(POV GENERAL)
Unlike the previous chamber, a chaotic haven swarmed by aggressive duplicates that moved like a nest of ants collapsing on a predator, their sheer numbers seeking to overturn and overwhelm—it was mayhem incarnate. The next room was a stark contrast.
A boiler room.
It was filled with heat and tension, thick with the metallic scent of steam and oil. Pipes crawled along the walls and ceiling like tangled serpents or overgrown vines, weaving a steel jungle of industrial complexity. Steam hissed periodically from various vents, exhaling like the mechanical sighs of a slumbering giant.
Robin and Aqualad had entered cautiously. The latter bore intricate ocean-blue lines along his arms and neck, glowing faintly with mystical Atlantean energy—power rippling just beneath the surface. Robin, ever the strategist, was adorned with a variety of gadgets cleverly disguised across his suit but concentrated around his utility belt—a ploy to mislead observant foes.
The room was still—too still. Only the rhythmic exhale of steam dared break the silence.
Then—
BANG!
A gunshot rang out.
The sound cut through the silence like a blade, its sharpness echoing off the iron walls, reverberating farther than its bullet would ever travel. Instinct kicked in. Both heroes dove for cover, narrowly avoiding the unknown shot.
Robin, crouched behind a large tangle of rusted piping, hesitated. This wasn't like before. The direction of the shot had no clear origin. No muzzle flash. No enemy in sight. He gripped a Bird-A-Rang, knuckles white, but held off. Recklessness had no place here.
"Aqualad!" Robin called out, voice tight but steady.
"I'm good! You see him?" came the reply, muffled slightly as Aqualad remained hidden behind a vertical boiler. He scanned the room with trained eyes, attempting to calculate trajectory based on sound alone.
BANG!
Another shot. This time it struck a pipe near Aqualad's position, the impact ringing out like a bell struck too close to the ear. The metallic screech forced Aqualad to wince, his hands instinctively covering his ears as he absorbed the blow to his senses.
Then, the voice.
"Come, Mister Tally Man… Tally me…!"
Aqualad blinked through the pain, unsure at first if he had heard right. But Robin confirmed it in a low whisper across their shared comms: "I heard it too."
The voice was scratchy, almost playful in its menace, echoing through the room in rhythmic cadence. The tune—unsettling. His presence, still unseen. His location remained elusive as the song's notes seemed to twist and dance across the metallic jungle, making him a ghost in the machine.
A predator lurking with theatrical intent.
"Me ripe banana…"
The line was sung with sickening glee.
BANG!
Another round fired, but not at the heroes. Instead, it hit one of the thick steel pipes with surgical precision. And then—chaos.
The bullet ricocheted.
Clang.
Ping.
Clink.
Clang.
The round bounced across the room like a deranged pinball, reflecting off every hard surface until—
"Ugh!" Aqualad gasped, clutching his shoulder as the bullet embedded itself with brutal accuracy. Blood spilled freely, trailing down his arm like a crimson vine. Gritting his teeth, he covered the wound, suppressing any cry of pain. He couldn't afford to show weakness now. The mission was still in motion.
'Two meters south. Southeast.'
The voice crackled softly into a hidden earpiece—not for the heroes, but for the enemy. The mysterious gunman was not alone in his hunt.
The Tally Man stepped forward at last, an unsettling vision brought to life. He wore a towering cylindrical top hat, tilting back just enough to appear off-balance—like its owner. Wild tufts of white hair flared out horizontally beneath it, framing a pallid blue face locked in a manic grin. Reflective round glasses covered his eyes, making them unreadable—hollow. Insane.
A long navy coat clung tightly to his lean frame before flaring like a cape at the knees. Bright orange polka dots adorned the oversized cuffs of his sleeves, an unsettling burst of cheer in his otherwise shadowed silhouette. A flowing white cravat danced with each movement, as if he were a mad maestro mid-performance. In each gloved hand, he wielded ancient flintlock pistols—ornate, theatrical, deadly. From his sleeves and gloves, paper ribbons fluttered like ghostly whispers, adding to the surreal spectacle.
He moved like a nightmare in a circus mirror—always there, never quite real.
⸻
Elsewhere—
In a darkened surveillance chamber bathed only in the cold glow of monitors, a heavy silhouette leaned forward, watching the chaos unfold across four distinct locations.
The first screen showed Robin and Aqualad pinned in the boiler room, Tally Man stalking them with lyrical madness.
The second displayed a chaotic office space—cubicles in concentric formation—now an unlikely battleground. Hidden employees cowered as explosive arrows clashed against flying hockey pucks.
Artemis and Sportsmaster.
Father and daughter.
Equal in strength. Separated by years of brutal experience. Sportsmaster leapt from smoke like a predator, javelin in hand. With a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled it.
Artemis, reacting on instinct, rolled forward, her bow at the ready. The javelin struck behind her, glowing red.
Beep. Beep. Beep—
BOOM!
The blast rocked the office floor, sending chairs and debris flying. Artemis used the chaos, sliding beneath a desk, readying her next arrow.
Meanwhile, on a third screen—Miss Martian stood calmly as her opponent, the deadly Cheshire, launched every weapon she had with unmatched ferocity. But each throwing star, each blade, was effortlessly stopped mid-air. Miss Martian's green eyes narrowed as her telekinesis turned the stars back on their sender.
Cheshire snarled, flicking her wrist. Three more stars, then nothing. Her reserves depleted.
With her Sai gripped tightly, she lunged—and in a fit of desperation, hurled a star at the camera watching her.
Static.
The feed went dead.
The observer leaned back slightly, startled. Then refocused.
⸻
Fourth screen.
A luxury mess hall, littered with abandoned gourmet trays and toppled banquet tables.
"Whoa! Cool snacks!!" Kid Flash zipped through the scene, snatching hors d'oeuvres and desserts with blinding speed. His movements were a blur of red and yellow.
"Stop ignoring me!!!"
The voice was mechanical, agitated. Firefly.
He wore an upgraded suit of polished black and aggressive yellow—his helmet insectoid, lenses flaring with crimson hate. On his back, a modified jetpack hummed and buzzed, emitting erratic light patterns. Twin flamethrowers were mounted to his wrists, with fuel lines running from his back into the nozzles.
He fired again, streams of flame carving paths across tables.
Nearby, Superboy was buried under a mound of collapsed ceiling. A misstep in the fight's opening moments had trapped him under reinforced rubble when Firefly unleashed a fire-charged explosion. The pile trembled occasionally—Superboy, still fighting to escape.
Firefly whirled, fury uncontained. He had yet to land a hit on the speedster who taunted him without a word.
⸻
The man behind the monitors finally leaned forward into the light. Grease-streaked shirt. Disheveled hair. Fogged-over glasses. His weight strained the seat beneath him.
The Calculator.
His fingers tapped the desk.
His voice, cold and detached, rumbled softly.
"Everything is proceeding as planned."
Because above all else—this was not a random attack. It was a coordinated strike. A test. A message.
The Light would always move in shadow.
And the shadows were spreading.