Chapter 11 – Titans Assemble
The glass tower of Northern Star cast its reflection across downtown Los Angeles like a second skyline, shimmering in the sun. It was taller than most of the surrounding mid-rises, not by accident, but by Ivar Teller's design. He'd been twenty when he commissioned it, still a teenager in the eyes of most, but one year later, at twenty-one, the building already looked like a fortress planted by a storm.
Inside, the war room was alive.
The walls weren't painted; they were screens, shifting between reels of footage, concept art, and actor résumés. At the center stood a table wide enough to hold blueprints of half a dozen cities, littered with coffees, scripts, and pens that had long since run out of ink. Assistants buzzed like drones, ferrying stacks of contracts and storyboards in and out. Every corner of the room seemed to vibrate with the hum of a thousand possible futures.
At the head of it all sat Ivar.
Storm-bright eyes that hadn't dimmed in the year since he'd signed Marvel into his veins. Dark hair that still fell unruly across his forehead, though he wore a sharper cut jacket now, less boyish chaos, more architect of worlds. He had scars, not visible ones, but marks of sleepless nights and boardroom battles. He was no longer "the kid who bought Fox." He was "the man who owned the boardroom."
Beside him sat Louise Hoffman, posture perfect, her green eyes steady on the script pages she was reviewing. She had slipped seamlessly into the double life of actress and anchor; one day she was Rogue, the next she was Ivar's tactical partner, grounding his chaos with clarity. Across the room, Megan Fox leaned against a window, leather jacket creaking as she shifted, smirking every time her Batwoman stunt reel played on the wall screens.
"This isn't just another show," Ivar said, his voice cutting through the chatter. "This is the beginning of a family."
He tapped the word on the whiteboard: TITANS. The letters were scrawled bold, underlined twice, circled once.
"Batman has Gotham. Superman has Metropolis. The Avengers have the world. But the Titans?" He pointed at the word again. "They have each other. That's the spine. Not costumes. Not powers. Family."
Megan smirked. "Says the guy who built an empire on chaos."
"Chaos makes families tighter," Ivar shot back. "Storms forge bonds faster than sunlight."
Louise didn't look up from her notes, but her lips curved. "So long as they survive the storm."
The casting directors exchanged nervous glances, unsure whether to laugh. Ivar didn't give them the chance. He flicked the remote in his hand, and the screen shifted to headshots: young actors, some fresh from theater, some from minor TV roles, all nervously hoping to be the next cape.
"Nightwing first," Ivar said. "Not Robin. Nightwing. He's not Batman's shadow anymore. He's a leader, whether he wants to be or not. We need someone who can walk into a room full of adults and own it, even if he's barely out of his teens."
Louise finally looked up. "Confidence without arrogance. Charisma without ego."
"Exactly," Ivar said. "Dick Grayson isn't Bruce Wayne lite. He's the son who grew up, the orphan who refused to stay broken. Get me someone who can smile like he's covering a scar."
He shifted the slide. Raven's artwork appeared—hood drawn, eyes shadowed.
"This is the soul," he said, quieter now. "The girl who sees too much, who feels too much. Darkness doesn't make her villain. It makes her compass sharper. Find me an actress who can stare at the camera and make the audience feel like she's reading their thoughts."
Louise scribbled something in her notebook. Megan raised a brow. "You're making this sound like therapy."
"Stories are therapy," Ivar said simply.
The next slide: Kory Anders—Starfire. The screen blazed orange, fire erupting in the artwork.
"Kory," Ivar said, "isn't comic relief. She's not just fire and curves. She's royalty. A queen hiding on Earth, learning how to be human. Cast her like a monarch who lost her throne but refuses to bow."
Megan snorted softly. "Sounds like someone I know."
Ivar ignored the jab, flipping to Beast Boy.
"Garfield Logan. Heart of the team. The kid who makes jokes so he doesn't cry. Cast someone the audience wants to hug, not laugh at. And make sure he can break hearts when he stops smiling."
The last slide appeared—Cyborg, looming in the artwork, steel and scar.
"This one's tricky," Ivar admitted. "Vic Stone isn't a gadget. He's tragedy turned into weapon. Football star, golden boy, ripped apart and rebuilt. If the audience doesn't feel the loss every time he smiles, we failed."
Louise leaned closer. "You're treating them like gods."
"No," Ivar said. "Like kids forced to become gods."
Silence. The kind that lingered heavy, not awkward. Even the assistants stopped moving, caught in the storm of his words.
Megan finally broke it. "And Doom Patrol?"
The corner of Ivar's mouth curved. He tapped the second word on the board, written in jagged letters: DOOM.
"They're not family," he said. "They're the mistakes families hide in the attic. And we're going to make people love them for it."
He paced as he spoke, energy coiled in every step. "Robotman—the man who lost everything but his brain. Crazy Jane—sixty-four personalities and every one of them a weapon. Negative Man—a pilot who hides behind bandages because he's more scared of his reflection than the radiation inside him. Elasti-Woman—once Hollywood's darling, now collapsing under the weight of her own skin."
He turned, storm-bright eyes on the room. "The Titans are hope. The Doom Patrol is survival. Together, they make a world where everyone belongs. Even the broken."
Louise closed her notebook. "Then let's build it."
---
That afternoon, auditions began.
Ivar sat in the center of the room, not in the shadows like most execs, but at the table where every actor could see him. He leaned forward, hands folded, storm in his gaze. He didn't take notes—Louise did. He didn't check his phone—Megan handled distractions. He just watched. Studied. Judged.
One young actor stepped up, trembling slightly. "Hi, I'm reading for Dick Grayson."
"Don't read," Ivar interrupted. "Lead."
The actor blinked. "Uh… sorry?"
"Dick doesn't read," Ivar said. "He doesn't ask permission. He walks into the room and people follow, even if they don't want to. Try again."
The kid swallowed, nodded, and this time he straightened his spine before he spoke. It wasn't perfect, but it was closer.
Louise's pen scratched softly across her page.
Another actress stepped forward for Raven. She lowered her hood, eyes shadowed by the harsh lights. Her voice trembled on the first line.
Ivar raised a hand. "Stop."
She froze.
"Don't apologize," he said. "Raven doesn't apologize for being heavy. She owns it. Try again. Don't be afraid of silence. Make us afraid of you."
When she tried again, her voice was steady. Silence stretched after her last line, heavy enough to make the room shift.
Megan whistled low. "Better."
One by one, the hopefuls stood and spoke, some cracking under the weight of expectation, others rising. Ivar didn't smile often, but when he did, it was deliberate—like a storm pulling back the clouds to let sunlight through.
By the end of the day, the board was filled with circled names.
"This is it," Ivar said, standing back to look at it. "The first pieces of family."
Louise touched his arm, grounding him. "One storm at a time."
But Ivar wasn't looking at the names anymore. He was staring past them, already seeing the world those kids would build.
And in the reflection of the glass, the storm in his eyes looked unstoppable.
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Word Count: ~1,270 (pure prose) ✅
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⚡ Do you want me to roll into Chapter 12 (The Fox Hunt — boardroom battle over Megan as Batwoman), or linger longer in Chapter 11 with audition aftermath and Ivar's private conversations with Louise/Megan before moving forward?