Billy Batson stood in the middle of what could only be described as the Batcave's cooler, better-lit, less emotionally repressed cousin. The room practically hummed with PeverellTech and magical wards, and somewhere in the back, a tank of glowing jellyfish was doing whatever glowing jellyfish do when no one's watching.
Directly in front of him were two figures. Human-sized. Human-shaped. And somehow managing to look both expensive and aggressively creepy.
"So..." Billy said, arms crossed like a skeptical sitcom dad. "These are the LMDs you were hyping up?"
The two robots stared blankly ahead, blank metal skin gleaming under the overhead lights. No eyes, no mouths, no anything except "bald mannequin with judgment issues."
"They look like they'd file a restraining order if I tried to high-five them," Billy muttered. "You sure these things won't eat a baby during halftime?"
From across the room, Hadrian Peverell—please call him Harry, unless you were trying to die of formal Britishness—was leaning casually against a steel workbench, wearing a black StarkTech hoodie with a silver phoenix on the chest and the kind of smug grin that said I know 73 ways to destroy a planet and 72 of them involve glitter.
He twirled a wrench between his fingers like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a time vortex.
"They're in Placeholder Mode," Harry said, eyes twinkling with mischief and possibly caffeine. "Right now, they're about as smart as a banana with Wi-Fi. But watch this."
He snapped his fingers.
Nothing happened.
Harry frowned. "Okay, maybe not that. Dobson?"
From the shadows—because of course he was in the shadows—Dobson stepped forward, crisp and composed as ever. He wore a three-piece suit sharp enough to cut steel and a gaze that somehow communicated both "I've seen death" and "I made tea for it."
"Yes, Master Hadrian?" Dobson said, his voice smoother than silk-wrapped sarcasm.
Billy jumped. "Okay, dude, do you teleport or just vibe into existence?"
"I walk, Master Batson," Dobson replied politely. "With efficiency."
"Right," Billy muttered. "Terrifying British ninja efficiency."
Dobson ignored that and lifted one pale hand. With a perfectly timed snap, the room shimmered.
The two metal mannequins rippled like someone had thrown reality into a blender. Their surface texture changed, smoothed, and then fleshed out—literally. One blink later, Billy was looking at two people who looked exactly like him and Harry.
Like, exactly.
Down to the casual smirk Harry always wore like it was a designer accessory.
Billy pointed. "Okay, now that's nightmare fuel. They even nailed my hair. I didn't know my hair did that weird swoop-thing on the left. That's… weirdly flattering."
LMD-Harry gave a cocky little eyebrow raise. LMD-Billy crossed his arms and muttered, "Bro."
Billy recoiled. "Okay, nope! Nope on a trampoline made of nopes. That thing just sounded like me after three sodas and a Fortnite win."
Harry strolled over, arms folded, clearly enjoying this. "See? Perfect. Right down to your bad posture and your inability to resist saying 'bro' every twenty minutes."
"I do not say 'bro' that often," Billy protested.
"Bro, you just did," Harry deadpanned.
"Bro—wait, dang it!"
Dobson cleared his throat gently, like a butler politely interrupting a bar fight. "The vocal mimicry is accurate to within 0.02 decibels, Master Batson. Quite impressive, if I do say so myself."
"You shouldn't," Billy said, still eyeing Robo-Him like it might try to floss dance.
"They'll be at the game tomorrow," Harry said, gesturing like a magician revealing the world's most unsettling rabbit. "Cheering. Eating overpriced popcorn. Nodding at awkward dad jokes. All while we're off at that... you know. Justice League thing."
Billy blinked. "Wait. That's tomorrow?"
Harry sighed. "Yes, Billy. That's why I told you to cancel your plans with that TikTok-obsessed cheerleader and pack a toothbrush that doesn't have glitter on it."
"She's not obsessed," Billy said defensively. "She's just... chronically enthusiastic."
"And now she thinks you're sitting front row with your totally normal foster parents, watching the Gotham Knights lose to the Metropolis Meteors," Harry added. "Instead of attending the League's emergency classified meeting. Which is, let's be honest, way more fun."
Billy tilted his head. "Depends. Will the meeting have nachos?"
"Better," Harry said. "It will have alien nachos."
"Oh. Then I'm in."
Harry turned to Dobson. "You'll be with the LMDs the whole time?"
"Of course, sir," Dobson replied smoothly. "No one will suspect a thing. As always, I shall lurk in the general vicinity of the decoys with the same subtle omnipresence I apply to your daily life."
Billy nodded slowly. "Yeah, that tracks. I once saw you appear out of nowhere with a lint roller before I spilled powdered sugar on Harry."
"I saw the donut," Dobson said, not even blinking. "I acted preemptively."
Harry gave Dobson a look. "You are the best."
"I know, sir."
Billy stared at the LMDs again. LMD-Harry was adjusting his collar. LMD-Billy was staring at his own hand like he was wondering if he had real thoughts. "You sure they won't malfunction?"
"No more than you do on a sugar crash," Harry said. "Besides, my mum built them with PeverellTech neuro-link stabilizers and magic-infused behavior algorithms, and Dobson updated their motor functions with—what was it, Dobson?"
"A delightful blend of predictive AI and tea-time discipline," Dobson replied.
Billy snorted. "Okay, that sounds like a band name."
"Dibs," Harry said instantly.
The two LMDs turned their heads in perfect sync and gave matching smiles.
Billy took a cautious step back. "Still freaky. But also, kind of amazing."
"Thank you," Harry and LMD-Harry said at the same time.
Billy jumped. "Stop doing that! I swear, if one of them starts doing the robot dance during the National Anthem tomorrow, I'm blaming you."
Harry smirked. "If they do, it'll be in perfect rhythm."
Billy sighed. "I'm gonna regret this, aren't I?"
"Absolutely."
"And you definitely sent Batman a meme instead of answering his last message?"
Harry held up his phone and showed Billy the last Justice League alert. It had been read. Underneath was a reply: "This is fine." The dog sat in fire. Wearing a wizard hat.
Billy just stared. "Dude."
Harry winked. "Wizard dog in a fire. It's a metaphor."
"You're gonna get vaporized."
"Probably."
"Cool."
Dobson adjusted his cufflink, expression unreadable. "I will, as always, have a containment field and several medical bots on standby."
Billy crossed his arms again, glaring at LMD-Billy who now looked like he was trying to imitate Billy's exact glare. "If it trips and spills soda on Rosa, I'm putting it in a crate and mailing it to space."
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Billy. Buddy. When have my plans ever gone catastrophically wrong?"
Billy just looked at him.
Harry grinned. "Okay, fair. But when they go wrong? They go spectacularly wrong."
"And somehow," Billy muttered, "you still end up saving the world."
"Exactly," Harry said with a wink. "So what could possibly go wrong this time?"
Billy groaned. "You have to stop saying that."
But it was too late.
Because when you're hanging out with Hadrian 'Master of Magic, Sarcasm, and Chaos' Peverell…
Something was always about to go wrong.
And somehow, it was always kind of awesome.
—
If Gotham had a Batcave, this place was its cooler, snarkier, magically-warded cousin who wore sunglasses indoors, had an indie vinyl collection, and casually quoted Tolkien in ancient Elvish.
The Underforge was what you got when you handed a Cold War-era WayneTech blacksite over to a bored magical billionaire with abandonment issues and a Pinterest addiction. The walls were titanium laced with runic wards, the floor shimmered with embedded ley lines like a magical metro map, and the ceiling? Just a bunch of enchanted constellations that twinkled with attitude.
Enter: Shazam, also known as Billy Batson when not powered-up, cape swishing behind him, looking like a boy scout who accidentally wandered into a Bond villain's lair. He peered around the place like a tourist at Hogwarts.
"Okay, this is officially the coolest place I've ever seen," Billy said, squinting at a floating orb of swirling galaxies. "And I once fought a cyclops in a Walmart parking lot."
Next to him was Eidolon, aka Harry Peverell, who strode in like he paid the rent on the whole planet. His armor was sleek matte black with crimson arcane veins running through it, pulsing like the heartbeat of a ticking time bomb. His cloak billowed dramatically, despite the zero wind situation. Helmet down, face unreadable, eyes glowing like he ate demonic flashlight batteries for breakfast.
"One of my smaller bases," Eidolon said, voice deep, slightly modulated, and smug in a way that suggested he knew exactly how cool he looked. "You should see the base I built on Mars."
Billy blinked. "You have a Mars base?"
"Don't be ridiculous. That's just for vacationing."
Before Billy could decide whether that was a joke, a panel on the wall flickered to life.
"About time y'all showed up," said a voice smoother than velvet dipped in honey, with just enough sass to slap you if you forgot your manners.
Billy jumped. "Wait, is that—? Is your AI... Beyonce?"
"Technically, she's Beta 9," Eidolon said, crossing the room to the glowing holotable, "but yes. I gave her a vocal interface modeled on Queen B. Because I have taste."
"Mmm," Beta 9 purred. "He says that, but he just had a preteen obsession with Destiny's Child."
"It was one summer!" Eidolon snapped.
Billy grinned. "I feel like I should call you DJ Magic Man."
"You should not."
From deeper in the complex, something clanged, followed by cursing and a synth beat that sounded suspiciously like someone trying to remix "Funky Town" with quantum particles.
Cyborg emerged, wiping oil off his cybernetic arm. He looked like a walking tank built by Apple and Armani. "Okay, who connected the auxiliary grid to the fridge's defense matrix again?" he grumbled.
"That would be you, sugar," Beta 9 said sweetly. "While singing Boyz II Men."
"I was vibing!"
"You were sobbing over a sandwich."
Billy offered a fist bump. "Sup, Tech Daddy."
Cyborg paused, looked at Billy.
"Never call me that again."
"Got it. Sorry. Emotional damage."
Eidolon tapped the table and a hologram of Earth flared to life, surrounded by rings of magical code and blinking nodes. "How's the grid?"
Cyborg cracked his neck. "Stable. Between Beta's charm and my genius, we locked down global communication overlays with enough arcane encryption to make some Beta 9 called Dumbledore blush."
"He does that when you mention socks," Eidolon added.
"Speaking of socks," Beta said, "incoming. Spandex in five... four... three..."
With a soft boom and flicker of light, the League arrived.
Superman hovered slightly above the ground, looking like a golden retriever in a red cape, all warmth and unshakable hope. Wonder Woman strode in like war personified, her expression calm, confident, and just the tiniest bit curious. Batman... was just suddenly there, because of course he was. Green Lantern was chewing gum like it had personally insulted his ring, and Flash vibrated so fast it was a miracle his atoms hadn't filed for divorce.
"Whoa," Green Lantern said, jaw dropping. "Okay, I dig it."
"This is... impressive," Wonder Woman said, her voice thoughtful. She glanced at Eidolon, and for a second, her blue eyes narrowed just slightly. There was something familiar about the way he stood.
Eidolon inclined his head, voice smooth. "Princess. Good to see you again. Still using the lasso to win arguments?"
"Only with liars."
"Lucky me. I never lie. I just withhold the truth for dramatic effect."
Her lips almost curved.
"What is he doing?" Green Lantern whispered to Flash.
"No idea," Flash whispered back. "But he's got serious final boss energy."
Beta 9's voice cooed through the room, drawing everyone's attention.
"Well, well. Look at all this muscle and angst. Supes, you're taller in person. Flash, stop vibrating, you're making the lights flicker. Bats... still not smiling, I see."
Superman blinked. "Wait. Is that... Beyonce?"
"You're welcome," Eidolon said with a mock bow.
"Is she... sentient?" Diana asked.
Beta 9 responded before he could. "Darlin', I'm so sentient, I dream in jazz and paint my firewalls with stardust."
Cyborg chuckled. "She also hacked the Pentagon because someone insulted Aretha Franklin."
"They deserved it," Beta sniffed.
"I like her," Diana murmured.
"She likes you too," Beta said. "We have a group chat about your arms."
"That's enough," Eidolon coughed.
Flash raised his hand. "Quick question—does your base have a snack bar or were you joking?"
"Straight down that hall," Eidolon said. "Follow the scent of morally questionable churros."
"I'm in love," Flash muttered.
"Get in line," Eidolon said casually, without looking.
Diana tilted her head. "You're confident."
"Only when I have backup. Which I do." He gestured to Cyborg, who gave a lazy salute. "Also a plan, a teleportation failsafe, and a playlist so fire it might qualify as an arson attempt."
Beta 9's voice purred over the speaker. "Starting playlist: Run the World (Girls). Because obviously."
Eidolon tapped the holotable. The light shifted. Maps, threat reports, cosmic anomalies. The room quieted.
"Let's talk League," he said, voice dropping an octave.
Wonder Woman's gaze lingered on him a heartbeat longer than necessary.
It was going to be an interesting night.
—
The Underforge was a masterpiece of contradictions: ancient stone walls interlaced with titanium alloy, glowing runes pulsing softly between the cracks. A console hummed in the corner—a fusion of sorcery and science, courtesy of Eidolon, Cyborg, and Beta-9, who was currently hovering nearby, giving Batman the stink-eye every time he forgot to mention her contributions.
In the center of the chamber floated a massive holographic map of Earth, augmented by magical glyphs and rotating Apokoliptian energy rings. Above it, the early schematics of a sleek orbital base glimmered like a second moon: Codename: Watchtower.
Batman stood at the helm, arms crossed, cape flowing like it had its own union rep. His face, naturally, looked like it had never once smiled and probably fined itself for even thinking about it.
"From this moment forward," he said, voice gravelly enough to be a threat to throat lozenges, "this alliance has a name. We are the Justice League."
Cyborg gave a low whistle. "That sounds like it belongs on a cereal box. In a good way."
Eidolon—please call me Harry—leaned against a glowing column, lazily twiddling his thumbs. "I was going to suggest The Fellowship of the Bling, but sure, Justice League works too."
Batman didn't even blink. "The Hall of Justice will be the public front. Accessible. Defensible. Visible. It gives the people hope. It gives our enemies... something to underestimate."
With a sharp gesture, he triggered a new hologram: a sleek building of glass, steel, and majesty rising from a secure compound in Washington, D.C. Its architecture was equal parts Pantheon and Stark Tower, and it looked like it had been designed to shame the UN building into therapy.
"I already acquired the property through shell companies," Batman added. "Construction is underway. Secure infrastructure. AI defenses. Media-friendly."
"Wait," said Shazam, who was still trying to wipe Cheez-It crumbs off his hoodie, "did you already name the Hall before we even agreed to this League thing?"
"Of course," Batman said.
"That's... kind of baller," Shazam admitted, giving him a slow nod of respect.
Eidolon stepped forward, the crimson emblem on his chest glowing faintly. "While Gotham gets the shiny distraction, this place—the Underforge—is where the real work happens. Magical wards, dimensional shielding, and enough tech to make Stark, Wayne, and Wakanda raise eyebrows. This is where we plan, train, and deploy."
Cyborg flicked a few keys and brought up a shimmering ring of rune-inscribed pads. "Teleportation array's almost ready. Based on Boom Tube matrices, enchanted Portkey logic, and Kryptonian gate-folding principles. Once Beta-9—"
"Thank you!" Beta-9 cut in with a flutter of her holographic wings.
"—finishes debugging the phase harmonics," Cyborg continued without missing a beat, "we'll be able to move between the Watchtower, the Underforge, and the Hall of Justice instantly."
"Boom Tubes are loud," Shazam noted.
"That's why we're using Eidolon's magic to silence the entry/exit points," Beta-9 said. "Also, they won't explode. Probably."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"
She shrugged. "Magic is part guesswork."
Batman turned back to the table, calling up the schematic of the Watchtower. "The orbital base is the priority after the Hall and the Underforge are synced. It will remain invisible to conventional radar and mystical scrying. Between Eidolon's dimensional cloaking wards and Cyborg's adaptive shielding, it will be undetectable."
"And overkill," Harry muttered, grinning. "Which is your love language."
"It's preparation," Batman said flatly. "I've already begun compiling files on other enhanced individuals and vigilantes. If the League expands—and it will—we'll need layers of infrastructure."
"Layers?" Shazam echoed. "You're thinking like... tiers of hero squads?"
"I'm thinking battlefield strategy," Batman replied. "Backup plans. Multiple points of defense. Teams with designated specialties."
"Translation," Cyborg said with a grin, "the next time the world ends, we'll be stylish, coordinated, and already ten steps ahead."
Harry tapped the holographic model of the Watchtower, zooming into the command deck. "I'm installing a backup AI interface coded in Elder Futhark, and, because I like chaos, British sarcasm."
Beta-9 snorted. "It sounds like it's going to sass the invaders to death."
Harry gave her a smug smile. "Exactly."
Shazam looked between the models of the three bases—the Hall of Justice, the Underforge, and the orbital Watchtower—and let out a slow breath. "Okay. This... this is real now. Isn't it?"
"It was always real," Batman said. "Now it's just beginning."
And from the shadows of the Underforge, the League—small, new, and a little sarcastic—looked at their future.
It was going to be legendary.
—
The Underforge buzzed with energy—not just the mystical, high-tech kind powering the glowing walls and floating platforms, but the other kind too. The kind you got when a bunch of powerful, opinionated, and possibly emotionally constipated heroes tried to agree on literally anything.
Superman stood by the holographic Earth projection, arms crossed like the world's most jacked Atlas. He looked calm, serene even, like someone who ate kale for breakfast and did yoga with monks in Tibet. But there was a tension in his shoulders. You don't get to be Earth's Boy Scout without developing a sixth sense for brewing trouble.
Batman stepped into the center of the room like he owned the shadows themselves. Cape billowing. Cowl brooding. Voice gravelly enough to sand a wooden floor. "We need rules," he said. "Non-negotiable. We are not a hit squad. We are not tyrants. No killing. Ever."
Cue the collective sigh from half the room.
Eidolon leaned lazily against the table. His armor, sleek and matte black with crimson veins of energy crawling across it like fire ants with attitude, glowed faintly. His helmet hid most of his face, but the glowing red eyes were very expressive for someone whose entire aesthetic screamed 'misunderstood antihero.'
"You say that like we aren't all giant walking weapons," Harry said, voice smooth and just a little too amused. "I mean, come on, Bats. I've seen what you did to the Joker's ribs with a Batarang that one time. And that was on a good day."
Batman didn't blink. Probably because blinking is too emotionally vulnerable for him.
"No killing," he repeated, like a mantra carved from Gotham concrete.
Wonder Woman stepped forward, calm but dangerous, like a diplomat with a sword. Which, y'know, she literally was. She was beautiful, but with the posture of someone who could suplex a tank. "Ideals are valuable, Batman. But when the enemy gives us no other option, we must act. A warrior protects, but she also ends threats that cannot be contained."
Shazam raised a hand, half a Cheez-It still stuck to his cheek. "I mean, I'm all for second chances, but if it's between the planet and one psychopath with laser eyes, I'm choosing the planet. Just saying."
Flash zipped in a blur beside him. Full of speedster energy: cheerful, ADHD, the human equivalent of a golden retriever with a triple espresso. "Yeah, but maybe we could do, like, a maybe kill rule? Like, only if it's absolutely necessary and no one's looking?"
Batman glared.
Flash zipped behind Green Lantern. "Never mind."
Hal Jordan—Green Lantern—leaned against a construct of a La-Z-Boy. "What if we just put it to a vote? I mean, democracy, right?"
"You want to vote on morality?" Batman growled.
"I mean... it worked for ancient Greece? Kinda? Until the whole empire-collapse thing."
Beta-9, the League's AI, materialized above the console in a holographic shimmer. She looked like Beyoncé had decided to cosplay as a futuristic angel, wings included. "Gentlemen," she said in a voice smoother than fresh honey, "and demigods, aliens, and undead snark merchants—perhaps we should not base our operational policy on ancient Mediterranean failures."
"I resemble that remark," Harry said. "Also, side note: 'Undead Snark Merchant' would make an excellent band name."
"We're not done," Batman said. "The rule stands. No killing."
Harry stepped away from the table, arms folded, red energy pulsing subtly beneath his armor. "Let me ask you this, Bats: what happens when you have to make that choice? When you either let a maniac nuke a city or you snap his neck to stop him?"
"We find another way."
"Not every problem comes with a Bat-exit plan."
Wonder Woman nodded thoughtfully. "We must never choose death lightly. But to say we will never make that choice is to lie to ourselves."
Cyborg—cool and calculated—glanced up from the console. "Honestly, there's no perfect solution. But ignoring the option altogether feels reckless."
Harry let the words settle. Then he dropped the real bomb. "I am the Champion of Death."
You could hear a pin drop. Or a Cheez-It.
Flash blinked. "Wait. What now?"
Green Lantern raised a brow. "Champion of Death like... metaphorically, or are we talking actual job title here?"
"Officially sanctioned by Lady Death herself," Harry said with a shrug. "She wears black lipstick, dresses like a sarcastic goth accountant, and hates paperwork more than she hates people who cheat death. Which, fun fact, causes more paperwork. So don't cheat death. It's rude."
Flash leaned in, eyes wide. "So... is she single?"
"Only if you consider the Reaper a plus-one."
"Noted."
Superman finally stepped forward, his voice gentle but firm. He had grace, like a Renaissance statue had learned how to smile. "Harry, you speak of necessity. But we also speak of hope. We're not perfect, but we must try to be better."
Harry looked at him for a long moment, and for once, the humor drained away. "Hope is good. But so is clarity. I won't kill lightly. But if it comes down to saving thousands by ending one, I won't hesitate."
"Then we do it together," Superman said. "No gods. No monsters. Just us."
Batman still looked like he wanted to punch something, preferably Harry, but he gave the tiniest nod. "Fine. The no-kill rule remains. But I'll consider... contingencies."
"Progress!" Shazam said brightly. "So... we're all friends now?"
"Define friends," Harry muttered.
"People who save each other from evil death gods while also eating pizza together?"
"I can live with that."
Wonder Woman stepped beside them. "Then it's agreed. We stand united. For life. For peace. For the mission."
Cyborg cracked a grin. "And maybe a little stylish destruction along the way."
Beta-9's wings shimmered with approval. "Welcome to the Justice League."
And just like that, a new beginning began—with banter, rules, the occasional undead snark merchant, and the promise that, no matter how dark the path got, they would walk it together.
Mostly.
—
In the Bay of Gotham...
The water didn't just churn. It boiled.
Fishermen screamed. Tugboats veered off course. One guy on a jet ski dropped his energy drink and just kept going straight out to sea, yelling something about Poseidon's wrath and needing to call his mom.
And then it happened.
From beneath the harbor, a shadow emerged—the kind that made you feel very small, very mortal, and very interested in becoming a desert-dwelling hermit far away from the ocean.
The Atlantean warship broke the surface with the grace of a sea god and the aesthetic of a Final Boss. It rose like a mechanical kraken—shaped like a manta ray with serrated wings, carved with ancient Atlantean glyphs, and pulsing with blue bioluminescent energy that screamed, We have technology your species isn't allowed to dream about yet.
Civilians screamed and scattered as water surged onto the docks, flooding cafes, parking lots, and one guy's hot dog cart. (He tried to save the mustard. He failed.)
On the deck of the warship, flanked by two dozen Atlantean soldiers wearing scale-mail armor and exo-suits that looked like Iron Man and a shark had a baby, stood Orm Marius—aka Ocean Master.
And if you think that title sounds dramatic, wait till you see the man himself.
Orm stood tall and terrible, with dramatic levels of intense, eyes blazing with theatrical fury, hair slicked back by sea spray, cape fluttering like it had its own wind machine. His trident glinted like frozen lightning, but he wasn't raising it in challenge.
No, that was reserved for the body cradled in his arms.
The citizens of Gotham stopped running long enough to gasp. Lying lifeless and water-logged in Ocean Master's arms was the former ruler of Atlantis.
His golden armor was warped and bloodstained, the centerpiece of his chest pierced by a jagged chunk of alien metal— unmistakably wreckage from the mothership that had crash-landed during the alien invasion last week.
Orm didn't speak at first. He simply walked down the shimmering ramp of his ship like some sort of aquatic war god, the weight of his father in his arms, the waves parting at his feet.
Behind him, an Atlantean priestess chanted softly, casting blue runes into the air. Dozens more soldiers followed, and not just foot soldiers—hover chariots buzzed above the warship, sharks with armored saddles patrolled the waters below, and in the far distance, sonar pings signaled more ships arriving.
Gotham had officially become way too interesting.
Orm knelt by the shore and gently laid his father's body upon the wet sand, right at the border where water met land—as if even now, Orvax didn't belong entirely to either world.
Then Orm stood, his expression going from "heartbroken prince" to "angry supervillain monologuing in iambic pentameter" in under three seconds.
His voice echoed over the harbor like Poseidon using a megaphone.
"Behold what your skies have done."
Everyone did. And promptly wished they hadn't.
Orm paced forward, trident in hand, the priestess weeping silently behind him.
"One week ago, the King of Atlantis—my father—ventured into your chaos. He sought not glory, not conquest, but mercy. He came to save the sea life trapped in your war. The whales. The dolphins. Even the plankton—though frankly, they're dramatic little things."
A few Atlantean soldiers actually nodded solemnly at that. Plankton were a known menace.
"And how did your world repay his compassion?" Orm continued, eyes narrowing at the Gotham skyline. "With death. Not in battle. Not in honor. But beneath a mountain of alien garbage you let fall from the sky."
He slammed his trident into the ground. The concrete cracked like a thunderclap.
"You didn't even search for his body," he said. "You let him rot. You let our King rot beneath your metal and smoke. This is not negligence. This is not oversight. This…"—his voice dropped to a whisper, and somehow that was worse—"this is war."
Gotham's alarm system went off at that exact moment, which felt both ominous and incredibly on-the-nose.
Cops scrambled. The National Guard was called. And the Justice League's comms lit up like a Christmas tree plugged into a lightning storm.
Orm stepped forward, pointing the sharp end of his trident directly at the nearest skyscraper.
"You murdered my father. You desecrated the ruler of the deep. You have spilled blood in the ocean—and the ocean will answer. With tides."
Then came the fun part.
From beneath the harbor, more Atlantean warships rose—sleek and terrifying, glowing like underwater monsters summoned from the depths of a sci-fi nightmare. Soldiers deployed in perfect formation. Giant sea beasts, harnessed and armored, swam into view. One enormous squid flexed its tentacles dramatically, just for flair. (Ten out of ten. Would cast in a Broadway musical.)
The Atlantean army didn't need to shout.
Their presence screamed.
And at the center of it all, Ocean Master stood tall, every inch the vengeful prince of the deep, as lightning forked behind him and waves crashed at his feet.
He hadn't come to mourn.
He'd come to conquer.
And the land? Well, the land had just picked a fight with the ocean.
—
Meanwhile… in a lighthouse in Maine...
Arthur Curry was elbow-deep in the guts of the generator, mumbling sweet nothings to a bolt that absolutely refused to budge. The wrench slipped. His forehead smacked metal with a clang that echoed through the lighthouse like a gong of pure humiliation.
"Fantastic," Arthur grunted, sliding out from under the panel. "Another concussion. That's, what—concussion number twenty-seven? At this point my skull's less bone and more stubborn scar tissue."
He wiped his hands on what might've once been a towel but now looked like a Jackson Pollock painting made of grease, engine oil, and bad decisions. Then he squinted out the lighthouse window at the horizon.
The ocean was unusually quiet. Too quiet.
The seagulls were arguing overhead like divorced parents fighting over custody of a french fry. But beyond that? Stillness.
Arthur didn't like stillness. Especially not when it came wrapped in fog and mystery and—
He saw it.
A cloaked figure walking up the rocky path like he belonged on the cover of Grim Wizard Monthly, flanked by a red-haired woman whose entire vibe screamed don't even try me.
Arthur groaned.
"You've got to be kidding me."
He stepped outside just as the figures reached the porch.
The first pulled back his hood, revealing high cheekbones, sea-weathered features, and a beard that hadn't smiled in a decade.
"Vulko," Arthur said flatly. "What, no hologram this time? Could've at least sent a seagull messenger with a scroll or something."
"I did try," Vulko said in his sandpaper voice. "The gull said he had better things to do."
Arthur squinted. "Still mad about the tuna sandwich incident, huh?"
Vulko didn't even blink. Classic Vulko.
Then Arthur's gaze slid to the woman standing beside him. Long red hair. Coral armor. Emerald eyes that looked like they were forged from ocean pressure and ancient judgment.
"And you are…?"
"Mera," the woman said, offering a polite nod. "Princess of Xebel. Daughter of King Nereus."
"Nice to meet you, Princess," Arthur said, eyeing her armor. "Just FYI, there's a 'no royal battlesuits' policy on this property. Dress code requires flannel or a t-shirt with some kind of sarcastic slogan."
"I packed sarcasm," Mera said, arms crossed. "Just not the shirt."
Arthur liked her already.
"Why do I feel like you two aren't here to discuss tide patterns and my sparkling personality?"
Vulko looked like he was sucking on a lemon.
"Orm has surfaced," he said. "He's brought the king's body to Gotham."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Whose king? What body?"
"Our king. And his remains," Vulko clarified.
Mera cut in. "And now Orm's declared war on the surface world."
Arthur blinked. Then blinked again, slower this time, because his brain was doing that buffering thing it did when people said words like "war" and "surface world."
"Hold up." He pointed a greasy finger at them. "Back up. My half-brother—Orm the Occasionally Competent—just marched into Gotham with a corpse and said, 'Hey guys, let's do a global war?'"
Vulko winced. "In a manner of speaking."
Mera added, "Also he brought twelve warships. And a kraken."
Arthur gave her a blank stare. "Like… a real kraken?"
She nodded.
"With tentacles?"
"Very big ones."
Arthur looked at Vulko. "You told me the kraken was a myth."
"You also believed Atlantis was a myth for the first seventeen years of your life."
"Touché."
Arthur exhaled and looked out at the sea. The waves were starting to whisper. And he knew that whisper. It was the ocean saying, Suit up, hero. You're out of sick days.
"This is exactly why I don't read my Atlantean mail," he muttered. "Every time it's either 'come back to court' or 'help stop Armageddon.' Never 'come visit, we made brownies.'"
Vulko stepped forward, his expression tight with purpose and way too many stress lines.
"Arthur—Orin—your brother is going to start a war no one walks away from. The world needs someone who can speak for both sides."
Arthur scowled. "I don't speak for Atlantis. I speak for this lighthouse. And maybe for that crab that lives under the porch."
Mera stepped up beside him. "Then maybe it's time you learned to speak for more than that. Orm's not going to stop at speeches. This is real. And it's happening now."
Arthur looked between them—the exasperated sea-wizard and the sarcastic underwater princess—and then back at his generator.
The bolt still hadn't budged.
Figures.
He tossed the wrench aside with a clatter. "Fine. Give me five minutes to find pants that don't look like I lost a fistfight with an oil spill."
Mera arched an eyebrow. "You're going to need more than clean pants."
Arthur gave her a lopsided grin. "Don't worry, Princess. I've got a trident too. Very shiny. Makes a nice 'shwoosh' sound when I swing it."
Vulko nodded, the barest hint of relief flickering across his ancient features.
"Then let's go. The tide is turning."
Arthur turned toward the house, muttering, "Always does, Vulko. Always does."
And with that, Arthur Curry—half Atlantean, half human, full-time smartass—walked into his lighthouse one last time… before heading off to stop a war with a very sharp stick and a whole lot of attitude.
---
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