Owlman's Lair
Simultaneously. Somewhere underground. Definitely not OSHA-approved.
The screens lit up the room like a thousand angry ghosts all shouting the same thing: Ultraman got wrecked. And not in the fun villain-vs-villain kind of way. More like the magical fist-to-face, dignity-flushed-down-the-Multiversal-toilet kind.
Superwoman lounged on a black leather divan like she owned the world—and maybe had already pawned it for diamonds and a flamethrower. Her heels were on the table. Her sword was beside her, just close enough to say I could kill you with this and still make it fashion.
She tilted her head and let out a moan that should not have come from watching your boyfriend get face-punched into unconsciousness.
"Ohhh... that rune," she purred, eyes glued to the screen where Eidolon was carving magical graffiti into Ultraman's face. "It was so symbolic. The betrayal sigil. That's the kind of breakup message you feel in your soul. Mmm. I love wizards."
Across the room, Owlman didn't even glance up. He was elbow-deep in a device that looked like someone had taken the guts of a Mother Box, force-fed it a Rubik's Cube, and whispered cursed equations into its gears. The multiversal aperture pulsed gently like a sleeping beast—quiet, but with vibes.
Owlman muttered, "I told him."
"Sorry, which him? There are so many bruised egos around here," Superwoman said sweetly.
Owlman, in his very best I'm Batman but less friendly tone, clarified, "Ultraman. I warned him Eidolon was holding back when he flattened Johnny Quick. Kryptonian overconfidence. It's practically genetic."
"Oh, it's adorable when you science-shame the meatheads." She swung her legs off the table and prowled across the floor, hips swaying like she was on a villainess runway. "You also told him I'd never be loyal. He didn't believe you. Isn't that cute?"
"I was being literal," Owlman replied, adjusting a glowing coil without looking at her. "He has the emotional IQ of a dropped toaster."
Superwoman leaned over his shoulder, eyes tracing the blueprint he was assembling in real-time. "And you have the emotional availability of a haunted knife, but here we are."
He paused just long enough to acknowledge that she was both right and annoying. "The device is ready."
She blinked. "Already?"
"You think I waste time while you're watching magical street fights like they're UFC? Please."
A blue shimmer rose from the core of the machine, slowly unfolding like someone was ripping a hole through the universe with origami skills and bad intentions. It stabilized into a flickering gateway shaped like a sideways keyhole.
"That leads to the Justice League's Earth," Owlman explained, standing. "Direct aperture into the Watchtower's vault corridor. Retrieve the Quantum Trigger, return. No engagement. No improvisation."
Superwoman pouted with actual lip gloss. "But improvisation is so hot."
"You're already hot," Owlman said flatly. "Try 'effective' for once."
She laughed. "You know, you're lucky I have a thing for cold, emotionally unavailable psychopaths."
"I'm not lucky," he said, eyes narrowing behind the cowl. "I'm prepared."
She paused in front of the gate, hand on her hip. "You have a man on the inside, right? Please say it's not Batman. That brooding emo thing gets old."
"Batman is a Boy Scout in eyeliner. My contact's worse."
Superwoman's eyes sparkled. "Do I get to meet him?"
"No. He doesn't do brunch."
Behind them, Ultraman's limp body took another magical wallop on the news feed. Eidolon had just suggested shawarma. Diana had agreed. The wizard was now bantering about not wearing pants.
Superwoman purred, "They're so cute. We should blow them up last."
Owlman—Ben Affleck's voice now in full, slow, gravelly form—finally smiled. It was not a friendly smile. It was the kind of smile that came with a 37-step contingency plan and a backup nuke labeled "Plan C: Boom."
"We're nearly there," he said softly, fingers tightening on the edge of the console.
Superwoman turned toward the glowing rift, stretching like she was about to head to the spa, not to commit a multiversal felony. "And when we are?"
"We find Earth Prime." Owlman's tone could've frozen lava. "And erase everything else."
She gave him a wink. "I'll bring souvenirs."
And with a shimmer and a flash of thigh-high boots, she vanished through the portal.
Owlman didn't move for a full minute.
He just stood there in the blue glow, watching the rift ripple, hearing the echo of his own heartbeat ticking down to oblivion. On-screen, Ultraman twitched like a dropped action figure.
He turned back to the console and whispered, "Let's see how many gods bleed when the story ends."
—
LexCorp Plaza Five Minutes Later
Sirens. The real kind—not mythological seductresses or Superwoman half-singing Britney Spears—but the blaring, weaponized scream of military-grade "You messed up now".
LexCorp Plaza—currently auditioning for the role of "most obliterated building in Metropolis"—shuddered as a fleet of Blackhawks tore across the sky like angry metal vultures. On the ground, APCs swerved like they'd forgotten traffic laws existed, spitting out soldiers in enchanted armor who immediately began treating the place like a Call of Duty map.
In the middle of the chaos, Ultraman was having a rough morning.
The Kryptonian warlord formerly known as "invincible and smug about it" now lay cratered in the pavement, face-down, smoking, and muttering threats in between bloody coughs. His costume—if it could still be called that—was in shreds. A glowing technomagical rune flickered across his jaw like the world's most judgmental tattoo.
Two power-armored soldiers slapped anti-Kryptonian cuffs on him—glowing blue, humming ominously, probably singing lullabies in Latin.
General Sam Lane—aviators, cigar, and more grizzled than a barbecued steak—strode up like he'd just walked out of a Clint Eastwood biopic.
"Ultraman," Lane barked, voice sharp enough to make reporters flinch. "By executive order of President Slade Wilson, the Crime Syndicate is officially classified as a hostile foreign entity and an enemy of the United States."
Ultraman groaned, coughing, "You've got to be kidding—"
"I'm not," Lane said, tone flat. "And this?" He gestured at the skyline, which looked like someone had challenged it to a duel and won. "This made the paperwork easy."
Then Superman dropped in like the world's most terrifying teacher who just caught two kids cheating on a test. Cape fluttering. Arms crossed. Jaw carved from Mount Olympus.
He deposited Captain Super in one hand—bleeding but conscious—and Mr. Action in the other—unconscious, singed, and presumably dreaming about Monster Trucks and bad decisions.
"Two more for the detention pile," Superman said dryly. "Might want to reinforce the restraints on the loud one."
Captain Super blinked woozily. "You hit like a freight train full of church bells."
Superman arched an eyebrow. "That was the polite version."
Next came Eidolon.
He landed in a swirl of cloak and runes, looking like a cross between a Vogue model and a final boss. His armor glowed faintly, enchantments humming. One rune along his hip translated to: "Property of Wonder Woman and Mera. Do Not Touch."
"Superwoman portaled out of this Earth three minutes ago," he announced. "Took a quantum aperture."
Lane turned to a tech officer. "Track the signature. And ghost everything Owlman-related. I don't want quantum malware dancing through NORAD again."
Eidolon smirked. "Bit late for that."
Lane growled. "Tag their DNA, lock them up. Get Waller to erase them from satellite feeds before breakfast."
Ultraman spat near Eidolon's boot. "You think you've won?"
Eidolon crouched next to him, eyes glowing beneath the helmet, voice dipped in British sass and black tea.
"Oh, darling," he purred, "I know I have. Because unlike you, I don't need to win. I just need you to lose spectacularly—preferably while the cameras are rolling."
He stood up, adjusting his cloak like a man who practiced dramatic exits in the mirror. "And speaking of cameras, do remind the audience to zoom in on your cuffs. Hand-crafted. Magically enhanced. Limited edition."
"Stop gloating," Superman muttered.
"I haven't even started, mate," Eidolon said cheerfully.
Diana landed beside him, her sword still dripping menace. She flicked a stained handkerchief across the blade, somehow managing to smell like lavender and destruction.
"Still not worth it," she murmured, eyeing Ultraman like he was a particularly annoying stain.
Eidolon offered her his arm.
"My lady," he said, voice suddenly honey-smooth. "Might I say you were terrifyingly radiant today?"
Diana quirked a brow. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
Superman cleared his throat. "Focus?"
Eidolon sighed. "Fine. Phase One is complete. Superwoman's gone, Owlman's still doing his midnight James Bond villain routine, and we just handed the U.S. military a villain buffet."
Superman tilted his head. "You planned this?"
Eidolon's grin practically needed a license. "What, you think I show up just to punch people and smolder dramatically?"
Diana smirked. "You do smolder pretty well."
"I know," Eidolon said, giving her a wink that probably violated several diplomatic protocols.
As armored transports swallowed the Syndicate one by one, the trio turned from the wreckage. Then he used Mage Sight to look and saw a faint shimmer in the distance that marked the last remnants of Superwoman's portal.
Eidolon glanced at it.
"She's not running," he murmured. "She's repositioning. And Owlman's always ten steps ahead. But we've got their scent now."
Lane walked over, puffing his cigar. "The President's final word was clear: if Owlman or Superwoman show up again, we nuke the welcome mat."
"Charming," Eidolon said. "Tell the President to save the nukes. I've got something better."
Diana raised an eyebrow. "What could be better than nukes?"
Eidolon looked at her, voice low and velvet-smooth. "Us."
And just like that, he turned, cloak flaring like it had its own soundtrack.
"Lunch?" he offered.
Superman sighed. "Let me guess—shawarma?"
"Obviously."
Diana sheathed her sword. "Do they have baklava?"
"They will," Eidolon said, grinning. "Or I hex the menu."
They walked off together—one a god, one a demigod, one a magical sass grenade in a cape—leaving behind smoking ruins, unconscious warlords, and enough news fodder to keep cable TV spinning until the next apocalypse.
On a screen somewhere far away, Owlman watched.
Smiling.
Plotting.
Waiting.
—
Watchtower – Secure Vault Corridor Simultaneously. Earth-1. So clean it smells like judgment and freshly sanitized secrets.
Superwoman didn't just arrive. She entered, hips already mid-strut, like gravity owed her money and the floor should be honored to be walked on. One leg first, slow and deliberate, like this was Paris Fashion Week and not the epicenter of Earth's planetary defense grid. Her hair flipped. Her lips curled. Her sword? It gleamed like a prom queen's tiara at Evil High.
"Okay, okay," she purred, rolling her shoulders with a casual menace. "Let's snag this Quantum Trigger, turn reality inside out, and maybe steal a few capes on the way out."
She held up the device Owlman gave her. It blinked green. Like a smug little emoji saying, this way, villainess. So, naturally, she followed.
Then the trap sprang.
The air crackled—a wall of light slicing upward from the floor like a magician pulling a sword from a hat. Except this magician had serious trust issues.
Superwoman found herself in a perfect geometric cage, glowing with runes that pulsed like they had rhythm and unresolved trauma.
"Aw," she drawled, examining the walls. "You knew I was coming. I feel so loved."
A voice, buttery and scathing, wrapped around the room like glitter-dipped attitude.
"Welcome to the Watchtower," said Beta-9. "You've triggered a Level-Seven magical-tech lockdown. Calibrated for high-risk Kryptonian-class metahumans with narcissistic personality disorder. But girl—seriously, we adore the boots."
Superwoman narrowed her eyes. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm Beta-9. Your hostess, jailor, AI life coach, and Beyoncé on a good day."
She punched the barrier. It flared back with the light of a thousand fax machines dying in a fire.
Beta-9 tsked. "Cute. But the guy who made that field arm-wrestled reality. And won. Twice. And on Taco Tuesday, no less."
That's when he stepped out.
Batman.
Cape swirling, armor matte-black, eyes doing the whole I-just-judged-you-for-everything-you've-ever-done-wrong thing. His voice hit like a gravel smoothie. Cold, dark, and caffeinated.
"Hello, Superwoman."
She lit up like Christmas in a crime novel. "Bat-daddy. Tall, dark, and emotionally constipated. I've heard of you."
"Correct," Batman said. "Eidolon says hello."
Her expression twitched. Just for a nanosecond. "Wait. But how? He's currently on my Earth!"
"With backup. Taking out your friends. One by one."
She gave a sharp little laugh. "Please. You're bluffing."
"I don't bluff."
"Oh, I know you don't smile, sugarplum, but bluffing's part of the gig. You ever played poker with Joker? Because let me tell you, the man cheats naked."
Batman's voice was a glacier in August. "The trap was his idea. That shield? He built it. Magic and tech. Meant to hold someone like you. Or a very frustrated demigoddess with impulse issues."
Superwoman sauntered to the edge of the cage, tracing the glowing wall with one finger like she was flirting with a force field.
"Mmm," she purred. "You do sound like him. But he's way more fun at parties. Did you know I once tied him up with the Lasso of Lies and—"
"Beta-9, mute her."
A shimmer cut her voice mid-smirk. She kept talking, lips moving in ways that definitely wouldn't get past PG-13.
Beta-9 chimed, chipper as a glamazon at brunch. "Muted. And for the record, wow. She's got a mouth like a sailor on reality TV."
Batman didn't even glance at her. He moved closer, inspecting the cage like it was a prototype batarang that needed tweaking.
Superwoman finally stopped miming. "He'll beat Eidolon," she said. Confident. Almost bored.
Batman tilted his head. "Owlman is me. I know how he thinks."
She snorted. "You wish. Owlman isn't just a knockoff you with a worse jawline. On our Earth? He's Thomas Wayne Jr. Younger brother. You know what he did when he was seven? Killed Mommy. Daddy. Even sweet little Brucey. All so he could play CEO. That's who you're up against. Not some cosplay fascist. The original monster."
Batman's jaw clenched. A flicker. Then gone.
"Irrelevant. Eidolon probably already knows."
"You really think he planned for that?"
He stepped back into the shadows, voice dropping to sub-zero calm.
"He doesn't just plan. He writes endings."
Superwoman's smile cracked. Just slightly.
Beta-9 practically squealed. "Ooh. Goosebumps. And I don't even have follicles."
Batman turned, already walking away.
"Transfer her to Omega Lockdown. Eidolon will question her later."
"On it, Bat-babe," Beta-9 said. "I'll keep her warm and emotionally unstable."
Behind them, Superwoman screamed something that sounded both furious and kind of flirty.
Batman didn't turn around.
Because across a thousand dimensions, the countdown had started.
Owlman thought it was a chess game.
Eidolon was about to flip the board.
—
Gotham City, Earth Syndicate
Rain still painted the night silver, but now it sparkled off something brighter than streetlamps and lightning—legends.
The rooftop above the rally had become less a hiding spot and more of a red carpet for superhuman chaos. The Justice League was here. The B-team. The god-tier back-up. A squad of meta-powered MVPs, all armed to the teeth with sarcasm, trauma, and spandex. Basically, it looked like Comic-Con got drunk, hit "randomize," and spat out a team.
Martian Manhunter floated down first, landing beside Rose with the kind of calm you'd expect from someone who probably meditates while levitating over Saturn. His cape whispered in the rain like it was made of silk and secrets.
Next, Power Girl descended like a glittering blonde war goddess. Arms folded. Boob window glistening with water. Eyes full of judgment and mild confusion, like she was trying to remember if she left the oven on while punching a meteor last week.
Then came the boom.
Cyborg landed like a mech-god from Olympus, fresh from a drone drop. His red eye flickered, scanning the area like it owed him money.
"Everyone still breathing?" he asked, voice deep and velvety with just enough static to sound dangerous.
Rose gave a tight smile. "Not sure. You landing just triggered every car alarm within a five-block radius."
"Good. Let the city know Daddy's home."
Enter Flash. Whoosh. Breeze. Snack wrappers. Three hot dogs.
"Wow, rude," he said through a mouthful. "You guys start without me? Do you know how hard it is to find a vendor still open in this weather?"
Savanna dropped next—sleek, wild, and feral in that way that made people either swoon or run. Maybe both. Her black and bronze bodysuit clung like a second skin. Her eyes scanned the rooftop, sharp and golden.
"Archer's down. That was the sound I heard, right?" she said, voice like warm velvet laced with claws. Then her gaze snagged on Power Girl. "You didn't scratch him, did you? I wanted to."
Venus came next, parting a bloom of scarlet and ivy like the plants were trained stagehands. Her walk was less a strut and more of a hypnotic glide, like nature had decided heels were overrated. Rose blinked.
"Did the flower bed just open for her like a curtain?"
Flash nodded sagely. "She's the main character wherever she walks. Just go with it."
Hal Jordan floated down next with a smug grin and a glowing green umbrella, followed by Hawkwoman—storm-eyed, winged, and casually intimidating. Rose was seriously rethinking the combat hierarchy of the hot people in the sky.
And then came Mera.
Mera didn't land. She arrived. Like the storm decided to walk in and file a complaint. Dripping with power, poise, and the kind of stare that could turn armies into puddles, she marched up to Rose, hands on hips and jaw clenched.
"You must be Rose Wilson."
Rose gave a small shrug. "That depends. Are you here to hug me or stab me?"
"Neither," Mera replied coolly. "We had a deal with your father. Protection in exchange for the Syndicate being officially designated enemies of the state. President Wilson announced it ten minutes ago."
One of Rose's Secret Service agents stepped forward—the one with shoulders like steel beams and a jawline that could anchor a cruise ship. Secret Serviceman #1 (a.k.a. Dwayne) spoke up.
"It's true, ma'am. The press release went out. It's trending under #DeathstrokeDiplomacy."
"What'd he say?"
Another agent chimed in. Secret Serviceman #2 (a.k.a. John), slightly taller, same energy. "He said—and I quote—'They sent an assassin after my daughter. They just declared war. So I returned the favor.'"
Rose blinked. "Wow. That was… almost sweet. In a 'will probably start World War Three' kind of way."
Dwayne added, "Also, Ultraman's been defeated. The hero who took him down handed him over to the military. Callsign: Eidolon."
Rose did a double-take. "Wait. What?"
Power Girl turned, already grinning. "You haven't heard of Eidolon yet? Oh honey."
"No! What kind of name is—"
"Magic-based," Martian Manhunter cut in smoothly. "A powerful, unpredictable ally. Operates on a mystical frequency Kryptonians are vulnerable to."
Rose stared. "So that's how he decked Ultra-Douche. Magic."
"Oh yeah," Flash chimed in, now on his second hot dog. "Dude's scary good. Dresses like a haunted castle and fights like a shonen protagonist on espresso."
Rose turned to Martian Manhunter. Her voice dipped. "Can you stick close? Just in case another arrow-wielding assassin wants to add a second piercing to my skull?"
Martian Manhunter nodded. "Of course."
He said it with typical Martian calm, but Rose noticed the softening in his gaze. A glimmer of... protectiveness. And yeah, she looked away real fast.
—
Elsewhere on the Roof – Power Girl & Mera
Power Girl tugged Mera aside, her face pink despite the rain.
"Okay, I need to say something and I need you to not interrupt until I'm done."
"You're into him," Mera said instantly.
Karen blinked. "Excuse me—"
"You look at Eidolon like he's the last donut at a police convention."
"Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all... yeah. Maybe."
Mera arched an eyebrow. "It's the eyes, isn't it?"
"It's the everything! He smiled at me after that Metropolis mission and I forgot what day it was. I forgot my own name."
Mera gave a smirk worthy of royalty. "I know."
"Am I that obvious?!"
"Karen. In your head right now, you're imagining suffocating him between your boobs."
Karen turned scarlet. "MERA!"
"You're lucky I'm poly."
Power Girl's eyes widened. "Wait. You and Eidolon—"
Mera nodded. "Me. Diana. Harry. It's a thing."
Karen nearly choked on air. "Seriously?!"
"He lets Diana call him Daddy sometimes."
Enter Hawkwoman, Savanna, and Venus like the world's most absurdly hot backup singers.
"If this harem's going official, I want in," Shiera said, casually.
"What?!"
"Carter's dead. This life, I want them."
Venus draped a vine around her like a shawl. "He looked at me once and the flowers blushed. I'm sold."
Savanna cracked her neck. "I could bite through his throat, but I'd rather kiss it. Doesn't happen often."
Karen stared. "Are you all serious?"
Mera grinned. "Maybe it's time we stop pretending we're not. Because Harry isn't just worth fighting for. He's worth belonging to."
Then she glanced at Karen again. "And yes, you're still imagining the boob thing."
Karen groaned and buried her face in her hands.
"Please, someone invent a time machine so I can go back in time and kill myself."
Venus smirked. "Or you could go kiss him."
Shiera shrugged. "Or tackle him. Whatever works."
Savanna just licked her fangs.
And somewhere, far across Metropolis, a certain sorcerer sneezed, paused, and muttered:
"...Huh. Must be raining women again."
—
A crack of thunder split the sky—perfectly timed, because of course it was—and three silhouettes sliced through the rain like the Justice League's idea of a mic drop.
First came Superman. The living billboard for "Truth, Justice, and I'm About to Ruin Your Day." His cape flared behind him like a red warning sign, and his glowing eyes said he wasn't in the mood for negotiations. Or small talk. Or mercy.
Next to him, striding like she'd just conquered Olympus with a sword in one hand and a latte in the other, came Wonder Woman. Her armor gleamed even in the rain, her shield slung casually over one shoulder like she'd just finished tanking a tank.
And between them? The problem. The legend. The magic-wrapped, chaos-stirring problem.
Eidolon.
All black leather and mystery, a cloak lined in crimson whispering like a secret on the wind. The Deathly Hallows sigil on his chest pulsed with eerie light, like it knew you were curious and dared you to ask. Crimson veins of magic crackled across his armor, snaking like sentient circuitry. His helmet—hooded, ominous, and very much giving "Don't Talk to Me Unless You're Plot-Relevant"—left only his eyes visible: two twin-crimson lights that shimmered with unreadable thoughts and possibly sarcasm.
If Batman and Constantine had a baby who cosplayed as Sauron, this was him. And he looked like he knew it.
The trio landed with a gravitas that screamed, "Hope you had a plan, because ours just started."
Lex Luthor arrived a second later, floating down in a sleek silver exo-suit that had approximately 34 different "Property of the Freedom League" decals plastered on it. Because branding. Also because he was trying very hard to look "not evil."
"No skulls, no spikes, no ominous red glow," Eidolon had commented earlier. "You look like an Apple product designed by guilt."
Lex had glared. "Your sarcasm is noted."
"So is your design aesthetic."
Now, back in the present, Eidolon stepped forward, his boots clicking ominously on the wet rooftop. His aura said calm. His posture said controlled. And his vibe screamed, "Brooding is a full-time job, and I'm CEO."
Rose Wilson tilted her head from the shadows, arms crossed. "So... Owlman's still out there."
"Not for long," Superman said, voice grim enough to turn rain into ice.
Wonder Woman nodded. "With Ultraman and Superwoman neutralized, he has no backup."
Rose's eyes narrowed. "Wait—neutralized? We only dealt with Ultraman. Unless someone fought a clone in drag, Superwoman is still out there."
Everyone turned to Eidolon.
Who, naturally, paused. Because dramatic timing wasn't just a superpower. It was an art form.
"She's been handled," he said finally. His voice was British. His tone? Silken gravel soaked in sarcasm.
Rose arched a brow. "Handled how?"
Eidolon tilted his head ever so slightly toward Lex. "Your Earth's Luthor thought he was clever. Hid the Quantum Trigger—a multiversal WMD disguised as a kale smoothie maker—in our Watchtower."
Lex winced. "In my defense—"
"You have no defense," Wonder Woman snapped.
Flash raised both hands. "Whoa, hold on. I've had lunch up there!"
"Which explains the gastrointestinal chaos of last Tuesday," Eidolon added without missing a beat.
Flash looked personally betrayed. "Hey! That was one time!"
Eidolon continued. "Owlman's obsessed with ending free will. The Quantum Trigger could rewrite probability across all timelines. I predicted he'd send Superwoman to retrieve it."
He paused again, just long enough for maximum tension. Then: "So... we set a trap."
Power Girl frowned. "You what?"
"Batman is waiting for her. With a little surprise we prepared days ago."
Rose blinked. "You're saying you knew?"
Eidolon shrugged. "I always know. I'm magic. I cheat."
Cyborg muttered, "Cool. So she's in our Watchtower, trying to grab the Trigger, and our Batman is bait?"
Eidolon's eyes flickered crimson. "Not bait. The hook."
Wonder Woman tried—and failed—not to smile.
Then Mera stepped forward, her red hair whipping in the wind like it had its own agency. She grabbed Diana by the wrist.
"Girl talk."
Diana blinked. "I didn't do anything."
"Oh, it's not what you did," Mera said with a wicked grin. "It's what our boyfriend's future harem did."
Diana looked like she was about to need several swords and a therapist.
—
Elsewhere on the rooftop, a storm of chaos was already brewing.
Power Girl paced like someone who just realized she had feelings and wasn't emotionally equipped to process them.
"I feel like I need a checklist. Like—do we submit applications? Is there a Google Form? Are we starting a book club or a polycule?"
Venus, leaning on a vine like it was couture, twirled a red curl around one finger. "I vote polycule. Less paperwork. And the benefits?" She winked. "Photosynthesis and pheromones, baby."
Savanna flicked her tail lazily as she perched on a ledge. "We've seen him fight. We've heard him monologue. We've touched the armor. This isn't a crush. This is a lifestyle."
Hawkwoman flared her wings. "Not saying I joined for the aesthetics—but have you seen the man dodge bullets while quoting Shakespeare in iambic pentameter?"
Power Girl threw up her hands. "Diana's going to kill us."
Mera returned with Diana. The latter looked about as pleased as a goddess trapped in a mortal bureaucracy.
Venus, very much pretending to be casual, cleared her throat. "So... hypothetical question. Let's say we all... like Harry."
Diana crossed her arms. "I know you all like Harry."
Power Girl nearly fell over. "Okay, but we respect you!"
Savanna nodded. "And if you say no, we back off. Probably. Maybe. Okay, like... 63 percent."
Diana sighed. Long. Deep. The kind of sigh that carried the weight of Olympus and several romantic subplots.
She looked at Mera. "You knew about this?"
Mera shrugged, too pleased with herself. "Orchestrated it."
"YOU WHAT—"
Diana raised a hand. Silence fell.
She looked each of them in the eye. Calm. Commanding. Dangerously serene.
"I don't share him with just anyone," she said. "But if you can stand beside him in battle—if you can bleed for what he believes in—then maybe... just maybe... you deserve to love him too."
A hush fell over the group.
Then Hawkwoman whispered, "...We're totally starting a group chat."
Power Girl gasped. "What do we even name it?"
Venus smirked. "'Order of the Bedroom.'"
Savanna grinned. "Ladies of the Crimson-lined Cloak."
Mera raised a hand. "Crimson Energy Polychronicles."
Power Girl blurted. "Hallows Harem."
Diana groaned. "I hate all of you."
Across the rooftop, Eidolon tilted his head ever so slightly.
"They're naming the group chat again," he murmured into his earpiece.
Lex, hovering beside him, raised a brow. "And you're not alarmed by this?"
Eidolon shrugged. "Lex, I faced Voldemort, Darkseid, and British public school. I can survive this."
Lex muttered, "I miss when I was the smartest man in the room."
"You weren't," Eidolon said cheerfully. "You just talked the most."
Superman smirked. Flash snorted. Cyborg fist-bumped the air.
And Eidolon, still smirking under the helmet, turned back toward the storm.
The real battle hadn't even started.
But it was already shaping up to be his favorite war yet.
—
Eidolon's voice crackled through the comms and across the rooftop like lightning wrapped in velvet and arrogance. It was low, dry, and British enough to give a Scotch complex.
"If I may suggest some names for your little support group," he said, his tone laced with the kind of smirk you could hear, "how about Crimson Commandos? The Hallows' Honeys? Or my personal favorite—Witches, Warriors, and Women Who Could Kill Me in My Sleep."
There was a moment. One of those classic dramatic beats where everyone looked at each other and collectively forgot how to breathe.
Then Power Girl exploded into laughter. It was like a bottle rocket had gone off inside a cheerleader with super strength.
"Oh my gods, he was listening!"
Savanna, all deadly charm and catlike smug, grinned like she'd been handed the remote control to the universe. "Told you he was omniscient."
Hawkwoman twirled her mace in that casual, "I could brain a tank with this" kind of way. "He wants us to know he was listening. Classic Eidolon. This is foreplay for him."
Diana sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose like she was holding back the entire Amazon army. "He's not wrong."
Mera's smirk could've dried out the Atlantic. She gestured between herself and Diana. "And since both of us are okay with this arrangement, he's not going to say no. Right, love?"
Across the rooftop, Eidolon stood like the world's most dashing gargoyle—black cloak fluttering in the wind, armor kissed by lightning.
He shrugged with the casual cool of a man who was very aware half the women in the room had googled "brooding antihero with a tragic past" at least once.
"Let's be honest," he said. "No man in his right mind would object. And judging by the nods I'm seeing..."
He glanced toward Superman (stoic), Flash (grinning), Cyborg (arching a brow), and Dwayne (nodding like he was approving a family barbecue).
"...consensus achieved. Consider this my formal consent."
Venus twirled a glowing vine around her fingers with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly how much her hips were doing.
"We knew you were smart."
"Tragic taste in wardrobe," added Savanna. "But emotionally literate. Sexy combo."
There was a pause. The kind that tastes like chocolate and doom.
Eidolon's voice dipped. Just a touch. Like a rose blooming in a graveyard.
"However," he said, eyes landing on Venus and Savanna, "you two are from this Earth. The rest of us... aren't."
Boom. Mood shift. Lights down.
"You're staying here," he continued, softer now. "After we deal with Owlman, I can't guarantee we'll even be back."
Venus arched an eyebrow. "Darling. Have you met me?"
Savanna rolled her eyes. "Our Earth's toast. Syndicate murdered everyone we cared about—except Lex."
Lex, standing nearby in all his Fassbender-esque bald smugness, blinked. "You care about me?"
The girls stared.
Venus said, "We said 'everyone we cared about.'"
Savanna added, "Not 'everyone we tolerated.'"
Lex looked wounded. Theatrically, of course. "I'll have you know I'm very missable."
Venus patted his arm like she was consoling a large, bald toddler. "Sweetie, if I had a dollar for every time someone said 'Who let him in?' I'd be richer than you."
Savanna cracked her knuckles. "Point is: we're not staying. There's nothing for us here. So once we help you fry Owlman's creepy little brain... we're coming with you."
For a half-second, Eidolon looked almost... moved. But then he remembered he was Eidolon, and emotions were for mortals.
That's when Rose Wilson stepped forward. Short, sharp, and snarky in boots. She radiated cool like a ninja assassin had collided with a sarcastic fashion blog.
"As riveting as this rom-com-with-explosions is," she drawled, "we've still got Owlman out there with a quantum doomsday button and a god complex. So unless we're planning to seduce him too..."
Power Girl made a face like she'd just swallowed a bug.
"Please no."
"Absolutely not," said Diana flatly.
Rose raised an eyebrow. "Then maybe let's talk strategy."
Everyone turned to Eidolon.
Of course they did.
He looked up. Lightning cracked overhead like punctuation marks for the absurd. In the distance, the Watchtower gleamed in low orbit.
"Our Batman is buying us time," he said, voice like an incantation. "But we have one shot."
Superman—very Henry Cavill, very arms-crossed, very inspirational—stepped forward. "Explain."
"The Q.E.D is synched to Owlman's biometric signature. But he needs the Quantum Trigger to find Earth Prime. Then he has to go there and activate the Q.E.D manually—but only during perfect orbital alignment. We disrupted that by hiding the trigger within the Watchtower's gravitational anchor. But it's temporary."
Diana narrowed her eyes. "How long?"
Eidolon's eyes flared, twin rubies in shadow.
"Twelve minutes."
Cyborg winced. "Wait—twelve?!"
"Correction," Eidolon said without missing a beat. "Eleven. And a half."
Rose sighed. "Then what's the plan?"
Eidolon stepped forward, cloak whispering around his boots like a bedtime story told by nightmares.
"We split into three teams. One intercepts Owlman's reinforcements. One returns to our Earth to support Batman. And the last... comes with me."
Mera folded her arms, tilt of her head dangerously curious. "To do what?"
"To make sure the Q.E.D never activates. And if it does... to rewrite the rewrite."
Flash raised a tentative hand. "Can someone explain 'rewrite the rewrite' in a way that won't give me an ulcer?"
Eidolon didn't answer. He just looked at the sky.
That was answer enough.
Rose pulled out her sword and rolled her shoulders.
"Well," she muttered, already walking, "guess it's showtime."
And then thunder rolled.
Not punctuation this time.
Prelude.
---
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