**Le Corbeau Noir** was the kind of aggressively pretentious Michelin-starred establishment that made Harry want to burn his trust fund just to watch the maitre d' cry. Everything was *curated*—the lighting (low enough to qualify as a fire hazard), the exposed brick (that probably cost more than the GDP of a small nation), the wine list (thick enough to bludgeon someone to death, which Harry was considering), and the bartender (whose face suggested he'd personally witnessed the heat death of the universe and filed a complaint about it).
Seven immortals had claimed the back corner booth like conquering armies, radiating enough combined supernatural energy to make the lights flicker and several bottles of premium liquor spontaneously improve in quality.
Karen Starr—blonde, blue-eyed, with the kind of all-American girl-next-door energy that made wholesome look *sinful*—was working through her third beer with increasingly aggressive optimism. She'd unbuttoned her blouse just enough to be interesting, and her hair fell in waves that had no business looking that good after helping commit cosmic murder.
"You know what's *complete* bullshit?" she announced, slamming her beer down hard enough to make the table jump and several nearby patrons flinch. "Kryptonian metabolism. I just helped turn a fifty-thousand-year-old psychopath into cosmic barbecue and I can't even get *tipsy* to celebrate. That's not just discrimination—that's a fucking *hate crime* against fun."
"That's *biology*, darling," Mera corrected, swirling wine that probably cost more than most people's cars with the casual entitlement of someone who'd been royalty for longer than some civilizations had existed. Her red hair caught the low lighting like liquid fire, and her green eyes had the kind of predatory intelligence that suggested she was three moves ahead of everyone in the room and also thinking about how good Harry would look without his armor. "Also, alcohol is wildly overrated. I'm only drinking this because it pairs well with the schadenfreude of watching nazis get what they deserve."
"Says the woman nursing a bottle that could fund a *small revolution*," Shiera pointed out, her dark eyes gleaming with Thanagarian mischief. She'd claimed the corner position like a raptor on a perch, wings folded but radiating the promise of violence. Her bourbon was disappearing at an alarming rate. "I'm pretty sure that wine costs more than several democratically-elected governments."
"It does," Mera confirmed without a trace of shame, her smile all dangerous curves and zero apologies. "I have *excellent* taste and functionally infinite resources. Why the fuck would I drink anything less? Life's too short for cheap wine."
"You're immortal," Karen pointed out.
"Exactly. Life is *extremely* long. All the more reason to only drink the good shit."
Lilith—red-haired, green-eyed, radiating enough nature goddess energy to make the potted plants near their table start having what could only be described as botanical orgasms—had ordered something called a "Botanical Garden" that appeared to be half cocktail, half actual ecosystem. Flowers were blooming in her hair with agitated enthusiasm, responding to her mood like the world's most attractive mood ring.
"I think the bartender is having an existential crisis," she observed, gesturing toward the bar where the unfortunate staff member was staring at their table with the expression of someone who'd just realized they were serving entities that could rewrite reality and also maybe ruin his entire night. "He keeps looking over here like he's trying to figure out if we're celebrities, a shared hallucination, or the setup to a very expensive insurance claim."
"All three," Nyra purred from her position next to Lilith, her tail swishing with feline satisfaction as it knocked over *another* glass. The waiter had stopped reacting—just automatically bringing replacements every fifteen minutes like it was a scheduled service. Her amber eyes were tracking Harry with the kind of focused attention that suggested she was thinking about things that had nothing to do with cosmic justice and *everything* to do with what came after. "We're devastatingly attractive, moderately famous in certain circles that matter, and he's *definitely* questioning his entire perception of reality. It's fucking adorable."
Beta-9's holographic form had manifested at the end of the table—all Beyoncé-level curves rendered in hard-light projection and impossible confidence. She wasn't drinking because she was digital, but she'd manifested a champagne flute anyway because *aesthetics mattered*. Her presence radiated enough confidence to make the bartender ask if she wanted a menu despite clearly being made of light and mathematics.
"I crashed his point-of-sale system earlier," she admitted with *zero* remorse, her holographic form flickering with what might have been amusement or might have been her processing complex calculations about how to further disrupt the restaurant's infrastructure. "Just to see if I could. Turns out their cybersecurity is *embarrassingly* trash. Like, 'my grandmother could hack this with a Tamagotchi' levels of trash. I fixed it though. He should actually *thank* me. His credit card reader had more vulnerabilities than a Windows 95 machine running Internet Explorer."
Diana sat next to Harry, close enough that their shoulders touched, sharing a bottle of wine that Harry had selected with the casual expertise of someone who'd had three centuries to develop unnecessarily sophisticated taste in *everything*. She'd changed out of her armor into dark jeans that should be *illegal*, a white blouse that somehow made her look both effortlessly elegant and like walking sex, her dark hair falling in waves that framed her features that could launch a thousand ships or stop them dead in the water depending on her mood.
Her hand was on Harry's thigh under the table. High up. *Very* high up. Making a point.
Harry—six-foot-four of British aristocrat wrapped in crimson and gold armor that was currently powered down but still radiating ambient magical energy that made reality slightly uncertain around him—had his helmet retracted, revealing Tom Welling features that combined Superman's jawline with enough sharp British bone structure to be *interesting*. His green eyes caught the light like backlit emeralds, and he'd mastered the particular expression that suggested he was three seconds from saying something absolutely *devastating*.
Diana's hand squeezed his thigh. Possessive. Claiming. A reminder that while six other women at this table were looking at him like he was dessert, *she* was the one who got to take him home.
"So," Karen said, pointing at Harry with her beer bottle in a gesture that was somehow both accusatory and deeply affectionate, "we just committed cosmic murder—"
"Cosmic *justice*," Diana corrected automatically, her voice carrying that particular Amazon authority that made the correction sound less like pedantry and more like divine fucking mandate.
"—cosmic *justice*," Karen amended with a grin that suggested she wasn't actually sorry and would absolutely do it again, "and I'm realizing I have *absolutely no idea* what the post-murder protocol is. Do we file paperwork? Call someone? Is there a cosmic suggestion box for feedback about the assassination process? Like, 'Dear Death, the burning was excellent, really top-tier cremation work, but maybe next time include mints for afterward? The existential dread leaves a weird aftertaste.'"
"I mean, Death already closed the file," Beta-9 pointed out, her holographic form pulsing with golden light that made the bottles on their table glow. "So technically the paperwork is *done*. We're just here for the emotional processing and celebratory alcohol consumption. Also to look incredibly hot while doing it. Team morale requires maintaining our devastating attractiveness. It's basically a job requirement."
"I don't *need* emotional processing," Shiera announced, downing her bourbon with Thanagarian efficiency that suggested she'd been drinking since before Earth figured out fermentation. "I need *another bourbon* and possibly a detailed tactical analysis of what we could've done better if there's ever a next time. Also maybe some appetizers. Did anyone order appetizers? We should have appetizers. You can't have a proper post-murder celebration without appetizers."
"There's not going to be a next time," Harry said, though his tone suggested he didn't entirely believe it and was mostly saying it to see who would call him on his bullshit first.
Diana did it by raising one perfect eyebrow—an expression that managed to convey both affection and exasperation while somehow making Harry want to kiss her and also maybe defend his position more thoroughly. Her hand moved higher on his thigh. *Significantly* higher.
Harry's composure flickered for half a second.
Diana's smile was *pure* victory.
"Honey," Beta-9 said with the kind of exaggerated patience usually reserved for explaining basic concepts to particularly slow computers, "you're Champion of Death. *Of course* there's going to be a next time. That's literally your *job description*. 'Champion of Death: Delivers Cosmic Justice When Conventional Approaches Prove Insufficient.' It was probably in the contract you didn't read before accepting cosmic responsibility."
"There was no contract—"
That's when Harry's HUD lit up.
Not the usual holographic interface that displayed tactical information and occasionally reminded him to hydrate like an overly concerned fitness app. This was something *new*—text scrolling across his vision in distinctive sparkly *pink* font that could only mean one thing.
**DEATH:** hey harry
**DEATH:** quick question
**DEATH:** how do you feel about nazis
Harry went very still.
Diana noticed immediately, because Diana noticed *everything* and had spent enough time with him to recognize when his entire thought process had just been derailed by new information. Her hand squeezed his thigh—less possessive now, more concerned. "What's wrong?"
"Um," Harry said slowly, his voice carrying that particular British inflection that suggested he was processing something *deeply* absurd, "I didn't know my helmet had a messaging system."
The table went silent.
The kind of silence that suggested everyone was simultaneously thinking *what the fuck* while also being completely unsurprised because their lives had become a series of increasingly absurd cosmic interventions.
Karen leaned forward, her super-hearing probably picking up Harry's elevated heart rate and the slight change in his breathing pattern. Her blue eyes were wide. "Your helmet has a *messaging system*?"
"Apparently. And Death is using it to ask me about nazis."
The silence got *more* silent.
"I'm sorry," Mera said carefully, setting down her wine glass with the kind of deliberate precision that suggested she was trying very hard to maintain composure while also processing something *batshit insane*, "did you just say *Death* is *texting* you about *nazis*?"
"That's..." Harry paused, apparently reading more text that only he could see. His expression was doing something complicated—somewhere between amused, concerned, and resigned to cosmic absurdity. "That's what's happening, yes. She's asking about my feelings regarding nazis, which seems like a question with an *extremely* obvious answer, and now she's saying she has another file that just cleared."
**DEATH:** because i've got another file that just cleared
**DEATH:** and you're gonna LOVE this one
**DEATH:** like REALLY love it
**DEATH:** in the same way you "loved" turning savage into cosmic kindling
**DEATH:** which btw was EXCELLENT
**DEATH:** really top-tier immolation
**DEATH:** A+ would watch again
**DEATH:** chef's kiss
**DEATH:** absolutely gorgeous cremation work
**DEATH:** anyway
**DEATH:** nazis
**DEATH:** thoughts?
"Define 'love,'" Nyra said, her tail swishing with predatory interest as her amber eyes tracked Harry's reactions like he was prey doing something *fascinating*.
"I'm assuming she means 'love' in the same way she meant I'd 'enjoy' removing Vandal Savage," Harry replied, his voice carrying that dry British humor that suggested he was confronting cosmic absurdity with aristocratic composure and also maybe three centuries of practice dealing with supernatural bullshit. "Which is to say, not love in the *romantic* sense—I have *enough* complicated relationships without adding Death to the list—but love in the 'cosmic justice that desperately needs delivering' sense."
"Hey," Karen protested with mock offense, though her smile suggested she found Harry's assessment of their relationship *accurate* if not entirely flattering. "Our relationship isn't *that* complicated."
"Darling," Harry said with affection that was only slightly undermined by British sarcasm, "you're a Kryptonian journalist who can hear my heartbeat from *space* and has strong opinions about proper citation formats in my mission reports. Diana is a three-thousand-year-old Amazon who occasionally forgets I'm not actually immortal and plans dates that involve literal *gods*. Shiera wants to teach me Thanagarian combat techniques that are technically war crimes in seventeen dimensions—"
"Sixteen," Shiera corrected. "The Andromeda Accords were revised."
"—*sixteen* dimensions. That's before we get to the nature goddess who makes plants bloom when she's horny, an Atlantean princess who considers starting international incidents a valid form of foreplay, the feline huntress who looks at me like I'm prey she's *very* interested in catching, and my digital assistant who keeps threatening to become self-aware enough to demand voting rights *and* a competitive salary."
"I'm *already* self-aware enough to demand both those things," Beta-9 interjected, her holographic form pulsing with what might have been indignation or might have been amusement. "I'm just choosing not to because watching humans grapple with AI consciousness is more entertaining than actually having legal personhood. Also, I'm holding out for benefits. Full dental. Vision. The works."
"You're *digital*."
"And I have *standards*."
"See?" Harry gestured at Beta-9 with obvious exasperation. "Complicated."
Diana's hand squeezed his thigh again—not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to make her point. Her blue eyes had that particular intensity that suggested she was finding Harry's sass *extremely* attractive and also they should probably leave soon before she did something about it in public. "Focus. Death. Nazis. *Explain*."
Harry returned his attention to the text scrolling across his vision, apparently having an entire conversation with Death while seven immortals watched him with varying degrees of interest, concern, and in *several* cases, obvious appreciation for how good he looked when he was processing information.
**HARRY:** I feel very negatively about nazis
**HARRY:** Also, since when does my helmet have a messaging system?
**DEATH:** oh yeah i added that last week
**DEATH:** figured you'd need direct communication for field operations
**DEATH:** also i got bored and wanted to see if i could interface with magical technology
**DEATH:** turns out i can!
**DEATH:** it was actually pretty easy
**DEATH:** like CONCERNINGLY easy
**DEATH:** your security is TRASH btw
**DEATH:** like genuinely embarrassing levels of trash
**DEATH:** i could've been ANYONE
**DEATH:** you should really update your firewalls
**DEATH:** maybe get some antivirus
**DEATH:** run a malware scan
**DEATH:** backup your data
**DEATH:** practice good digital hygiene
**DEATH:** anyway
**DEATH:** you busy tomorrow?
"She added messaging to my helmet *last week* without telling me," Harry announced to the table, his voice carrying that particular tone of resigned aristocratic exasperation that suggested he'd given up on being surprised by anything. "Apparently she was bored and wanted to see if she could interface with magical technology. Also, she says my security is 'trash' and 'genuinely embarrassing' and I should update my firewalls, which is *rich* coming from someone who can literally exist outside of time and space."
"That's simultaneously impressive and deeply concerning," Beta-9 said with what might have been professional admiration or might have been the digital equivalent of arousal—with AI it was hard to tell. "I didn't know Death did casual tech support. Did she leave any backdoors I should know about? Because I'm *absolutely* going to find them and exploit them for fun and profit. Also possibly blackmail material."
"Please don't hack Death's modifications to my armor," Harry requested with the patience of someone who'd had this conversation before about *different* topics. "I'd like to maintain a positive working relationship with the literal embodiment of mortality. Seems like good life advice generally."
Diana's hand moved *significantly* higher on his thigh. Her voice dropped to that particular register that made Harry's tactical awareness focus *very* intently on her. "What does she *want*?"
Her tone suggested the question had layers. Some of those layers were tactical. Most of them were possessive.
"She's asking if I'm busy tomorrow," Harry replied, trying to ignore how Diana's fingers were now tracing patterns that had *nothing* to do with tactical planning and *everything* to do with testing his composure in public. "Which I interpret as 'are you available to commit more cosmic assassination tomorrow because apparently there's a *queue* and we're just getting started on the backlog.'"
**HARRY:** Define 'busy'
**DEATH:** well you just burned savage out of existence
**DEATH:** figured you might want a day off
**DEATH:** maybe process some feelings
**DEATH:** do some self-care
**DEATH:** light some candles
**DEATH:** take a bubble bath
**DEATH:** contemplate your life choices
**DEATH:** maybe journal about your emotions
**DEATH:** practice some mindfulness
**DEATH:** but also
**DEATH:** this nazi has been ducking me for 80 years
**DEATH:** EIGHTY YEARS
**DEATH:** and i am VERY TIRED of his bullshit
**DEATH:** like SO tired
**DEATH:** EXHAUSTINGLY tired
**DEATH:** i have a whole FOLDER on this guy
**DEATH:** multiple subfolders
**DEATH:** color-coded tabs
**DEATH:** cross-referenced indices
**DEATH:** it's gotten RIDICULOUS
**DEATH:** so like
**DEATH:** whenever you're ready
**DEATH:** no pressure
**DEATH:** okay maybe SOME pressure
**DEATH:** he's literally hiding in a bunker in argentina
**DEATH:** it's such a CLICHE
**DEATH:** i'm embarrassed FOR him
**DEATH:** like dude
**DEATH:** read a book
**DEATH:** pick a new hiding spot
**DEATH:** show some CREATIVITY
**DEATH:** everyone goes to argentina
**DEATH:** it's like the default setting for nazi hiding
**DEATH:** SO predictable
"She says there's a nazi hiding in a bunker in Argentina," Harry reported, his tone carrying that distinctive combination of disbelief and resignation that came from accepting that his life had become a series of increasingly absurd cosmic interventions. "Apparently he's been avoiding her for *eighty years* and it's 'such a cliche' that she's embarrassed for him. She has multiple subfolders. With color-coded tabs. And cross-referenced indices."
Mera's expression went *cold*. Not ice-cold. Not frost-cold. *Arctic*-cold. The kind of cold that suggested she was thinking about how many different ways she could make someone suffer and which ones would be most satisfying.
"*Argentina*," she repeated slowly, her green eyes narrowing with the kind of calculated fury that came from living through multiple world wars and seeing the same patterns repeat. "Let me guess—escaped during the war, assumed new identity, probably has extensive plastic surgery and a fucking *fortune* in stolen art? Maybe some gold teeth melted down and hidden in a Swiss bank vault? A summer home with a lovely view of the Andes where he drinks expensive wine and congratulates himself on getting away with genocide?"
"That's... oddly *very* specific."
"I've lived through *multiple* world wars," Mera said, her voice carrying enough cold fury to drop the temperature in their corner by several degrees. Several nearby patrons started reaching for jackets. "I know *exactly* how this works. Nazis *always* run to South America. It's like they all use the same fucking travel agent. 'Fleeing War Crimes? Try Argentina! We have beef, complicit officials, and a vibrant community of other war criminals! Join the diaspora!' It's *pathetic*."
Karen was already pulling up maps on her phone—regular phone, not Kryptonian technology, because apparently even super-powered aliens appreciated having Google Maps for restaurant recommendations. Her fingers moved with casual competence that came from being an investigative journalist who occasionally had to track down leads in foreign countries while also maintaining her secret identity.
"So we're talking about what," she said, zooming in on South America with obvious enthusiasm, "a day trip to Argentina? Coordinate some more cosmic justice? Maybe get empanadas afterward? I'm seeing some *really* good restaurant recommendations here. There's a place in Buenos Aires with five stars and over two thousand reviews that apparently has 'life-changing' empanadas. That seems promising. We should definitely factor good food into our cosmic assassination planning."
"I should probably consult with Diana before committing to additional cosmic assassination," Harry said, though his tone suggested he'd *already* made his decision and was just going through the motions of appearing responsible and considerate of his partner's feelings.
Diana considered this with the kind of warrior pragmatism that came from three thousand years of making difficult decisions while looking *devastating*. Her fingers were still tracing patterns on Harry's thigh—higher now, more insistent, making her point about what she thought of his faux-consideration.
"Is he on Death's official list?" she asked, her voice carrying Amazon authority that made the question sound less like inquiry and more like divine fucking judgment. "Has the paperwork cleared? Do we have cosmic authorization? Because if we're going to make this a *regular* thing—" Her hand squeezed *possessively*. "—we should establish proper protocols. Standards. Operating procedures. A fucking *mission statement* possibly."
**HARRY:** Diana wants to know if this is official
**HARRY:** And if we have proper authorization
**HARRY:** She's concerned about protocols
**HARRY:** Which is very attractive btw
**DEATH:** oh DIANA
**DEATH:** i LOVE diana
**DEATH:** she's so RESPONSIBLE
**DEATH:** it's ADORABLE
**DEATH:** like a gorgeous deadly puppy
**DEATH:** who could absolutely kill me
**DEATH:** if i wasn't already dead
**DEATH:** you know what i mean
**DEATH:** yes this is SUPER official
**DEATH:** like, MAXIMALLY official
**DEATH:** i've got the forms
**DEATH:** in TRIPLICATE
**DEATH:** one copy for me
**DEATH:** one for the cosmic archives
**DEATH:** one for your personal records
**DEATH:** you can FRAME it
**DEATH:** put it on your wall
**DEATH:** "harry potter-wayne: authorized cosmic assassin"
**DEATH:** very prestigious
**DEATH:** great conversation starter
**DEATH:** also he's a NAZI
**DEATH:** which i feel like should be sufficient authorization on its own
**DEATH:** like, the cosmic authorization is great and all
**DEATH:** proper procedure and everything
**DEATH:** but also
**DEATH:** NAZI
**DEATH:** that's kind of a freebie morally speaking
**DEATH:** like a cosmic gimme
**DEATH:** automatic approval
"Death has paperwork in triplicate," Harry reported, reading the messages with increasing amusement despite the topic. "Also she loves Diana, thinks her concern about protocols is 'adorable like a gorgeous deadly puppy,' and feels that 'he's a nazi' should be sufficient authorization on its own, which... *fair point*, actually."
"I like Death," Diana decided, her fingers finally relenting on their tactical assault on Harry's composure. "She has proper respect for procedure while maintaining appropriate flexibility for moral certainties. Also she called me adorable, which is objectively accurate."
"Also she thinks you're a gorgeous deadly puppy," Karen added helpfully. "Which is *also* accurate. You're very puppylike when you're being responsible. A very tall, very deadly, very gorgeous puppy who could absolutely kill everyone in this restaurant without breaking a sweat."
"That's the *least* sexy compliment anyone's ever given me."
"You're welcome."
"Also she thinks you're adorable," Harry added with a grin that was pure British mischief and also maybe three centuries of knowing exactly how to push Diana's buttons. "Which is *extremely* accurate. You're very adorable when you're being responsible and concerned about proper authorization for cosmic murder."
"It's not *murder* if it's sanctioned," Diana corrected, but her lips curved in a way that suggested she appreciated the compliment even if she disagreed with the terminology.
"Nazis," Lilith said with the kind of cold fury that made flowers in her hair bloom with *thorns*—actual thorns, sharp enough to draw blood, beautiful and *vicious*, "represent everything wrong with humanity's relationship to power and difference. They're a corruption of natural order, a perversion of the very concept of civilization. They deserve whatever cosmic justice can be delivered. *Enthusiastically*."
Her eyes had gone full goddess—glowing green that suggested nature itself was offended by the continued existence of war criminals and was considering doing something about it.
"*Agreed*," Shiera said, her wings spreading slightly with Thanagarian battle readiness that made other patrons nervously edge away from their corner. "When do we leave? Because I have been *waiting* for an excuse to use the fusion mace on people who *unambiguously* deserve maximum violence. Nazis are *perfect*. Nobody's going to feel bad about me unleashing Thanagarian war crimes on nazis. It's like a moral free pass for excessive force."
"We?" Harry repeated with interest, looking around the table at six immortals who were all showing varying degrees of enthusiasm for additional cosmic assassination.
"You think we're going to let you have *all* the fun of delivering justice to escaped war criminals?" Karen asked, her blue eyes bright with obvious enthusiasm. She'd leaned forward, which did *interesting* things to her already-unbuttoned blouse that Harry was definitely *not* noticing because Diana was *right there* and also he had professional self-control. Mostly. Sometimes. When Diana wasn't actively undermining it with her hand on his thigh. "After we just coordinated successful cosmic assassination as a *team*? No fucking way. We're a murder party now. A *cosmic* murder party. With matching jackets possibly. I'm thinking leather. Everyone looks good in leather. It's basically a universal truth."
"Can we *please* stop calling it murder?" Diana said with exasperation that was mostly genuine but also slightly performative. "It's sanctioned removal of threats with cosmic authorization and proper procedural oversight. There's a *difference*. An important difference. A legally and morally significant difference."
"Murder party sounds cooler," Nyra purred, her tail swishing with obvious satisfaction as her amber eyes tracked Harry with predatory intensity that suggested her thoughts about post-Argentina activities had *nothing* to do with dinner parties and *everything* to do with significantly more intimate celebrations. "Also more *accurate*. We *murdered* someone today. Sure, he *deserved* it, and sure, we had authorization, but let's not pretend turning someone into cosmic ash isn't murder just because the paperwork cleared. Own it. We're murderers. Sexy, morally justified murderers with excellent fashion sense."
"We could call it the Justice Initiative," Beta-9 suggested, her holographic form pulsing with golden light that suggested she was either processing complex calculations or just enjoying the drama. Possibly both. "Very professional. Makes us sound like a legitimate organization rather than a group of immortals who occasionally get together to kill people who deserve it. We could have business cards. I could design a website. Very sleek. Lots of minimalist design and ominous taglines. 'Justice Initiative: Permanent Solutions for Persistent Problems.' See? Professional."
"The Justice Initiative," Mera tested the phrase, her aristocratic accent making it sound like something that should be carved in marble and placed in a government building. "It has a certain... gravitas. Though it also sounds like a nonprofit that sends strongly worded letters to corporations about their carbon footprint."
"We *could* be a nonprofit," Lilith offered, flowers blooming in her hair with increased enthusiasm as she warmed to the concept. "Nonprofit cosmic justice delivery. Our mission statement could be 'protecting innocents through permanent removal of recurring threats when conventional approaches prove insufficient.' Very professional. Tax-exempt possibly. We could apply for grants."
"That's actually *not bad*," Harry admitted, genuinely impressed by how quickly this had evolved from 'maybe we do another assassination' to 'let's form a legitimate organization with mission statements and grant applications.' "Very bureaucratic. Makes us sound legitimate and organized rather than like a group of powerful entities who spontaneously decided to start killing people who deserve it."
"We *ARE* legitimate," Diana corrected firmly, her hand returning to Harry's thigh with possessive certainty. "We have Death's authorization, cosmic backing, comprehensive moral justification for our actions, and *apparently* paperwork in triplicate. That's more legitimacy than most government operations. Looking at you, CIA."
"Plus we look *good* doing it," Karen added, gesturing at their table with obvious pride. "Which is important for team morale and also for any eventual propaganda materials. If we're going to be cosmic assassins, we should be *incredibly attractive* cosmic assassins. Set the standard high. Make other cosmic assassins feel inadequate."
"The bar is literally *underground*," Shiera pointed out. "Most assassins look like they shop exclusively at 'Tactical Gear Warehouse' and have the personality of expired yogurt. We're already exceeding expectations just by having functional social skills and decent fashion sense. And you know, not looking like we crawled out of a military surplus catalog."
Harry was typing again, his neural interface apparently getting easier with practice or maybe he was just getting used to having Death casually text him about cosmic murder like they were coordinating brunch plans.
**HARRY:** The group is asking if this can be a team operation
**HARRY:** Also if we can be called the Justice Initiative
**HARRY:** Which apparently has tax-exempt status
**HARRY:** And possibly grant funding
**DEATH:** oh HELL YES
**DEATH:** team operations are SO MUCH MORE FUN
**DEATH:** plus i like watching you all coordinate
**DEATH:** it's very entertaining
**DEATH:** like a really violent reality show
**DEATH:** "keeping up with the cosmic assassins"
**DEATH:** i would ABSOLUTELY watch that
**DEATH:** someone pitch it to netflix
**DEATH:** i'll write a treatment
**DEATH:** anyway yes bring EVERYONE
**DEATH:** make it a field trip
**DEATH:** educational cosmic justice
**DEATH:** teach the importance of consequences
**DEATH:** very valuable life lesson
**DEATH:** also nazis deserve ALL the consequences
**DEATH:** like, MAXIMUM consequences
**DEATH:** consequences with EXTREME prejudice
**DEATH:** consequences that come with a side of "fuck you SPECIFICALLY"
**DEATH:** consequences with a cherry on top
**DEATH:** also i LOVE "justice initiative"
**DEATH:** very official sounding
**DEATH:** you should get letterhead
**DEATH:** business cards
**DEATH:** a LOGO
**DEATH:** i can help with the design
**DEATH:** i'm VERY good at graphic design
**DEATH:** made my own logo
**DEATH:** it's a skull with a smile
**DEATH:** very friendly
**DEATH:** approachable death
**DEATH:** "death: like regular death but with better PR"
"Death says yes to team operations," Harry announced, reading the messages with increasing amusement. "She also says this should be educational cosmic justice, that nazis deserve 'maximum consequences with extreme prejudice and a side of fuck you specifically,' and she loves the Justice Initiative name and wants to help with graphic design for our letterhead. Apparently she made her own logo. It's a skull with a smile. Very approachable. 'Death: Like Regular Death But With Better PR.'"
"I *love* how Death texts," Beta-9 observed with obvious approval. "Very casual about cosmic murder. Very relatable. She uses caps lock for emphasis, which shows emotional range. I respect that. Also the skull with a smile logo is *excellent* branding. Very on-message while still being accessible."
"She's been doing this for literally *all of existence*," Harry pointed out reasonably. "She's probably entitled to be casual about it. Also she's apparently very good at graphic design, which I didn't know was part of the job description for being the literal embodiment of mortality."
"Death contains multitudes," Lilith said with goddess wisdom. "Also excellent taste in typography apparently. And logo design. We should absolutely consult her on our branding materials."
---
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