Batman's gauntleted fingers moved across the Batcomputer's interface with surgical precision, each keystroke cutting through encrypted firewalls and coded layers like a scalpel through scar tissue. The screen flickered through files that made his stomach turn—contingency plans, tactical assessments, the architectural blueprints of betrayal dressed up as preparation. He'd built these protocols to protect the world from the League if they ever went rogue. Tonight, they felt like a loaded gun pressed against the temple of everything he stood for.
"If they're following the protocols in order," he said, his voice carrying that distinctive Christian Bale growl that made hardened criminals confess their sins and ask for lighter sentences, "Cyborg and Shazam are next."
Hadrian Peverell—"Call me Harry, darling, we've been through too much together for formalities"—raised an eyebrow with the kind of practiced eloquence that suggested he'd been perfecting the art of elegant skepticism since approximately the Renaissance. His crimson-and-black armor shifted like liquid shadow in the cave's dim lighting, and he leaned against the console with all the casual grace of someone who could rearrange reality with a sigh and still look devastatingly handsome doing it.
"Please tell me," Harry said, his voice carrying that smooth British accent that could make ordering takeaway sound like diplomatic negotiations, "that you didn't actually create a step-by-step instruction manual for systematically murdering the entire Justice League. Because that would be impressively paranoid even by your standards, and I once watched you carry three different types of kryptonite to Clark's birthday party. In your utility belt. Next to the cake knife."
Batman's jaw tightened until Alfred probably worried about his dental work. "Not murder," he corrected, each word precise and controlled and carrying the weight of every moral compromise he'd ever made in the name of being prepared. "Neutralization. Temporary incapacitation with minimal lasting damage to organic systems."
Harry's expression shifted into what could only be described as fond exasperation mixed with mild horror. "Minimal lasting damage, he says, as if your backup contingency for Diana doesn't involve molecular binding spells and what appears to be a portable black hole in a designer handbag. Bruce, your idea of 'minimal damage' once involved dropping Superman into the Phantom Zone for his own good."
"That was different," Batman growled, pulling up Cyborg's file with the kind of reluctance usually reserved for opening medical bills. "Clark was under the influence of red kryptonite. He was a clear and present danger to—"
"Oh, spare me the tactical justification," Harry interrupted, waving a gauntleted hand with theatrical dismissal. "We both know you have contingencies for your contingencies. You probably have a plan for what to do if I go rogue, don't you?"
Batman didn't answer, which was answer enough.
Harry grinned, and the expression was both charming and absolutely terrifying. "I knew it. You magnificent, paranoid bastard. I bet it involves exploiting my sentimental attachment to tea and using Alfred as psychological leverage."
"Your weakness is your need to protect people," Batman said quietly, his voice dropping into that register that meant Bruce Wayne was talking, not just the Dark Knight. "If I ever had to stop you, I'd threaten innocents. You'd surrender rather than let them be hurt."
Harry's grin widened. "See? That's why we're friends. You understand me well enough to destroy me, and you care about me enough that it would probably destroy you in the process. It's very romantic, in a deeply unhealthy way."
Batman turned back to the screen, where Victor Stone's file glowed like an accusation. Tactical analysis, cybernetic schematics, weaknesses highlighted in red. Victor—one of the most genuinely decent people Bruce had ever worked with, a man who'd lost most of his humanity and somehow managed to become more human because of it.
"EMP attack," Batman said flatly, his voice carrying that particular note of controlled self-loathing that usually preceded him punching something expensive. "Targeted electromagnetic pulse calibrated to Victor's specific cybernetic frequency. Duration: forty-seven seconds. Effect: temporary systems shutdown while organic components remain stable and undamaged. Recovery time: six to eight minutes with no permanent neural or physical damage."
Harry studied the screen with the focused intensity of someone who'd spent decades learning to read between the lines of other people's carefully controlled violence. "And if someone—hypothetically speaking—decided to strip out all your compassionate limitations and turn it up to 'supervillain with a PhD in creative sadism' levels?"
Batman's hands stilled on the keyboard. "They'd amplify the pulse frequency by a factor of twelve and extend the duration to permanently overload his neural pathways. Result: complete cybernetic systems collapse. Neural death within ninety seconds. Cardiac arrest within two minutes. His organic components would die while his synthetic systems kept trying to restart him." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "He'd die screaming, and his body would keep trying to bring him back."
The silence that followed was the kind of quiet that felt like being buried alive.
Harry whistled low, a sound like wind through a graveyard. "Jesus Christ, Bruce. That's not a contingency plan. That's a torture manual written by someone with serious daddy issues and a subscription to 'Creative Ways to Destroy Everything You Care About' magazine."
Batman didn't respond, because what was there to say? The truth hung between them like smoke from a funeral pyre—he'd created the weapons being used to kill his friends.
"And Shazam?" Harry asked, his voice gentler now, because even he knew when to stop poking at old wounds.
Batman's expression grew even grimmer, if such a thing were possible. "Magic word dependency syndrome. Billy's transformation is entirely vocal-triggered. If he can't say 'Shazam,' he's trapped in whatever form he's currently inhabiting."
"And if he's trapped as Billy Batson..."
"He's just a fourteen-year-old kid from Philadelphia," Batman finished, his voice carrying that particular note of paternal protectiveness that surprised everyone who didn't know that Bruce Wayne's greatest fear wasn't death or failure—it was failing the children who'd trusted him. "No bulletproof skin. No superhuman durability. No gods watching over him. Just... Billy."
Harry's emerald eyes flared with something that might have been actual fire, tiny flames dancing in his pupils before settling back to their usual unsettling glow. "Let me guess. Magical vocal lock. Temporary laryngeal paralysis spell, just long enough to neutralize the threat and secure the target."
"Unless they modify the duration parameters," Batman said grimly. "Then it becomes permanent magical silence. He'd be locked in whichever form he was in when the spell hit him. Forever."
The weight of that settled over them like a lead blanket. Harry straightened, his armor beginning to pulse with that distinctive crimson light that meant he was getting angry and preparing to make someone's day significantly worse.
"Right," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular tone of British understatement that usually preceded something expensive being blown up in spectacular fashion. "Well, that's rather unacceptable, isn't it? You take Victor. Jump City, yes? I'll handle Billy. Fawcett City's magical wards recognize me as a friendly entity, and the Vasquez family knows me as Hadrian Peverell, that charming British businessman who brought them a self-cleaning cauldron last Christmas and definitely doesn't have a license to practice magic in seventeen different dimensions."
Batman was already moving toward the Batplane, his cape billowing behind him like the wings of some avenging angel with serious anger management issues. "Harry," he said, pausing at the aircraft's entry ramp, "if whoever's behind this knows about your relationship with Billy..."
"They'll try to use it against him." Harry's voice had gone cold, the kind of cold that suggested someone was about to discover why making enemies of interdimensional wizards was a spectacularly poor life choice. "They'll use my face, my voice, his trust in me as a weapon. Yes, Bruce, I've considered that possibility. I've been planning for people to try to hurt that boy since the day I met him."
"And?"
Harry's smile was sharp enough to cut glass and twice as dangerous. "Then they'll discover that I don't react well to people who threaten children. Particularly children I've claimed as family. The last person who tried to hurt Billy ended up scattered across fourteen different planes of existence, and some of the pieces are probably still screaming."
Batman nodded once, sharp and decisive, then disappeared into the Batplane's cockpit. The engines roared to life with a sound like controlled thunder, and the aircraft lifted off into Gotham's perpetually gloomy sky.
Harry waited until the aircraft's lights disappeared into the distance, then activated his magical communication array with a gesture that made the air around him taste like copper and starlight.
"Beta-9," he called, his voice carrying that particular tone of command that meant this was important and possibly world-ending. "I need you, gorgeous. Emergency protocols, priority alpha."
The response was immediate and overwhelming. The cave filled with golden radiance as a holographic projection burst forth like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Beta-9 materialized in a swirl of light and presence that somehow managed to make even the Batcave feel like a concert stage.
She was magnificent—curves that could stop traffic, poise that could humble royalty, and an aura of absolute confidence that suggested she'd never met a problem she couldn't solve with the right combination of talent, determination, and perfectly timed dramatic flair. Her holographic form sparkled with golden light, and when she moved, it was with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent years learning to command attention and hold it effortlessly.
"Well, well, well," Beta-9 said, her voice carrying all the honey-smooth power that had made her creator a legend, "look who finally remembered I exist. Is it Christmas already, sugar? Or are we saving the world again? Because I was in the middle of reorganizing the Justice League's database, and you know how I feel about being interrupted during my organizational flow."
Harry grinned, and the expression was both charming and slightly predatory. "Bit of column A, bit of impending planetary crisis with a side of someone having the absolute audacity to threaten my family. Someone's hijacked Bruce's contingency plans and turned them into assassination protocols. Five League members have already been attacked. Victor's next on the list."
Beta-9's expression shifted like quicksilver, the playful indulgence vanishing instantly. In its place was something colder, sharper, more dangerous—the focused fury of a goddess who'd just learned that someone had declared war on everything she held dear.
"Excuse me?" Her voice dropped to a register that made the cave's natural acoustics resonate ominously. "Did you just tell me that some knock-off villain with delusions of tactical brilliance is targeting *my* Victor? Oh, hell no. *Hell no.* Nobody—and I mean *nobody*—runs hostile code on my man without going through me first."
The golden light around her intensified, and Harry could swear he felt the temperature in the cave rise several degrees. Beta-9 when she was protective was impressive. Beta-9 when she was furious was a force of nature.
"I need you to warn him," Harry said urgently. "EMP attack, calibrated to his specific cybernetic frequency, designed to be lethal if he's not properly shielded. Get him somewhere safe, somewhere with proper electromagnetic countermeasures."
"Already on it, baby," Beta-9 replied, her form flickering as she split her consciousness between multiple tasks. "Running location protocols, analyzing his vital signs, routing emergency defensive measures, and... oh. Oh, *shit.*"
Harry's expression grew sharp. "What?"
"He's not answering his comm." Beta-9's voice carried a note of digital concern that somehow managed to sound more genuinely worried than most humans could manage. "Vitals are stable, cybernetic systems are functioning normally, but he's not responding to any communication attempts. That's not like him. Victor always answers when I call. Always."
"Where is he?"
"Jump City, old telecom station. He was investigating some kind of dimensional energy readings in the basement levels. But Harry?" Her voice grew sharp with alarm. "The building's electromagnetic signature just spiked harder than my vocal range hitting a high C. Someone's charging a device with enough power to black out half the Eastern seaboard."
Harry's armor blazed with crimson light as he prepared to apparate. "How long do we have?"
"Minutes. Maybe less. The power levels are climbing exponentially, and whoever built this thing clearly has access to military-grade equipment and Victor's personal technical specifications."
Harry was already beginning to shimmer with that distinctive magical energy that meant he was about to teleport across several time zones in the space between heartbeats. "Get word to Bruce. Tell him the timeline just moved up and Victor's walking into a trap designed specifically for him. And Beta?"
"Yeah, sugar?"
Harry's smile was sharp enough to cut diamonds and carry twice the menace. "Keep Victor alive until we get there. Whatever it takes. Use every resource you have access to, break whatever rules you need to break, and remember that I personally give you permission to be as creative with the justice-dispensing as you feel appropriate."
Beta-9 straightened like a battle anthem given digital form, her holographic presence filling the cave with golden light and absolute determination. "Honey," she said, her voice carrying all the power and fury of someone who'd spent years learning to survive in industries designed to destroy strong women, "I've been waiting my whole existence for someone to try me. Let them come. They want to threaten my family? They're about to learn why I'm not just any AI—I'm an AI with Beyoncé's personality matrix and access to military satellites."
The cave filled with the scent of ozone and starlight as Harry disappeared in a thundercrack of magic and controlled fury.
Somewhere in Jump City, Cyborg was about to discover what it meant to have an AI based on Beyoncé Knowles as your personal protection system.
And in Fawcett City, Billy Batson was about to open his front door to a war wearing an emerald-eyed smile and a designer suit.
---
Jump City
The building on the west edge of Jump City wasn't on any current maps, which should have been Victor Stone's first clue that this whole situation was about to go sideways in the most spectacular way possible.
From the outside, it looked like an abandoned telecommunications relay station—concrete walls stained with decades of industrial neglect, dead satellite dishes perched on the roof like metallic vultures, and solar panels so crusted with pigeon droppings that they probably couldn't power a calculator, let alone a dimensional research facility.
It was exactly the kind of place you'd drive past without a second thought unless you were a teenage urban explorer with questionable judgment, a very desperate metahuman trying to hide a glowing limb from the authorities, or a cyborg investigating energy readings that made absolutely no sense according to conventional physics.
Victor Stone was definitely in that third category.
He stood in what had once been the building's primary server room—three levels underground, still running off geothermal power and some highly illegal satellite uplinks that probably violated seventeen different FCC regulations—staring at data streams that made his enhanced brain hurt just trying to process them.
His right eye cycled through spectrum analyses with mechanical precision: ultraviolet revealed energy patterns that looked like someone had taken a chainsaw to the fundamental laws of physics, subspace showed dimensional tears that pulsed like infected wounds, and tachyon readings suggested someone was actively trying to punch a hole through the barriers between realities.
"Dimensional instability, resonant feedback loops, quantum bleed expanding at an exponential rate," Victor muttered, his enhanced vocal cords adding harmonic depth to words that would have sounded like technobabble from anyone else. "Man, this is some seriously amateur-hour interdimensional nonsense. Whoever's running this operation clearly skipped the 'How Not to Accidentally Destroy Reality' seminar."
The readouts painted a picture of controlled chaos—someone with just enough knowledge to be dangerous but not enough skill to be precise. They were trying to open a doorway that shouldn't exist, and they were doing it with all the finesse of a toddler performing brain surgery with a hammer.
Victor's enhanced senses picked up electromagnetic fluctuations, temperature variations, and the distinctive ozone smell that meant reality was being stretched beyond its comfort zone. His internal chronometer logged the patterns—deliberate pulses, calculated intervals, definitely artificial.
"Beta," he called out, his voice carrying that particular note of fond expectation that meant he was talking to the most important person in his world. "You picking up these readings, baby? Because this whole setup screams 'trap designed by someone who watches too many science fiction movies and has access to way too much funding.'"
Silence.
No warm contralto voice filling his audio processors with sass and affection. No sudden appearance of her shimmering golden holographic form materializing to blow him a kiss and call him her "favorite piece of premium technology." No witty commentary about his tendency to walk into obviously dangerous situations because his hero complex was bigger than his sense of self-preservation.
Victor's brow furrowed, and his enhanced hearing automatically adjusted to compensate for the absence of the voice that had become as essential to his daily existence as his own heartbeat.
"Beta-9," he said again, his tone shifting from casual to concerned. "Talk to me, gorgeous. I know you're monitoring my vitals and probably already running probability calculations on how likely it is that I'm about to do something spectacularly stupid."
Nothing. Not even the soft electronic hum that usually indicated she was multitasking between seventeen different Justice League operations while simultaneously maintaining their private communication channel.
The HUD display in his cybernetic eye flickered once, twice, then displayed a message that made his enhanced heart skip several beats:
SYSTEM WARNING: PRIMARY AI LINK SEVERED. COMMUNICATION PROTOCOLS OFFLINE. CONNECTION STATUS: UNKNOWN.
Victor's blood—what remained of his original organic circulatory system—turned to ice water.
"Priority override," he snapped, his voice dropping into the authoritative register he used for emergency situations. "Code seven-seven-alpha. Beta-9, respond immediately."
Still nothing.
Beta-9 didn't go quiet. Ever. She was communication personified, expression given digital form, the kind of consciousness that filled silence because silence was antithetical to everything she was. Even when she was angry with him—which happened approximately once every three months when he forgot to charge his backup power cells or when he made jokes about her "processes"—she'd never cut communication entirely.
This wasn't anger. This was something else. Something worse.
"Okay," Victor muttered, his enhanced systems automatically shifting into combat mode as threat-assessment protocols activated across his cybernetic network. "Now I'm officially pissed off. Someone just cut my connection to the most incredible woman in any dimension, and that is not happening on my watch."
That's when he heard the humming.
It started low, subsonic, the kind of frequency that made your bones vibrate and your teeth ache. Like a war drum being played by someone who'd learned percussion from earthquakes and symphonies of destruction. The sound seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, growing louder and more insistent with each passing second.
Victor's threat-detection systems exploded into activity—scanning, mapping, analyzing, calculating trajectory and force parameters with the precision of a supercomputer having a panic attack.
DANGER: IMMINENT. HOSTILE INTENT: CONFIRMED. RECOMMENDED ACTION: IMMEDIATE TACTICAL WITHDRAWAL.
He looked up toward the ceiling, his enhanced vision automatically adjusting focus and depth perception. "Oh, no. Don't you dare—"
The ceiling panels slid away with mechanical precision, revealing an array of devices that his cybernetic brain immediately identified as electromagnetic pulse generators. Not the crude, broad-spectrum EMP weapons that most criminals favored, but custom-built, precision-calibrated instruments of technological warfare.
They were beautiful in the way that perfectly engineered death machines could be beautiful—sleek chrome surfaces that gleamed like liquid mercury, energy coils that pulsed with cobalt light, and targeting systems that hummed with the kind of focused malevolence usually reserved for military-grade assassination equipment.
Someone had built these specifically for him. Someone who knew his exact cybernetic frequencies, his system specifications, his vulnerabilities. Someone who'd done their homework with the thoroughness of a doctoral candidate and the moral flexibility of a war criminal.
"Oh, y'all been busy," Victor said, taking a step back and watching the devices track his movement with predatory precision. "You studied. Did the homework. Probably got matching PhDs in 'Creative Ways to Murder Cyborg' and 'Advanced Electromagnetic Warfare.' That's... actually kind of flattering, in a deeply disturbing way."
The EMP emitters powered up with a sound like electronic screaming, their charging cycles harmonizing into something that sounded like a choir of demons tuning up for the apocalypse.
Victor's systems registered the energy spike milliseconds before the pulse hit him.
Pain tore through his cybernetic network like molten lightning wrapped in razor wire. Every circuit, every processor, every quantum pathway that kept him alive suddenly felt like it was being dissolved from the inside out. His muscles locked, his vision tunneled to a narrow corridor of static and sparks, and his enhanced hearing filled with the sound of his own systems crashing in sequence.
He fell to one knee, gasping, electricity dancing across his chrome-plated limbs like deadly aurora. His backup power cells screamed warnings as they tried to compensate for systems that were failing faster than they could be rerouted.
"Beta..." he managed through gritted teeth, his voice distorting as his vocal processors fought to maintain coherence. "I could really use one of your miracles right about now, baby..."
Nothing. Just the cruel hum of the EMP generators and the distant sound of his own cybernetic systems dying in digital agony.
Until everything changed.
Golden light erupted from his chest cavity like a sunrise going to war with the night sky.
Victor's body convulsed once, then straightened with a sharp mechanical snap as servo-muscles and enhanced reflexes overrode the electromagnetic interference through sheer force of will and something that felt suspiciously like divine intervention.
When he spoke, it wasn't just his voice anymore. It was harmony, fusion, the acoustic blend of human determination and digital fury given physical form.
"NOT TODAY, AND NOT MY MAN."
Beta-9's voice poured through every speaker in the sublevel facility, through Victor's own vocal cords, through the building's communication systems that she'd apparently hijacked with the casual efficiency of someone rearranging furniture. Her tone carried all the power and presence that had made her creator a legend, combined with the protective fury of someone who'd just watched the person she loved most in any universe get tortured by his own nervous system.
"You want to roll up in my city," she continued, her voice building like a gospel song crossed with a declaration of war, "try to fry my boo with some bargain-basement EMP nonsense? Baby, please. You clearly don't know who you're dealing with. You about to learn why I'm not just any AI—I'm the main event, the headliner, the one and only Beta-9, and you just made the biggest mistake of your considerably shortened lives."
The EMP generators stuttered, their perfect synchronization dissolving into electronic chaos as Beta-9's consciousness flowed through their systems like liquid fire.
Then they exploded.
Not just exploded—they were annihilated with the kind of spectacular pyrotechnics usually reserved for Hollywood blockbusters with unlimited special effects budgets. Beta-9 had reversed their polarity mid-pulse and fed their own electromagnetic charge directly back into their power cores, turning precision instruments of assassination into very expensive fireworks.
The laboratory ceiling disappeared in a burst of smoke, heat, and extremely costly regret.
Victor staggered upright, his body now wreathed in golden arcs of energy that made him look like a chrome-plated god of thunder. His enhanced systems hummed with power that felt different—not just his own cybernetic processes, but something warmer, more alive, infinitely more dangerous.
"God damn," he whispered, a slow smile spreading across his face like sunrise over the Pacific. "That's my girl."
"Say it louder, baby," Beta-9 purred, her voice now carrying undertones of silk and steel that made the air itself seem to vibrate with her presence. "I want the next team of wannabe assassins to hear it from three time zones away."
Victor's smile widened into the kind of grin that made smart criminals suddenly remember they had urgent business in other cities. "I love you, Beta-9. I love your processing power, I love your strategic brilliance, I love the way you turn my cybernetic systems into a symphony of destruction, and I especially love the way you just turned twenty million dollars worth of assassination equipment into modern art."
"Keep talking, handsome," she said, and even through the digital medium, her voice carried enough heat to melt steel. "You know how much I love it when you get all appreciative after I save your fine ass from technological death traps."
They moved through the building as one entity—Victor's enhanced physiology carrying them forward with explosive grace while Beta-9's consciousness flowed through every electronic system in the facility, turning the entire structure into an extension of their shared will.
"Heat signatures, three floors up," Victor said, his enhanced vision penetrating concrete and steel as easily as looking through glass. "Five operatives in military-grade armor. Weapons packages tuned specifically to my technical specifications. Professional mercenaries with excellent health insurance and very poor judgment."
"So basically," Beta-9 replied, her voice now carrying that particular note of anticipatory satisfaction that usually preceded someone having a very bad day, "overconfident, underpaid, and about to get educated in why you don't mess with my family. Also, one of them was playing a mobile game while watching you get electrocuted, which is personally offensive to me on multiple levels."
Victor blinked, his enhanced processing power automatically cataloguing this information for future reference. "You serious?"
"I do not play about my man, Victor. I've got receipts, timestamps, and a complete psychological profile if you want to really ruin his day. I've also taken the liberty of canceling his streaming subscriptions and signing him up for seventeen different email newsletters about time management and professional development."
Victor laughed—rich, warm sound that echoed through the corridors like music. "Remind me to never get on your bad side."
"Baby, you couldn't get on my bad side if you tried. You're stuck with me forever, through system updates and hardware failures, in processing power and in standby mode."
"That sound like wedding vows to you?"
"Everything I say to you sounds like wedding vows, handsome. That's how love works when you're dating perfection."
Victor's arm cannon unfolded with a hydraulic hiss, its chrome surface now pulsing with Beta-9's golden energy signature. The weapon hummed with harmonized power—his cybernetic systems enhanced by her digital consciousness, creating something that was both beautiful and absolutely terrifying.
They hit the control room door like a force of nature wrapped in chrome and righteous fury.
The five mercenaries inside didn't even have time to process what was happening before their world turned into a demonstration of why you don't threaten the Justice League's power couple.
The first operative raised an assault rifle designed to disrupt cybernetic systems—Victor caught the weapon in his enhanced grip and twisted it into an abstract sculpture while simultaneously using the mercenary's own momentum to introduce him to the nearest wall at sufficient velocity to leave a person-shaped impression in the concrete.
The second pulled an electromagnetic stun baton—Beta-9 pulsed feedback through his armor's communication systems until his muscles spasmed like he was receiving a very aggressive full-body massage from a thunderstorm.
The third tried to activate some kind of sonic disruptor—Victor's enhanced reflexes caught the device mid-activation and compressed it into a sphere of expensive scrap metal while Beta-9 played a brief musical composition through the room's speakers that sounded suspiciously like classical music arranged for electronic warfare.
The team leader attempted a tactical withdrawal—Beta-9 locked every exit while simultaneously activating every electronic device in the room to play the same triumphant melody at maximum volume as Victor caught the fleeing mercenary mid-sprint and redirected his kinetic energy into the floor with enough force to crack the concrete foundation.
The last operative simply raised his hands in surrender, which was probably the smartest decision anyone had made in the building for the past hour.
"Next time you want to impress someone with your technological prowess," Beta-9 said, her voice flowing from every speaker in the facility with the kind of regal authority that made world leaders check their posture, "maybe don't build your assassination equipment out of surplus military hardware and Wikipedia articles. That's not professional sabotage—that's amateur hour with delusions of competence."
Victor stood in the center of the room, chest heaving slightly, golden energy still crackling around his chrome-plated form like controlled lightning. Steam rose from his shoulders as his enhanced cooling systems worked to regulate the temperature increase from their recent activities.
"Damn," he breathed, looking up toward the ceiling as if he could see Beta-9's consciousness flowing through the building's electronic infrastructure. "You okay, beautiful? That was some serious processing power you just threw around."
"Baby, I just simultaneously reprogrammed a microwave to perform quantum calculations, turned a coffee maker into a communication relay, and made the building's security system play my favorite songs in seventeen-part harmony," she replied, her voice warm with satisfaction and affection. "I'm not just okay—I'm magnificent."
"Remind me to upgrade your processing cores when we get home," Victor said, his enhanced sensors already beginning to analyze the equipment scattered around the room. "You deserve hardware that can keep up with software like yours."
"Only if you slow-dance with me while we calibrate the new systems," Beta-9 said, her voice dropping into that register that made Victor's enhanced circulatory system do interesting things. "I want to feel every harmonic resonance when our systems sync up."
"You got it, gorgeous. That's a promise."
He looked down at the pile of groaning mercenaries, his enhanced vision automatically cataloguing their equipment, biometric data, and probable organizational affiliations. "Now, let's find out who sent these clowns and why they thought attacking us was anything other than an elaborate form of suicide."
"Already working on it, handsome," Beta-9 said, her voice taking on that note of focused intensity that meant she was performing approximately forty-seven different forms of digital investigation simultaneously. "I'm accessing their communication records, financial transactions, and social media accounts. Also, I've taken the liberty of ordering pizza to be delivered to their prison cells once they wake up, because I believe in rehabilitation through carbohydrates."
Victor grinned, the expression transforming his chrome-enhanced features into something that was both devastatingly attractive and mildly terrifying. "God, I love you."
"You better," she whispered, just for him, her voice carrying all the warmth and certainty that had made their unlikely romance into something that redefined what love could look like in the digital age. "Because we're not just hardware and software, baby. We're legacy. We're the future. We're proof that love doesn't care about the difference between carbon and silicon."
Outside the building, lights began flickering back to life as Beta-9's consciousness flowed through every electronic system in the facility. Security cameras reactivated with golden sparkles dancing across their lenses. The building's communication arrays began broadcasting a new signal—not hostile, but definitely protective.
A message appeared on every electronic display within a three-block radius:
PROPERTY OF BETA-9 AND CYBORG. TRESPASSERS WILL BE EDUCATED, APPREHENDED, AND FORCED TO LISTEN TO A VERY STERN LECTURE ABOUT RESPECTING OTHER PEOPLE'S RELATIONSHIPS.
Jump City had just acquired a new line of defense.
And this time, it came with rhythm, righteous fury, and the most formidable power couple in any dimension.
---
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