Mount Justice was silent. A dense silence smothered thought, thick with the stench of blood, antiseptic, and failure. The storm outside raged like a grieving god, wind howling and thunder cracking like cannon fire. Once a haven for heroes, the old sanctuary had become a morgue with beeping heart monitors.
Bruce Wayne, stripped of cape and cowl, lay broken in a bed that looked more like a coffin. Bandages choked his torso, and his ribs were shattered. His left eye was sealed in bruised flesh, his jaw wired shut, his arm trapped in a cast. Even in the numb hush of unconsciousness, pain clung to his face like a second skin. The Dark Knight had become a fallen soldier.
Beside him, Clark Kent—Superman—was equally broken. Gone was the glow of invincibility. His skin was pale, sunken. A faint green tint lingered around the open wound over his heart, the last vestiges of kryptonite poison refusing to let go. The Man of Steel now seemed barely made of flesh, let alone steel.
Diana stood at their side.
Not Wonder Woman—the symbol, the warrior—but Diana, the friend. Her armor was scraped and bloodied, her gauntlets stained. Her hands trembled at her sides, clenched so tightly her knuckles bled. Her gaze never left them, as if willing their broken bodies to rise again.
Across the room, Arthur Curry—Aquaman—leaned against the wall, teeth clenched in silent agony. His left arm was gone, torn away in the battle. The bandages were soaked through, red seeping through white like a wound that refused to scab over. His hair was unkempt, his eyes sunken.
Plastic Man stood frozen in a corner. The usual clown was gone, replaced by a hollow-eyed shell. His elastic frame was slouched, trembling. He stared at the floor, silent tears dripping from the sharp angles of his warped face. His body, once fluid and jovial, seemed broken in a way no one had ever seen.
Blue Beetle sat slumped, mask in his lap. His fingers drummed nervously against its surface, eyes distant. He hadn't spoken since they brought Booster's body back. His silence was louder than any scream.
Zatanna paced the room like a caged animal. Her breath ragged, coat scorched, hands twitching with unspent magic. The ash on her clothes clung like the memories of the dead. When she finally snapped, it was like glass shattering.
"We can't just sit here and wait for another attack!" she screamed, voice raw and cracked. Mascara streaked down her face like blood tears. "They took everything from us! OUR FRIENDS ARE DEAD!, Hawkgirl is barely alive, GreenArrow is DEAD!!, HAL IS MISSING!! And we just sit here like goddamn cowards!?"
Blue Beetle stirred. "Zatanna, we need to be smart. We've lost too many. If we charge in blindly, we lose everyone else."
She wheeled on him. Her finger jabbed into his chest like a dagger. "You SAW what they did! You saw Booster's body! You—his best friend—are going to stand here and talk about caution?! While he's rotting in a bag?!"
Ted's eyes dropped. He said nothing. Because what could he say?
Silence devoured the room.
Aquaman's voice, low and rough, filled the void. "No word from J'onn. Martian Manhunter's psychic signal is gone. He vanished during the Watchtower breach."
Diana's breath caught. "We assume the worst?"
Aquaman nodded once. "We must."
Plastic Man's voice trembled. "And Flash?"
Aquaman exhaled slowly. "Running. He won't stop. Said if he wasn't busy on Earth and had been there, maybe it would've ended differently."
Diana swallowed. Her voice was a whisper. "We all blame ourselves."
The room was drowned in grief.
Then Diana's voice cut through. "And the boy?"
Everyone looked at her.
Aquaman blinked. "What boy?"
"Kai," Diana answered. "The child who fought beside Clark. He was on the Watchtower. He bled for us."
Plastic Man shook his head. "I thought he was some alien weapon."
Diana's voice was soft but certain. "He's a child. A child who became a monster to protect us. And I don't know if he survived. But if he did… we owe him more than silence."
Zatanna scoffed, voice dripping with venom. "Or maybe we should put him down before he becomes the next Black Adam."
Diana's stare could have shattered stone. "He saved Clark."
Zatanna stepped forward, not backing down. "And nearly leveled the Watchtower doing it."
"Enough!" Blue Beetle snapped, rising to his feet. "We don't even know where he is. And right now, we're bleeding. Dying. This isn't the time for more division."
Aquaman turned to Diana. "We need orders. What now?"
She looked to the beds—her friends, her family. Her jaw tightened.
"I've always looked toward what we do as justice and hoped to bring a light of hope to the world of man," she whispered. "But that must be put aisde."
The words echoed like a death knell.
She stepped forward, face hardened by divine fury. Her voice rose like thunder.
"Then hear me now," she declared, every syllable a hammer blow. "This means war."
Silence. Total. Complete.
Plastic Man straightened. "I'm in."
Zatanna's fists burned with light as she looked at the broken body of Bruce. "They'll burn..."
Aquaman grunted, flexing his one good hand. "Savage dies. I'll rip out his spine myself."
Blue Beetle didn't speak. He looked down at his helmet, thumb tracing a scratch Booster left behind. The memory stabbed deep.
"Carter," he whispered. "I'm sorry."
A tear fell.
He didn't say he was in.
But he didn't walk away either.
Outside, the storm raged.
Inside, vengeance stirred.
The Justice League had fallen.
Now it would rise again.
But not as saviors.
As soldiers.
As Avengers.
Elsewhere
Within a chamber lit by a low, infernal glow, Vandal Savage dined like a Roman emperor amid the end of the world. The long obsidian table before him gleamed beneath the flicker of blood-colored candlelight. Ornate silverware carved with demonic runes rested beside a steaming plate of roasted pheasant, its skin crisp and golden, dripping juices pooling beside charred, smoky vegetables and a bowl of marrow still bubbling from the flame. The wine in his crystal glass looked more like blood than merlot—thick, dark, almost viscous.
Each bite he took was slow, indulgent. This was not a man dining. This was a man savoring triumph.
A giggle slithered from the shadows, high and playful—like a child's, yet heavy with malice.
"Well, I must say…" came the sing-song voice, floating through the air like perfume in rot. "I didn't expect such entertainment."
Vandal didn't turn. He dabbed at the corner of his lips with a silk napkin, his expression relaxed, amused.
"I pride myself on spectacle," he said, voice low and gravelly, ancient. "The chaos, the death... they're part of the art. Your little artifact, this red core it's such a treat. A shame it wasn't made sooner."
From the darkness came a sound like bells warping laughter twisted into something wrong. "Oh, I'm so glad you enjoy it! I made it with my favorite ingredients: suffering, madness, and a touch of chaos. And now you are my canvas. One of my agents in this beautiful nightmare."
Vandal raised his glass in a mock salute. The crimson liquid glinted like a fresh wound. "I am honored, truly. The power it grants me... I've never felt so limitless. My cells regenerate faster than death can claim me. I see cracks in time itself. I could break the gods with my bare hands."
"Oh, you will," the voice sang, practically giddy.
Savage leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. "But where was the Lord of Order? Doctor Fate has never been one to stay silent during a cosmic shift."
The shadows rippled like disturbed oil. A gale of laughter exploded from nowhere, manic, sharp, filling the chamber with a madness that tasted like sulfur.
"Order?" the voice cackled. "My dear Vandal, while I dance in Chaos, he must tango with Order. He's elsewhere—doing what dull, noble fools do. Besides, he has his hands full. That little brat you brought to the Watchtower? He's more than just a child. He's a response. The pendulum swing to me."
Vandal's brow furrowed. His fork scraped the plate.
"The boy," he muttered. "A creature born solely for violence. Strong, yes. Inhumanly so. But fractured. The boy is unstable. He's all instinct and fury—no control. A walking weapon that hasn't chosen a side."
"Exactly!" the voice shrieked with delight, and suddenly the flames of the candles surged up like geysers. "Isn't it glorious?! A storm without a center! A beast who doesn't know whether to save the world or end it!"
The laughter continued, wild, spiraling toward lunacy—then snapped to silence, like a neck breaking.
The room stilled. The only sound was the slow, careful clinking of Vandal setting his goblet back on the table.
And then—
"War is right around the corner," the voice whispered.
Not shouted. Not screamed.
Whispered.
But it carried more weight than any scream. It was a blade dragged across the throat of peace. It rang in Vandal's ears like the toll of a funeral bell echoing through eternity.
The candles died. One by one.
Darkness claimed the room.
Only the red glow from Vandal's chest remained, pulsing with malevolent life. Shadows warped behind him, monstrous and writhing like silent witnesses to damnation.
And in the dark, Vandal Savage smiled.
"To War."