Marek moved through the stone corridors of Nanda Parbat not like an assassin, but like something regal. His steps were silent, yet never rushed. Each movement carried the weight of intent, and into the next. He glided over the earth rather than walking upon it. He held his hands behind his back in a manner that seemed learned but unforced, spine straight, chin lifted just slightly—just enough to see the world without ever seeming to look up at it. He dressed in black and ash-grey garb cut in clean lines. He bore the silence not as a mantle. There was no bloodthirst in his aura, no raw hunger like the other trainees
His education here had expanded both in scope and variety. His lessons now included etiquette — a branch of study he found useless at first, but now seemed to enjoy.
Etiquette was for nobles. For diplomats and liars. He had no use for how to fold a napkin, how to walk at the right distance behind a superior, or how many seconds to hold eye contact in a formal exchange.
But the League insisted
"A blade must be more than sharp," said Ra's al Ghul, standing above him on the marble floor of the echoing gallery. "It must gleam."
So Marek sat through posture drills, tea ceremonies, ancient court rituals, and long hours of calligraphy. He hated it—until he didn't.
Something about the order, the rhythm began to feel familiar. Like breathing. Like combat.
He began arriving early. Asking questions. Correcting his own stance without prompting. And when he bowed, it was not with bitterness—but with grace.
Still, it wasn't the etiquette that stirred something deeper in him.
It was the science. A study he chose. No one forced him into the labs. No one told him to pour through the League's genetic archives or cross-reference metahuman anomalies. No one asked him to chart bloodline patterns, mutation rates, or to simulate protein behavior in near-zero oxygen environments
He chose to do it and he excelled
Steadily, he began solving problems their senior researchers had left dormant for years. Found ways to stabilize broken DNA chains. On one occasion, he repaired a failing Lazarus sample with a viral enzyme he'd designed in secret, just to see if he could
He never bragged. He just filed reports; yet they noticed
He knew, they did, the moment he entered the north corridor lab; only to find the old walls freshly reinforced, the lighting upgraded, and his name carved into the side of the steel-cased door, "Marek"
Inside waited, a slew of newer instruments. A high-yield genome sequencer. Specialized toxin forges. An encrypted data terminal with access to level-seven archives
No one said congratulations, but a personal lab conveyed the exact same messsage
The laboratory built for him was beneath the third courtyard of Nanda Parbat, sealed behind six doors and one biometric reader only three people besides him could unlock. The air was clean here—filtered, sterile. Glass counters glimmered under the cold white light of halogen strips. Machines hummed like bees behind steel casings.
On the far wall, old scrolls had been digitized. Genetic blueprints from metahumans, sorcerers, aliens. The League had collected DNA like trophies. Blood and bone and sequence. And Marek had read every page
He approached his station—a clear chamber where cultures were growing. Cells under stasis. Some of them mutated
Today's test was simple: an attempt to isolate a regeneration-triggering protein he'd begun mapping three weeks ago
He called it CRV-3X. The third variant of a clustered response vector. It responded to trauma, accelerated repair, and—possibly—controlled inflammation at the neural level. Something not even Lazarus alchemy could do cleanly
The machine beeped softly. Still incubating
He leaned back on the high stool, retrieving a sealed case from under the desk. His poison set. Not for missions. Just… a hobby. His fingers moved easily, calmly, arranging dried leaves, powdered minerals, and a syringe containing asp caterpillar venom. He wasn't trying to kill anything, he just wanted to see if he could create a neurotoxin that slowed thought rather than paralyzed muscle. Something to unmake focus. A stilling fog
His mother would've laughed —— he remembered her—once—bent over a cluttered workshop table, wearing a vicious smile as she taught him how to build cluster mines from discarded tech. She'd painted his knuckles with soldering iron burns when he miswired something.
"You're better with machines than people," she'd said. "That's a good thing"
But she was wrong
People fascinated him. Their design. Their weaknesses. Their limits. Especially his own
He glanced around the room. For a place so hidden from the world, the League's lab had better equipment than most hospitals in Gotham. Better than the DEO, possibly
The machine pinged. Culture ready. He slipped on gloves and leaned forward, lifting the glass lid. The cells under microscope had reacted—violently—to a protein he introduced the night before. Too fast. Some of them had ruptured. Others had begun splitting unnaturally
He frowned, then smiled faintly.
He scribbled a note on the touchscreen:
> Re-test with metagene suppression
And then he went back to mixing his toxin. The smell of crushed bitterroot filled the lab. A soft green mist rose.
He liked this. The logic. The danger under glass
——————————————————————x
Darkness flickered to life in seven equal points
Around the obsidian table, only silhouettes glowed in faint luminescence—some full-bodied, others distorted holograms, and a few cloaked entirely in shadow and voice.
R̵A̵'̵S̵ ̵A̵L̵ ̵G̵H̵U̵L̵ sat calmly in his usual place, hands folded behind his back, poised with the same eternal patience he had held for centuries.
"The matter of enforcement," he said, "has grown relevant again. The League has had success with its field assets… but Marek is no longer a mere asset"
He nodded slightly, and a hologram shimmered into view—the image of a boy with midnight-black hair, lean build, and red eyes flickering with unnatural energy.
Marek. Eleven years old
"He has already defeated Deathstroke in three separate encounters. Each one a calculated dismantling. Not luck. Precision"
A voice buzzed from a veiled corner, sultry and amused.
Queen Bee—undoubtedly.
"Mmm. And he's that age? Delicious. Boys with talent often grow into dangerous men."
"He's more than dangerous," Lex Luthor's modulated voice cut in, clinical and displeased. "We've harvested tissue, skin, blood, even marrow. Not a single strand has yielded reproducible data. Even magic proved ineffective."
"I DID NOTHING WRONG!" Klarion shrieked, his projection glitching with his emotional surge. "The ritual was exact! You try enchanting blood that doesn't want to speak! It resisted! Teekl can confirm—Teekl tell them!"
A soft meow was heard
"Don't look at me like that!"
A heavy silence followed
"Enough."
All voices ceased
"Ra's… was he the one responsible for the synthetic ATCH cure?", asked the voice again. Vandal Savage
"He was" Ra's confirmed without hesitation. "The child theorized a binding agent that nullified the neurological aggression markers. He did this in his own time. Without prompting"
A beat passed
"We wasted years and resources on Project Match—our failed Kryptonian clone. Unstable. Untethered", the ancient being remarked, "Bring Marek into Project KR. His expertise might see to its' success"
There was a pulse of quiet agreement. No objections. The meeting began to dissolve, projections flickering out one by one
Vandal lingered a moment longer, his voice was the last thing that echoed in the room
"He too, will see the Light. They eventually do"