Injustice League Hidden Headquarters
(AKA: So You Want to Kill a Demigod — A Workshop, Now With More Daddy Issues)
If you've never been to a supervillain lair meeting, let me paint you a picture: imagine your least favorite family reunion, except everyone has superpowers and at least three people are plotting to murder you before dessert. The secret chamber was darker than a goth kid's bedroom and about twice as welcoming. Water dripped from the ceiling in that ominous way that screamed "we definitely didn't pass the building inspection," but when you're planning to overthrow civilization, apparently code violations are the least of your concerns.
Seven of the world's most dangerous villains had gathered to watch their least favorite person have what could generously be called "a very bad day." On the massive screens mounted around the room, Shadowflame—picture a teenage superhero crossed with a flamethrower and daddy issues—was systematically turning Poison Ivy's prize garden into the world's most expensive barbecue.
Black and gold armor gleamed in the firelight as wings of pure flame spread behind him. His crimson eyes burned with the kind of intensity usually reserved for people who'd just discovered their browser history had been leaked to their grandmother.
Poison Ivy lounged against her chair like she was posing for the cover of "Homicidal Gardener Weekly." Her emerald eyes narrowed to slits that could probably cut glass, and when she spoke, her voice had that silky-smooth quality that meant someone was about to have a very bad time.
"I really, truly, passionately hate him," she purred, the way normal people might discuss their favorite coffee order. Except her favorite coffee order probably involved actual poison.
The Joker—and oh boy, where do you even start with the Joker—perched on the edge of his chair like the world's most disturbing bird of prey. His grin was the kind of smile that came with its own warning label and possibly a restraining order. When he giggled—and it was definitely a giggle, not a laugh—it sounded like broken glass having a party in a blender.
"Ohhhhh, hate!" he crooned, swinging his legs like a demented child. "Hate is... mmm, it's like a fine wine, isn't it? Gets better with age, more complex flavors..." He pulled out a knife from somewhere—seriously, where did he keep all those things?—and began twirling it between his fingers. "But if we're gonna kill the boy wonder, we need to be... creative about it."
The knife went spinning through the air and clattered to the floor. Immediately, another appeared in his hand because apparently the Joker subscribed to the "infinite knife" theory of physics.
"Me?" he continued, his voice dropping to that whisper that made seasoned criminals check their life insurance policies. "I'm thinking gas. Classic Joker, you know? Maybe a little laughing gas mixed with... oh, I don't know... something that makes your lungs forget how to work? Picture it: he's giggling while he dies. Now that's comedy gold!"
"Shut your mouth," Black Adam rumbled from across the room.
If you've never heard Black Adam speak, imagine what it would sound like if a mountain decided to take up public speaking. The man was built like he bench-pressed bulldozers for fun, and his arms were crossed in that universal pose that meant "I'm about three seconds away from turning someone into a crater."
The Joker's grin somehow got even wider, which shouldn't have been anatomically possible but here we were.
"Ooooh, touchy!" he sang, practically bouncing in his seat. "Did I hit a nerve, your ancient highness? Still smarting from getting your jaw rearranged by a teenager? What was it the news called it? 'The Pharaoh's Fall'? 'God Down'? Oh! My personal favorite: 'How the Mighty Have Fallen and Can't Get Up!'"
Black Adam's fists began crackling with electricity, tiny lightning bolts dancing between his knuckles like angry fireflies. When he spoke, his voice carried the promise of violence and possibly some very uncomfortable dental work.
"This time," he growled, "there will be nothing left of him to scrape off the pavement."
From his corner—because every villain lair needs a designated corner for the radioactive guy—Atomic Skull let out a chuckle that somehow managed to sound both polite and deeply unsettling. He was glowing like a neon sign advertising radiation poisoning, and his smile had that refined quality that suggested he probably knew seventeen different ways to kill you with a teacup.
"Now, now, Adam," he said in that cultured voice that belonged in a wine tasting, not a murder planning session. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The boy already made you look like an amateur once. Do we really want to give him the opportunity to make it a viral video?"
For a moment, it looked like Black Adam might just vaporize Atomic Skull on the spot. The air actually started to smell like ozone, which was never a good sign when dealing with people who could level city blocks.
But Poison Ivy cut through the testosterone-fueled standoff with the grace of someone who was absolutely done with everyone's drama.
"Oh, for the love of—" She waved a hand, and several vines immediately coiled around her arm like living jewelry. "If you boys are going to have a measuring contest, could you at least do it somewhere that won't interfere with my screens? Every second he burns through my children is another reason for me to introduce you all to my special blend of nightshade tea."
The scary thing was, everyone in the room knew she wasn't bluffing. Poison Ivy didn't make empty threats—she made funeral arrangements.
Ultra-Humanite finally looked up from his bank of computers and monitoring equipment. Picture the most intimidating college professor you've ever had, except he's an eight-foot-tall albino gorilla with a genius-level IQ and absolutely no patience for stupidity. When he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses with one massive, white-furred finger, the gesture somehow managed to be more threatening than Adam's lightning show.
"If I may interrupt this fascinating display of masculine insecurity," he said in that dry, clinical voice that suggested he was about to dissect something—possibly metaphorically, possibly not—"none of you seem to grasp the fundamental issue we're facing."
He gestured to the screens showing Shadowflame's rampage with the kind of calm precision that made you wonder what he did for stress relief. Probably sudoku. Very violent sudoku.
"The boy is not merely powerful," Ultra-Humanite continued, his voice taking on that professorial tone that meant everyone was about to get schooled. "He's intelligent. He thinks tactically. He adapts. Brute force approaches—" his gaze swept meaningfully over Black Adam "—are precisely what he expects. What he's prepared for."
That's when Wotan stepped forward, and let me tell you, when Wotan moves, reality itself seems to hold its breath.
If you've ever wondered what it would look like if shadows learned how to wear designer suits, Wotan was your answer. His cloak rippled with arcane symbols that seemed to shift and writhe when you weren't looking directly at them, like someone had convinced the night sky to moonlight as fashion accessories. When he spoke, his voice had that quality that made you think of expensive wine, funeral bells, and promises that would probably cost you your soul.
"Finally," he murmured, his pale eyes fixed on the screens showing Shadowflame's destruction, "someone speaks sense."
The room went quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet you get during a peaceful sunset, but the kind of quiet that happens right before everything goes horribly, horribly wrong.
Wotan studied the screens with the intensity of someone reading a particularly fascinating obituary—possibly their own. His thin lips curved into what might charitably be called a smile, if smiles were supposed to make you check that your will was up to date.
"Shadowflame's power," he said, each word precisely measured like ingredients in a particularly deadly recipe, "does not stem merely from his flame. It flows from his connection to the ley lines—the magical currents that bind this world together like invisible threads."
With a gesture that was equal parts elegant and terrifying, he waved his hand. The screens shifted to display a map of Metropolis, but not the kind you'd find in a tourist guide. This one showed the city's magical infrastructure—glowing lines of power that crisscrossed the urban landscape like a supernatural subway system.
"Sever those threads," Wotan continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "and you cut the ground from beneath his feet. Trap him in a null zone, isolated from the flow of magical energy..."
He paused, and his smile grew just a fraction wider. In Wotan terms, that was practically a belly laugh.
"And suddenly, our godling becomes remarkably... mortal."
Black Adam actually snorted—a sound like a bull with anger management issues.
"You want me to hide behind magic tricks?" he demanded, electricity still dancing around his clenched fists. "I am the champion of Kahndaq! I don't need parlor tricks to crush him!"
Wotan turned to regard Adam with the patient expression of someone explaining calculus to a particularly stubborn golden retriever.
"No," he agreed, his tone remaining infuriatingly calm, "you need strategy. You need preparation. Most importantly..." His eyes glittered with dark amusement. "You need me."
Ultra-Humanite leaned forward slightly, his scientific mind already working through the implications. When he spoke, his voice carried that mixture of professional admiration and calculating hunger that made people very nervous.
"And once he's trapped in this null zone," he asked, pushing his glasses up his nose, "weakened and vulnerable... then we strike?"
Wotan's smile was the kind of expression that belonged in a horror movie—specifically, on the face of the villain right before the final act.
"Precisely," he purred. "Seven against one. Even legends fall under such odds."
The Joker had been unusually quiet during this exchange, which was about as reassuring as finding a lit stick of dynamite in your morning coffee. Now he threw back his head and laughed—not giggled, laughed—and the sound echoed off the chamber walls like the ghost of every bad decision anyone had ever made.
"Oh, this is beautiful!" he cried, clapping his hands with genuine delight. "It's like... like a surprise party! Except instead of cake and balloons, we've got magical death traps and mortal peril! Seven against one?" He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "It almost feels like cheating. It feels... delicious."
Count Vertigo, who had been standing in the shadows like the world's most dangerous coat rack, finally decided to join the conversation. Picture the most annoying aristocrat you've ever met, give him the power to make people's inner ears rebel against them, and add just enough madness to make him genuinely unpredictable.
"Excellent," he said, his accent making everything sound like a threat delivered over expensive wine. "We lure him in like a lamb to slaughter. We bleed him slowly. We break him piece by piece until the world watches their precious hero crumble."
He paused to smooth an invisible wrinkle from his immaculate jacket—because apparently even while plotting murder, one must maintain proper fashion standards.
"And this time," Vertigo added, his smile sharp enough to cut diamonds, "I want to see the exact moment when hope dies in his eyes. It's been far too long since I've had that particular pleasure."
Atomic Skull chuckled again, that refined sound that somehow made it worse than if he'd just maniacally cackled like a normal supervillain.
"Count me in," he said, his glow pulsing brighter with anticipation. "I've been simply dying to discover what happens when his atomic structure meets mine. Perhaps he'll... how do you say... sparkle?"
Poison Ivy rose from her chair with the fluid grace of a predator who'd just spotted dinner. Her vines writhed around her ankles like eager pets waiting for the command to kill.
"Do whatever you want to the boy," she said, her voice carrying that sweet poison that meant someone was about to have a very bad day. "Just remember—my children are not your playthings. I've invested far too much time and effort cultivating them to watch you reduce them to ashes with your little pissing contest."
Ultra-Humanite nodded approvingly, already making calculations in his head that probably involved trajectory analysis and optimal casualty dispersal.
"Then we are in agreement," he announced in that matter-of-fact tone he used for everything from ordering coffee to planning mass destruction. "Wotan and Adam will prepare the containment field. The rest of us will funnel our target into the trap zone."
Wotan inclined his head with the kind of elegant nod that suggested he was already three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
"One hour," he said simply.
Black Adam cracked his knuckles, sending small lightning bolts arcing between his fingers.
"One hour," he repeated, and it sounded less like an agreement and more like a death sentence being handed down by the universe itself.
On the screens around them, Shadowflame erupted through another of Ivy's carefully cultivated nightmare plants, reducing it to ash while civilians cheered and coughed through the smoke below.
Wotan allowed himself one last look at their target—young, powerful, and blissfully unaware that seven of the world's most dangerous minds had just agreed on his destruction.
"Enjoy this moment, boy," he whispered, his words barely audible above the hum of electronics and the distant sound of destruction. "Savor your victories. The wheel of fortune turns for everyone, and today..."
His smile was the kind of expression that made shadows seem brighter by comparison.
"Today, even legends learn to die."
In his corner, the Joker rocked back and forth, humming something that might have been a lullaby if lullabies were designed by homicidal maniacs.
"Oh, this is going to be hilarious," he sang softly, his voice filled with the kind of joy usually reserved for children on Christmas morning. "The look on his face when it all comes tumbling down... when he realizes he's not the hero of this story anymore... ooh, I might just cry from the beauty of it all!"
Above them, the city burned with the light of a hero's power.
Below them, seven of the most dangerous egos on Earth prepared to snuff out that light forever.
—
Metropolis Botanical District
(A.K.A. Someone Really Needs to Invest in Better Landscaping — and That Someone Is Me)
Okay, let me paint you a picture of my Tuesday afternoon.
I'm standing in what used to be Metropolis's fancy botanical district, except now it looks like Mother Nature had a really bad breakup and decided to take it out on civilization. There are vines the size of subway cars trying to eat people, flowers that literally scream when they bloom, and somewhere in the distance I can hear what sounds like a tree having an existential crisis.
Just another day in the life of your friendly neighborhood demigod.
The vine monster charging at me right now? Yeah, it's about as big as a city bus and twice as ugly as my uncle's attempt at growing a mustache. Its mouth opens wide enough to park a car in, and it's making this sound like a blender full of gravel and bad life choices.
I spin my blade in a perfect arc—flames trailing behind it like the world's most dangerous ribbon dancer—and slice clean through the thing's center. It explodes into ash and disappointment, raining down like really depressing snow.
"Come on!" I shout to the burning street around me, my wings flaring wide enough to cast shadows on the buildings behind me. "Is this really the best Metropolis has to offer in the 'trying to kill me' department? Because I've seen more challenging enemies in kids' cartoons!"
The heat radiating off my armor is turning the asphalt soft, and my reflection in the puddles looks like someone crossed a superhero with a really expensive light show. Which, let's be honest, is exactly what I am.
But then something changes.
The chaos just... stops.
I'm talking dead stop. Like someone hit the pause button on the apocalypse. The screaming vines freeze mid-attack. The fire around me keeps burning, but the crackling sound goes quiet. Even the wind holds its breath.
You know that feeling you get when you're about to get called to the principal's office, except the principal has the power to rearrange your molecular structure? Yeah. That feeling.
I lower my blade slowly, every instinct I've got screaming that I'm about to have a really bad day.
And then she appears.
Poison Ivy doesn't walk out of the vegetation so much as the vegetation parts for her like she's some kind of plant goddess arriving for her coronation. Which, knowing Ivy, is probably exactly how she sees it.
Her dress looks like it was woven from midnight and bad decisions, hugging curves that could probably cause traffic accidents from three blocks away. Her hair is this cascade of red that makes fire look embarrassed, and when she moves, it's with the kind of fluid grace that suggests she's never made an awkward movement in her entire life.
But it's her eyes that really get your attention. Green as fresh poison, sharp as surgical steel, and currently looking at me like I'm a particularly interesting bug she's decided to pin to a display board.
She smiles. Slowly. Like she's savoring a particularly expensive wine that happens to be my impending doom.
"Hello, darling," she purrs, her voice smooth enough to sell insurance and dangerous enough to end civilizations. "You really do know how to make an entrance, don't you?"
I adjust my grip on my sword, letting the flames dance higher along the blade. The heat shimmer around me intensifies, and I flash her my best 'I'm-about-to-ruin-your-day' grin.
"Ivy," I say, tilting my head with just the right amount of cocky confidence. "Thought I smelled something expensive and environmentally questionable. How's the whole 'turning cities into compost' thing working out for you?"
Her smile doesn't even flicker. I've got to respect the poker face.
"Oh, you charmer," she says, beginning to circle me like a predator who's already decided what she wants for dinner. "Tell me something—does burning through my children make you feel powerful? Or are you just working through some unresolved daddy issues?"
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my blade raised as I start my own circling pattern. We're like two dancers who both know the choreography but are making up the steps as we go.
"Please," I scoff, letting my wings spread wider until they're catching the light like stained glass made of fire. "Like you're one to talk about family problems. How's your love life going, by the way? Still only dating people who need fertilizer to survive?"
Her eyes narrow to slits that could probably cut diamond. Direct hit.
The vines around her feet start writhing like angry snakes, and I can actually hear them hissing. Which is either really cool or really disturbing, and I'm not sure which.
"Careful, sweet boy," she says, her voice dropping to that whisper that makes smart people run for cover. "I do so enjoy it when my toys put up a fight... but I prefer them respectful."
I shrug, the movement sending sparks cascading off my armor. "Well, then you're really gonna hate me. Because respect? Not exactly my strong suit."
One of her vines lashes out like a whip made of pure spite. Without even looking, I bring my blade up in a casual backhand that slices through it like it's made of paper. The severed end hits the ground with a wet thud, and the flames along my sword flare bright enough to make her squint.
She actually laughs. It's this low, throaty sound that probably makes normal people forget their own names.
"Oh, my precious, deluded little hero," she says, still circling, still smiling that smile that suggests she knows something I don't. "Still playing the leading man in someone else's story."
I keep pace with her, my feet leaving smoldering footprints in the ground. Every step we take feels choreographed, like we're dancing to music only we can hear.
"You think this isn't about me?" I ask, letting my voice carry just the right amount of amused disbelief. "Hate to break it to you, Poison Ivy, but I'm literally the guy everyone's cheering for. That makes this pretty much entirely about me."
"How... precious," she purrs.
"Thanks. I work out."
She stops suddenly, spinning to face me with that fluid grace that makes physics look like a suggestion. And there it is—the smile. The full, devastating, 'I-just-played-you-like-a-fiddle' smile that could probably end wars or start them, depending on her mood.
"Oh, darling," she whispers, her voice as soft as falling petals and twice as deadly. "You haven't even begun to understand how deep you're in."
That's when I see it.
The clearing.
How did I miss it before? It's like someone took a chunk of the botanical district and turned it into the world's most ominous crop circle. Runes are carved deep into the earth, glowing with that sickly light that screams 'magical trap ahead.' Vines form a perfect circle around the perimeter, their tips curling inward like fingers ready to grab.
And my flames—the fire that's been burning steady since I was twelve—they flicker.
Just for a second.
But I feel it.
Oh.
Oh, that's not good.
I tighten my grip on my sword, and the flames roar back to life, but there's something different now. The air feels thicker, like someone cranked up the gravity just enough to be annoying. There's this electric hum in the back of my skull, and the smell of ozone is so strong it's making my eyes water.
"You know," I say, keeping my voice as casual as possible while every single one of my danger senses is screaming like a fire alarm, "I really should have seen this coming. You're way too dramatic not to have some kind of grand finale planned."
Her vines start slithering forward, moving like they're testing the waters. Or testing me.
She grins wider, and for a second I can see every dangerous thing she's ever done reflected in those green eyes.
"Welcome to my garden, sweetheart."
The vines snap forward like whips powered by pure malice.
Big mistake.
I spin, bringing my blade around in a perfect circle, and the wave of fire that erupts from the movement turns the entire clearing into something that looks like the inside of a volcano. The heat is so intense that the air itself catches fire, and a dozen vines turn to ash before they can even touch me.
Her confident smile falters for exactly half a second, and I point my blade directly at her heart.
"Here's the thing, Ivy," I say, taking a step forward as flames lick at my boots and my wings spread wide enough to blot out the sky behind me. "You're beautiful. I mean, seriously, A+ work there. Magazine-cover gorgeous. But if you think some glow-in-the-dark gardening and a discount magic circle are gonna be enough to take me down..."
I let my voice drop to a growl that would make dragons jealous.
"You're swimming in waters way deeper than you can handle."
She tilts her head, and that smile creeps back across her face like it never left.
"Oh, my sweet, naive little godling..."
That's when I hear it.
Laughter.
High-pitched. Manic. Like someone took all the worst sounds in the world and taught them to giggle.
The Joker.
Of course.
Because my Tuesday wasn't quite bad enough already.
More sounds drift in from the shadows around the clearing. The crackle of electricity that means Black Adam's nearby. The hum of radioactive energy that's Atomic Skull's calling card. The whisper of displaced air that suggests Vertigo's making everyone's inner ear hate them.
Seven against one.
I keep my sword raised, my flames burning bright enough to turn night into day, and look Ivy dead in the eyes.
"So that's how this plays out," I say, my voice steady as bedrock and twice as immovable. "All seven of you, jumping me at once. Gotta say, that's not the terrifying show of force you think it is."
I let my grin spread wide enough to show teeth.
"That's just sad."
For the first time since she appeared, her smile completely disappears.
And me?
My smile gets even bigger.
"Come on then," I say, raising my blade until the flames are dancing around my head like a crown made of pure destruction. "Let's see what you've got."
The air around me shimmers with heat. My wings spread wide enough to cast shadows on the buildings behind me. Every step I take leaves molten glass in the pavement.
"Because I've got plenty of fire to go around."
In the shadows, I can hear them moving. Getting into position. Thinking they've got me right where they want me.
Poor guys.
They have absolutely no idea what they're dealing with.
But they're about to find out.
And honestly? I can't wait to see the looks on their faces when they realize they didn't trap a hero.
They trapped a force of nature.
And forces of nature don't negotiate.
They burn everything down and start over.
—
Somewhere Else
(A.K.A. When the Final Boss Has Been Watching Netflix the Whole Time)
Picture this: you're in a chamber that makes the Batcave look like a studio apartment. We're talking miles beneath the ocean floor, in a place that was already ancient when the first humans figured out fire was useful for more than just pretty light shows. The walls are covered in hieroglyphs that would make archaeologists weep with joy and terror in equal measure, and the air has that particular smell that comes from being really, really old—like opening your grandmother's attic, except your grandmother happens to be older than recorded history.
The room was filled with enough monitors to make NASA jealous, each one glowing softly in the darkness like technological fireflies. And what were they showing? Oh, just a typical Tuesday in Metropolis—which is to say, a teenage demigod with serious anger management issues was about to take on seven of the world's most dangerous supervillains in what could generously be called "an unfair fight."
On monitor number one: Shadowflame stood in the center of what used to be Poison Ivy's botanical paradise, wings spread wide enough to cast shadows on buildings three blocks away. His flames were burning so bright they were probably visible from space, and he had that particular expression that suggested he was about to do something that would make the evening news for all the wrong reasons.
On monitor number two: the Injustice League was moving into position like the world's most dysfunctional pack of wolves. Black Adam's fists were already crackling with enough electricity to power a small city. The Joker was practically vibrating with excitement, like a homicidal chihuahua who'd just spotted a particularly annoying mailman.
But the man watching all of this?
He didn't move. He didn't blink. He didn't even seem to breathe.
Vandal Savage simply observed.
Now, if you've never met Vandal Savage—and trust me, you really, really don't want to—imagine what would happen if someone took all the worst parts of every dictator in history, gave them the body of a professional heavyweight boxer, and then let them live for fifty thousand years to perfect their technique. His hands were folded behind his back in that casual way that somehow managed to be more intimidating than if he'd been juggling knives. His expression could have been carved from granite by someone who really didn't like smiling.
The firelight from the monitors danced across his face, and if you looked very carefully—which most people were too smart to do—you might have caught the tiniest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The kind of smile that suggested he knew something everyone else didn't, and what he knew was probably going to ruin someone's entire day.
"Sir," came a voice from the shadows behind him. British accent, crisp as fresh snow, with just the right amount of professional terror that suggested she knew exactly who she was working for and had made her peace with it. "The team reports that the target has entered the containment zone. The suppression field is operational. Ultra-Humanite confirms magical isolation will be complete within sixty seconds."
Savage didn't turn around. When you're Vandal Savage, you don't need to turn around to command a room. The room turns around for you.
"Fascinating," he murmured, his voice deep enough to make thunder sound like a whisper. "And yet our young Shadowflame burns brighter than ever."
On the screen, the demigod in question took another step forward, his blade trailing flames like he was writing his signature across reality itself. The heat shimmer around him was so intense it was making the camera feed flicker.
The aide—her name was Victoria, though only three people in the world knew that and one of them was standing right in front of her—shifted nervously. After fifteen years of working for Savage, she'd learned to read the subtle signs of his moods. Right now, those signs were pointing toward "dangerously interested," which was never good for anyone involved.
"Forgive me, sir," she ventured, glancing up at the monitors with the expression of someone who was really hoping she wasn't about to accidentally volunteer for the next suicide mission. "But you almost sound... impressed?"
That faint smile on Savage's face deepened just enough to be visible. In Savage terms, that was practically a belly laugh.
"Of course I'm impressed, Victoria," he said, his tone carrying the weight of millennia and the patience of someone who'd watched civilizations rise and fall like seasons changing. "Do you have any concept of how extraordinarily rare it is to encounter a flame that refuses to be extinguished?"
On monitor three, Shadowflame was now facing down Poison Ivy's latest batch of carnivorous vegetation, and his response was to slice through them with the kind of casual efficiency that suggested he'd been doing this since before he could tie his shoes. Which, knowing demigods, he probably had been.
Savage finally moved, but when Vandal Savage moves, it's like watching a mountain decide to relocate. Slowly. Deliberately. With the absolute certainty that everything in its path is going to get out of the way or regret not doing so. He stepped closer to the central console, his massive frame casting shadows that seemed to have their own gravitational pull.
"This boy," he said softly, his eyes never leaving the screens, "this 'Shadowflame' as he calls himself... he is not like the others we have observed."
Victoria glanced at her tablet, scrolling through what looked like enough data to crash a small computer. "According to our analysis, sir, he is still fundamentally mortal. Enhanced, certainly. Powerful, undoubtedly. But ultimately fallible."
Savage chuckled, and the sound was like distant thunder rolling across an ancient battlefield. It was the kind of laugh that made you wonder what joke you weren't getting, and whether you really wanted to know the punchline.
"All men are mortal, my dear Victoria," he said, placing one hand on the console with the kind of casual precision that made expensive electronics whimper. "Even myself, eventually. But some mortals..."
He paused, watching as Shadowflame spread his wings wide and faced the approaching Injustice League with a grin that could have been trademarked under "Dangerous Confidence."
"Some mortals leave scars on the world that never truly heal."
Victoria followed his gaze to the monitors, where seven of the most dangerous individuals on the planet were now surrounding one teenager who looked like he was about to ask them if they'd brought enough friends. The magical containment field was fully active now, crackling with the kind of energy that made reality itself nervous.
"Sir," she said carefully, "surely you don't intend to simply... observe? If the boy somehow manages to defeat them—"
"Then he will have earned the victory," Savage interrupted, his voice carrying the finality of a judge's gavel. "And if he falls..." He shrugged, a gesture that somehow managed to convey the weight of fifty millennia of experience. "Then he was not the flame I believed him to be."
Victoria stared at him like he'd just announced his intention to take up professional balloon twisting. "Sir, with respect, this seems... uncharacteristically passive for you."
Savage turned his head just enough to look at her, and his eyes held the kind of ancient amusement that suggested he'd been waiting for someone to ask that exact question.
"Passive?" he repeated, his smile growing wider. "My dear Victoria, there is nothing passive about what I am doing. I am conducting an experiment."
He turned back to the monitors, where the confrontation was reaching its climax. Shadowflame stood in the center of the magical trap, surrounded by enough firepower to level a small country, and he was... laughing.
"I have spent fifty thousand years," Savage continued, his voice taking on that professorial tone that meant someone was about to learn something they probably didn't want to know, "observing heroes rise and fall. I have watched legends crumble to dust. I have seen gods bleed and mortals ascend to heights that humbled the heavens themselves."
On the screen, Shadowflame raised his blade, and the flames roaring around him turned from orange to white-hot. Even through the monitors, you could almost feel the heat.
"But this boy," Savage whispered, his eyes gleaming with something that might have been anticipation, "this boy burns with something I have not seen in centuries. Something that makes me remember why I first fell in love with the chaos of mortal ambition."
Victoria was quiet for a long moment, processing this information with the kind of careful attention one typically reserved for handling live explosives.
"And what is that, sir?" she finally asked.
Vandal Savage's smile was now wide enough to be genuinely terrifying.
"Hope," he said simply. "Genuine, pure, unshakeable hope. The kind that doesn't bend under pressure. The kind that burns brighter when threatened. The kind that turns ordinary mortals into legends."
He straightened to his full height, his hands clasped behind him once more, his gaze never leaving the screens where the most important fight in recent history was about to begin.
"So let them test him," he said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Let the Injustice League throw everything they possess at this boy. Every trick, every trap, every ounce of power they have accumulated."
The monitors showed seven villains moving into their final positions, magic crackling, electricity building, madness dancing in the air like visible heat distortion.
"Let them discover," Savage continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "what happens when unstoppable force meets immovable hope."
For the first time in what felt like millennia, Vandal Savage smiled with genuine anticipation.
"And let the boy show them what a true legend looks like when it decides to burn the world down."
In the chamber around them, the ancient stone walls seemed to hum with approval, as if the very foundations of the place were looking forward to witnessing history in the making.
Victoria looked at her boss—this man who had outlived empires and watched the rise and fall of countless heroes—and realized she was seeing something she'd never seen before.
Vandal Savage was genuinely excited.
And that, she thought as she quietly updated her résumé in her head, was probably the most terrifying thing she'd witnessed in fifteen years of working for one of the world's most dangerous men.
This was going to be interesting.
Or it was going to be the end of everything.
Possibly both.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!