Billy Batson had three ironclad rules for surviving middle school:
1) Keep your head down.
2) Avoid cafeteria chili like it's a cursed artifact.
3) Never—ever—let anyone find out you can turn into a fully grown muscle-bound superhero by yelling one word.
So far, Billy was batting zero for three.
Case in point: his backpack hit the hallway floor with the unmistakable thunk of suffering lunch containers and dying dignity.
"Hey, Bat-son," Travis drawled from behind him, stretching the syllables like he was announcing a wrestling match. "You drop this?"
Billy turned just in time to see his stuff scatter like confetti across the linoleum. Books, pencils, his notebook with the "Not a Secret Identity Journal" label on the front—totally subtle—everywhere.
"Real mature, Travis," Billy said, crouching down to collect his dignity one eraser at a time.
Travis leaned against a locker like he was auditioning for the role of "High School Menace #3" in a Netflix series. His hoodie was halfway falling off, his smirk was fully engaged, and his hair looked like it had lost a fight with a weed whacker.
"Oops," he said, zero remorse. "Must've slipped."
The hallway peanut gallery—also known as Travis's goons, two guys named Dillon and Zane who shared one brain cell between them—laughed like this was the highlight of their academic careers.
Billy gritted his teeth. One word. Just one. That's all it would take and he could be ten feet taller with the power of six gods and a built-in six-pack.
But then he'd be the weirdo who exploded into a lightning bolt during third period. Again.
So instead, he took a deep breath and reminded himself that heroes don't body-slam eighth graders into lockers. No matter how tempting.
"Just leave me alone, Travis," Billy said, stuffing a smushed peanut butter sandwich back into his bag.
Travis cocked his head. "Aww. Is baby Batson gonna cry? Want me to call your mommy?"
Billy stood up slowly, shouldering his backpack like a battle-worn soldier preparing to march into geometry. "Nah. But I do want you to get a new insult. You've used that one since fourth grade."
Travis blinked. "Did not."
"Dude," Billy said. "There are fossils older than your comebacks."
Travis opened his mouth for a rebuttal, probably something involving his usual combination of low IQ and high volume, when the universe stepped in to save Billy from further brain cell damage.
The intercom crackled, followed by a voice that sounded like it had survived ten years of morning announcements and three divorces.
"Billy Batson to the principal's office. Billy Batson, please report to the office."
Billy blinked.
That… wasn't on his bingo card.
"OoooOOOOoooh," Travis crooned, doing jazz hands like this was Broadway and not a public school hallway that still smelled like gym socks.
Billy stepped around him, narrowly avoiding a last-second trip attempt. Thank you, reflexes. His body was basically a walking cheat code—he just couldn't use it unless things got really dire. Like, end-of-the-world dire. Or if Travis ever got promoted to high school.
As he headed down the hall, Billy's brain went into full paranoia mode.
Did they find out about the time I used the projector to screen Star Wars for Darla's birthday? Or the field trip to the zoo that accidentally turned into a superhero training montage?
He slowed in front of the main office, his palms suddenly sweaty.
Not nervous. Just… electrically-charged. Literally. Because that's what happens when you've got lightning powers linked to your emotional state. Emotions = unpredictable magic. One panic sneeze and bam—full Shazam.
He pushed open the door to the front office, and there she was.
Miss Rodriguez.
She sat behind the desk in a bright red blouse, lipstick that probably had its own fan club, and earrings that could double as medieval weaponry. Her accent wrapped around her words like sugar on hot churros, and Billy was pretty sure half the boys in school had tried to fake needing a Band-Aid just to see her smile.
"Ah, mi cielo," she said, eyes twinkling as she looked up from her computer. "The principal wants to see you. Go on, go on."
Billy raised an eyebrow. "Wait… did I do something? Because if this is about the thing with the fire alarm—technically I didn't pull it. I just tripped and—"
She waved a manicured hand. "No, no, nothing like that. There is someone here. They ask for you. Personally."
Billy blinked. "Like… someone not from the school?"
Her smile turned just a little mysterious. "Go find out. Maybe it's a secret admirer."
Billy choked. "Please no."
Miss Rodriguez winked. "I don't know, Billy. You're very popular with the girls lately. They love the quiet, broody types."
"Yeah, well, I'd prefer the ones who don't use glitter gel pens to draw me as a werewolf."
She laughed, the kind of laugh that made the air smell like summer and mango-scented lotion. "Go on, go on. Don't keep your visitor waiting."
Billy eyed the door to the principal's office like it might bite him.
Still, he walked forward and opened it with a dramatic creeeeeak, half expecting Gandalf, Batman, or his social worker.
What he saw?
Not even close.
—
Billy Batson wasn't sure what he expected when he walked into Principal Hanlon's office.
Definitely not this.
He'd braced himself for the usual suspects: a disappointed guidance counselor with a stack of detention slips, maybe someone from Child Services wearing a beige sweater and that look that said, "Oh, honey." Or worst-case scenario—Mr. Jenkins from janitorial with photographic proof that Billy may have used a mop and a rolling chair to joust after hours.
Instead, there was a guy in a chair who looked like he'd been air-dropped in from a cologne commercial.
Sitting across from Principal Hanlon like he owned the place was Hadrian Peverell. Yes, that Hadrian Peverell. British tech wizard. Media genius. Tabloid regular. The guy whose net worth had more zeroes than Billy's Xbox password. The kind of person who didn't walk into middle schools unless he was buying them and turning them into elite Hogwarts-themed academies.
He wore a navy suit so sharp it could've doubled as a lightsaber, a crisp white shirt that screamed expensive laundry detergent, and a watch that probably ran on Stark tech. His hair looked perfectly tousled by the personal breeze of an angel and his smile had a "you're about to say yes to everything I ask" setting.
Billy blinked. Twice. "I'm not dreaming, right?"
"Nope," said Principal Hanlon, who was clearly trying not to sweat through his shirt. His grin looked like it had been stapled to his face. "Billy, this is Mr. Peverell. Mr. Peverell, Billy."
Hadrian glanced up from his phone, and wow—his eyes were so green they could probably photosynthesize. "Ah, the hero of the hour," he said in a voice so British it made Billy crave tea. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
"Uh," Billy said, sitting down. "Cool."
Before he could ask what he was supposedly the hero of, the office door opened and in walked Miss Rodriguez.
Now, Miss Rodriguez was technically the school secretary. But she walked like she was auditioning for a reboot of Modern Family—heels clicking, hips swaying, wearing a red blouse and a pencil skirt that probably broke at least three school dress codes by existing.
"Señor Peverell," she said, smiling so wide even the fluorescent lights got flustered. "Can I get you anything? Agua? Refresco? Maybe a cafecito?"
Hadrian stood, kissed the back of her hand—of course he did—and responded in flawless, straight-out-of-a-telenovela Spanish: "Solo si usted me acompaña, señorita. Su sonrisa hace que cualquier bebida sepa mejor."
Miss Rodriguez giggled. GIGGLED. Like she was sixteen and this was a boy band meet-and-greet.
Billy tried not to groan.
Principal Hanlon cleared his throat. Loudly. "Yes, well, as we were saying—Mr. Peverell was just explaining how Billy saved his dog."
Billy's brain slammed on the brakes. "Wait, what dog?"
"Padfoot," Hadrian said smoothly, like this was a totally normal conversation. "Rather spirited black mutt. Tried to chase a pigeon into traffic. Billy pulled him back just in time. Very heroic."
Billy blinked. "Padfoot?"
Hadrian nodded solemnly. "Named after a childhood story. Loyal. A little scruffy. You'd like him."
Billy looked between Hanlon and Hadrian like they'd rehearsed this in the teacher's lounge. He hadn't saved a dog. He hadn't even seen a dog. Unless this was some weird metaphor about helping an old lady cross the street—but no. This was something else.
Still, he went with it. "Oh. Right. That dog. Yeah. Super cute. Very... um... furry."
Miss Rodriguez clutched her chest like this was the sweetest thing she'd ever heard. Principal Hanlon looked like he was mentally penciling Billy into the next school brochure.
Hadrian beamed. "Humility. I like that. Too many people want medals. Billy just wanted to help."
Billy was now 98% sure he was being pranked. But if this meant no detention for last week's science lab 'accident', he'd roll with it.
"Well then," Hadrian said, clapping once like he was ordering room service. "Would it be alright if I had a moment alone with Billy?"
Miss Rodriguez nodded dreamily. "Of course. Just call if you need anything, señor."
"I'll try not to get lost," Hadrian winked. "Though if I do, I'll call for rescue."
Dobson—yes, that Dobson—opened the door with Bond-level poise. He looked like Daniel Craig but talked like Alfred and moved like he could disarm a nuke with one eyebrow.
"Veil's in place," Dobson said as the others left. "No eyes, no ears."
"Thank you," Hadrian said, slipping his hands into his pockets. Then he turned to Billy. "We can speak freely now."
Billy stood, halfway to bolting. "Okay, what is going on? Are you, like, MI6? Hogwarts alumni outreach? An alien? Because I swear I—"
Then Hadrian's eyes changed. Not metaphorically. Literally. One blink, and boom—green became glowing, firelit crimson.
Billy froze. "No. Way."
Hadrian smiled. "Yes way."
"You're—You're EIDOLON?!"
"In the designer-clad flesh."
Billy's brain blue-screened. Eidolon. The cloaked vigilante who'd just appeared out of nowhere last week during the Gotham alien attack. The guy in the all-black armor with crimson pulse lines that made Iron Man look like a Dollar Store toy. The hero who fought like Batman, zapped like Zatanna, and had the kind of dramatic flair that made even Wonder Woman raise an eyebrow.
"Your cloak," Billy breathed. "Where did you get that cloak?"
"Dragonweave," Hadrian said. "Enchanted by an actual ancient monk. Also doubles as a weighted blanket."
Billy collapsed back into his seat. "Dude."
"Dude," Hadrian echoed, grinning. "Glad we're on the same page. Now. Let's talk about why I'm here. And trust me—it's bigger than fake dogs and flirty secretaries."
Billy leaned forward, all the earlier confusion replaced by a thrum of excitement. "Okay. I'm listening."
Hadrian's eyes gleamed brighter. "Good. Because the world's about to change. And you, Billy Batson... you're going to be part of it."
—
Billy Batson sat on the edge of a very fancy couch that probably cost more than his entire foster home. His brain was doing its best impression of a frozen Windows desktop—spinning wheel of death, included.
Hadrian Peverell—the guy with the hero name Eidolon, the glowy crimson eyes, and the smug confidence of someone who definitely knew how to pull off a leather jacket—leaned against the table, arms crossed like he had all the time in the world.
"I still can't believe that you're Eidolon," Billy said again, just in case the universe wanted to rewind and try a less ridiculous plot twist.
Hadrian arched a brow. "We covered that already, champ. Want me to turn into a unicorn to prove it?"
"Wait, can you actually—?"
"No," Hadrian deadpanned. "But I respect the enthusiasm."
Billy squinted suspiciously. "Okay, then how do you know who I am?"
And yeah, he didn't say the magic word, but it was definitely floating in the air like a balloon ready to explode.
Hadrian gave him a look like, Seriously, kid?. "You shout your name every time you transform. Loudly. Dramatically. Usually with lightning and collateral damage."
Billy flushed. "Hey, I didn't get a stealth mode! You try going full Thor every time you sneeze."
"Fair," Hadrian said with a smirk. "But I didn't figure it out."
Billy's shoulders tensed. "Then who did?"
"Batman," Hadrian replied, like he was casually dropping the name of a local plumber.
Billy's jaw went on vacation. "Batman knows I'm Shazam?!"
Hadrian nodded. "Knows, logged, archived, probably has a color-coded spreadsheet and a secret file labeled 'Potential Thunder God – Handle With Caution.'"
Billy flailed. "He was gonna Batman me, wasn't he?"
"Oh, 100%," Hadrian said, popping the 'p'. "Dark room, scary silhouette, monologue about trust issues. Probably would've dropped from the ceiling like a ninja bat piñata."
"And you stopped him?"
Hadrian adjusted his jacket like a magician prepping for the big reveal. "Yep. Told him he needed a softer touch. You're still a kid, not a rogue meta warlord. Batman's kid-handling strategy usually involves adoption papers and emotional trauma."
Billy stared, wide-eyed. "So you're the friendly version?"
Hadrian smirked. "Let's call me the cologne-commercial version."
There was a polite cough behind them—precisely timed, obviously rehearsed.
Enter Dobson. The butler. A man who sounded like a fussy librarian and looked like James Bond on laundry day. He stood by the marble sideboard, holding a tray of scones and what might have been a cup of hot cocoa with whipped cream and a very judgmental cinnamon stick.
"If sir wishes to inform Master Batson about the upcoming meeting," Dobson said, voice crisp, "perhaps now would be prudent. Before he combusts from internal screaming."
Billy blinked. "Wait, what meeting?"
Hadrian ticked names off on his fingers. "Superman. Batman. Wonder Woman. Cyborg. Flash. Green Lantern. You. Me."
Billy's brain tripped over itself. "That's... the team. The team."
"The Justice League," Hadrian confirmed. "Or, as you suggested—but we're absolutely not using—the Justice Bros."
Billy flushed like someone caught googling embarrassing fan art. "Come on, that name slaps."
"Oh, it slaps," Hadrian said. "Right into a veto. Wonder Woman laughed—then vetoed it. Twice. With Amazonian conviction."
Billy groaned. "Harsh."
"Democracy," Hadrian said with a shrug. "Anyway. Meeting's in two days. Sunday. You're invited. Real seat at the table."
Billy stood so fast he nearly launched himself into the chandelier. "Okay. That's... awesome. Terrifying. But mostly awesome."
Hadrian clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. You're gonna do great. Just remember: don't try to out-bro Batman. He will win. At everything. Even Uno."
Dobson cleared his throat. "Master Hadrian, shall I prepare the jet?"
Hadrian pulled a sleek silver fob from his jacket and clicked it. Outside, something roared like a lion wearing rocket boosters.
Billy's eyes lit up. "You have a jet?"
"I have options," Hadrian said, throwing him a wink. "Jet, flight, teleportation circle... Actually, no. Scratch the circle. Last time we used one, it dumped me in a Taco Bell."
Billy was already halfway to the door. "I vote jet. Unless you've got a dragon?"
Dobson, without missing a beat, intoned: "Dragons are reserved for Thursdays, Master Batson."
Billy stopped. "Wait, was that sarcasm or...?"
"Never ask Dobson if he's being sarcastic," Hadrian said. "You'll lose."
As they walked out, Billy looked over his shoulder and whispered, "Justice Bros... assemble."
"Quietly," Hadrian added. "Respectfully."
"And definitely while Batman's not looking," Dobson muttered.
—
Billy's victory grin—y'know, the kind you wear after you just got invited to hang out with a living legend-slash-superhero-demigod-billionaire—lasted exactly five seconds.
Then his face did this cartoonish record scratch thing as realization hit him right in the logic center.
"Wait, wait, wait," Billy said, throwing both hands up like he was about to stop traffic—or possibly an incoming alien invasion. "We have a problem. Like, Defcon-Ten, Justice-League-Won't-Approve-This-Mission-Level problem."
Hadrian Peverell—dark cloak swirling, phoenix feather clasp gleaming, cheekbones so sharp they had their own zip code—stopped mid-stride. He turned with the casual menace of someone who'd once hexed a god into unconsciousness and still found time to make a sarcastic comment about their shoes.
"Don't tell me you're allergic to private jets," Hadrian said, arching one eyebrow with slow, surgical precision. "Because Dobson will cry."
Dobson—who somehow managed to look both like a retired MI6 agent and a charming tea sommelier at the same time—adjusted his sleeve cuffs with exaggerated dignity. "I selected that jet myself, Master Batson. The mini-fridge has three brands of soda. Including the kind that turns your tongue blue."
Billy flapped his arms. "No, it's not the jet. The jet is awesome. The jet probably purrs like a baby lion on a vibrating massage chair. The jet is the best thing about this plan."
"Then what is it?" Hadrian asked, now looking mildly alarmed, like Billy might confess to being a vampire or worse—a Knicks fan.
Billy dropped his voice to a whisper. "I can't just disappear to Gotham with some billionaire wizard who knows all my secrets. Like, I've seen that movie. It ends with the foster system panicking and me getting grounded till I'm thirty."
Hadrian squinted. "You have foster parents?"
"Uh, yeah?" Billy said. "And foster siblings. And a house. And rules. And possibly a curse jar, depending on how close Darla is standing."
Hadrian blinked twice. "You're serious."
"Dead serious," Billy said. "If I don't check in, the entire family goes full Mission: Impossible. Freddy starts blowing up my phone, Mary calls the cops, Pedro lifts a car in panic, Eugene hacks NORAD, and Darla just sobs until every adult around gives her snacks and answers."
Hadrian's expression shifted from annoyed wizard billionaire to deer in magical headlights.
"I didn't realize," he muttered.
"Yeah, well, that's on you, Sherlock," Billy said. "Next time you decide to snatch a minor for a cross-state superhero trip, maybe check if they have a family first?"
Dobson gave a polite cough. "Technically, sir, this does fall under 'wizard-napping.' Shall I retrieve the emergency muffins?"
Hadrian pinched the bridge of his nose. "No muffins. Not yet."
Billy sighed. "Look, I want to go. I do. But unless you want a riot followed by a family group hug and a lecture on trust and communication, I need permission."
"I'll come with you," Hadrian offered.
Billy immediately waved him off like he was defusing a magical bomb made of teenage hormones and awkwardness. "Absolutely not. You can't show up at the Vasquez house. That would be like dropping a nuclear dragon on Thanksgiving dinner."
"Why?"
Billy groaned and rubbed his face. "Because. My sister Mary? Huge crush on you."
Hadrian tilted his head. "I beg your pardon?"
"Like huge," Billy said, drawing the word out dramatically. "Like—cut-out-photo-taped-to-the-mirror, secretly-watching-your-interviews, named-her-plant-Harry huge."
Dobson chimed in, very helpfully. "According to the background check—which I did not enjoy, mind you—Miss Mary Bromfield recently posted a fan edit of you riding a phoenix shirtless. With glitter effects. Animated glitter."
Hadrian's jaw dropped. "She what?!"
Billy pointed a finger. "Exactly. You walk in there looking like... well, you, and she's going to burst into sparkles and combust."
Hadrian looked like he was seriously considering vanishing in a puff of smoke. "Why is this my life?"
Dobson, ever the picture of grace, added, "To be fair, sir, it is a very flattering edit."
Billy snorted. "It gets worse. Freddy will want an autograph—maybe a selfie, maybe a blood sample. Eugene will try to hack your tech. Pedro will challenge you to arm wrestling. And Darla will 100% adopt you as her big brother within five minutes."
Hadrian just stared into the middle distance. Possibly questioning the choices that brought him here.
"I was trained in Hogwarts, survived Basilisks, dementors, Death Eaters, and Dolores Umbridge," he muttered. "But this... this sounds like actual chaos."
"Yup," Billy said cheerfully. "Welcome to my world."
Dobson looked positively delighted. "It does sound quite charming, sir."
Billy raised a hand. "Okay, but real talk: what's the plan? Because I do want to go. But if I vanish without a note, Mary's definitely going to track down the League herself. And probably yell at Batman."
Hadrian took a deep breath. "Fine. We do this properly. We go to your house. I meet your family. I explain everything. Politely. With snacks."
"You're serious?"
"I'm Hadrian Peverell. I once out-sassed the Queen of England, while pulling an arrow out of my thigh. I've negotiated truces with dragons. And yes, I have sparred with Brock Lesnar. I can handle your foster parents."
Billy stared. "You fought Brock Lesnar and lived?"
"Barely."
Dobson pulled out a sleek black phone and tapped it once. "Shall I lay out the charming-but-not-threatening outfit, sir? The one with the silk scarf and the card tricks?"
"Yes," Hadrian said grimly. "And pack the glitter-proof suit. Just in case."
Billy shook his head in awe. "This is either going to be amazing… or a disaster so bad it tears a hole in the multiverse."
"Either way," Hadrian said, already walking toward the exit, "it'll be entertaining."
Dobson gave a satisfied little nod. "Ah. Nothing like family to keep one humble."
Billy was already texting the group chat. "Warning Mary that I'm bringing a guest. I'm typing in all caps. This is a DEFCON 1 emergency."
Hadrian glanced back, a dangerous grin tugging at his lips. "Tell her I'm bringing pastries."
Billy paused. "Oh yeah. That'll totally help."
—
It was official. Billy Batson was living the dream.
Not a dream where he turned into Shazam and saved the world. Nope. This was bigger. Better. This was the kind of dream where you roll up to your high school in a limousine that probably had more features than the International Space Station—and you're not even the coolest guy in the frame.
That honor went to the guy standing next to him.
Hadrian Peverell. Or as he'd introduced himself earlier, "Please, call me Harry." Like it wasn't the name attached to half a dozen tech patents, three blockbuster movies, and a social media account that posted exactly once every three months and still got millions of likes.
Harry Peverell leaned against the limo like it owed him money. He had on this perfectly tailored navy coat that screamed old-money European prince meets GQ photoshoot, and his sunglasses probably cost more than Billy's entire wardrobe. His hair was doing that annoying, natural tousled thing that should be illegal without a license.
In his hand: an espresso cup. Not coffee. Espresso. Because of course.
Next to him, Dobson stood with the same vibe as a British spy who moonlit as an etiquette assassin. He looked like Daniel Craig had swallowed a thesaurus and then learned how to iron with laser focus. Also? Dobson had a vibe. That polite, calm aura that said he knew exactly how many pressure points you had and had already mapped a three-step plan to fold you into a napkin if you got out of line.
Billy glanced down at his hoodie. "I still can't believe you didn't bring the Batmobile."
Harry didn't even look away from his espresso. "Dobson said it would send the wrong message."
Dobson chimed in without missing a beat. "I said it would attract police helicopters, TikTok influencers, and at least one elderly woman who thinks Batman is a warlock."
Billy tilted his head. "...And this doesn't?"
Dobson gestured subtly to the limo. "Sir, this one has onboard snacks."
Billy blinked. "...Okay, yeah. That's legit."
The final bell rang. The front doors of Fawcett High flung open, releasing a flood of students into the wild like someone had popped the cork on a bottle of teenage chaos.
Whispers started immediately. Phones came out like they were drawing weapons. One kid tripped over his own feet. Another pointed like they were seeing Bigfoot. Someone gasped, "That's Hadrian Peverell!"
And then came Travis.
Travis, the eternal high school pest. Imagine if a wedgie grew legs and developed a TikTok following. He strutted out with his usual sneer, spotted Billy, and—
Pause.
Brain.exe stopped responding.
Billy waved like a Disney princess who'd found inner peace and a flamethrower. "Hey, Travis! Love the new haircut. Did you fall asleep in a blender or is that just your face doing the heavy lifting today?"
Travis opened his mouth. Closed it. Considered a comeback. Failed. Walked away slowly like his brain had blue-screened.
"Oof," Harry said, sipping. "That was savage. Remind me never to get on your bad side."
Dobson gave a respectful nod. "Nine out of ten. He'll feel that in his ego for at least three periods."
And then the true chaos appeared—Billy's foster siblings.
Freddy Freeman: walking with a limp that somehow screamed rockstar energy. Eugene Choi: face buried in his phone like he was coding the next iOS. Darla Dudley: practically skipping, wearing enough joy for three people. Pedro Peña: munching a protein bar with the same expression he wore during math tests—mild confusion, faint judgment.
Billy cupped his hands. "HEY! GUYS!"
They froze like someone had cast a glitch in the matrix.
Darla blinked first. "Billy?"
Freddy tilted his head. "Is that—?"
"That's Hadrian Peverell," Eugene said without looking up. Then looked up. "Wait. That's Hadrian Peverell."
Pedro frowned. "Are we being recruited by the Avengers?"
"Not quite," Harry said with a grin. "The pay's better."
Billy grinned. Threw out his arms like he was on a red carpet. "Surprise! We're not taking the bus today."
He pointed at the limo, which gave off a subtle purr. Like a cat that knew it could buy and sell your family.
Freddy gawked. "Is this a prank? Because if this is a prank, it's very elaborate and also I want in."
Pedro crossed his arms. "Is this, like, Opposite Day and we missed the memo?"
Darla whispered, "Wait. Are we sidekicks now? Because I've been preparing for this my entire life. I have a cape."
Harry took off his sunglasses. His eyes were the kind of sharp that made you think twice about lying. "Nobody's a sidekick. Sidekicks get coffee. You get cookies."
Billy elbowed him. "That was smooth. Admit it. You've used that line before."
"Only on people I like."
Dobson stepped forward, adjusting his gloves like a butler ninja. "Would you all prefer the helicopter?"
Eugene's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Wait. Do I know you? Are you the Dobson_loves_socks who played as an Elf King in Warhammer: Legacy of Flame?!"
Dobson didn't blink. "I am retired. Now I do taxes, chauffeur duties, and occasionally discourage assassins from breathing."
Freddy blinked. "Okay. Now I believe you're friends with Billy. Because this? This is peak Batson."
Billy tried to look humble. Failed completely. "C'mon, we're heading home. Harry's coming over for snacks and a mildly terrifying conversation with our parents."
No one moved.
Darla finally whispered, starry-eyed, "Okay but like... can he adopt me as his little sister?"
Billy slapped a hand to his face. "And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I said we needed the limo."
And with that, they all piled into the limo.
The adventure was just getting started.
—
The interior of the limo looked like what would happen if Tony Stark and Willy Wonka co-designed a bachelor pad. Plush leather seats. Neon ambient lighting. A mini-fridge stocked with enough snacks to cause a sugar crash in three counties. And, inexplicably, a ceiling hologram that alternated between constellations, a calming bamboo forest, and a slow-motion clip of a cat slapping a cucumber.
Freddy climbed in first, eyeing the ceiling. "I'm equal parts relaxed and terrified."
Eugene immediately made a beeline for the touchscreen control panel. "I'm claiming system privileges. If this thing has internet access, I can remote into the Pentagon."
Dobson raised a single, gloved finger. "Please do not remote into the Pentagon. Again."
Billy plopped onto a seat and grinned. "This is better than prom. And I didn't even have to rent a tux."
Pedro took his seat slowly, like he was worried the car might try to scan his DNA. "I feel like I need to sign a waiver just to breathe in here."
Darla squealed as the seat reclined automatically. "IT HAS BACK MASSAGERS! THIS ISN'T A LIMO. IT'S A HUG MACHINE!"
Hadrian slid in last, perfectly composed, like he hadn't just become the center of a mini-meteor storm of teenage chaos. He crossed his legs, sipped his espresso, and activated the privacy screen with a flick of his fingers. The window between them and Dobson sealed shut with a soft shhhh and the interior lighting dimmed just enough to make everyone look at least 10% cooler.
Freddy pointed at him. "Okay, okay, pause. You're like... Tony Stark meets Doctor Strange but British. And probably not allergic to therapy. What is your deal?"
Hadrian arched a brow. "Multi-disciplinary problem solver. Polyglot. Occasional necromancer. Collector of dangerous books. Currently mentoring one of the Six Champions of Eternity. That would be Billy."
Billy looked around smugly. "Yeah, no big deal."
Eugene blinked. "Wait. Necromancer?"
"Occasionally," Hadrian repeated.
Darla gasped. "Have you ever raised a puppy back from the dead?"
"No, but I once reanimated a goldfish long enough to make it attend its own funeral."
Freddy whispered to Billy, "I need you to adopt me into this nonsense."
Billy smirked. "Get in line."
The car smoothly took a turn, and the hidden sound system began softly playing lo-fi jazz, until Eugene accidentally changed it to Swedish death metal by bumping the touchscreen.
Everyone jumped.
Pedro calmly reached over and switched it back to ambient whale sounds.
Hadrian didn't flinch. "Please try not to summon anything. The last time someone messed with that interface, we spent three hours trapped in a pocket dimension made entirely of sentient yogurt."
Darla gasped. "Was it friendly yogurt?"
"Tragically," Hadrian said with a grim nod, "no."
As the limo rolled through the streets of Fawcett City, students and pedestrians gawked like the Bat-Signal had just been projected from a nightclub. A few kids even tried to take selfies as they zoomed past.
Freddy leaned back and muttered, "We're gonna be legends by Monday."
Billy leaned his head against the window, eyes shining. "Y'know, I could get used to this."
Hadrian raised an eyebrow, sipping from a new espresso (seriously, where was he getting those?). "Just wait until the parents meeting. If you think this is chaos..."
Billy groaned.
Darla grinned. "Ooh! Do you think Rosa will make snacks? She makes these cinnamon rolls that could end international conflict."
Hadrian smiled faintly. "Dobson will want the recipe. He considers culinary diplomacy a viable strategy."
The rest of the ride was a beautiful, ridiculous mix of crosstalk, snack raids, Eugene accidentally discovering the massage settings for everyone's seats at once, and Pedro silently judging them all with the calm serenity of someone internally screaming.
And then, as they pulled up to the Vasquez house, Freddy leaned toward Billy and whispered, "If our foster parents survive this conversation... they deserve medals."
Billy just nodded. "Or a vacation."
Hadrian checked his watch, completely unbothered. "Alright. Showtime."
The doors opened.
The circus had officially arrived.
---
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