the flame was... you."
She smirks. It's dangerous. "I'm not the flame. I am the source. The spark that whispered the first word into the dark. The moment potential became reality. I am Life, Harry Potter."
"Life's hot," I say before my brain can wrestle my mouth into silence.
She raises one eyebrow. "Flattery? Or flirting?"
"Why not both?" I repeat, grinning. "Though full disclosure—I have a few girlfriends already. Eight, to be exact."
Her eyes sparkle. "Do tell."
I tick them off on my fingers. "Kara, also known as Supergirl. Kori—Starfire. Megan, the world's most adorable Martian. Tia—my bustier clone-girlfriend. Zatanna, Raven, Mareena—daughter of Aquaman and Mera. And Deedee."
Her smile widens. "Death?"
"Yup. Literal Death. Cute as sin, terrifying as taxes. And she's a big fan of goth fashion and back scratches."
She laughs again. "Well then. That makes things interesting."
I squint. "Wait—you're not put off?"
She leans in close enough that I can feel her heat, but not the kind that burns. The kind that awakens. "If anything, Harry… I'm intrigued. You might be the first man in history to have courted both Life and Death—and managed to get us both in your bed."
I cough. "Technically, Deedee made the first move."
She runs a finger down my arm, and my blood sings. "Then I suppose I'll have to catch up."
Ahem.
Right. Focus.
"Okay," I say, yanking my soul back from the edge of blushing into the sun. "So why now? Why show up after I got kabob'd saving Metropolis and passed out like a drama queen?"
She steps close again. "Because now, you're ready. Ready to understand not what you are… but who."
"Oh, come on. I've already got the résumé of a fanfic power fantasy. Amazonian-wizard-phoenix-basilisk hybrid with trauma, attitude, and eight girlfriends. What more could I possibly be?"
Her voice drops to a whisper, lips brushing my ear. "A god."
…
"Oh good," I mutter. "That's what I needed. More pressure."
"You're not dreaming, Harry," she says. "You're awakening."
And then the library explodes.
Not with fire. Not the normal kind, anyway.
It's conceptual fire. Memory-fire. Identity-fire. Every version of me I've ever been—boy, warrior, chosen one, chaos magnet, lover, fighter, protector—swirling around us in a flaming storm of becoming.
"You have a choice," she says, her voice calm in the inferno. "Claim the fire. Embrace what you are. Or walk away."
I meet her eyes. "And if I choose the fire?"
She smiles, slow and wild. "You stop falling."
And then—
Boom.
I'm awake.
Pain slams into me like a truck made of bad ideas and regret. I'm in the Watchtower's medbay. Tia's holding my hand, eyes wet. Kori's glowing slightly, her forehead touching mine. Kara's curled in a chair nearby, snoring like a sleepy space puppy.
And I whisper one word:
"…Flame."
—
Watchtower Medbay – Moments After Harry Whispers "Flame"
The word hung in the air like a mic drop from the universe.
Small. Quiet. Utterly devastating.
Then Harry's eyes snapped open—and promptly went full-blown supernova.
Not the vague, mystical, I'm-having-a-vision kind of white. No, this was blinding, burning, white-hot light that looked like it was auditioning for the role of Big Bang 2.0. His whole body stiffened like a lightning rod, then levitated off the bed like someone had hit the "dramatic floating protagonist" button. Graceful? No. Awesome? Absolutely.
His Shadowflame armor—black with gold lines like lava cracks, gem on his chest pulsing like it had Spotify set to "Epic Transformation Playlist"—flared to life. The cape (which, yes, was both badass and apparently had a flair for drama) snapped open behind him. His golden mask trembled on the bedside table, like it was trying to say, "Hey bro, don't forget me!"
Then came the fire.
Not regular fire. This stuff made regular fire look like a birthday candle. It burst around him—silent, sentient, singing flames in crimson, gold, starlight silver, and void-black, wrapping him in what could only be described as a cosmic snuggle. He folded his arms across his chest, as if he were napping in the middle of an interdimensional rave.
Kara—blonde, brave, and totally not ready for this—bolted upright. "Harry?" she shouted, voice cracking just a little.
Kori, who'd been in full meditation mode, shot to her feet with a gasp. Her eyes flared bright green. "Glorious X'hal's ghost! He burns with the glory of a thousand suns!"
Tia—clone powerhouse, Sydney Sweeney-level hot and ready to throw hands—clutched her head. "Ow—okay, something's wrong! My brain's trying to vibrate out of my skull!" Her energy flared around her in synchronized sympathy.
Zatanna—dark-haired, mysterious, and still managing to look like a runway model—shouted, "Erif pots!"
Nothing happened.
Megan shrieked. Like, actual high-pitched Martian shrieking. "MY BRAIN IS MELTING," she wailed, doing the full panic-flail. "HE'S TURNING INTO A FLAMING GOD-SHAPED WIFI SIGNAL AND I'M CONNECTING TO ALL OF IT!"
Raven, who had been chilling in her usual Deadpan Mode, suddenly flared her soul-self. Giant shadow wings burst from her back. "Nope. Nope. Not today, Flame Jesus."
Mareena, dagger in hand, looking like she just walked off an Atlantean fashion shoot (in full warrior-princess mode), hissed, "WHO HURT HIM? I WILL DROWN THEM IN THEIR OWN BLOOD."
Only Deedee didn't move. Correction: Death didn't move.
The goth was gone. The sass replaced with something ancient and cold. She stared at the cocoon like she was reading the final chapter of a story she already knew by heart.
Then the doors slammed open. Enter the Big Three.
Superman—cape freshly pressed, jawline locked and loaded. Eyes glowing red. "What's happening?"
Wonder Woman—in battle mode, sword drawn. "Back away!" she barked, charging toward the cocoon.
Batman—moving like a shadow with a batarang already in hand, calculating every outcome that didn't end in a volcanic explosion.
Diana swung—
And froze.
Not because of magic. Not because of tech. Because of presence.
A woman stepped from the flame.
More accurate? A goddess with a face that would launch a thousand ships and the entire energy of a thousand first kisses. Her red hair glowed like living fire. Her eyes sparkled with every sunrise that ever was. Her outfit? Literally just flowing embers and confidence.
Every hormone in the room screamed. Even Batman looked like he was about to Google, "how to flirt with eternal cosmic entities."
Deedee—now full Death Mode—spoke. "Stand down."
Not a request. Not even a threat. A cosmic full stop.
Everything—Kryptonian, Amazonian, Atlantean, Martian, Magical—froze.
Diana narrowed her eyes. "Who is she?"
Deedee turned to her with a smirk that could freeze suns. "She is the Flame of the Beginning."
Even Batman looked like he'd just run out of contingency plans.
Superman blinked. "Fate said Harry was the Wielder of the Flame."
"He is," Deedee said calmly. "But before something can be wielded… it must choose to be held."
The Flame stepped forward, running a hand across the cocoon, which pulsed like a heartbeat.
Kara stumbled closer. "Is he okay?"
The Flame smiled, all warmth and terrifying affection. "He is becoming."
Zatanna exhaled slowly. "A power-up?"
"No," the Flame replied. "Apotheosis. The final transformation. Not from outside magic, not tech or DNA… but from Harry himself."
Megan peeked out from behind a shield of psychic energy. "Like godhood? Please tell me this doesn't mean he'll be taller than me now."
The Flame laughed. The universe twitched. "Yes. And yes."
Kori stepped forward, eyes wide. "Will he still be ours?"
The Flame looked at each of them—eight girls, each bonded to him by fate, fire, and ridiculous levels of romantic drama.
"He is already yours. He always was. That is why he survived. That is why he evolves."
Tia crossed her arms. "Okay, but does this mean he's gonna get, like, new abs?"
Mareena smirked. "Asking the real questions."
The Flame looked faintly amused. "His form will match his soul. Strong. Infinite. Beautiful." She paused, eyes lingering on the cocoon. "And so very kissable."
All eight girlfriends: Glare
Deedee: "Back off, Sparkleflame. He's mine by Death's claim."
Flame: "Then we shall share."
The cocoon cracked.
A beat.
Then light.
Not sunlight. Not firelight.
The kind of light that ends stories.
And begins them anew.
Harry Potter was gone.
The Flame Reborn had awakened.
—
The silence that fell over the room wasn't just dramatic. It was existential. Like the universe hit pause because even it needed a second to process.
Then came the hiss.
A slow exhale of molten light and whispered gravity, like a cosmic espresso machine had just powered up for Judgment Day.
And he stepped out.
Shadowflame. Reborn.
Not Harry. Not anymore. This was the next-level, ultimate-DLC-unlocked version. The boy who had once worn a cloak and mask now wore the cosmos like a second skin.
His armor shimmered black as void-stuff, laced with golden veins that pulsed with the heartbeat of dying stars. No cape. No cloak. No crimson gem.
Instead, right over his chest: a blazing emblem in the shape of a flame, mid-roar, the color of divine rage and hot sauce. His helmet? A blackened crown with golden ridges and winged sides that screamed, "I don't just attend boss fights, I am the boss fight." Crimson light leaked from his eye slits like the universe was winking through a supernova.
He didn't say anything.
Didn't have to.
Power rolled off him like a warm, dignified tsunami of cosmic swagger.
Tia blinked, wobbling. "Okay. Wow. That's… terrifyingly hot."
Megan, psychic shields working overtime, nodded with glazed eyes. "Confirmed. Thoughts fuzzy. Brain go boom. Ascending to horny Nirvana."
"I need—uh—oxygen," Kara wheezed, her Kryptonian lungs suddenly outmatched. "This is a medical emergency. Someone fan me with a small moon."
Zatanna muttered like she'd forgotten how to breathe. "He's hotter than Hell and literally dressed for it."
Kori floated a few inches higher, glowing brighter. "His magnificence has increased by seventy-three starfire units."
Mareena scowled. "This is cheating. You can't just evolve like a shiny Pokémon mid-relationship! Where's my glowing ascension arc?"
Raven just stared, deadpan. "I'm fine," she said, eyes locked on the helmet. "Totally not into mysterious faceless gods who smolder like black holes. That would be weird."
Deedee crossed her arms and declared with all the finality of a cosmic decree: "Mine."
From the shadows, the Flame stepped forward, her ember-dress flickering sass and sensuality in equal measure. "Ours," she corrected with a smile that could melt suns.
Cue synchronized blink. Cue collective squint.
Zatanna arched a brow. "Wait. Are you saying you're joining the harem?"
The Flame's eyes glinted like twin dawns. "I was always part of him. I merely waited for the rest of him to catch up."
Megan tilted her head. "Okay, but like, do you come with a user manual or just fire emojis and sexy metaphors?"
Tia braced herself against the wall, panting. "More importantly, do you respect schedule rotations and agree not to vaporize anyone during PMS week?"
"Proper communication is vital in romantic plural arrangements," Kori added solemnly.
Raven crossed her arms. "Also, no monologuing during cuddle time. Cosmic or otherwise."
The Flame nodded graciously. "I will share him, because he is yours. But I am his Flame. I always was. I will not interfere with your bonds. I will only add to them."
"Like a flame-sister?" Kara asked, half-suspicious, half-curious.
Mareena snorted. "That sounds made up."
Tia agreed. "Definitely made up."
"But kinda cute," Zatanna admitted.
Deedee nodded. "Trial period."
Megan gave a thumbs up. "Flamegirl can stay. She's hot. Literally."
Raven rolled her eyes. "But if she goddess-splains again, I will shadow her back to the Big Bang."
"Deal," the Flame said sweetly.
From the cocoon remnants, the boy who wasn't a boy anymore took a step forward.
Shadowflame.
The helmet tilted. The crimson gaze swept over his girls. His heart. His galaxy.
—
Okay. Let's all just take a hot second to breathe, stretch, maybe do a few jumping jacks or primal screams into the void—because what the actual flying fudgecakes just happened to me?
One moment, I'm wrapped in cosmic fire like a magical burrito, having a flirty fever dream with the literal embodiment of flame. The next? I walk out looking like someone fused a Greek god with a solar flare, slapped on a Final Fantasy DLC skin labeled "Final Form: Overpowered Boyfriend Supreme," and hit max stats in every known RPG.
My girls? Staring at me like I just strutted off a celestial catwalk sponsored by divine hormones.
Raven—bless her sarcastic soul—is blinking. Rapidly. Which means she's either plotting my death by cuddles or hiding the fact that she's this close to combusting. Could go either way.
I open my mouth, ready to say something cool. Something worthy of the moment.
Instead, I hit them with a brilliant: "...uh."
Iconic. Truly.
I look down. No gem. No wand. No manual titled So You've Become a God, Now What?
"Uh, Flame?" I ask out loud, hoping she doesn't reply with a fiery interpretive dance again.
She appears beside me like it's her catwalk and I'm just a spark in it. Ember-hair swirling around her like solar wind, eyes glowing, expression smug enough to make Malfoy look humble.
"You're wondering what you are now," she says, voice dipped in silk and arson.
"Thanks, Captain Obvious-on-Fire," I mutter. "I'd like a job title. Business card. A brochure. Something. Because I'm currently vibing somewhere between 'interdimensional heartthrob' and 'accidental demigod with no clue how to magic anymore.'"
She smirks. "You are Shadowflame. Rebirth. Judgment. Passion. Endings and beginnings. The divine fire that transforms, not destroys."
"…So I'm the god of glow-ups?"
"If that helps you sleep at night."
"Cool cool cool. Totally not panicking."
I think about removing the helmet—and poof, it melts away like I whispered sweet nothings in Ancient Greek.
That's when the room breaks.
Tia makes a literal squeaking noise. Like an anime girl. Kara gasps like she just inhaled a star. Megan? Does a double-take so intense she nearly knocks into Deedee. Diana blinks. Batman? Oh, he's doing the Bat-Squint. The one that means, must update Bat-database, may have to develop god-slaying contingency plan.
"…Why are you all staring like I just grew a second head?"
I flick my fingers. A mirror materializes in midair like magic obeys me now. (Spoiler: it probably does.)
Oh.
Oh.
Oh bloody cosmic charred waffles.
I used to be hot. Objectively. Solid 8.5 on the Hogwarts scale. 9.5 after Quidditch.
Now? I look like Superman and Wonder Woman had a son, dipped him in divine steroids, and gave him cheekbones that could slice reality. Hair? Still messy, but in that "chaotic perfection" way. Eyes? Glowing green like emerald fire forged by star gods.
"This is criminal," Megan whispers, eyes wide. (Note: she sounds exactly like Ariel Winter if Ariel Winter were a Martian.)
"I'm filing a complaint with the universe," Kara mutters. (Yes, Milly Alcock-style snark fully engaged.)
"Reality is broken. I demand a refund," Tia groans. (Picture Sydney Sweeney, but stronger and constantly ready to suplex the world.)
"I'm adapting my will," Zatanna deadpans. "Everything goes to Shadowflame."
Even Kal—Superman himself—clears his throat awkwardly. "So… Flame. He… he looks a bit like me."
Flame shrugs, casual as a sunflare. "Relax, Kal. He's not your son. I used a template. You and Diana? Exemplars of divine aesthetics. I upgraded his genetic canvas accordingly."
Clark exhales. "Oh thank Rao. Lois would kill me."
Diana (Gal Gadot levels of regal and amused) grins. "I'm flattered. Handsome young man. And those eyes... just like Lily Potter's. I remember her. Beautiful soul. Gorgeous eyes."
Flame nods. "Potter hair and Lily's eyes? Statistically, universal panty-droppers."
Kori (aka glowing alien sunshine incarnate, as played by Avantika Vandanapu) raises a hand. "This is confirmed. Ninety-seven percent success rate."
"I'm so glad we're focusing on the essentials," I say dryly.
Deedee (Death herself, aka Kat Dennings in eyeliner and sass) gives me a once-over. "You know, the no-cape look? Very 'celestial warlord but also take me out for wine.'"
"FOCUS," I snap. "I'm apparently divine. I'm doing magic by thinking. And I look like this. This is deeply confusing and also slightly arousing—and I'm the one it's happening to."
Flame steps close. Her heat isn't painful—it's comforting. Like sun-warmed sheets. "You've ascended, Shadowflame. The gem was your cocoon. You've outgrown it. Your magic is yours now. Instinctive. Divine."
"…So I just think and stuff happens?"
"Pretty much."
I think about being shirtless.
Nothing.
Flame leans in, voice husky. "You have to mean it."
Mental note: mean it harder.
Kara lets out a strangled wheeze. "I need to scream into an asteroid."
Zatanna glowers. "Flame, I swear on my fishnets—no monologuing during cuddle time."
"Understood," Flame replies serenely. "But I am claiming my place in the cuddle rotation."
"I vote yes," Megan chirps.
"Trial basis," Raven says, dark and low. (Jenna Ortega levels of spooky-sexy.)
Deedee shrugs. "As long as I get weekends."
"Alternate Thursdays," Flame counters.
"You're all insane," I mutter. "And I love you. Deeply. But I need either a nap, a drink, or seven of you in my bed immediately. In that order."
Zatanna steps forward, grabbing my hand. "Harry. Shadowflame. Whoever you are now… you're still ours."
Tia grins. "Just hotter. Much hotter."
Mareena (Ella Purnell-level of bite and sweetness) crosses her arms. "You evolve again without telling me and I'm keying your space cruiser."
Kori floats, hands raised. "Requesting emotional recalibration via group snuggle."
"…Permission granted," I say, dazed and delighted.
Flame slides her fingers through mine, her touch like a promise of power and passion. "Ready, god-boy?"
I smirk, feeling divinity crackle beneath my skin. "Born ready."
—
So picture this: we step into the lounge of the Watchtower—officially titled the Justice League Command Hub, unofficially titled Mount Olympus 2.0 by yours truly—and I finally get a real look at Flame.
And by "real look," I mean sweet baby Merlin on a Quidditch broom, she's literally fire—as in, glowing lava skin, flowing embers for a dress, and a level of hotness that would make Dante rewrite all nine circles of hell just to add a lounge for her.
"Whoa, hold up," I blurt.
Everyone freezes. Even Batman, who somehow appeared behind us mid-brooding like a dark magic jump-scare. Classic.
"Flame," I say, trying not to sound like my voice is about to crack like a choirboy at puberty camp, "you are basically naked."
She tilts her head and looks down at her "outfit." Which, spoiler alert, is basically a PG-13 suggestion of fabric made out of live fire.
"I am composed of sentient flame, Harry. This is how I've always dressed."
"No, no." I wave my hand in a panicked British Dad gesture. "That's how you don't dress. Your embers are doing the bare minimum, and my remaining brain cells are filing sexual harassment claims against my eyeballs."
Kara bursts out laughing. "Don't worry, Flame. He'll get used to it. He's got eight girlfriends, and he still stutters like an extra in a CW show."
"Thanks, Kara. Your support means the world. Really." I give her the deadpan look I reserve for people who steal the last donut.
Flame—or whatever name she's using until we fix that mess—steps closer, and I swear the temperature in the room jumps from "comfy Central Heating" to "lava spa for horny demons."
"It's not like it's something you won't see…" she purrs, all confidence and chaos, "or enjoy… in the near future."
I make a sound somewhere between a gasp, a squeak, and the noise a seagull makes when it swallows a jellyfish whole.
"Cover. Up. Please," I manage, channeling every ounce of Gryffindor dignity I didn't know I had left.
She pouts. Pouts. The literal avatar of fire pouts like a girl denied her second bubble tea.
With a snap of her fingers, the embers swirl and morph into a shimmering red-gold dress that looks like the lovechild of a Dior gown and a Targaryen fever dream. Less naked. More Mother of Magma Chic.
"There," she says, flopping down next to me like a very smug volcano. "But you're no fun."
"Correction," I say, flashing her a grin. "I'm lots of fun. Just not into spontaneous combustion in front of the team."
"Speak for yourself," Tia (a.k.a. Galatea a.k.a. Blonde bombshell with abs and perfect breasts) mutters. "I was two seconds from asking her for skincare tips."
"Or a volcano-themed OnlyFans," Deedee quips, sipping something suspiciously green and probably made from mortal souls.
Megan, who honestly might be an angel disguised as a Martian, floats over and plops herself in my lap without asking (which I don't mind, obviously). "She is gorgeous. And she glows. It's like cuddling a sun lamp that flirts back."
"She's fine," Raven says, though Jenna Ortega's patented deadpan is betrayed by the faintest upward twitch of her lips. "But can we talk about her name? Flame? Really?"
"I vote for a rename," Zatanna chimes in, hair perfect, eyes sparkling, looking like she just walked out of a magician's burlesque club. "It's weird calling someone Flame. Even Death here goes by Deedee."
Deedee raises her cup like a toast. "Branding matters."
"'Flame' sounds like a budget Pokémon," Kara adds. "Or a rejected name for a rock band made entirely of arsonists."
Flame—no, let's pause that—she arches an eyebrow. "So what should I be called then? I've never had a name. Just... Flame."
"Well, you're not a Care Bear villain," Mareena says. "You need something elegant. Mysterious. Fiery."
"How about Ember?" Tia offers. "Short. Sexy. Sizzling."
"Also the name of at least five fantasy strippers," Zatanna points out. "Trust me. I've met them."
"Blaze?" Kara tries again.
"Too X-Men," Megan and I say at the same time.
We fist bump. Because obviously.
There's a pause, and then Deedee hums, tilting her head. "You know what you look like to me?"
"If you say 'Furnace Barbie,' I'm leaving," Flame mutters.
"No," Deedee says, sipping again. "You look like a Jean."
Silence. Honest-to-gods silence.
"Jean," Kara repeats, blinking. "Like Jean Grey?"
"She does have that omega-level menace vibe," Raven mumbles.
Flame—scratch that, Jean—blinks a few times, then smiles like a star going supernova. "You know… I do feel like a Jean."
She turns to me. "Do you like it?"
I grin, leaning forward. "Jean it is. But just so you know, if you ever go Dark Phoenix on me, I'm not kissing you back to sanity. I'm just tossing you into the sun and calling it a Tuesday."
She laughs—a sound that could set off forest fires and pheromones in equal measure. "Deal."
Kori beams and wraps her arms around both Jean and me like we're plushies. "Happiness all around! Yay!"
Superman strolls by, nods at us approvingly like we just solved world peace, and heads toward the gym.
Wonder Woman leans in and whispers, "You've tamed a flame elemental. That's impressive, young wizard."
Batman appears behind me and mutters, "You collect girlfriends like Pokémon cards."
"I do try to catch 'em all," I mutter.
"Stop talking," he replies, and disappears into the shadows like a bat-themed iCloud error.
—
Meanwhile, on Apokolips—a planet so aggressively awful it made hell look like a weekend spa retreat—Darkseid stirred.
Now, to be clear, "stirred" for Darkseid didn't mean pacing nervously or checking his texts. No. Darkseid stirring was like a mountain deciding to blink. Reality noticed.
He stood at the edge of his obsidian citadel, a hulking figure carved from wrath, stone, and sheer cosmic spite. His hands were clasped behind his back, the classic villain power stance, while firestorms danced across the ruined horizon like Mother Nature throwing a tantrum.
The air smelled like ash, molten steel, and what you'd probably describe as "eternal despair with smoky undertones." Typical Apokolips weather.
Then, those eyes—burning crimson, glowing like judgment on a bad day—flared brighter.
Something had shifted. Something big.
"Steppenwolf," Darkseid said, his voice the kind of deep that made planets shudder and middle managers cry. It rolled through the citadel like an earthquake with opinions.
From the shadowed archway emerged Steppenwolf, all armor, ego, and that permanent expression of "I'd rather be conquering something." He walked like someone who expected a sword fight at any moment—and was slightly disappointed it hadn't happened yet.
"You called, my lord?" Steppenwolf asked, bowing just enough to not seem entirely sarcastic.
"There has been an awakening," Darkseid said. He didn't shout. He never had to. His voice commanded silence and dramatic tension.
Steppenwolf raised an eyebrow. "You mean like a metaphorical awakening or…?"
"A New God has risen."
That got the general's full attention. His hand instinctively went to his axe. "From New Genesis?"
Darkseid turned, slowly, ominously, and absolutely on-brand. The Omega symbol on his chest glowed like a warning.
"No," he said, almost smiling—almost—like the concept of irony had just brewed him a fresh cup of amusement. "Not one of Highfather's ilk. This one is... different."
"Different how?"
Darkseid's gaze burned through space itself. "Forged of fire and phoenix. Birthed in rebellion. A spark from Man's chaos… touched by divinity."
Steppenwolf blinked. "Sounds exhausting."
"It will be," Darkseid said dryly. "For them."
There was a pause, long enough for an entire moon to rethink its orbit.
"Shall I destroy him?" Steppenwolf asked, already mentally planning a dramatic entrance involving fire, monologuing, and at least one collapsing building.
Darkseid raised one obsidian hand. "No."
"No?"
"He is still young. Unaware of what he is. What he can be." A faint glimmer crossed his features, somewhere between curiosity and clinical menace. "He will either ascend… or fall."
"Either way, entertaining," Steppenwolf muttered.
Darkseid turned back toward the burning horizon. "When the time comes, he will make a choice. One that echoes across creation."
"And if he chooses to oppose us?"
Darkseid's eyes flared, carving two molten trails into the smoke-filled air. His smile—thin, cold, inevitable—was a thing the universe would later try to forget.
"Then let him. The universe will burn… or bow."
Behind them, the fires of Apokolips roared like a standing ovation from the damned.
Somewhere out there, a New God was waking up to his destiny.
And Darkseid?
Darkseid was already watching.
—
Meanwhile, on New Genesis—a place so bright, clean, and spiritually overachieving it made the Shire look like a post-apocalyptic wasteland—Highfather Izaya paused mid-meditation.
Which, to be clear, was a big deal.
Highfather didn't just interrupt his meditation for random planetary alignment or someone burning toast with a Boom Tube. No, this was something else entirely. Something cosmic. Something big.
The Source—the divine current of all that was, is, and will be—had hiccupped.
Izaya opened his eyes slowly, the way one might if they'd just heard the universe whisper a spoiler for the finale of existence. His staff hummed faintly with power. The floating gardens around Celestial City rustled gently, like they were holding their breath.
A new ripple had entered the song.
"Another joins the tapestry," Izaya said aloud, in the tone of someone who just realized the quiet game had turned into capture the flag.
Cue dramatic entrance.
Lightray—New Genesis' answer to a walking Instagram filter—swooped in from above, a trail of sunlight practically announcing his arrival with a jazz hands flourish. His armor sparkled like it had been polished by angels with a flair for showmanship.
"You felt that, right?" Lightray asked, landing with his usual grin. "Like the Source just dropped a bass line?"
Izaya nodded, stroking his beard with the kind of weighty contemplation that made you want to start a philosophy club. "Not a bass line. A wildfire. One that hasn't decided if it wants to burn down the forest or light the way forward."
Lightray's grin faltered just a little. "Ooh. Dramatic. So... not one of ours?"
"Not born of New Genesis, no," Izaya replied. "Nor Apokolips."
"So... mystery baby?"
"No. He is not new. He is... awakened."
Right on cue—because drama apparently loves company—Orion stepped from the shadows of a massive statue depicting one of the first gods. He looked like a thundercloud wearing red armor and a permanent scowl. The kind of guy who could make "good morning" sound like a threat.
"You're saying a mortal became a New God?" Orion asked, crossing his arms like he was auditioning for the role of Suspicion Incarnate.
Izaya gave him a look that said Yes, son, I do know how to read cosmic energy, thanks. "Not became. Was always meant to be," he said. "The potential was buried deep, sleeping. Something—or someone—woke him up."
Lightray leaned casually against a glowing pillar, twirling a photon around his fingers like a bored juggler. "From Earth, I'm guessing. It's always Earth. I mean, can't the Source throw a curveball and pick, like, Mars once in a while?"
Orion ignored him. "Is this power his alone, or is he a vessel?"
"Both," Izaya said, eyes distant as though he was watching a movie no one else could see. "He is fire forged by grief. Light born in shadow. A question the Source itself is still trying to answer."
Orion tensed, ever the warrior. "And if that answer is war?"
Izaya turned, slowly, the light of the twin suns catching the lines of his face. "Then it will not be a war we start. But it may be one we must finish."
Lightray raised a hand. "Uh, quick suggestion before we start prepping the apocalypse? Maybe... talk to him first? Send a fruit basket? See if he's more 'hero' than 'burn-it-all-down'?"
"Too soon," Izaya said, but with a chuckle that made him sound like the world's most chill wizard. "He must choose his own path. Intervene too early, and we turn a flame into a wildfire."
Lightray shrugged. "Or we miss our chance to recruit a cosmic powerhouse with a possible tragic backstory and an identity crisis. Just saying."
Izaya smiled faintly, staff glowing brighter. "The Source does not rush, Lightray. It... reveals."
For a moment, the three stood in silence, each listening to the stillness of the cosmos. And then—just on the edge of their hearing—it came.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A heartbeat. Not faint. Not afraid. Rising.
Somewhere in the universe, a child of Man had risen to stand among gods.
And the gods were watching.
---
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