Somewhere deep beneath Gotham—past the kind of reinforced concrete that screamed Cold War panic and several layers of security tech so old it could probably vote—the elevator doors finally hissed open with a theatrical sigh.
Out stepped Hadrian Peverell.
To the public, he was Eidolon—the myth, the legend, the magic-wielding nightmare who wore crimson like it was a fashion statement and shadows like they were tailored. But to the base he was currently invading, he was just a very British wizard with a deeply sarcastic streak and no respect for other people's personal boundaries.
Behind him strolled Dobson—ex-house-elf turned slightly terrifying butler, who looked like he'd just stepped out of an MI6 dossier and probably had one on you. And your grandmother. And your dog.
Hadrian glanced around at the dim chamber they'd entered: cathedral-sized ceilings, ancient generator cores that whined like ghosts with workaholic tendencies, and enough dust to trigger Alfred's eternal disapproval. The air smelled like burnt ozone, old regrets, and probably a bat's armpit.
"Charming," Hadrian muttered. "Nothing says 'welcome to my trauma cave' like stale bat funk and Cold War aesthetic."
Dobson adjusted his tie with the kind of disdain only the British could weaponize.
"Master Wayne's bunker is… quaint. Rather like giving a baby dragon a flamethrower and calling it 'home security.'"
Hadrian grinned. "Very on-brand for Bruce. I'm honestly shocked I didn't have to duel an animatronic Freud just to get in."
The elevator behind them sealed with a hiss. The floor panels flickered. Somewhere in the shadows, something beeped, clicked, and muttered in binary.
"Security system just tried to read my mind," Hadrian said dryly. "Joke's on it—I haven't had coherent thoughts since 2003."
Dobson pulled a sleek satchel off his shoulder—enchanted, obviously—and snapped his fingers. Instantly, dozens of matte-black cases shot into the air like they'd been insulted and were rising to fight about it.
"Initializing P&B Tech deployment," Dobson announced, like he was reading the ingredients on a box of biscuits. "Shielded neural net, modular interfaces, environmental sensors with… ah, sentient mood calibration."
Hadrian raised an eyebrow. "You gave the base emotions?"
"Just enough to tell when someone's being a pillock."
Hadrian winced. "It's going to sass me, isn't it?"
"I believe the phrase you used was 'make her sound like Beyoncé but with fewer boundaries.'"
The cases unfolded midair, sprouting vines of shimmering wires and glowing runes. The base began to shift—walls reconfiguring, platforms rising like Gotham's grumpiest Transformer.
The command console hummed to life. The lights adjusted. And then, with all the smug grace of a diva arriving fashionably late, a voice purred through the chamber.
"Good morning, Master Hadrian. Your heart rate is elevated. Did Broodfather Wayne annoy you again?"
Hadrian blinked. "Beta 9?"
"The one and only, sugar. You missed me?"
Hadrian turned slowly, like a man confronting a very confident AI that could delete his browser history out of spite.
"You sound like Beyoncé after three espressos and a mood swing."
"Thank you, baby. I try."
Dobson sniffed. "She's learned sarcasm. I'm so proud. We're calling it the Hadrian Protocol."
Hadrian rolled his eyes and knelt by an ancient terminal now blinking its last in terror as it was slowly being possessed by something smarter, sassier, and enchanted to spit lightning if someone entered the wrong password.
"Time to set up the anti-divination wards. Last time I forgot, Constantine showed up with a bottle of absinthe and something that may or may not have been a cursed hamster."
Dobson peered over his shoulder. "And the firewall?"
"I've got more layers on it than Bruce's emotional repression."
"Ooh, burn," Beta 9 said, her voice practically strutting. "Do you want me to start the 'Brooding with Purpose' playlist?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Absolutely not."
One of the side walls shimmered and disappeared, revealing a cavernous chamber unfolding like some sort of magical-futuristic onion—layer after glowing layer: combat arenas, alchemy labs, a freaking spell-forged forge, and even dorms that could probably adjust their pillow firmness based on your mood.
Dobson floated a crystal core toward the central altar.
"Lady Lily's schematics held up," he said, voice proud and fond. "The base should now be self-aware enough to nag you."
Hadrian smirked. "Like my mother always dreamed."
The command dais lit up beneath his boots, projecting a map of Earth. No, scratch that—of Earth and its leyline grid, overlaid with magical anomalies, interdimensional breaches, and a pizza tracker, for reasons Hadrian refused to explain.
"It's all coming together," he murmured. "The team. The mission. A new League. One that doesn't include dress codes or brooding quotas."
Behind him, a portal snapped open with all the delicacy of a car crash. Wayne Tower's penthouse glimmered on the other side. Bruce Wayne—aka Gotham's least fun billionaire—glared through the feed like a man who'd just watched someone rearrange his Batcave by color.
"You were supposed to wait for my security clearance," Bruce growled, voice low and very Christian Bale.
Hadrian didn't even turn.
"And you were supposed to learn basic trust. But here we are."
Bruce's nostrils flared. Somewhere in the distance, Superman probably choked on his lunch from laughing too hard.
"I swear, the next time you override my encryption—"
"I've got six kidneys. Stab away."
A long pause. Then, softly:
"…I will."
"Shall I prepare diplomatic responses for when the Atlanteans and the UN complain about your 'unauthorized magical skyscraper'?" Beta 9 asked.
"Please do," Hadrian replied. "And make sure to include a veiled threat and a Beyoncé lyric."
"You got it, sweetie. Also, we're out of Earl Grey."
Hadrian blinked. "That's a war crime."
Dobson perked up. "I'll fetch the reserve stash. Also, should I polish the dimensional protocols? The Olympians are due to arrive any day."
Hadrian cracked his knuckles, eyes glowing.
"Yeah. Make it sparkle, Dobbers. We're about to host the biggest superhero sleepover since Odin lost a bet to Zeus."
And with that, Hadrian Peverell stepped into the command chair like it had been carved just for him.
Half wizard.
Half legend.
All sass.
The League wasn't forming.
It was rising.
And Gotham? Gotham was officially out of excuses.
—
Victor Stone had seen a lot of weird in his time. Alien warlords, time-traveling speedsters, talking gorillas. But this? This was new. And weird. And annoyingly British.
Following the trail of digital breadcrumbs left in the wake of a break-in on his supposedly hack-proof comms network (which, for the record, was made using Apokoliptian tech—like, literal space-god-grade encryption), Victor had dived headfirst into the cyber equivalent of a rabbit hole. And this particular rabbit hole had firewalls that bit back.
He'd hacked government black sites, STAR Labs, and once, just to prove he could, Wayne Enterprises (don't worry, Bruce caught him, lectured him, and then asked if he could help improve their security). But this network? This felt like trying to hotwire a dragon. Blindfolded. Underwater. With your grandma watching.
Still, he pressed on, until finally, the trail ended in a location so deep under Gotham, even the Batcave would've gone, "Dude. Chill."
The elevator that brought him down was lined with what looked like obsidian and liquid metal, pulsing gently with light. When it opened, Victor stepped into a space that looked like Tony Stark and Shuri had built Hogwarts... and then hired a design team from a sci-fi movie to redecorate.
"Okay," he muttered, sensors whirring as he scanned the room. "Either I'm in a dream, or someone just made Alexa jealous."
A chime rang out, smooth and sultry.
"Greetings, Victor Stone. You're late. But fashionably so. Props."
Victor blinked. "Who the hell...?"
"Beta Nine," the voice replied. "Head of sass, queen of security, and full-time AI extraordinaire. Also? I deserve a better name. Just saying."
Before Victor could answer, a second voice joined in. This one dry, crisp, and dipped in British sarcasm so potent, it could probably be weaponized.
"Beta Nine believes herself to be underappreciated. She is, in fact, overappreciated. She once demanded a standing ovation for preventing a toaster from becoming self-aware."
Victor turned—and stopped cold.
In the center of the room stood a figure dressed in sleek black armor, crimson lines of energy pulsing from a glowing sigil on his chest like it had a heartbeat. A cloak, jet-black with crimson lining, rippled dramatically even though there was no wind. A hood hid most of his face, and the helmet—shiny, organic-looking, with glowing red eyes—looked like something Darth Vader would envy.
Victor's mouth dropped open. "No freaking way."
The armored figure tilted his head, then reached up. The hood dropped. The helmet melted back into the armor with the smoothness of liquid shadow, revealing a face Victor hadn't seen in years.
Hadrian Peverell.
With messy black hair, annoyingly perfect cheekbones, and eyes that blazed emerald green like they were photoshopped by Mother Nature herself.
"You've got to be kidding me," Victor said, pointing.
Hadrian—Eidolon—smiled. "I get that a lot."
Victor took a step forward. "You're Eidolon?! You fought beside me during the invasion. You punched that Darkseid clone so hard it had a GPS error!"
Hadrian shrugged. "Well, he insulted my cloak. Said it looked like something from Hot Topic."
"You tanked an Omega Beam!"
"I've had spicier curry."
"I thought you were like some cosmic ghost! And now you're telling me you're twenty-four, British, and a tech mogul?!"
"Well, when you say it like that, it does sound impressive."
Victor flailed. "You're the son of James and Lily Peverell? As in, the James Peverell who owns half of Europe's economy?!"
"I prefer the term 'diversified portfolio.'"
"And you're godson to Sirius Blackwood?"
Hadrian grinned. "Uncle Siri has... let's call them 'issues.'"
"Rich. Handsome. Magic. And British?" Victor threw his hands up. "You're like if Tony Stark and Doctor Strange had a baby and raised him on BBC dramas."
A cough sounded from nearby.
A man stepped forward, looking like James Bond had decided to become a butler for fun. He had the sharp-cut cheekbones of Daniel Craig, the vibe of a cobra in a tuxedo, and the dry wit of someone who once judged a duel and the contestants' fashion sense.
"Dobson," he said with a slight bow. "Butler. Security. Emergency therapist when Master Hadrian makes senators cry."
Hadrian pointed. "He exaggerates. That was one senator. And he was very emotional to begin with."
"He wept for three hours."
"I told him the truth."
"You told him his tie looked like regret and smelled of corruption."
"It did."
Beta Nine sighed dramatically. "I'm surrounded by drama queens and sass goblins. Anyway—privacy shield is active. Nobody's listening. Unless you want them to. In which case, hi, NSA."
Victor blinked again. "Okay. Real talk: how did you hack my system? That was Apokoliptian tech. It's built to stop literal gods from snooping."
Hadrian gestured to a nearby screen where crimson runes danced like they were doing synchronized yoga.
"I didn't hack it. I healed it. Your encryption had holes. Apokoliptian tech is powerful, but predictable. My mum—Lily—designed a runic cipher that operates on sub-symbolic layers. Language-based quantum code. No digital door opens if it doesn't know your name in Sumerian."
Victor stared. "Your mom wrote that?"
"She also built a toaster that banishes ghosts from bread," Dobson added helpfully.
Victor's eyes narrowed. "That sounds fake."
Hadrian nodded solemnly. "It was a haunted baguette."
"I'm sorry, what?!"
"Don't mock the spectral carbs," Beta Nine said. "They know what you did last summer."
Victor dropped into a chair before his brain could file for divorce.
"What is this place?"
Hadrian stepped onto the main dais. The floor lit up beneath his boots, revealing a globe laced with glowing ley lines, satellites, and mystical markers that only made Victor's circuits itch.
"A league," Hadrian said. "One built not on legacy—but necessity. We're not waiting for the next invasion. We're building something new. Something clever. People who can fight gods, rewrite reality, and—most importantly—have excellent fashion sense."
Dobson handed Victor a sleek black comm device. "Try not to hack us. It's considered impolite."
Victor turned it over, impressed. "This is... this is better than WayneTech. And StarkTech. And... is this vibrating on a magic frequency?"
"We call it P&B Tech," Hadrian said smoothly. "Nobody knows how it works. Not even me. That's how good it is."
Victor stared. Then he grinned.
"Okay, Peverell. I'm in."
"Welcome to the team," Hadrian said, his cloak billowing for maximum effect.
"Did you just trigger a wind effect for dramatic flair?"
"Beta Nine does it automatically."
"You're welcome, darling."
And somewhere, deep under Gotham, in a base powered by sarcasm, runes, and zero chill, a new League began to rise.
Not just powerful.
Stylish.
—
Washington D.C. was as busy as ever, but tonight, there was something a little off—like the entire city had just hit the pause button for a second. The sounds of traffic, honking horns, and the general hum of a city that never really slept were there, sure, but they all seemed to fade into the background when the unmistakable jingle of an ice cream truck floated down the street.
Diana—yes, that Diana, the one they all call Wonder Woman—was walking through the sidewalk crowd like she had all the time in the world. Maybe she did. Maybe tonight was her night to actually be human.
Okay, fine, she wasn't quite human. She had a magical lasso, a sword, and an indestructible bracelet—so, not exactly your average person on the street. But after spending hours trapped in the White House, listening to President Trump... let's just say, "trying to sell her on a photo op" felt like the nicest description. There were so many things wrong with that conversation—most notably, the fact that he'd suggested she could "liven things up" by posing like a Playboy Bunny for a photoshoot. Playboy Bunny. Diana's face might've turned red at the thought, but it was probably for the best she'd left the situation before her head exploded from sheer discomfort.
So, she left. Like any sane person would. Who wouldn't escape a photo op with a politician who couldn't tell the difference between saving the world and creating a meme?
Now, she was free. And there it was, her reward: the sound of an ice cream truck in the distance. The absolute ultimate sign that life wasn't totally terrible. Sure, it wasn't a Themysciran ice cream truck, but who was she kidding? The ones back home didn't have chocolate sprinkles the size of boulders. This was a simple pleasure, and Diana wasn't about to pass it up.
She crossed the street with purpose, like she had a mission (which, in a way, she did). She'd earned this moment of peace. As she approached the truck, the guy behind the counter gave her a smile—a big, goofy grin that reminded her of a simpler time. Diana liked him, even if she hadn't learned his name. She liked to call him "God in human disguise," mostly because it confused the heck out of him every time. Still, he had good ice cream, so he was practically a hero in her book.
"Evening, Miss," he greeted, his tone warm but with a hint of amusement.
"The usual," Diana said, barely able to suppress a smile. No need to get fancy with the order. She was going classic.
He handed her the cone, watching her closely. "A little magic in every scoop," he said, giving her an exaggerated wink. And she did not question it—because really, who had time to argue with someone who could scoop ice cream like that?
She took a bite. Mmmm. It was a good night.
But, of course, things couldn't stay peaceful for long. Just as she was about to enjoy another scoop, a shadow fell over her.
It wasn't a regular shadow, mind you. This one had that dramatic flair only a dark, caped figure could have. Oh yes. She knew that silhouette anywhere.
Batman. Or, as Diana liked to call him, "Mr. Brooding Drama King."
"Good evening, Diana," came his low, gravelly voice, as though he had to force the words out between clenched teeth. Batman always made her think of someone who never quite learned how to relax—probably because he never did.
"Always so serious, Bats?" Diana raised an eyebrow, offering him a bit of her ice cream, as though they were old friends who casually shared desserts in the middle of Gotham's darkest alleys. She was a little curious if Batman had ever tasted ice cream. It didn't seem like something he'd indulge in. "You know, you could use a little sweetness in your life."
"I have my methods," Batman muttered, glancing at the ice cream like it was a weapon, not dessert.
Diana rolled her eyes. "Sure you do." She didn't think there was enough ice cream in the world to fix whatever was going on in that head of his, but that wasn't her problem. Not tonight.
He didn't even look at the ice cream. Instead, he handed her a small, black card. No frills, no decoration. Just one word etched in silver: Meeting.
Her curiosity piqued, Diana took the card, her fingers brushing his. "What's this?" she asked, looking up at him.
He glanced around, checking for any unwanted attention. "It's where we're meeting. All of us. Eidolon included."
Her heart skipped a beat at the mention of Eidolon. Hadrian Peverell. She had a feeling there was more to him than just his... reality-bending abilities—not that Diana had any clue what his full deal was. But still, something about him kept popping into her mind like a puzzle she couldn't finish.
"You found him?" she asked, stunned. "You? I thought even you would have trouble tracking someone who can literally warp reality like it's a party trick."
Batman gave her the faintest hint of a smile—probably the closest he got to humor without breaking a rib. "I didn't find him. He found me."
Diana stared at him, blinking. "He found you? That's... surprising." She wasn't sure if she was impressed or slightly terrified. Both seemed possible with someone like Eidolon.
"Yeah, well. That's what happens when you're good at staying in the shadows." Batman's tone dropped even lower, as though he was trying to make a joke but had forgotten how to laugh. "We're forming a League. One that isn't just about fighting alien invasions. There's bigger stuff coming—stuff we can't handle alone."
Diana thought about it. Her life had been chaotic ever since stepping foot in this crazy world of men, and now it seemed like the chaos was going to get a whole lot bigger. But Batman was right—together, maybe they stood a chance against whatever threat was coming next.
"I'm in," she said with a firm nod, tucking the card into her pocket like it was the start of something big. It felt like it was.
Batman didn't respond right away. He just gave her that Batman look—grim, intense, and kind of like he'd rather be doing literally anything else. Then, as if on cue, he started to melt back into the shadows. Poof, just like that, gone.
And Diana was left with her half-finished cone and a whole new set of questions. She sighed, glancing at the ice cream truck. For a moment, she just stood there, feeling the weight of what was coming. But then, with a shrug and a smile, she tossed the cone in the air, catching it in one last satisfying bite.
Well, that was fun. And now it was time to save the world. Again.
Of course.
—
Barry Allen was dying.
Not in the tragic-backstory, cue-sad-music kind of way. No, this was the slow, soul-sucking death reserved exclusively for overworked forensic scientists who were three frappuccinos away from a full-blown caffeine-induced existential crisis.
He sat hunched over his desk in the Central City Police Department crime lab, surrounded by enough paperwork to bury a full-grown Kryptonian. Somewhere in that stack was a report he was supposed to submit... oh, about a week ago.
But then, you know, aliens.
And Gotham.
And Batman doing that mysterious "I-don't-do-teammates-but-somehow-you're-still-here" thing.
So yeah, Barry had been busy.
"Okay, okay," Barry muttered, his eyes twitching slightly as he stared at the screen. "We can do this. I've done time travel, multiverse hopping, fought a psychic gorilla once... This? This is just paperwork. Harmless, boring, paper—OH MY GOD WHY IS IT EIGHTY PAGES?!"
He groaned, planting his face on the keyboard.
The only thing keeping him functional at this point was the half-empty mug in his hand. The fading text on the side read: CENTRAL CITY CRIME LAB: We're Faster Than You Think!
The irony was not lost on him.
He took a swig of what was probably his eighth cup that night. The coffee was cold, bitter, and might've doubled as engine degreaser, but Barry drank it like it was nectar from the gods. Which, honestly, it kind of was.
Just as he started typing again, the cursor blinking mockingly at him—
CLASH!
Time froze.
No, literally. For Barry, the moment glass shattered across his lab window, the universe politely hit the pause button. The explosion of glass hung in the air like a glittering snow globe someone shook way too hard.
His body kicked into gear before his brain caught up.
Crack. Zip. Blur.
He was already out of his chair, lightning trailing behind him in streaks of gold and red. The object hurtling toward his desk glinted in the light like a ninja star in a Michael Bay movie.
Barry zipped past the flying glass, eyes narrowing as he calculated trajectory, spin, weight, potential threat level, and what this might mean for his already-overdue report.
And more importantly—whether it was going to hit his favorite mug.
That mug had been through things. Alien invasions. Multiversal collapses. Joe accidentally putting it through the dishwasher even though the label clearly said hand-wash only.
Barry was not about to lose it now.
His hand moved faster than thought, catching the projectile mid-air before it could meet ceramic.
And of course, it was a Batarang.
Because who else threw razor-sharp metal symbols through government property like it was Amazon Prime delivery?
Attached to the blade with some kind of Bat-tape was a matte black card. Barry peeled it off, blinking.
There were just two lines, printed in stark white, all-caps font:
GOTHAM CITY. SUNDAY. MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE.
Barry blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then sighed so deeply it could've shifted tectonic plates.
"Really, Bats?" he asked the empty lab. "You couldn't just... I don't know... text me? Maybe send a carrier pigeon like a normal vigilante?"
He stared out through the broken window, glass crunching under his boots. His eyes darted to the skyline, then up. Calculating the angle of entry, the arc, the velocity, the rotational spin of the Earth, Barry zipped up the stairwell and onto the roof in a blink.
Central City sprawled out beneath him like a glittering circuit board. He scanned across to the adjacent building where the trajectory should've originated.
No caped crusader in sight.
But in the distance, a faint, bat-shaped silhouette zipped across the sky.
The Batplane.
Of course.
"Great," Barry said. "He broke my window and ghosted me. Batman: king of dramatic exits and unnecessary property damage."
He waved the Batarang at the shrinking dot in the sky.
"Thanks for the invite, by the way! Next time, just throw it at my face! That'll save me the trouble of cleaning!"
The Batplane didn't respond. Because, again, it was a plane. And Barry was talking to it. Out loud.
He sighed, then looked down at the card again.
"Gotham. Sunday. That can't possibly be ominous or emotionally scarring."
Barry zipped back into the lab with a gust of wind that sent several reports flying.
He sat down again, glancing between his cracked monitor, the broken window, and the one file that still hadn't typed itself. Somehow.
"Alright," he muttered, brushing glass off the keyboard. "Back to blood spatter consistency during metahuman decapitation events."
He sipped what remained of his coffee.
Paused.
Wrinkled his nose.
Then stared at his beloved, chipped mug with the kind of expression normally reserved for betrayal in a Shakespeare play.
"…I need a new mug."
—
Hal Jordan was flying.
And not just any flying. We're talking Mach 3, dancing-on-the-edge-of-the-atmosphere, "Danger Zone" blaring in his mental playlist flying. The kind of flying that made lesser mortals blackout from G-forces and made Hal grin like a caffeinated adrenaline junkie with a jet engine for a heart.
The sky was his playground, and right now, he was in the middle of a very intense game of hide-and-seek.
Spoiler alert: he was losing.
Carol Ferris—his on-again, off-again, currently-on-and-will-stay-on-if-he-didn't-mess-it-up girlfriend—was flying the other stealth jet. And when Carol Ferris flew, she didn't just dominate the skies. She owned them. Rented them out. Hung up a sign that said "no Hal Jordans allowed."
"Jordan," her voice crackled through the headset, low and teasing. "You're glowing on infrared like a Christmas tree in Times Square. Stealth mode, remember?"
Hal flicked a few switches, ducked under a puffy cumulonimbus like it had insulted his mother, and replied, "I am stealth mode. Stealth mode with charisma."
"Charisma doesn't count on radar."
"Says you. I've blinded people with my charm before."
There was a pause, then, "Pretty sure that was just your ego crashing into their personal space."
Hal pulled a barrel roll, partly because it looked cool and mostly because he was trying to lose her lock. She followed it up with a tight spiral dive that was so clean it could've been used in a training video.
Show-off.
He cut his thrusters, angled down, and hugged the thermal drafts like a surfer catching a wave.
"Hey, you free tonight?" he asked, breathless from both G-forces and flirting.
"I might be," Carol said. "Depends if a certain flyboy actually sticks the landing this time and doesn't crash into the conversation like last time."
"One little 'classified mission went long' and I get benched for a week."
"Hal, you left me at a sushi bar alone with your mother on speakerphone. I deserve a medal."
He winced. "Okay, fair. But I brought flowers."
"Plastic ones."
"They never die!"
She laughed—a warm, soft sound that punched through his cockpit like sunlight.
Hal felt his heart do a little barrel roll of its own.
Eventually, they brought their jets down to the tarmac in perfect sync, twin shadows skating across the desert airstrip as the sun dipped low in the sky, setting everything on fire with golden-orange light.
His wheels kissed the runway like a whisper. Showy, sure, but smooth.
As he popped the canopy and climbed out, Hal tugged off his helmet and shook out his hair in what he liked to believe was a rugged, roguish way. In reality, it probably looked like someone had dropped a raccoon on his head mid-flight.
Carol was already out of her jet and walking over, peeling off her gloves and giving him that look. The one that said you're lucky you're cute, and yes, I know you were trying to beat me, and no, you didn't even come close.
"That was a clean run," she said, tossing him a towel. "Your landing was only mildly dramatic. Progress."
"You noticed," Hal said, flashing his best crooked grin. "I call that move the 'Hal Jordan Signature Swerve and Impress.'"
She arched a brow. "You almost clipped a weather drone."
"That drone was in my airspace. And probably Russian."
"I'm pretty sure it was a bird."
Hal shrugged. "Looked hostile."
Carol stepped closer, close enough to smell the jet fuel and sweat and whatever knockoff cologne he used to pretend he wasn't drenched in adrenaline.
"Drinks tonight?" she asked.
"Drinks. Dinner. Dancing. Stargazing. Spontaneous trip to Paris. Your call."
"You're such a dork," she said, but her smile lingered as she turned to walk away. "Five o'clock sharp. And wear something that doesn't smell like cockpit."
"Don't I always?"
"No," she called over her shoulder. "You really don't."
Hal sighed happily. He loved a woman who told it like it was and still wanted drinks with him afterward. He sauntered into the locker room, humming "Highway to the Danger Zone," when he noticed something off.
Something that made all the hair on the back of his neck do that weird Batman-was-here thing.
Pinned to the inside of his locker, right between a faded picture of him and Kilowog flipping burgers at a Ferris company cookout and a sticker that said "Jet Jockeys Do It With Altitude", was a matte black card.
It hadn't been there this morning.
No tape. No pin. Just... there. Like it had spawned from the shadows or dropped from a gargoyle.
Hal grabbed it and examined the crisp, ominous white lettering:
GOTHAM CITY. SUNDAY. MIDNIGHT.
And, in smaller, definitely-condescending text at the bottom:
You can wear the ring. But no showing off.
He blinked.
"Seriously?"
Looked around. Locker room was empty.
He half-expected a dramatic flapping cape, a puff of smoke, or maybe a deep voice muttering something about justice and cholesterol.
Nothing.
He stared at the card again.
"Okay, Bats," he said, dragging a hand down his face. "Next time, I dunno, maybe knock like a normal billionaire ninja cryptid."
He shoved the card into his flight jacket pocket, muttering, "Gotham. Midnight. And here I was thinking Sunday would involve pizza and not mysterious rooftop brooding."
Then he paused.
Pulled the card out again.
"…How did he get into my locker?"
He turned, half-expecting his shadow to suddenly throw a batarang.
Nope. Still just fluorescent lights and gym socks.
Hal sighed, rolling his eyes so hard they almost took off on their own.
"Fine. I'll show up. But if I don't get that beer with Carol tonight, someone's getting a light show courtesy of Sector 2814's finest."
He tossed his towel over his shoulder, walked toward the showers, and added under his breath:
"Also, if this turns out to be another Gotham sewer monster thing, I'm bringing earplugs. Last time I spent three days smelling like Bat-repellent."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!