The thing about being a speedster was that you didn't just walk into a room. You arrived. With wind. And static. And a noise that made people wonder if someone had just flushed a jet engine.
Which was why, at exactly 8:47 p.m., Barry Allen—civilian job: CSI, hero alias: The Flash, personality: golden retriever hyped on espresso—blasted into the Arrow Cave like he'd been shot out of a very stylish cannon.
The moment he appeared, computers flickered, papers flew, and Felicity Smoak nearly launched herself out of her rolling chair like a startled Muppet.
"OH MY GOSH, BARRY!" she yelped, flailing one arm while clinging to her soy chai latte with the other. "Could you NOT enter the room like a horror movie poltergeist?! I need at least some of my nerves intact!"
Barry stopped mid-blur, blinking as if surprised she was surprised. "What? I knocked!"
"You sonic-boomed through a wall of air pressure. That's not knocking. That's seismic activity!"
He held up a hand in apology, his boyish grin peeking through like it had been legally obligated. "Okay, okay, my bad. But also—hi! Love the new server rack. Is that liquid-cooled? You spoil your processors."
Felicity exhaled like she was about to start charging him rent for stress. "You're lucky I didn't just delete half of Star City's traffic light system by accident. I swear, you and Oliver are going to give me a heart arrhythmia."
Barry peeked over her shoulder, hands on knees like a kid trying to read someone's homework. "Still calling it the Arrow Cave, huh? I'm just saying... arrows don't belong in caves. Shouldn't it be the Quiver? Feels more on-brand. Marketable. Plus, it's cute."
"Yeah," Felicity muttered, already typing at warp-speed again, "I suggested that once. You know what Oliver said? 'Too whimsical.' Like he isn't already running a bat-free version of Gotham's therapy group."
Barry snorted. "Broody is his brand."
"Broody and emotionally constipated," Felicity muttered under her breath. "He weaponized scowling."
Barry paced the room like he couldn't not move. Which, to be fair, was kind of his thing. "You guys should have a reality show. I'd watch it. Every week: Laurel punches someone, Roy punches a wall, Dig sighs, and Oliver stares into the middle distance like he's trying to solve a crossword in his soul."
Felicity made a vague motion toward the monitors. "You forgot me. I'm the one shouting in their ears while preventing missile launches with JavaScript."
"Oh, you're the star," Barry said, pointing at her. "You're the Felicity of it all."
That got him a smile. "Aw, that's almost sweet. Is this your way of buttering me up before asking for a favor?"
Barry raised an eyebrow. "Can't I just drop in to visit?"
"You could, yes," Felicity said, tilting her head, "but you never do. So what's up? Did you run into another evil doppelgänger? Time wraith? Did you accidentally date someone from another Earth again?"
Barry winced. "Okay, that was one time."
"Three times," she corrected.
"I didn't know she was from Earth-19!"
Felicity folded her arms, sipping her latte. "Spill, Speedy Gonzalez. Why are you here?"
He stopped pacing and turned serious—well, Barry-level serious, which still included a twinkle in his eye and a nervous bounce. "Batman wants to recruit Oliver."
Felicity nearly choked on her chai.
"He what now?!"
"Into the League. The Justice League," Barry said, doing jazz hands like he was revealing a new car on The Price is Right. "He wants the whole squad. Ollie, Roy, Dig, Laurel. You guys are like... Arrow Avengers."
She blinked, absorbing it like she was buffering emotionally. "Okay. First of all—wow. Second of all, does Oliver know?"
"Nope. I wanted to tell you first," Barry said, grinning. "I figured you could calculate the odds of him stabbing Batman in the neck with an arrow for suggesting it."
Felicity wheeled over to her comms station, fingers flying across keys. "Okay, well, Ollie's going to react by doing his patented three-syllable grunt. Roy's going to explode with excitement and accidentally roundhouse-kick a wall. Diggle will say nothing, but then go box a punching dummy until it bleeds. And Laurel—Laurel will call it stupid while secretly practicing her hero landing in a mirror."
Barry leaned in. "You forgot the part where Oliver tells Batman to go brood somewhere else."
"Right," Felicity nodded, deadpan. "That's inevitable."
On-screen, helmet cams came into sharper focus. Team Arrow was currently very busy redecorating the Star City docks with unconscious arms dealers.
Oliver, perched on a rooftop, was in full sniper-elf mode, firing arrows that made no sound and always hit something vital. Diggle moved like a tank with ballet training—every strike efficient, deliberate, grounded. Roy was a red blur of parkour and fury, blades dancing like he was trying to audition for a stabby musical. And Laurel—
"Laurel just Canary-Cried a guy through a shipping crate," Barry said, eyes wide. "That's new."
"She's been practicing," Felicity said, a little smug.
"Do I need to swoop in and help?"
Felicity smirked. "You just want an excuse to run through fireworks."
Barry made a face. "Okay, yes, but also: I could help. Fast takedowns, clean exits. Very stylish."
"Speedy and stylish. You should print that on a business card," Felicity teased, then pointed to the screen. "No need. They've got it covered."
On-screen, Oliver fired a high-voltage arrow that zapped the last fleeing thug right into the waiting fists of Roy. Laurel dusted off her gloves like she'd just finished reorganizing a closet instead of pummeling criminals. Dig gave a sharp nod.
Barry whistled. "Okay, yeah, you guys are good. Like, Batman-level scary good."
Felicity leaned back in her chair, triumphant. "Told you. We don't do subtle."
—
Thirty Minutes Later
The Arrow Cave—aka Oliver Queen's personal Batcave, but with more flannel and significantly less brooding statuary—was supposed to be sacred ground. A quiet place for post-mission analysis, protein bars, and simmering trauma.
It was not supposed to contain a half-naked Barry Allen pretending to be a Cirque du Soleil performer on the salmon ladder.
"Is he…?" Laurel's voice broke the silence as she stepped in, mask still smudged with sweat and mascara.
"He is," Diggle confirmed, already unimpressed.
Roy squinted like someone had just insulted Arsenal's Spotify playlist. "I'm gonna throw something."
"I am throwing something," Oliver growled, grabbing a foam baton like it was Excalibur. "This is my ladder, Barry!"
From the top of said ladder, Barry Allen grinned like a kid who'd just figured out how to access the adult channels on the family cable package. He dropped in a blur, sticking the landing with arms outstretched and a smugness so tangible it could be used as body armor.
"Heyyy, Team Arrow!" Barry chirped, because subtlety was for people without super speed. "Solid mission! Laurel, your Canary Cry? Chef's kiss. Roy, those flips—amazing. Ollie, that triple-arrow combo? I felt it in my soul."
Oliver Queen blinked slowly. The kind of blink that meant someone was about to get metaphorically—or literally—stabbed.
"Get. Off. My. Ladder."
Barry raised his hands in surrender. "I was warming it up for you."
"It's metal."
"Yeah, but like... emotionally? I gave it a pep talk. Said some affirmations. 'You're strong. You're loved. You're more than just rungs.' That kind of thing."
In the background, Felicity was sipping her latte with the studied detachment of someone watching Planet Earth. "Observe the wild Speedster in his natural environment—flailing, flexing, and flagrantly ignoring social norms."
Oliver didn't even look at her. "You let him in?"
"I tried to stop him," she said with a shrug. "Unfortunately, sarcasm is not faster than the speed of light. Yet."
Roy crossed his arms. "If I'd walked in first, I'd have tackled you."
Barry beamed. "Honestly? I respect that. You radiate chaotic energy. Big 'punch now, think later' vibes."
Diggle peeled off his gloves and tossed them onto the bench. "You're lucky Lyla's not here. She still does 5 a.m. boot camps in the rain."
Barry actually paled. "Wait—seriously?"
"Oh yeah," Diggle said, deadpan. "And she brings kettlebells."
"Laurel?" Barry squeaked. "Back me up here?"
Laurel just arched a perfect eyebrow. "You brought this on yourself, Speedy."
"That's not my nickname!"
"Not today it isn't."
Barry huffed dramatically. "Tough crowd."
Oliver crossed his arms—peak Brooding Billionaire Pose #7. "Why. Are. You. Here."
Barry snapped his fingers. "Oh! Right. Almost forgot. Batman wants to invite you to the Justice League."
The room fell into stunned silence, like someone had just announced that Quentin Lance had joined a punk rock band.
Oliver's face went neutral. Neutral, in Ollie-speak, meant one snark away from violence.
"Come again?"
Barry pointed both index fingers at him, finger guns blazing. "You, Oliver Queen, are officially Batman-approved. Broody. Dangerous. Excessively well-prepared. That's basically the Leaguer starter pack."
Felicity raised an eyebrow. "Wait—Batman? As in tall, dark, and broody? The one who glares so hard satellites malfunction?"
"The very same."
"Did he actually say we're invited?" Roy asked. "Or did he just grunt menacingly and expect us to interpret it as affection?"
Barry shrugged. "Bit of Column A, bit of Column B. But yes. He's expanding the League. City-by-city network. Think Avengers, but moodier."
"I already have a team," Oliver said flatly.
Barry nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! And Batman thinks you're running a League already. He called you 'Delta Force in hoodies.'"
Laurel blinked. "That's... flattering? I think?"
"I mean," Barry continued, "he also called you 'problematic, emotionally constipated, and impossible to work with,' but hey—same review he gave me."
"Charming," Dig muttered.
Felicity raised her cup like it was a mic. "Okay, but if this turns into a brooding contest between Oliver and Bruce, I'm live-streaming it."
"Laurel," Roy whispered. "We should make a betting pool."
"Already started one," she whispered back. "Odds are even."
Oliver looked around at his team: Laurel smirking. Diggle unimpressed. Roy vibrating with potential violence. Felicity humming the Mission: Impossible theme under her breath.
Then he looked back at Barry.
"I don't do clubs."
"This one has a satellite."
Oliver's scowl twitched.
"And a gym that makes this place look like a high school weight room."
"Does it have a salmon ladder?"
"No," Barry admitted. "But I can build you one. Titanium. With LED lights. Maybe a fog machine?"
Oliver's silence was less "no" and more "I'm deeply considering this despite myself."
Barry leaned in like a game show host. "C'mon, Ollie. We've already got a speedster, an all-powerful Wizard, a Kryptonian, a guy with a ring. We need someone who can shoot people with arrows and glower like a disappointed dad."
Laurel chuckled. "That does sound like you."
Roy was practically bouncing. "And what about codenames? Because I've been holding onto Red Vengeance for, like, two years."
Barry blinked. "That's... actually awesome? Trademark it. Immediately."
Felicity spun in her chair. "Okay, but what's the catch? With Batman, there's always a catch."
Barry hesitated. "Well... he might stare into your soul until you have an existential crisis."
Dig grunted. "So... Tuesday."
Barry turned to Oliver, trying not to smile too smugly. "You in?"
Oliver sighed like a man who knew he was walking into a trap but was too tired to argue.
"I'll consider it."
Barry fist-pumped. "Boom! One step closer to Justice League: Arrow Edition."
Felicity raised her cup again. "To the weirdest crossover in the multiverse."
Barry winked. "You ain't seen nothing yet."
—
Barry Allen had approximately three minutes before he became legally culpable for time-travel-level procrastination. Again.
He glanced at his watch—a vintage number with a scratched face and a fraying leather strap that screamed Joe West probably gifted this with a heartfelt speech about punctuality. Somehow, despite having access to the Speed Force, multiple time anomalies, and even a multiverse, Barry Allen still couldn't file paperwork on time.
"Oh crap," he muttered, snapping his fingers with that signature wide-eyed realization. "I gotta run. Like, literally. I've got about... twelve reports at CCPD that were due yesterday. Maybe the day before. Possibly last week? Time's weird."
Oliver Queen didn't even flinch. His arms were crossed like he was auditioning for the role of Permanent Disapproval Statue.
"You're the fastest man alive," he said, with just enough sarcasm to peel paint. "And somehow still the least punctual person in the room."
Barry gave an unapologetic shrug. "Because I'm the fastest man alive, Ollie. Time's just a... very flexible suggestion."
From the bench, Laurel Lance smirked. "Tell that to your captain."
Barry cringed. "Captain Singh's version of a suggestion involves shouting and throwing coffee mugs like frisbees. I've started wearing kevlar to morning briefings."
Diggle raised a slow eyebrow. "You own kevlar just for coffee-related incidents?"
Barry opened his mouth. Then paused. "I'm gonna pretend that was rhetorical."
He reached into one of the tiny compartments on his suit and pulled out what looked like a relic from a tech museum. With a magician's flair, he held it up like a prized Pokémon card.
It was a pager.
An actual, honest-to-Gotham, 90s-style, gray plastic pager.
Oliver blinked. "Is that... a pager?"
"Yup!" Barry beamed, like he was announcing the invention of sliced bread. "Courtesy of the Bat himself. Retro, right?"
"Retro?" Roy said, peering over Oliver's shoulder like the thing might bite. "That belongs in a time capsule next to floppy disks and VHS tapes."
Felicity, who had been sipping her extra-large, oat milk latte (with two pumps of vanilla and a dusting of cinnamon), leaned in. Her eyes widened behind her glasses.
"Oh my God, I had that model in high school. Mine had glitter stickers and an NSYNC charm. How is that even functioning in 2025? Did Batman sprinkle it with nanotech? Or like... enchant it with wizard runes?"
Barry leaned closer, dropping his voice to a faux-conspiratorial whisper. "Don't say Wi-Fi around Batman. He starts monologuing about electromagnetic vulnerability and how cloud storage is a conspiracy by the NSA and LexCorp."
Oliver turned the pager over in his hand like it might explode—or worse, ping. "What does it do?"
"Glad you asked!" Barry said brightly. "See the blinking light? That means it's synced. When it flashes red, it means Batman wants to contact you for... let's call it a formal chat. With the founding members of the League."
Diggle frowned. "Like an interview?"
"More like a tactical trust-fall exercise with judgmental superheroes," Barry replied. "Picture a boardroom where everyone is silently analyzing your inner demons... and possibly your fashion choices."
Oliver stared at him.
Barry raised both hands. "Hey, don't look at me. I just deliver cryptic Bat-messages and run into speed-force tornadoes."
"Fun," Oliver said dryly.
Barry grinned. "Look on the bright side. It's better than how I got recruited. Bruce threw a batarang through my office window with a note taped to it. Almost shattered my 'World's Okayest CSI' mug."
"Batman makes office calls?" Roy asked.
Barry nodded. "Only after memorizing the blueprints of the building and triangulating your heartbeat through three layers of reinforced concrete."
Felicity raised a hand. "That actually sounds like something Oliver would do."
Oliver, master of ignoring sass, gave Barry a skeptical look. "And he wants me?"
Barry's grin turned into a full-on smirk. "Of course. You're paranoid, broody, emotionally constipated, and so over-prepared it makes Batman feel underdressed. Basically Batman with better cheekbones and slightly worse branding."
Laurel let out a laugh. "He's not wrong."
Oliver sighed and looked at the pager again, like it had personally insulted his bow collection. "And if I ignore it?"
Barry's face lit up. "Then Bats shows up at your apartment. Probably inside your closet. Possibly holding your tax returns."
"Wonderful," Oliver muttered.
With one last flash of that infuriatingly cheerful grin, Barry saluted. "Anyway—lightning legs gotta fly. Save some crime for me!"
In a red blur and a rush of wind, he was gone.
Roy blinked, still staring at the spot Barry had vacated. "Do you think if I touch the pager, it'll explode?"
Felicity didn't even look up from her tablet. "If it's from Batman, it's more likely to inject a microchip into your palm and start livestreaming your vitals to the Batcave."
Diggle clapped a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "So... ready to be Batman's new best friend?"
Oliver let out a sigh that had enough weight to crush a small building. "I'm going to need another salmon ladder."
Felicity sipped her latte. "And I'm going to need popcorn. This crossover just got way more dramatic."
Laurel nudged Roy. "You touching it, or what?"
Roy held up his hands like the pager was radioactive. "Oh no. I like my DNA un-monitored, thanks."
Oliver stared at the blinking device in his hand. It blinked back. Menacingly.
And somewhere, far away, Bruce Wayne probably smirked.
—
The Peverell Family Manor didn't so much sit on the edge of Metropolis as brood there like a Gothic novel with serious main character energy. Covered in ivy, older than most countries, and humming faintly with old magic and sass, it was the kind of place that came with its own personality—and probably several ghosts, most of whom would argue with you over tea.
Harry Peverell stepped out of his sleek black car like he was walking away from an explosion in a Michael Bay film. His long coat fluttered dramatically in the wind (which may or may not have been summoned purely for effect). Beside him, Diana Prince radiated her usual divine majesty—think Alexandra Daddario in full goddess mode—and Mera? Mera had that stormy expression that said she could drown a man with a look, and he'd probably thank her for the honor.
"Alright," Harry muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "Let's go poke the ghosts and see if they've set the tea out."
Diana raised an elegant brow. "You know most people find haunted mansions unsettling."
"And yet here you are," Harry said, flashing her a grin. "Clearly, you have a thing for brooding British men with family trauma and magical real estate."
Mera snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, Peverell. We just didn't trust you not to trip over a cursed candlestick without supervision."
As they approached the front gate, the voice of Beta-7, the manor's AI system, echoed in their minds. Smooth, melodic, with an accent that suggested flamenco dancing and Grammy awards.
"Good evening, Master Peverell," Beta-7 cooed. "You are looking devastating today. And might I say, Miss Prince, your aura is practically blinding. Miss Mera, as usual, you are dripping in attitude and power. Love it."
"Beta," Harry said with fond exasperation, "are you flirting with everyone again?"
"Always, mi amor. Shall I prepare refreshments? Perhaps something scandalously delicious?"
"Just lead the way," he said. "We're here for Shiera."
The manor's doors creaked open as though it had been waiting dramatically for this very moment. Because of course it had. The entry hall smelled faintly of old books, rain-soaked stone, and the kind of dark wood that creaks ominously even when no one's walking on it.
Diana looked around and shook her head. "This place is a history book that got left out in a thunderstorm."
"Thank you," Harry said proudly. "Built before indoor plumbing, designed by people who thought candlelight was too modern, and maintained by an AI voiced by Shakira. Truly, a house of contradictions."
"And yet," Mera added, brushing her fingers along a sword mounted on the wall, "you still live here."
"I mean, where else am I going to hang the cursed paintings and magically preserved dueling gear of my homicidally dramatic ancestors?"
They reached the library, its massive oak doors swinging open as if by ghostly invitation. Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth, and Shiera Saunders sat at a desk surrounded by scrolls, grimoires, and the kind of artifacts that looked like they could summon either great power or your immediate death.
Shiera looked up, her eyes momentarily surprised, then warm. Her gaze softened at the sight of them.
"Diana," she said, rising slowly. "Mera. Harry."
"Hey, Hawkwoman," Harry said, walking over to her like he wasn't sure if he should hug her or just offer a sarcastic one-liner. So he compromised. "You look like you've been up all night either solving an ancient riddle or cursing my name."
Shiera chuckled, the sound brittle but real. "A little of both. I'm cataloging artifacts for the Smithsonian. Each piece feels like a memory... or a mistake."
"We all have baggage," Diana said gently. "Some of us just carry it in armored chariots."
"And some of us carry it in emotionally repressed British sarcasm," Mera added, shooting Harry a look.
"Oi," Harry said, mock offended. "My emotional repression is both hereditary and award-winning. Don't mock it."
Beta-7's voice chimed in like she was born for a sitcom cameo. "Might I recommend tea and seafood bisque? I've adjusted the seasoning to accommodate Miss Mera's Atlantean preferences and Miss Saunders' comfort cravings."
"We are not turning this into a group therapy soup session," Harry muttered.
"Oh, I absolutely am," Beta said cheerfully. "Master Peverell, you are due for a serotonin boost and some omega-3s."
Shiera chuckled again, a little easier this time. "I wouldn't mind bisque. And maybe... company."
"Say the word," Diana said warmly, taking her hand.
Harry stepped back with a mock bow. "Then let it be known: in this manor, healing shall be done with tea, sarcasm, seafood, and passive-aggressive historical artifacts."
As they made their way toward the kitchen—which looked like Gordon Ramsay and a warlock had teamed up for a reality show—Harry glanced at Diana and Mera walking beside him. There was something unspoken in the way their eyes lingered on him, the soft smiles they exchanged. Maybe it was the shared danger they constantly lived in, or maybe it was just the way battle-forged bonds blurred into something... deeper.
Mera leaned in as they walked, whispering, "Are you ever not charming in a maddening, insufferable way?"
Harry gave her a smirk. "Only when I'm asleep. Possibly dead."
Diana looked between them, amused. "You two flirt like it's a full-contact sport."
"That's because it is," Mera replied.
"I'm just trying to survive between two goddesses who could end me with a thought," Harry said with a wink. "And frankly? Worth it."
The fire crackled behind them, the scent of bisque wafted from the kitchen, and for just one moment, the world outside—Darkseid, chaos, all of it—could wait.
For now, the battle-hardened, emotionally complicated, ridiculously attractive trio could be something else:
Together.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep fighting.
—
Dinner in the manor had become a weird kind of group therapy.
Shiera Saunders—winged warrior, reincarnated archaeologist, and currently wearing sweats like they were armor—sat curled on the edge of the massive fireplace couch, sipping bisque like it held the secrets of the universe. Her eyes stayed locked on the dancing flames, which felt dramatic even by Justice League standards.
Harry watched her over the rim of his own bowl, one eyebrow arched in that very specific, very British expression that meant I'm thinking dangerously deep thoughts but also planning my next savage roast.
"Not to sound like a Netflix therapist," he said, finally breaking the silence, "but you good, love?"
Mera almost snorted bisque out of her nose.
Shiera didn't even blink. "That's your version of checking in? No emotional warm-up? Just straight to the awkward British concern with a side of sarcasm?"
Harry shrugged, setting his bowl aside and leaning forward on his elbows like he was about to offer her a deal with a few magical strings attached. Spoiler: he usually was.
"I thought I'd ease into it," he said. "You know, with all the emotional grace of a sledgehammer dipped in Earl Grey."
Diana rolled her eyes but didn't stop smiling. The firelight caught her cheekbones like it was flirting with her—because of course it was. Alexandra Daddario as Wonder Woman had that effect on literal elements. Mera, who was somehow both intimidating and delightful in a "try me and drown" kind of way, smirked from the other end of the couch.
"You forgot the part where he pretends not to care while caring deeply," Diana added, sipping her wine. "Classic Eidolon move."
Beta-7's voice crackled through the speakers with musical sass, somehow managing to sound like a holographic Shakira who'd decided to moonlight as their AI: "Oh please, he even adjusted the lighting in here to maximum emotional impact. You're all practically bathing in tragic cinematic glow."
Harry blinked innocently. "It's called ambience, Beta. Try appreciating my aesthetic sensibilities for once."
"I would, but I'm still recovering from your 'brooding vigilante in a silk robe' phase," Beta-7 quipped. "You're not Batman. You moisturize."
"Savage," Mera murmured approvingly.
But Harry wasn't done. He turned back to Shiera, and for once, the humor dipped just enough to let something real peek through.
"I know this place has ghosts," he said, quieter now. "Carter's not here. But I am. We are. And I'm only asking because I've seen what you are when you fly into a storm, and I want to know if you're ready to fly again."
Shiera didn't flinch. She looked at him—really looked—and in that moment, it wasn't Harry Peverell, Champion of Death and chaos magnet of the multiverse, staring back at her. It was the only person in the world who knew what it felt like to carry ancient pain with fresh wings.
"I knew you'd ask," she said, voice calm. "You always do. Same tone, too. Like you're trying to hide your heart under layers of sarcasm and designer black."
Harry sighed. "Can't a man wear dark colors without being accused of emotional repression?"
"No," Diana and Mera said in perfect unison.
Shiera set her bowl down gently. Her fingers lingered on the rim, tracing it like she was grounding herself in something real.
"I thought this manor would drive me insane," she said. "Instead, it grounded me. I walked the gardens every morning, argued with Beta-7 every afternoon—"
"—you're still wrong about Sumerian verb structures—" Beta-7 added helpfully.
"—got cursed by two portraits and nearly decapitated by a flying tiara in the west wing," Shiera continued, with the kind of fond exasperation only someone who'd lived in a magical manor could muster. "But I fought memories in every corner of this place. And I think... I think I won."
Diana's voice was soft. "So what now?"
Harry stood, all relaxed poise and deadly grace. He tilted his head, lips curled into a smirk that made Diana's eyes narrow and Mera's lips twitch.
"So what now, Hawkwoman?" he asked. "You've got wings. You've got fire. But do you have the will to fly back into the chaos factory that is our brand of justice?"
Shiera rose to her full height, and in that firelight, she looked like something carved out of myth. Esha Gupta in armor and fury. A goddess who remembered who she used to be.
"The storm never left me," she said. "But I've remembered who I am in it. Carter wouldn't want me to disappear. He'd want me to rise."
"Hot damn," Mera whispered. "That was poetic."
Beta-7 made an airhorn sound effect. "Insert triumphant score here."
"I'm ready," Shiera said. "Not perfectly. Not painlessly. But ready enough."
Harry gave a mock salute. "Welcome to the Justice League. Cape optional. Trauma inevitable. Sarcasm mandatory."
Diana raised her glass with a smile that could stop wars or start them.
"To Shiera Hall. Hawkwoman. Archaeologist. Living legend. And the reason Beta-7 keeps setting the security system on dramatic mode."
Mera clinked her glass against Diana's. "And the latest addition to our emotionally dysfunctional family. Finally, someone who can argue with Harry and win."
Beta-7's voice rang out: "Empanadas are in the oven. Also, I made a playlist. It's 70% dramatic anthems and 30% Beyoncé."
Harry raised his own glass, eyes glinting with firelight and something fiercer. He glanced at Diana and Mera in turn, and despite the smirk on his face, something warm crackled in the space between the three of them. Shared fire. Unspoken history. Maybe even a little heat that hadn't quite been spoken aloud.
"To madness," he said. "The delicious, dangerous kind."
And in that moment—within the ancient walls of a manor that had seen more resurrection than Hogwarts on a caffeine binge—something sparked.
Something that sounded suspiciously like hope.
And maybe, just maybe, the opening credits to a whole new chapter.
—
Middleton, Colorado – 10:42 p.m.
Detective Jon Jones was many things. A seasoned cop. A surprisingly good cook (don't ask about the microwave popcorn incident). Oh, and let's not forget, the whole "alien from Mars" thing, which, despite his best efforts, tended to come up at the least convenient times.
So, when Jon stepped into his apartment after a brutal homicide case and immediately felt that something was off, it wasn't just a trick of the tired mind. It was instinct. The kind of instinct that comes with being a Martian who could read a room like a book—only the book was written in an ancient, incomprehensible language.
Jon didn't flip on the lights. Didn't need to. It wasn't dark that was the problem—it was silent. The fridge hummed, the walls creaked, but everything else... still. Too still.
Then came the sound. A slow, deliberate breath. Human. Probably.
Jon sighed. Great. Another late-night intruder. If it was another kid trying to swipe his comics, he'd be very cross.
"Nice place," a voice said from the corner. Low, gravelly, like a man who could kill you with his voice alone—and probably had.
Jon froze, his fingers curling instinctively. The voice was too familiar, too dangerous. Of course it would be him.
From the shadows, like a bad guy out of one of those cheesy crime novels Jon used to read on slow nights, stepped a figure. Dark, foreboding, all sharp angles and threat—an embodiment of everything unpleasant about Gotham City.
"Batman," Jon said, his voice flat. He didn't even flinch. After a few months of dealing with this guy, a random Gotham vigilante showing up in your apartment was more annoying than alarming.
"Detective," Batman replied, his voice barely audible, like he was testing the room's acoustics. He took a step forward, crossing into the dim light that pooled from the window. His suit shimmered—black, armored, intimidating. Even his shadow was menacing.
Jon sighed. "Do you always break into people's homes, or do you save it for special occasions?"
Batman didn't look the least bit sheepish. In fact, the slight edge to his jaw—maybe it was just the lighting—made Jon think that the man actually enjoyed this kind of thing.
"You keep your real form hidden," Batman said, his eyes narrowing. "But you don't hide your habits. Same tea. Same bookshelf. Same nightly walks to the roof at precisely 9:16 p.m. to stargaze. You're good at pretending, J'onn, but not perfect."
Jon's heart gave a little lurch. Not from fear—no, he'd long gotten over the idea of random criminals being able to send a shiver down his spine—but from the fact that Batman had said his name.
Not just Detective Jones. J'onn.
And that? That was not something anyone—not even his most trusted colleagues—should know.
He took a slow breath, trying to keep his calm. "I haven't gone by J'onn in years."
Batman barely flinched. "I know."
Jon's shoulders tightened. "Great. So, are you here to recruit me, or are you just planning on ruining my evening?"
"No, I'm here because the Justice League is watching something big," Batman said, his tone serious now. "Something dangerous. Something that requires a specific skill set." He stepped forward, as if testing Jon's reaction. "And that skill set is yours. We need someone who knows how to blend in with both worlds—human and Martian. Someone who can move without leaving a trace."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm your guy?"
Batman tilted his head. "You are the guy, J'onn. You've spent years hiding in plain sight. But this is bigger than anything you've dealt with before. The League needs someone who understands both... the weight of it, and the cost."
Jon felt a flicker in his chest, an old, familiar sensation. The weight of responsibility. The same weight he'd felt when he was forced to leave his homeworld behind, to live a double life.
"I don't want to be a hero again," Jon muttered. His voice softened, eyes drifting to the window. "Not after... everything."
Batman didn't answer immediately. He just stood there, his silhouette framed by the soft light from the street outside. Then, his voice—raspier now, almost... understanding—cut through the quiet.
"Good. Heroes get people killed. But survival?" Batman's lips pressed into a thin line. "Survival, you're good at."
Jon's breath caught. For a second, he almost considered it. Almost.
But then reality crashed back in.
He shook his head, exhaling. "I don't do this anymore. And you know it."
Batman took one more step toward the window. "I wouldn't have come if I didn't think you'd say yes."
There was no smugness in his tone. No arrogance. Just a statement. A fact.
And then, without another word, Batman was gone—vanishing into the night like the shadow he was.
Jon stood there for a moment, letting the silence fill the space between them. The kind of silence that made his mind race, thoughts tangling in ways he wasn't ready to face.
"Great," Jon muttered. "Another psychopath asking me to join the circus."
He turned toward the kitchen, still in his suit, and reached for the fridge. His reflection—green skin, red eyes—blinked back at him. The ghost of a warrior, his old mentor used to call him.
A warrior who'd buried himself in a badge, a city, and a life he wasn't sure he still wanted.
Jon grabbed a can of Oreos from the fridge—yes, Oreos—and popped it open, rolling his eyes as the sound of them crinkling echoed louder than any inner turmoil. Sometimes, the best way to deal with the endless chaos of being an alien on Earth? Oreos.
"Guess it's back to work then," he muttered, shoving a cookie into his mouth.
---
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