Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cuffs were too tight.

Metal biting into raw skin with every twitch. Limbs ached against the unyielding floor, bruises blooming beneath torn fabric. The cold floor seeped into aching limbs. Every breath dragged heavy through thick, stifling air, laced with something that made their skin crawl. 

A single bulb flickered overhead, its sickly light carving jagged shadows along the walls. The room smelled of sweat, rust, and something faintly acrid.

A circle of battered teenagers sat bound together, some groaning, others murmuring under their breath–clothes tattered, dirt streaked across their faces, every one of them looking like they had been through hell. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. Somewhere, water fell in slow, rhythmic beats, a cruel metronome to their silence.

A chair creaked. Footsteps, measured and deliberate, circled them like a predator sizing up wounded prey.

“Let’s try this again.”

The voice was smooth, calm—too calm. A calculated kind of patience, the kind that suggested they had all the time in the world.

“Tell me, why you're all here again?”

Silence. Thick. Unyielding. Someone swallowed hard.

“…It’s a long story,” one finally murmured, voice rough from disuse—or something else.

“Where do we even start?” another muttered, shifting just enough for metal to clank against the floor.

A breath hitched. A glance flickered, fleeting yet heavy.

Someone swallowed hard, the sound deafening in the silence.

Then—

“Well…”

It was supposed to be a normal weekend— mundane, peaceful, the kind where the worst thing anyone had to worry about was a sunburn. A classic summer’s day. Birds chirped lazily in the trees, flowers swayed under the warm breeze, and the bees... well, the bees were—

BZZZZZZZZZZZT.

People sprawled across picnic blankets, chatting, basking in the sunlight without a care in the world. Children chased each other through the grass, their laughter ringing through the air. No one noticed the faint hum at first. It was subtle, almost like distant static, threading through the gentle rustling of the leaves.

BZZZZZZZZZZZT.

A lone bee hovered too close, circling lazily at first—just an idle nuisance. A woman swatted at it, barely paying attention. A man beside her flinched as it zipped past his ear. Someone chuckled.

Then the buzzing deepened. More joined in.

BZZZZZZT. BZZZT. BZZZZZZZZZZ.

The sound layered over itself, multiplying, swelling into a deafening hum.

A piercing scream shattered the peace.

“AHHH!!!”

Panic erupted in an instant. People bolted from their spots, knocking over drinks and baskets, their movements frantic and disoriented. A dark, writhing mass pulsed through the sky, shifting like a living storm cloud. The sound was suffocating—a relentless, furious drone that rattled in their skulls. The swarm moved with terrifying purpose, wings beating in unison like the drumming of war.

The bees weren’t just agitated.

They were attacking.

No.The bees were trying to kill them.

Yeah. So.

That was definitely not the peaceful, lazy summer vibe they were hoping for.

Okayyy to be fair, the day had started off, well… normal.

The plan had been simple: handle a few small missions—save a cat from a tree, stop a couple of robberies, maybe break up a street fight— steal a bag of chips— dumpster dive even— then call it a day. Easy, right?

But then, this happened.

Because, of course, it did.

With Young Justice—or "Young Just Us,"  whatever you wanna call ‘em—things always started light. With things the Justice League would brush off and somehow, it all ended up in their laps. One minute, they’re dealing with a jaywalker. The next? Boom—citywide catastrophe.

And today?

A whole colony of bees had turned evil.

Yup.

Like usual. 

Like it's an average tuesday. 

Yup.

Anyway, Time to get moving.

The team scattered. A blur of movement, bursts of color, figures darting in different directions. Some shot into the sky, others disappeared in flashes, and one zipped through the chaos, scooping up civilians before vanishing again. A crack of energy, the flicker of a golden lasso, the sharp thwack of a staff cutting through the air—each moving in their own way, a chaotic but practiced rhythm.

And yet, despite their efforts, the swarm followed.

The battle had already begun.

“Cassie, left flank!” Robin called out, twisting his bo staff to swat away another incoming cluster of bees. His movements were sharp, controlled—every step calculated.

Tim Drake—Robin—was already filtering out distractions, eyes scanning their surroundings. The bees weren’t acting on instinct. Their movements were too coordinated, too deliberate. This wasn’t a random attack. Someone was controlling them. He just needed to figure out how.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch! They keep poking me!”

Tim clenched his jaw. Superboy.

Conner Kent—Kon-El—whatever, just Kon—flinched back from the swarm, wildly swatting at the air even though the bees couldn’t actually hurt him.

“Pack it up, Clone Boy,” Cassie Sandsmark—Wonder Girl, bless her—snapped, shaking a bee off her arm with practiced ease. “You’re the only other person here who’s immune! Maybe try dealing with them with a little more finesse?”

Kon flailed wildly, his voice muffled beneath the swarm of bees completely covering his face.

“Mmf—I'm trying—gah! They won’t stop annoying-mmf me!”

He stumbled back, swiping at them uselessly, only for the bees to ricochet off his skin like tiny, angry ping-pong balls.

Still grumbling, he finally engaged his tactile telekinesis, a controlled burst of force rippling off his skin. The bees scattered instantly, their tight formations breaking apart as they were flung away. Some suddenly falling into the ground. Wait, were those mechanical bees that just dropped to the ground?

Tim took note of that. Whatever was controlling them, it wasn’t strong enough to override sudden displacement, as well as keeping the robot bee information for later use.That was something.

“Gosh, these things are everywhere.” Tim barely flinched as a bee zipped too close to his face. He rolled aside, flicking a small disc from his belt and sending it sailing through the air. It landed with a soft clink, then emitted a high-pitched frequency.

The nearest swarm shuddered, faltering midair. A temporary disruption, but enough to buy him time.

He adjusted his HUD, filtering through the interference. If someone was controlling the bees, they were using a signal. A frequency, a transmitter—something. He just had to—

“Thanks for the play-by, Rob!” A blur of red and white shot past him. 

Bart Allen—Impulse—skidded to a stop, shaking off a few bees before splitting into three speed-scouts.

“Man, this is ridiculous,” one Bart complained.

“Right? This is, like, a million times worse than normal bugs,” another added, batting at the air.

The real Bart zipped forward, snatching a civilian from the swarm before Tim could process the movement. A gust of wind followed in his wake, disorienting even more bees.

Tim barely spared him a glance, already zeroing in on the strongest signal. There—a subtle, pulsing frequency buried beneath the chaos. It was coming from—

“Kon!”

“Ugh, I’m trying! But they’re just so annoying!”

“You could say they’re buzzing you.”

Tim didn’t even need to look to know Bart was grinning.

"HAH! High-five, anyone?" Bart beamed, holding up his hand expectantly.

Silence.

With a blur of motion, a speed clone appeared beside him, mirroring his stance. They slapped their hands together with a loud smack!

"Nice one, me! You always got my back," Bart said, pointing finger guns at his clone, who returned the gesture before vanishing in a flash.

He glanced around at the unimpressed faces.

"No takers? Alright tough crowd. Geez, I'll just... see myself out then." With that, he zipped away—only to reappear a second later like nothing happened.

Cassie rolled her eyes as she sent another hive of bees away with a shockwave through crackling fists.

Tim exhaled. 

This was gonna be a long day.

But at least now, he had something to work with.

Imp had evacuated nearly a dozen civilians in less than a minute, barely breaking a sweat. Thank the Speed Force for small mercies. Cassie, meanwhile, was holding the line with practiced ease, smashing through bees with controlled, precise strikes—nothing wasted, nothing excessive. If one got too close, her bracers flashed, sending crackling energy through its tiny body and stunning it midair.

And then there was Kon.

Superboy stood there, half-heartedly swatting at the bees, his expression torn between annoyance and boredom. They couldn't hurt him, so he clearly didn’t see the point of trying, Being the total diva that he is—

“I heard that!” he grumbled, even though no one had said anything–cough coug–

“Then do your job instead of just standing there looking pretty, lover boy!” Cassie shot back, barely sparing him a glance as she sent another bee flying with a sharp flick of her wrist.

Kon rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it.”

Instead of swatting aimlessly, he finally engaged his tactile telekinesis, sending out short, controlled pulses to knock the bees away without crushing them outright. It wasn’t much, but at least it kept them at a distance.

“You sure you don’t have some bug spray in that utility belt of yours, Rob?” Kon asked, ducking a particularly persistent bee. “Because these guys are seriously bugging me—heh, pun—”

Tim didn’t even look at him. “We’re not here to kill the bees. Only the robots disguised as ones.”

Cassie threw him a sharp look. “Yeah, and we’re here to figure out what making them hostile in the first place—and stop it.”

“Ugh, fine,” Kon muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Now get back to work and help Imp save civilians, Boy Scout-Lite,” Cassie shot back.

“Aye aye, gotcha, babe.” Kon quipped, doing a mock salute and winking before vanishing in a blur of superspeed.

“Ugh. Boys.”

Tim barely registered the conversation. He was already tuning out the noise, tracking the unusual frequency beneath the chaos. Something was broadcasting—subtle, but just strong enough to—

There. A pulsing transmission buried under the usual city signals.

It wasn’t natural.

And whoever was behind it?

They were watching them right now.

Where are they—

A golden blur sliced through the air, sending a wave of bees scattering. Right behind it, a curling mist slipped through the swarm like it had a mind of its own.

“Gosh, I didn’t even know San Fran had this many bees.”

Anita Fite—Empress—landed lightly, twin blades shimmering in her hands as she twirled one lazily, unimpressed.

The shadow rippled and warped, twisting through the panicked crowd as an unseen force pulled people out of harm’s way. Wisps of mist curled in the air, shifting unnaturally, swallowing up civilians before depositing them somewhere safe. A blade cut through the frenzy, striking with deadly precision before its wielder blinked out of sight, reappearing in another flash of magic.

“Seriously. We had to stop a bank robbery on the way here. A bank robbery. In broad daylight! With actual cops right there!”

Greta Hayes—Secret—manifested fully beside her, crossing her arms as her misty form solidified. “Like, at least pretend to have shame!” She pouted.

Cassie’s eyes widened as the swarm surged closer, a flicker of shock crossing her face—then she barked out a laugh, shaking her head. “You guys really know how to make an entrance.”

She batted away a bee that got too close, ducking as another zipped past her ear. Sparks crackled along her lasso as she twirled it in a quick, defensive arc, forcing the buzzing mass to scatter. “Way better than Boy of Steel over here.”

“Hey! Ouch?” Kon shot her an exasperated look, swatting at a bee that had just bounced off his head.

Anita huffed. “It would’ve been sooner if some guy with a ski mask hadn’t decided today was the perfect time to test his luck.” She flicked her wrist, a blade disappearing just as another appeared in her free hand. “And, like, seriously? Of all days? With this happening?”

“Maybe he thought the bees were a good distraction,” Kon offered, deadpan, knocking a swarm back with a casual TTK pulse as he whistled.

Greta shook her head. “If that was his plan, he’s even dumber than the guy I phased through a vault last week.”

Bart suddenly zipped between them, vibrating slightly with way too much excess energy, three more speed clones moving in sync with him to pull civilians out of the area. “Okay, okay, but listen, we’re all thinking too small here—what if he was actually a distraction for the bees?”

Anita gave him a flat look. “…You've been hanging around SB too much?”

Kon gaped, exasperated. “Wow. Now that’s just rude.”

Bart grinned. “I wish I was kidding, but the universe is weird, and weirder things have happened. Like that time we turned into apes—”

Tim didn’t look up from his scanner. “I already know who’s responsible.”

That shut them up.

Cassie snapped her lasso back to her side, turning toward him. “So, what’s the strat?”

Tim’s eyes flickered behind his domino mask, tracking the subtle fluctuations in the signal. “There’s most likely a source nearby. A control point, if you will. If we can disrupt it, we break their hold on the swarm.”

Greta hovered beside him, peering at his screen. “You’re sure?”

Tim didn’t waver. “Positive.”

Anita twirled a blade and smirked. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Anita twirled one of her twin blades, watching the chaos unfold with a raised brow. "So what, we just knock out the control point, and boom—problem solved?"

Tim, already mapping out strategies, barely looked up from his gauntlet display. "Essentially. Assuming nothing else complicates things."

"Great. Because I, for one, would like to not spend my day playing dodge-the-stinger."

To emphasize her point, she vanished in a blink, reappearing a second later behind Cassie, just as a wave of bees lunged at where she'd just been. She cut a quick arc through the air, slicing down two artificial-looking bees with sharp precision before teleporting above the swarm to get a better vantage point.

Cassie barely flinched, already used to Anita’s split-second jumps. "Could’ve warned me, Empress."

"Where’s the fun in that?" Anita smirked before vanishing again, cutting through another section of the swarm before reappearing near Tim.

Meanwhile, Greta hovered lazily above the battlefield, completely unbothered by the bees flying harmlessly through her misty form. She rested her chin in her hands, watching the fight unfold below. “You know,” she mused, “I could try scaring the bees?”

Tim, focused on his gauntlet, barely spared her a glance. "Sorry, Secret, I don’t think that would work, but thanks."

She pouted slightly, stretching her fingers through the air like a ghostly cat. “Fine. Then maybe I could just… eat them?”

Kon, who had finally stopped swatting at the air like a disgruntled cat, froze mid-motion. “Nope! Nope, nope, nope! That’s way too weird, even for us.”

Greta grinned, amused by the reaction. “Suit yourself, but if this takes longer than it should, don’t blame me~” she sing songs.

Bart zipped past, his speed scouts blurring through the battlefield, dodging bees and getting civilians to safety. One of them skidded to a stop near Kon and gasped dramatically. “Wait. Wait. Wait. What if we let her try? Just to see what happens! Pretty please? With a cherry on top?"  he flutters his lashes for good measure.

Cassie, mid-punch, snapped her head toward him. "We are not feeding Secret a hive’s worth of bees! Or robots! Or robot bees!"

“Pfft. Cowards,” Another Bart muttered, but quickly zipped off before Cassie could throw something at him.

Anita teleported back in, wiping robot bee guts from her blade. “Why is this a conversation we’re having?”

Tim, deadpan, didn’t even look up, murmured, “Welcome to my life. Would you like a pamphlet to accompany with?” He joked.

Meanwhile, Greta had casually floated a few inches closer to the swarm, looking particularly thoughtful.

“Okay but hypothetically—”

“Secret. No.”

“Secret. Yes!”

The entire team—excluding Bart— spoke at once.

—In which they all turn to Bart, as he sheepishly scratches his head before he turns into another blur of lightning.

She sighed dramatically and crossed her arms. “You guys are no fun.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose.

Oh, this was definitely shaping up to be a disaster.

Tim could feel the grey hairs forming already.

Still, disaster or not, they needed to wrap this up. The longer they stood here debating whether or not to let Secret eat bees, the more time the real threat had to keep control of the swarm.

Tim adjusted his gauntlet, flicking through the distorted signals again. The interference was strong—whoever was behind this knew how to cover their tracks. But not well enough.

He was close.

“Alright, focus,” Tim cut in, snapping back to the mission. “The control point is nearby, and if we—”

A sharp, static pulse crackled through his comms, cutting him off. It was brief, but it was enough. Enough to tell him someone was definitely listening in.

Enough to tell him exactly where they were.

Tim looked up, scanning the rooftops. And that’s when he felt it. That distinct, crawling sensation of being watched.

His fingers curled tighter around his bo staff.

There.

Perched just above them, golden cape billowing, crown gleaming, stood someone he didn’t recognize.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Tim muttered.

The figure smirked down at them, head tilting slightly. “Looking for me, little bird?”

Kon groaned, already exasperated. “Oh great. Another one.”

Cassie spun her lasso between her hands. “Took you long enough to make an entrance.”

Bart zipped to Tim’s side, practically vibrating with impatience. “Wait, but like, do villains always just stand around waiting for dramatic timing? Because that’s kinda weird, not gonna lie.”

Anita rolled her eyes. “They all love an entrance, Imp. It’s a whole thing.”

Greta, still floating lazily above them, crossed her arms. “She’s definitely about to gloat.”

The woman chuckled, clearly amused. “Gloat? Oh, no, no. This is simply an introduction.”

She lifted her arms, voice dripping with self-importance.

“I AM QUEEN BEE, AND I HAVE COME TO CLAIM MY RIGHTFUL THRONE!”

There was a pause.

Then—

Bart snorted. “No way that’s real.”

Kon blinked. “Did she say Queen Bee?”

Cassie gave a slow nod. “She did.”

Anita sighed, rubbing her temples. “Oh, for—of course she’s bee-themed.”

Greta, deadpan, waved a hand. “Y’know, suddenly eating them doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.”

"No Secret, don't." Tim quickly responded.

He exhaled sharply, shifting his stance.

Here we go.

Given the way their day had started, you’d think this was all connected. Some grand scheme. Some deeper conspiracy.

Which yes, but also... no? Well, it totally is, but like he said, it’s a long story.

So how the hell did they end up here again?

Tim groaned, head tilting back against the cold, unforgiving chair. His arms were stiff behind him, cuffs digging into his wrists—not the fun kind. The arrested kind.

Across from him, the rest of Young Justice sat in various states of absolute wreckage, similarly cuffed to their chairs.

Kon slouched, arms crossed, looking more bored than concerned. Cassie, singed, scuffed, still faintly smoking from the shoulders, tapped her fingers like she was debating whether punching a hole through the table would be a bad idea or just a regular one. Bart twitched, vibrating, a tad bit panicky, looking far too fidgety for someone physically restrained. Anita leaned her head back, eyes closed, visibly attempting astral projection to escape this nonsense. And Slobo—yes he’s here, because of course he is— and yes he’ll get to that later—grinned like this was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him.

Which, to be fair , it kinda was.

Tim exhaled, already mid-sentence.

“Wait, sorry tha cuffs are really uncomfy—where was I? Oh right—and then Queen Bee sent a swarm after us, which, in hindsight, we probably should’ve seen coming, but at that point, we were already knee-deep in holding—”

“How exactly is this related?” their captor interrupted.

Tim blinked. Right. How was this related again?

“…I’ll get there,” he muttered, rubbing his temples against his shoulder since, you know. Handcuffs.

Before anyone could question him further, out of nowhere— 

“PLEASE LET US GO, I’M TOO YOUNG TO DIEEE!!!” Bart wailed, flailing dramatically against his restraints.

A heavy silence followed.

The man across the desk held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, kiddo—relax. We’re not here to hurt you.”

With an audible click, the overhead lights flickered to full brightness, finally illuminating the room properly.

The jagged shadows vanished.

The sickly flicker of a single bulb? Gone.

The suffocating air? Just slightly stuffy.

The ominous drip drip drip? Probably a leaky faucet.

Not a dungeon. Not a villain’s lair. Not even a questionable warehouse.

Just a completely ordinary police station.

Where they were very much legally handcuffed to their chairs.

One of the officers—the one who had turned on the lights—raised his hands in mock surrender. "Oh, uh. Was the atmosphere a bit much? Sorry about that.

Another officer sighed, rubbing his temples. “Seriously. What is wrong with you kids?”

Tim closed his eyes. Deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale.

The officer tried again. “Look, kids. We promise, we’re just here to interrogate you guys to confirm some things. That’s all.”

Bart blinked at him. Then at the standard-issue police desk. Then at the completely ordinary surroundings. Oh.

“...Oh.”

Oh indeed.

Kon groaned. “You’re just now realizing that?”

"I thought we got kidnapped okay!"

Tim let his head thunk down against the table. “Someone please end me.”

Or Bart. Or both of us. Please. Just spare the world this misery.

He’d probably piece everything together later—lay it all out in a way that actually made sense.

But right now? He was too tired. Too done. And entirely too over it.

Chapter Text

So far today, the people here changed Tim’s perspective in life.

That in which he means…

Tim wants to kill himself.

All right, then.

Where do we even begin with this?

Because there's a lot to unpack here. 

Okay how about this. First, let's address the elephant in the room.

Or the Czarnian rather. Tim glares.

At some point in the past 48 hours, Tim Drake and Young Justice had made a series of decisions so catastrophically bad, that even he was impressed by the scale of failure. Which, quite frankly, says a lot.

…Actually? Maybe not, now that he thinks about it. Not when considering the team's history.

But, well, whatever. Getting sidetracked.

Visualize this: A burning building. An explosion. Sirens were howling. Debris is everywhere. And Tim stands dead center in the wreckage, covered in dirt, smoke, and possibly other fluids that may or may not be his own blood, muttering, "Oh, trust us. "We know what we are doing."

Spoiler alert!

They actually had no idea what they were doing.

And they were then arrested approximately five minutes later.

Except for Greta, cause what were they going to do? Cuff a ghost?

Actually, hold on. That raises a lot of questions now. They must have some sort of technology for this, right? In our world? You would assume they'd have something like—

"Wait, do they have ghost cuffs?” Bart cuts in.

Nobody replied to him.

Anyway. If you are wondering how they got here, congratulations! You are thinking exactly like Tim did two hours ago!

But, before we get into the fallout, we need to address the real question:

Why in the hell was Slobo here?

Because as of two days ago, Slobo wasn’t in San Francisco.

Hell, Slobo wasn’t even in the same state.

Even so. Here he was. Smack in the middle of their operation.

The answer?

The birds and bees.

No, like literally. Remember Queen bee? You know, San Francisco's latest issue. "Hive activity," not literally H.I.V.E but- You know- puns. Intel was sloppy, the plan was a mess, but the mission was clear: stop her, smash the source, and prevent mass mind control. Aswell as bee apocalypse.

No biggie, right?

But it wasn't.

Because this was them you’re talking about.

It started out normal enough. Well—their normal, rather.

Tim threaded his way through smoke and wreckage, eyes sharp behind his domino mask, wrist console flickering as he tracked Queen Bee’s signal. The readings were a mess. Hive activity heavier than predicted. Thousands of bees swarming, all moving in perfect unison under her control—except now the air was choked with metal wings too.

That was the problem.
Real bees. Robot bees. All mixed together.

Cassie blurred past overhead, lasso flashing in the half-light, slicing through a cluster of metallic wings in one clean arc. Not one organic bee touched. “Perimeter’s a joke, Rob,” she barked into comms. “We need to wrap this up.”

“I’m aware,” Tim muttered, fingers flying over his wrist console. “Keep your hits clean. Every real bee down makes her stronger.”

Anita ducked behind a wall as a metallic stinger clipped past her shoulder. She caught the drone mid-air, aura sparking as she crushed it in her fist. “If one more robo-bug tries to sting me, I swear I’m gonna barbeque the whole hive.”

“Don’t,” Tim snapped.

Up front, Kon was locked in, telekinesis flickering in tight, precise bursts. He wasn’t showboating—no cocky quips, no wild haymakers. Not anymore. Just clean, efficient work. Ripping drones out of the air, slamming them into walls, carefully steering the impact so not a single living bee was harmed. He kept his head on a swivel, shielding civilians when he saw them, closing gaps when the others fell back. Focused. Dead serious.

And then there was Bart.

A streak of lightning zipped through the chaos, zapping drones, pelting robot bees with loose bricks, dismantling two swarm clusters in under three seconds — while talking.

“According to all known laws of aviation, there’s no way a bee should be able to fly—”

“Bart,” Tim snapped.

“I am focused!” Bart shot back, ricocheting off a lamppost to kick a drone in half. “I’m establishing thematic resonance!”

“Stop quoting… whatever that is,” Tim growled. “And clear this sector!”

“It’s a cautionary tale, man!”

Meanwhile, Greta floated calmly through the smoke like some eerie ghost, arms crossed, expression bored. She clocked Queen Bee as the villainess strolled into view — tall, smug, wings buzzing in sharp, grating bursts. “I bet I could eat her,” Greta announced, loud enough for Tim to hear.

“No one’s eating anyone,” Tim fired back without looking.

“Yet.”

Queen Bee was a nightmare. Too fast. Too smart. Every time the team swatted down a wave of her robots, she sent three more. Not actual bees— those she kept alive, directing them with her power. These were the fakes: tiny, weaponized drones disguised to blend with the swarm, stingers rigged to pierce more than skin.

Kon dove in from above, fist cocked, but Queen Bee zipped aside with a vicious burst of her wings, sending him skidding across a row of parked cars. He cursed, shaking his head, already back in the air.

“She’s got me buzzing mad over here,” he grunted, wiping blood from his lip.

Cassie snorted over comms. “Weak pun.”

“I panicked.”

And it was still getting worse.

“Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Ooh, black and yellow!-”

Then—suddenly out of absolutely nowhere—the sky broke.

Something massive dropped from above, slamming down in an explosion of asphalt and robo-bee parts.

BOOM.

When the dust cleared, Slobo stood dead center in a fresh crater, one boot planted square on Queen Bee’s back. Unconscious. Out cold.

He grunted, “Sup.”

Everyone froze.

Kon, panting, lowered his fists. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Got bored.”

And then— with a single, pathetic whir-click-clink—every single drone in the vicinity just… dropped. Mid-air. Like someone had flipped an off switch.

Hundreds of tiny metal bodies rained down in awkward, unimpressive clinks and plunks, bouncing uselessly against the asphalt. The few living bees still under her control scattered instantly, buzzing away in frantic, disoriented clusters.

The street fell silent.

Bart skidded to a stop, blinking. “Wait—was… was she the power source?”

Greta materialized and peered over Tim’s shoulder, half-smirking. “Huh. Guess stomping her worked. Still think we should’ve just let me eat her though.”

Tim didn’t even look up. “No. Secret. No.”

Cassie landed, breathing hard. “Seriously? That’s all?”

Kon threw his hands up. “Are you kidding me? That’s it?”

Anita groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Why is it always like this.”

Slobo cracked his knuckles. “I fixed it. You’re welcome.”

Bart pointed a finger at him. “Dude. You could’ve landed, like, ten minutes ago..."  "Or something...” he murmured.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

And with that, the chaos was over. Not with some climactic final stand—but with one Czarnian falling out of the sky like a badly aimed meteor and turning the fight off like a light switch.

And yeah… it only got worse from there.

But that’s a story for another time.

Because what happened next is 100% best left to the imagination.

Alternatively, a sealed incident report from the SFPD.

So yeah. That answers your question about why Slobo’s here.

Definitely not the main question of why they’re all currently under arrest— but hey, one question at a time!

Anyway. Back to the present.

The officer pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he could physically stop the bleeding in his brain by squeezing hard enough.

"Okay," he sighed, flipping through what appeared to be far too many pages of notes, "let me get this straight."

Pause. A deep, weary inhale.

"In the past few hours you have stolen a vehicle—"

“Borrowed,” Bart corrected, enthusiastically.

The room remained silent for exactly two seconds.

"You commandeered a garbage truck, launched it off an overpass, crashed through a construction site, destroyed a fountain, and somehow set a gazebo on fire—"

"Okay, but when you put it like that—" Anita began.

The officer slammed the clipboard against the table, making a sharp crack. "And! You expect me to believe that all of this"—he gestured wildly to the burned, bruised, and mud-smeared mess—"was the result of 'unforeseen circumstances.'"

Tim, slumped against the table, dead eyes and half-asleep, raised a hand. "Technically, I mentioned it in my briefing notes."

Cassie groaned and smacked her forehead against him. “Ow–” “Rob, nobody reads your seventeen-page strategy PDFs. ”

“I don’t send seventeen—”

"You do," Kon stated.

“Seventeen-point-three average,” Bart added helpfully.

“I PROVIDED THE CONTEXT OKAY!” Tim defended unhelpfully.

“Remind me why we’re teamed up with them again?” Cassie muttered to Anita.

“Beats me.” Slobo Responded.

“You got us here in the first place, Slobo!” The whole room universally responded synchronized that it might as well have been rehearsed.

“CAN WE ALL PLEASE FOCUS FOR ONE SECOND? ” the officer barked, his face visibly unraveling.

He pointed a pen at Slobo. “One of you was seen hurling a city bus into a river. ”

Slobo shrugged, unimpressed. “It was on fire.”

“That doesn’t make it better!”

“Yeah? Tell that to the people who didn’t explode.”

"People exploded?"

The officer blinked like he was physically restraining himself from committing a felony.

He pivoted to Anita. “You. You broke into a restricted power station.”

“That was strategic.”

“And rewired the city grid.”

“It was temporary!”

“You blacked out half of San Francisco for three hours! ”

Anita shrugged. “Acceptable losses.”

“They WEREN’T.”

The officer’s eye twitched. His soul visibly left his body.

“And you—” he turned to Cassie.

Cassie held up both hands. “Look, in my defense, I only did one illegal thing.”

“You ripped a statue out of the ground and threw it at a moving train.”

“Which stopped the train! ” she said brightly, like this was a winning argument.

“Which caused fourteen traffic accidents and a minor earthquake! ”

“And saved some people! Which you’re welcome by the way!”

The officer made a noise somewhere between a scream and a sob.

Finally, he turned to Kon. Flipped a page. And Stared blankly.

“‘Attempted to negotiate with a hostage situation… "by quoting bad action movie lines… and juggling live grenades?'”

Kon shrugged. “They were duds. Mostly.”

“Mostly?!”

Tim dropped his head to the table with a dull thunk. Again. 

“And you,” the officer hissed at Bart. “I don’t even know what to write down for you. You set a record for breaking and entering in four different places without actually using a door. ”

Bart beamed. “New PR!”

The officer looked like he was seriously contemplating an early retirement.

“And as for you—” he pointed to Tim, voice flat. “ You orchestrated this. I have fourteen witness statements saying, and I quote, ‘Robin told us it would be fine.’”

Tim lifted his head, dark-circled eyes blank. “I still stand by that.”

A long, miserable silence stretched between them.

Somewhere in the corner, Slobo picked at the duct tape holding his sleeve together.

The officer sighed. Deeply.

“I need a transfer,” he muttered to no one.

And that was just Tuesday.

So yeah. Hope this answered the arrest question!

The officer’s eye twitched at their deadpanned demeanour. He looked down at his notes, then back at them. “And lastly—identity theft is a crime, you know. Look kids, I don’t care how much you wanna play hero, copying Robin, Superboy, and calling yourself Young Justice? Tsk, tsk. Idolizing is one thing, but defamation is a crime.”

There was a beat of silence.

“We’re not copies,” Kon grumbled.

Tim sighed, slumping against the table. “Okay, technically we are Young Justice, but sure. Go off.”

And there it was again.
That stupid, persistent thread. The weird sideways glances. The offhand remarks.
This wasn’t the first time someone in this place had acted like they were the fakes— and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.
Tim tucked the moment away, sharp and careful, like a puzzle piece he hadn’t quite figured out where to slot yet.
He was going to get to the bottom of this.
One way or another.

“Yeah, joke’s on you,” Bart added brightly. “We’re the bootlegs with better hair AND style!"

"… Oh wait, that makes no sense. I simply wanted to sound cool, damn it.” he pouted.

Cassie gave a thumbs up. “Superior branding.”

Anita aggressively nodded while Slobo said, "Yup," with the drawn-out P.

The officer looked like he was seconds away from walking into traffic.

“Look, kids,” the officer started, rubbing his temples like he could physically massage the headache out of his skull. “I don’t know what your deal is, or where you crawled in from, but identity theft? Vandalism? Grand theft auto. Property destruction. Impersonating superheroes. And don’t even get me started on the long story about bees—”

A crash shook the building.

A sharp, metallic bang, followed by the distant screech of tires.

The officer’s pen froze mid-scribble. “What the—”

Tim’s head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing.

“Now!” Tim barked.

Before the officer even processed the word, a small canister hit the floor with a soft clink.
Smoke burst through the room.

Anita grabbed Tim’s arm. “See you outside Girl Wonder!” A flash of white light—gone.

Cassie grinned, rolled her shoulders. “Oh-ho! I so love this part.”

Kon cracked his knuckles. “You hit left, I hit right?”
“Like always Boyscout-Lite.”

They both punched the same stretch of wall, stone and plaster erupting outward in a cloud of dust and debris.

Before the officer could yell, Slobo came barreling out of the haze like an angry freight train, tackling him clean off his feet and into the opposite wall.
“Tag, you’re it!” Slobo cackled, leaving a groaning officer in his wake as he sprinted after the others.

Bart zipped by a second later, casually leaning an elbow on the wrecked desk mid-speed blur.
“Man, you really shouldn’t have let us talk this long,” Bart chirped through the smoke. “Y’know it’s basically our superpower. Yapping people's ears off. Or being annoying—Mainly mines though, but Rob on a mission debrief? Oh he’s a chatterbox alright! Annoying monologues? Yeah, top-tier distraction technique. Classic move. Thanks for playing with us!”

Annndd he was gone.

And just like that—accidental jailbreak mission complete.

Outside, the crash site resolved into view: a battered, questionably functioning van with a half-hazardly done paintjob with the initials of "YJ" spraypainted at its side is halfway through the police station’s front wall. 

Behind the wheel, Klarion the Witch Boy, grinning like a goblin with a stolen credit card. Secret hovered just beside him, arms crossed but clearly in on it.

“Hey get in, losers,” Klarion called through the open window, eyes gleaming. “We’re going shopping!”

Cassie landed next to the car with a heavy thud, dusting off her hands. “About time you showed up.”

Anita and Tim reappeared in a flicker of light inside the van.

“Remind me again,” Tim groaned, slumped against the seat, pinching the bridge of his nose like it was the only thing holding his brain together, “why we let him be the getaway driver?”

“He’s the only idiot who didn’t get captured,” Cassie pointed out, not bothering to look up as she tended to a cut on her arm, “and Greta can’t drive.”

“And do you seriously want Slobo behind the wheel?” Anita added.

A beat.

The whole team visibly shuddered at the thought.

Slobo, sitting shotgun with his boots propped up on the dash, cackled. “Cowards.”

“I like him,” Bart supplied helpfully, appearing out of nowhere. “Also, pretty sure this van’s stolen.”

“Obviously,” Anita muttered.

“Also,” Tim added, glancing at Bart as the rest of the team piled into the wreck, “good work back there.”

Bart beamed. “Told ya my obnoxious superpower would distract 'em and buy us time.”

“You’re insufferable,” but he's right. Tim muttered.

“I knooow~,” Bart chirped, kicking his feet up on the dash like a menace.

As Klarion gunned the engine, the stolen van peeled away from the ruined police department, sirens wailing in the distance. Tim sighed, slumping deeper into his seat.

“Fine. Whatever. Just—” he started, exhaling, “don’t crash the—”

The van promptly swerved up onto the sidewalk.

“—vehicle,” Tim finished weakly, bracing against the dash.

“Does this make this the second 'borrowed' vehicle we’ve added to our list of growing crimes here?” Bart asked, bright-eyed and completely unbothered.

A collective groan rolled through the van.

“I think it’s three if you counted that hovercycle,” Anita pointed out from the back.

“That wasn’t technically a vehicle,” Tim grumbled.

Greta phased halfway through the backseat, resting her chin on the headrest. “You guys really need a better exit strategy.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Slobo waved a hand like that was a problem for Future Them. “Point is—we got out.”

“Guys,” Cassie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Focus.”

“OKAY, LEADER!” everyone chorused in perfect, obnoxious unison.

Cassie closed her eyes. “I hate all of you.”

The van roared into the night, leaving behind nothing but sirens, smoke, and a police force so deeply, cosmically baffled, it would haunt their paperwork for years.

Somewhere deep in the bowels of the Mount Justice ops room, a wall of surveillance screens flickered to life.

Footage streamed in from a dozen angles— a police station in ruins, a beat-up vehicle screeching through city streets, and a handful of reckless teenagers vanishing into the night.

Names flagged in the corner of the footage. Young Justice.

Except… it wasn’t them per say.

A shadowed figure leaned forward. “Someone wanna explain why a bunch of randos are running around dropping our name?”

Another voice scoffed. “Must be some rogues pulling a stunt.”

“They trashed a police station,” Kaldur'ahm—Aqualad, or rather Kaldur pointed out, voice cool, though a faint crease formed between his brows. “And they’re calling themselves Young Justice.”

“Bold move,” Artemis Crock muttered.

“I’m offended they’re even using our name,” Wally West—Kid Flash scoffed, squinting at the grainy footage. “Originality, anyone? Like, come on, if you’re gonna fake it, at least bring some flair! Right now this is just chaos with a stolen label! That Superboy however—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dick Grayson—Robin muttered from the front, arms crossed, eyes locked on the footage. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “If they wanna play Young Justice, we’ll show ‘em how it’s done.”

He turned, mask catching the glow of the monitors.

“Besides, this’ll be fun.”

Screen static.

Chapter Text

The beat-up van screeched around a corner like it had a death wish, tires shrieking against the pavement. 

Klarion cackled from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other out the window making obscene gestures at traffic, his fingers crackling faintly with chaotic magic like static.

“Outta the way, peons!” he howled, grinning like a feral cat about to knock over someone’s priceless vase. Teekl—his Familliar yowled from his lap, fur bristling with delight, her tail flicking against the gearshift like a metronome of impending disaster.

Cassie shot a look over her shoulder at Bart, who was currently wedged between Kon and Anita like a human paperweight, his knee bouncing so fast it was practically a blur. Typical Bart, no situation too tense for a fidget.
“Okay… not to point out the obvious or anything, but why are we even in a getaway van ? You could’ve just—I don’t know— maybe speed-zapped us out of there?!”

Bart threw up his hands. “Me? ! You want me to speed-vacuum five people? That’s, like, four trips minimum, and Kon’s basically a sentient dumpster full of bricks!”

“Hey,” Kon scowled, arms crossed tight over his chest like a wall he wasn’t about to let anyone scale.

“I’m just saying! And Slobo bit me the last time I got too close.”

Slobo grunted from shotgun. “Might still.”

“Ugh! I’m not made of unlimited calories, guys! It’s a metabolism thing!”

“Don’t care whose fault it is,” Anita snapped, elbowing Bart. “Just stop hogging my side.”

“I’m not hogging it— Kon’s over here taking up half the seat!”

Kon scowled. “I’m literally sitting still.”

“You’re manspreading into my airspace!”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means sit like a person! Or, like— a person-adjacent lifeform!”

“I’m not a person-adjacent lifeform, I’m—”

Greta, ghostly and half-phased through the back of the seat, poked her head between them, her voice the eerie calm in the middle of a perpetual storm. “Hey morons, can we maybe not implode each other? Just a thought to share. Thanks.”

“I vote we throw Bart out the window,” Slobo offered brightly.

“I second that,” Klarion called over his shoulder, gleefully blasting through a red light.

Bart scowled. “Traitors. All of you. …Also, for the record, it’s not like I didn’t think about busting us out. I just—” he jerked a thumb at Tim, still hunched over his holo-screen—“figured we were all waiting for Mr. Big Picture to say the magic word first.”

Cassie groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “Why am I here.”

Tim, wedged miserably against the passenger door with a map and two devices in his lap, didn’t even look up, his brow furrowed in that way it always did when five terrible outcomes were playing out in his head at once. “Because none of us can be trusted unsupervised. Do you also want a pamphlet on how to manage overpowered disaster teens? It’s laminated.”

“No thanks, also how many pamphlets do you have for us about us, Rob?” Cassie muttered.

"Too many."

“And yet,” Anita pointed out, “you left us with a van.”

“A van driven by Klarion,” Greta deadpanned.

“Which,” Tim sighed, “was a tactical error.”

Klarion cackled as the car swerved violently around another corner, Teekl hissing in delight.

Now, you got this far, you might be asking a lot of questions.

Actually—pause. Hold that thought. 

I mean, there’s a lot to unpack here. And yeah, sure, maybe the flashbacks have been getting a little too redundant. But who’s to say they aren’t fun? Who doesn’t love a good over-dramatic memory sequence? Besides, it’s not like any of this makes sense chronologically anyway.

That said — no backstory this time. Not yet, at least.

What matters right now is this: we were framed.

And for reasons no one’s fully willing to explain, Klarion’s here too.

Because Klarion? … it’s Klarion. That’s the explanation. That’s the whole thing. He's chaos incarnate and that's all you need to know.

Moving on.

Tim sighed to himself, a sharp exhale through his nose as he scrolled through his holo-display.

It’s always the bees. Why is it always the bees?

Klarion snickered from the driver’s seat, eyes gleaming in the rearview.
“Oh, come on, the bee thing was hilar—”

“ Not the point, ” Tim cut in, not even looking up.. His voice had that worn, seen-too-much-in-too-little-time edge. The whole bee situation existed solely to introduce the ensemble cast anyway. No one actually cared about her.

Kon squinted from the back. “Wait— the bee apocalypse thing? Are we even gonna talk about how—”

“No,” Tim said flatly. “We’re not. Not again.”

Cassie huffed, leaning against the backseat, arms crisscross at the back of her head. “Honestly, I forgot she was a thing.” 

“Rob literally brought her up ten minutes ago! ”

“Yeah, to stall with his own monologue!” Bart chimed in.

Klarion cackled. “This is my favorite episode.”

“Shut up, Klarion. ”

“I had notes,” Tim muttered, rifling through his jacket pocket. “There was supposed to be a briefing, but someone—” he cut a pointed look toward Bart “—derailed it with that argument about which Flash theme song slaps harder.”

“Hey,” Bart protested. “It’s important cultural context.”

“Not the time,” Anita deadpanned.

Klarion grinned from the driver’s seat, taking a corner way too fast. “Frankly, I’m just here for the chaos.”

“We know.” the entire van chorused.

“ANYWAY,” Klarion cleared his throat, ever the showman, trying to redirect. “Look, I’m helping you guys now, okay? Out of the goodness of my he-”

“You got us into this mess in the first place, Klarion!” they all shouted in overlapping unison.

Bart even summoned two extra speed-scouts just to really drive it home.

“BART, MOVE OVER!”

“OW—OKAY, OKAY! NO HITTING!”

One of the clones popped like a soap bubble. The other one flipped Klarion off before vanishing. Teekl purred approvingly, winding between Greta’s semi-phased lap and the gearshift. Greta absentmindedly scratched Teekl’s ears, the ghostly blue tips of her fingers flickering through fur.

Klarion added, with a pointed glance toward the back, “In my defense, I wasn’t the one who got arrested in the first place.”

All eyes slid toward Slobo, who lifted his chin and shrugged.
“I regret nothing.” He snorted. “Besides, someone had to test the bus’s river-proofing.”

Anita barked a half-laugh. “Because we all know how timely that river was scheduled.”

Greta sighed. “You do realize buses sink, right?”

Teekl let out a low yowl, thoroughly unimpressed.

But back to the important part; the framing thing.

This whole disaster kicked off because of a Cazarian and a self-proclaimed witch with horn hair and a flair for dramatic monologues.

And before anyone asks, “Oh but Tim! Those crimes the police guy mentioned, how were you framed?”

Yeah. About those?
We… weren’t.

Those ones? 100% us. No excuses.

The framing part was all the other stuff: the bank heist in Coast City, the museum job in London, the giant exploding duck in Central Park— not us. Couldn’t even take credit if we wanted to.

But the bus in the river?
The power station blackout?
The statue flinging at a moving train?
The grenade juggling during a hostage situation?

Yeah. No. That was us. Totally… Unfortunately.

Listen — it was a long week. Or… day? Two days? Time’s fake.

Moving on.

Whatever. None of it mattered at the moment. What did matter was that they were hurtling down an empty highway in a stolen van with a bad paint job, sirens long gone behind them, and Klarion was driving like this was a high-speed chase in a cartoon.

“I love larceny,” Klarion cackled, gleefully flooring the gas.

“You stole this vehicle,” Tim deadpanned, wedged between Cassie and Kon, still glued to his holo-screen.

“Ah-ah~, Borrowed, remember? ” Klarion corrected primly. “Acquired under duress for noble and heroic purposes.”

Uh-huh. noble and heroic purposes my ass.

Bart leaned forward between the seats, pointing. “Yeah, same way you ‘borrowed’ spray paint for the giant YJ tag across the van. Real subtle, dude.”

Cassie pinched the bridge of her nose. “We already talked about this.”

Klarion shrugged with a wicked grin. “Please. We’ve committed worse.”

Anita groaned. “He’s not wrong. But now we look like a moving billboard screaming arrest us.”

“Correction: arrest Klarion. The rest of us are just accessories by association.” Greta chimed in.

Tim didn’t dignify with a response. He was far too busy chasing a thread.

Cassie leaned in, nudging Tim’s shoulder. “Earth to Rob. You overthinking again?” She poked his cheek for good measure.

Tim didn’t look up from the flickering data feed. “Mmm, Cassie, none of this adds up.”

Kon glanced over, brow raised.
“The usual nothing, or extra-weird nothing?”

Tim’s mouth pressed into a flat, unhappy line. The kind of look that meant his brain was three moves ahead of everyone else in the van, and whatever he saw wasn’t good.
“For starters, there’s an official Young Justice team here,” Tim said, voice low, cutting through the overlapping bickering and the screech of tires.

He flicked something on his holo-feed, and a series of faces blinked into view, floating over the dashboard.

“Meet the locals.”

Faces scrolled by: Robin— younger, peppier, a little too smug. Aqualad— noble and terrifyingly competent. Miss Martian beaming like a Saturday morning cartoon. Superboy— glaring like someone just ate his last protein bar. Artemis— fierce-eyed, bow in hand, already looking like she was two seconds from punching someone in the throat. And Kid Flash, mid-grin, caught mid-sprint in his profile shot.

Kon squinted at his counterpart on the screen… then recoiled like it personally offended him.
“There’s no way he looks like that.”

“Who?” Cassie asked, leaning forward.

“Superboy! That?! There’s no way that’s my counterpart.”

Tim didn’t even look up from the tablet. “It is.”

“What.”

“Conner Kent. Born March 21st, a binary clone of Superma—”

“Okay, okay! I get it! I get it!”

Bart peered at the screen and burst out laughing. “Wait, that’s you? Or should I say other you? He looks like a moody action figure someone left under a heat lamp!”

“More like a protein shake with anger issues,” Greta chimed in, smirking.

“Ew,” Kon groaned, throwing a hand out toward the screen. “I look like that? Why do I look like that?? And what’s with this? Where’s my jacket? My style? And who let me outta the house like that?!”

A beat.

Bart snorted, leaning over the back of the chair. “ Pfft— dude you’re already, like, fifty percent spandex, fifty percent existential crisis.”

“Bart, space.”

“Sorry Anita–”

“Yeah? Better than running around in Superman merch and calling it a personality!” Kon shot back, folding his arms.

Tim let out a slow, beleaguered sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can you two not ? We really don’t need to make this worse.”

While the others bickered, their voices a half-heard murmur in the background, Tim’s gaze stayed fixed on the flickering screen. Faces scrolled past— smug grins, glinting weapons, blurred motion— but his focus narrowed to a single profile.

Robin.

No real name. No clear designation. No file photo older than a grainy security feed. Just a figure half-caught in motion, a white grin cutting through blood and shadow like a crescent moon. The mask unmistakable. The posture unmistakable.

Tim’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t need a name on the file. Didn’t need confirmation.

He knew exactly who it was.

The others kept talking— jokes about spandex, speedsters, and sad fashion choices — but it was drowned out under the steady pulse of blood in his ears.

Because this wasn’t just some alternate.
Not some stranger.

And if he was here…

Tim swallowed hard, a cold weight anchoring itself behind his ribs.
The name surfaced unbidden, sharp and brittle, tasting like old glass on his tongue. Dick Grayson.

On the hologram, the shadowed figure seemed to grin even wider.

Bart zipped a finger through the projection, poking at the Kid Flash profile shot. “Ooh, dibs on racing their speedster. I wanna see who’s faster.”

Tim cleared his throat, tapping the next set of files up on screen. “Circling back, point is, there’s them, then there’s us. And a string of crimes happening around the city— attacks, robberies, jailbreaks. All pulled by a group claiming to be "Young Justice."”

That made Cassie’s brow furrow. She shifted in her seat to glance over at him.
“And because no one in this universe knows us, they just see a bunch of weird teens with powers and slap the label on us too.”

“Bingo,” Tim muttered. “It’s like we walked into a crime scene wearing the killer’s jacket.”

Kon groaned. “Fan-freakin-tastic.”

Anita smirked, leaning back against the wall. “On the bright side, we’re definitely still the hotter team!”

“Debatable,” Cassie shot back, arching a brow.

Greta grinned, floating a few inches off the seat. “Please. It’s not even close. Have you seen their fashion choices? Half of them look like sad action figures.”

Anita snorted. “Yeah, and not the collectible kind, the bargain bin ones with weird paint jobs.”

Cassie cracked a grin despite herself. “Okay, fair point.”

Greta winked. “Told you~”

Teekl meowed from Klarion’s lap in what sounded suspiciously like agreement.

Bart, now currently lounging upside down in the passenger seat with his legs propped on the dash like they weren’t in a high-speed chase, twisted around and grinned.
“Oh-oh-oh! You guys remember… in Operation: Mirror Siege 4 , they did this exact same thing! A fake team shows up, wrecks the place, and when the real guys arrive, everyone’s already got pitchforks ready! Whole double-misdirection thing.”

Everyone stared at him.

Kon cut in, voice flat as concrete. “I’m gonna stop you right there Bart. None of us have seen Mirror Siege 4 .”

Bart reeled back like he’d been physically struck. “ What? That’s a crime against cinema!”

Cassie, without looking up from the window, muttered, “So was stealing the van.”

Klarion, still gleefully swerving around potholes, chimed in. “ Technically , it wasn’t stealing if the owner never notices it’s gone. Borrowing without consent is basically a victimless crime.”

Tim didn’t look up from his tablet. “And tagging ‘YJ’ on the side in neon green was part of the morally gray loophole, or just your idea of subtlety?”

Klarion grinned wider in the rearview mirror. “Branding, bird boy! You gotta leave a signature. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Teekl let out a proud little “Mrrrow!” from the dashboard, tail flicking smugly.

Tim sighed. “We’re never getting through a mission without being on a watchlist again.”

Slobo then perked up from the back. “Wait— is that the one with the robot chimps and the nuclear disco inferno?”

Bart’s face lit up like a kid on his birthday. “You saw it too?!”

Greta groaned, her ghostly form half-phased through the ceiling. “Oh god. There’s two of them.”

Anita shook her head with a crooked grin. “Bart… how do you even remember this garbage? Do you have, like, an internal server full of terrible movie plots?”

Bart blinked, completely serious. “What? I watch a lot of movies. Honestly, we’re following the formula alarmingly well. Next stop’s probably the abandoned warehouse shootout.”

A beat of silence passed.

Kon sighed. “We are absolutely ending up in an abandoned warehouse, aren’t we.”

“Yup.” Bart grinned.

"Scratch that. Maybe SB’s the one catching Imp’s bad habits." Anita added.

“Hey!”

Tim gave him a look—half suspicion, half reluctant acknowledgment. Bart could be reckless, infuriating, and borderline impossible to wrangle… but sometimes he dropped observations like that. Dead on. Like it was nothing.
He filed it away for later.

“And because we got ‘nearly arrested’ at the last one,” Kon muttered, still fiddling with a half-busted comm in the back, “the cops officially think we’re the copycats or running some weird con job.”

“Which, to be fair,” Klarion cut in, grinning wildly as he took a corner way too fast, “is a hilarious theory.”

“I hate that you’re not technically wrong,” Anita grumbled from the seat beside him, arms crossed. “Also, side note, we could’ve left that precinct anytime guys. All it would’ve taken was a tap on the wall and five seconds of actual effort. I mean, Two of us have superspeed We have an Amazonian, a Kryptonian, and a Czarnia.. And I can literally teleport. Leaving precinct wasn’t exactlyrocket science. And best part? No Doors needed!”

Greta nodded, half-phased through the seat like it was a casual habit.
“I was kind of hoping someone else would say it first. I didn’t want to be that ghost .”

Teekl batted at a seatbelt like a cat toy.

Slobo muttered, “Teleporting out sounds messy. I prefer breaking walls over vanishing quietly.”

Anita arched an eyebrow. “Messy how?”

Slobo smirked. “Trust me.”

Up front, Bart dangled upside down in his seat, annoying Anita, feet tapping the dash in an annoying rhythm, making as much noise as humanly—or speedsterly—possible. His whining hadn’t stopped since they’d left the station, alternating between “prison food would’ve killed me” and “do you know how small those cells are, I could’ve died of boredom. And I grew up in VR!”

Tim didn’t bother looking up from his holo-display, fingers flying as he cross-referenced crime reports and surveillance grids. His voice was even, clipped.
“Of course we could’ve walked out. But I wanted firsthand intel. The officers knew things we wouldn’t get off intercepted comms.”

Then, after the briefest pause, his gaze flicked up—straight at Bart.
“And thanks to certain distractions, we left with more than we walked in with.”

Everyone turned as Bart, still upside down, pulled a thick folder from behind his head like he’d just conjured it. His grin stretched wide.
“Ta-da~. Technically, I started swiping these before the chief even got to the part where he threatened to ‘throw the book at us.’ Which was hilarious, by the way.”

The van went quiet.

“What?” Bart shrugged, still upside down and completely unbothered. “Their file security was garbage. Like, embarrassingly bad. Honestly, I was offended.”

Slobo whistled low. “You know, for a guy built like a sentient toothpick, you pull more heists than me.”
“Compliment accepted,” Bart chirped.

Bart then revealed the purloined files.

Slobo leaned in. “That’s actually useful intel."

Anita allowed a thin grin. “Smart, but I’m not sure how I feel about stealing Justice Department secrets.”

Greta smirked mischievously. “On a moral scale, it leans chaotic good?”

Teekl chirped happily at the banter.

Tim didn’t say anything, but his eyes flicked from the folder to Bart, narrowing just a fraction. A beat too long. That look that said I know exactly how dangerous you actually are, and it’s starting to get on my nerves.

Bart caught it, grinned wider, and winked. “That’s the trick, Rob. Nobody sees it coming.”

Anita snorted.
“One of these days you’re gonna outsmart yourself, Bart, and we’ll all be stuck holding the pieces while reality catches fire. Again.”

Bart waved her off, grinning upside down. “ ‘Again’ implies I ever stopped.”

Tim didn’t look up from his display. “Technically, Bart could take over the world before lunch if he wanted.”

Everyone froze, glancing at Bart.

Bart blinked. “Okay, wow. Rude. But also… thanks?”

Klarion leaned in, delighted. “Yes, yes! Embrace the villain arc, speedy one—”

“NO villain arcs,” Tim cut in sharply.

Slobo snorted. “I’d still bet on me.”

The noise bubbled back up, the moment passed—

Cassie leaned forward, raising a hand.
“Okay, but real talk. Are we even sure it’s just one group pretending to be the local Young Justice? What if it’s… like, I don’t know— more than one team of fakes ? One evil, one just chaotic dumbasses with a grudge?”

“God, I hope so,” Klarion beamed. “The only thing better than an identity crisis is a multiversal one— with extra villains.”

Greta winced, half-phased into the seat again.
“Could we maybe not wish for extra villains while we’re still wanted criminals in a dimension that isn’t ours?”

“Fair,” Klarion muttered. Teekl giggled.

Cassie groaned, leaning her head back against the seat.
“I swear to Zeus, if this turns into a full-blown multiversal crisis, I’m out. Not doing another one. I didn’t even unpack from the last one.”

“You can’t quit,” Kon called dryly from the back, sifting through the stolen comms gear and one very illegal datapad. “We don’t even pay you.”

“Exactly why I’m quitting, genius.”

“I vote we just find a pizza joint and lay low until this all sorts itself out,” Slobo grunted.
Greta shrugged. “Seconded.”
Teekl mewled like she was saying ‘thirded’.

The van fishtailed around a corner, Klarion’s grin flashing in the rearview like a knife’s edge. “Less quitting, more screaming! We need more energy, gang!”

Kon didn’t even look up from where he was bracing against the van’s side. “Yeah, you’re a real inspiration.”

Cassie, deadpanned shot, “Remind me to get out and roll when we hit the next stop sign.”

Klarion snorted. “Oh, please. Like any of you could manage my level of mayhem. That’s not vandalism— that’s art .”

Cassie shot him a glare sharp enough to crack glass. “Remind me again why you’re even here?”

“Because it’s his fault,” everyone grumbled, mostly in unison.

Klarion huffed, affronted. “Like I said— that’s why I’m helping now, alright? Geez. No one respects a redemption subplot anymore.”

“Yeah, definitely not one with ‘Lord of Chaos’ on the résumé,” Bart coughed.

Klarion made a wounded noise. “Slander.”

Teekl yowled from the dashboard, clearly in agreement.

The van’s air was thick with equal parts adrenaline, petty insults, and questionable life choices, but Tim barely registered it. His eyes stayed locked on the display, threads of data converging into patterns that still didn’t make sense.
Someone was staging a hell of a cover-up. And the fakes weren’t even trying to stay subtle anymore. Either it was sloppy… or it was bait.

And if Bart was even half-right— which, statistically, he was far more often than he let on— then this whole thing was already three steps deeper than they realized.
Tim’s stomach twisted.
They were walking straight into it.

“Focus, people,” Tim snapped, sitting up straighter as the holo’s data points converged on a blinking, still-incomplete location. “We need to figure out who’s impersonating us impersonating them impersonating the Young Justic here, before this whole dimension implodes under the weight of bad knockoffs and horrible plans.”

A collective groan rippled through the van.

“I vote we call it a stress tour,” Kon muttered. “Revenge implies planning.”

Slobo cracked his knuckles against the roof. “Yeah, well, if it is a revenge tour, I want merch.”

“Ghost-logo shirts,” Greta said, half-phased through the seat, actually smiling. “Glow-in-the-dark ink.”

“Ooh,” Bart perked up. “And a tagline! Like ‘We Put the Why in YJ!’”

Cassie side-eyed him. “We are not printing that.”

Teekl chirped in approval anyway.

Klarion cackled, delighted. “Now that’s team spirit. See? All it took was mutual trauma and vehicular crime!”

“Great,” Anita sighed. “We’re trauma-bonding in a stolen van.”

Kon leaned his head back against the seat. “This is the worst PR rollout I’ve ever been part of.”

“Look, I’m just saying— branding’s important,” Slobo shrugged. “If we’re gonna cause this much property damage, might as well get credit.”

Greta gave a ghost of a grin. “And a cool team name!”

“Oh no,” Kon sighed.

Bart pointed dramatically. “ I vote ‘Hot Topic Dumpster Fire.’ ”

Cassie groaned into her hands. “Kill me now.”

Klarion was practically vibrating with glee. “This is the best road trip ever!”

The wall of monitors glowed dimly, cycling through grainy security cam footage of the police station incident. A blown-out building. Scattered sirens. A wrecked squad car half-submerged in a dumpster. And a beat-up van tearing down a side street— its windows shattered, a makeshift YJ tag spray-painted on the side like an afterthought.

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of electronics.

Dick leaned forward, fingers flicking controls as he scrubbed the feed back a few hours. The footage jittered, then settled on a masked teen. Black domino mask. Dirt-smeared face. Blood seeping from a split lip. The kid stood dead center in the wreckage, shoulders squared, muttering something the battered mic barely picked up.

Dick’s mouth twitched, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his lips as the audio crackled to life.

“We know what we’re doing.”

He echoed it under his breath.
“Oh, trust us.”

A beat.

“Do they?” Artemis asked dryly, arms crossed as she leaned against the edge of the monitors.

Wally grimaced. “Not a chance.”

Conner scowled at the frozen image. “Is that supposed to be their Robin?”

“Duh,” Wally snorted, waving a hand at the monitor. “Look at the getup. Would be a solid cosplay if they weren’t out here trashing our name.”

“Seems like it,” Kaldur murmured, his gaze narrowing. “Notice how he never engages directly. Either he lacks the skill… or he’s deliberately avoiding cameras.”

Dick’s grin widened. “Smart.”

“I don’t like it,” Conner muttered, his arms folding across his chest.

Artemis pushed off the console. “No way those kids are locals. I don’t recognize half those faces.”

“They’re not,” Kaldur confirmed, flipping through metadata logs with a flick of his wrist. “No ID hits. No Justice League records. Nothing.”

Dick’s eyes stayed locked on the screen. “Check the fighting styles. See what we can pull.”

Wally jabbed a thumb at the feed. “Okay, but seriously— who rolls up with a bunch of randos, trashes a precinct, and slaps our name on it? Rule one in the villain handbook: don’t pick a fight with the original.”

“They’re not villains,” M’gann M’rozz -Or Megan Morse—Miss Martian said quietly from the doorway.

Everyone turned.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” Wally teased, leaning back in his chair.

“I would've been here sooner if someone remembered to ping me,” M’gann huffed, floating into the room. “You guys started without me?”

“It’s not a party,” Artemis muttered, though there was no real bite to it.

“Speak for yourself,” Raquel Ervin–Rocket added, slipping in behind M’gann. “I brought snacks.”

Zatanna trailed after them, eyes sharp as she scanned the monitors. “Also—heads up, we’ve been getting spikes of magic all over the city the last two days. Little blips, not enough to trip alarms, but weird enough to notice. This might be connected.”

That earned a pause from Dick.

“Great,” Wally muttered. “As if knockoff Robin wasn’t enough, now we’ve got magic weirdness too.”

“Look,” M’gann said suddenly, her frown deepening as her gaze locked onto one of the monitors. A blonde kid in a battered leather jacket was dragging a civilian clear of a collapsing doorway, moving with panicked urgency.

She pointed. “Right there.”

The room went still as Dick rewound the footage, isolating the moment. The moment replayed—messy, desperate, but unmistakable.

“Reckless,” Kaldur agreed, “but not malicious.”

Conner grunted. “Still doesn’t mean I trust ‘em.”

The feed jumped again, flickering as a blurred figure phased through a wall. Static crawled across the monitors.

Kaldur leaned over the monitors, tagging each target with precise keystrokes. “Meta abilities confirmed,” he noted quietly, eyes sharp, as the blur of a phasing figure flickered across the screen. 

“And strength-type here,” Artemis added, flagging a pale kid mid-swing as a cop went flying through a brick wall.

Wally gave out a low whistle. “Strong kid’s got no technique, though. Watch his footwork— all power, no control. Total amateur hour.”

“Still broke a wall,” Conner muttered.

“Yeah, well. So could you.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better somehow?”

Before Wally could shoot back, M’gann pointed to another screen. “That van wasn’t even necessary. One of them’s a speedster.”

Dick arched a brow. “You sure?”

“I clocked the timestamps,” she said. “Same kid shows up in the lobby, the evidence room, and the van— all within seconds. And he grabbed files on the way out.”

A pause.

“Great,” Wally sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Another speedster and a Robin copycat. This just keeps getting better.”

Dick let out a low chuckle. “Gotta admit though… they’ve got style.”

“Yeah, well— no offense,” Wally grumbled, “but if you’re gonna cosplay Young Justice, maybe don’t look like you fell outta a haunted Hot Topic dumpster fire.”

M’gann smiled faintly. “I dunno. Leather jacket’s kinda cool.”

Conner side-eyed her. “Really?”

“I mean… it’s no black T-shirt.”

That earned a rare, fleeting grin from Conner — but before anyone could answer, Zatanna stepped closer, frowning at one of the feeds.

“There’s something else,” she murmured, eyes narrowing. “Magic. Not a lot, but I’m picking up scattered spikes around their hits— like wards tripping, minor glamours breaking. It’s quiet, but it’s there.”

Dick straightened. “Same pattern as those spikes you mentioned a few days ago?”

“Similar enough that it’s probably connected. Either they’ve got a mage in their corner, or something’s riding shotgun with them.”

“Well, that’s not ominous,” Raquel muttered, arms crossed as she scanned the roster of tagged metas. “And FYI, we just got a ping from League dispatch— off-world team needs backup at a portal breach in Blüdhaven. The League wants us to prep a split response.”

A round of groans followed.

“Seriously?” Artemis groaned.

“Because the universe loves us,” Wally deadpanned.

“Of course this all hits at once,” Conner sighed.

“Raquel, Zatanna, Wally — take Blüdhaven,” Dick said. Kaldur stayed behind, scanning the feeds, ready to coordinate their moves from the room. “Artemis, Conner, M’gann, you’re with me on this crew.”

“Spoiler alert! It’s always connected,” Raquel muttered as she started for the zeta bay.

“And for the record,” Zatanna added with a wry smirk, “you’re not missing much besides bad haircuts and worse hex work.”

Dick snorted, then straightened, his expression turning sharp.

“Okay, let’s do this,” he said, voice steady now. “Run bios. Cross-check missing persons, meta registry, rogue groups with juvenile tags, police files and everything. I want names. Or any leads with these guys.”

No one argued.

His gaze lingered on the screen, still frozen on the half-grinning, bloodied Robin copycat.

“…Let’s see who thinks they get to wear that name. Robin. ”

Chapter Text

It all started when Tim was a little boy.

…Okay, hold on, not that little. Gotham didn’t traumatize him that badly.

…Actually? No, wait. It did.
Hailey’s Circus. Flying Graysons. Ring a bell? 

But this isn’t that story. This is about a moment. A choice. A mistake Tim could never undo.

They say the flap of a butterfly’s wings can alter the course of history.
For him, it wasn’t a butterfly. It was a sneeze.

This wasn’t “little Timmy with scraped knees.” No, this was Robin. Cape, domino mask, early days still figuring it out. Teenager Tim Drake, not the origin-story Tim you were probably expecting.

It was also during his brief… collaboration with Lonnie Machin—Anarky. Full-time revolutionary, part-time walking dissertation. Lonnie was in rare form that night, cloak flaring behind him as he stalked the rooftops, monologuing at the skyline about how “capitalism strangles even the smallest roots of freedom.”

You know. Typical Anarky stuff. Because he’s an anarchist. You get it.

Tim was zoning out a little. He didn’t notice, because Lonnie could give a forty-minute speech to a gargoyle without pausing for breath.

We were trailing a smuggling ring. It was night in Gotham like usual—when the shadows stick to your boots and the air tastes like smoke and rust. Cutting across a side street to get ahead of our target, that’s when I saw it: a honey shop. Small, kind of quaint. A wooden sign out front with a cartoon bee, wings outstretched like it was ready to sue Disn*y.

Sue Disn*y by the wa—
Lonnie, stop taking the internal monologue!

Anyway, he slowed down without realizing. Lonnie noticed immediately, of course.

The stall had been the kind of Gotham street fixture you barely notice: a rickety wooden table, a hand-painted sign that read “Pure Honey, Pure Soul” with a cartoon bee too cheerful for Gotham, and jars stacked in neat little pyramids. One wrong move away from disaster.

“Really, Robin?” he scoffed, sidling up beside Tim. “Honey? While we’re working? What’s next, artisanal jam? That’s how they get you, you know. That’s how the system hooks people—sugarcoated distractions and commodification of sweetness. Nectar weaponized as a narcotic. Bee labor alienated from bee product—”

Tim tuned him out halfway through “Alienated.” His mind was elsewhere—Stephanie. 

New. Complicated. Impossible to read. He didn’t know how to talk to her, what she wanted, or what they even were. But a jar of honey seemed... dumbly old-fashioned. Comforting. Like the kind of sitcom solution you cling to when you have no idea how to communicate. Honey for tea, honey for toast, and honey for someone who looked like she carried the weight of Gotham on her shoulders and deserved one moment of sweetness.

…Because seriously, who gifts people honey? That sounds… stupid.

Tim was standing there, imagining himself handing Steph a jar like an idiot, while Lonnie was still going:
“—and every purchase reinforces the chains! Sugar monopolies! Bee exploitation! The hive as a metaphor for the prison of society!”

Tim might’ve laughed if he wasn’t so caught up in his own awkwardness.

And then it happened.

Tim sneezed.

Not polite. Not normal. A Gotham-air-pollution-meets-WayneTech-tear-gas kind of sneeze. Nuclear. Cataclysmic. Biblical. Comical even.

The sound cracked the night like a gunshot. Tim doubled over, elbow flying out—straight into the edge of the honey stall.

His elbow clipped the display and set off a chain reaction—the top jar wobbled, tipped, and smacked the next. Then the next. Then the entire tower went cascading down like amber dominoes. Glass cracked, lids popped, and golden syrup gushed across the table, dripping down into the street like some sticky, slow-motion flood.

The stall owner froze. Her mouth fell open in horror. Then her eyes snapped to him, sticky rage dripping from every syllable.

“You—” she hissed, voice trembling with fury. “You dare desecrate the nectar of the earth? The lifeblood of bees? You have destroyed my LIFE’S WORK!”

She jabbed a honey-coated finger at Tim, her eyes wild with righteous, sugary vengeance.

“MARK MY WORDS, BOY WONDER. For every hive, every honeycomb, every drop of sweetness you have murdered this day—I WILL BEE AVENGED!”

A beat.

Then the stall’s backup display—a massive hanging honeycomb prop meant to draw customers—creaked loose from its hook. With all the dramatic inevitability of Shakespeare in a slapstick mood, it swung down and clocked her squarely on the head.

Thunk.

…Wow. Okay… So that just happened.

Lonnie pinched the bridge of his nose, cape flaring with exaggerated irritation.
“This is exactly what I’ve been telling you,” he muttered. “The system rots everything it touches—even honey. And apparently your immune system.”

And from the shadows, a laugh rang out.
Sharp. Familiar. Absolutely merciless.

“Oh my gosh,” Stephanie—Spoiler cackled through her mask, hands on her hips, shifting from foot to foot in disbelief. “You just sneezed a whole stock of honey jars out of existence. Do you realize how insane that is? Boy Wonder, you’re by far Gotham’s unluckiest boy scout. This is incredible.”

Tim’s stomach dropped through the floor. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“And miss this?” Steph leaned casually against the ruined display, ignoring the sticky amber smeared across her boots. “Not a chance, bird boy. Okay, but seriously though? What are you even doing with him?” She jabbed a powdered-sugar-stained glove in Lonnie’s direction.

Lonnie stiffened, his chin tilting high, cloak twitching like a wounded animal. “Excuse me, I am a revolutionary!”

“You’re on Batman’s rogues list,” Steph shot back. “Congratulations, Rob, you’re officially the first Robin to get grounded by association.”

Before Tim could argue, the alley outside dipped darker. Shadows swallowed the glass. The hum of the city dulled, like Gotham itself was holding its breath.

A cape swept past the window. Then the boots—heavy, deliberate, final. Each step landed like a verdict.

“Robin.”

The word cut sharper than any batarang. Batman’s silhouette filled the doorway, broad and immovable, the kind of presence that could blot out a skyline.

His eyes flicked once over the wreckage. Once over, Tim. Once—pointedly—over Lonnie. The silence stretched, heavier than the cracked jars at our feet.

“Explain. Now.” His voice was gravel dragged across steel, cold enough to silence the room.

Steph’s grin split wider, triumphant. “Ooooh, busted.”

“Spoiler.”

Lonnie hissed under his breath, tugging at his mask and hat. “This is why I said we should keep a low profile!” Since when have you kept a low profile?!?

"I can explain—"

But it was too late. The world’s greatest detective was here. And in three syllables, he’d just dismantled his whole night.

Tim wasn’t sure if he’d just made an enemy, embarrassed himself in front of Steph, or blown the only secret alliance he’d ever kept from Batman.
…Probably all three.

And maybe, just maybe, Gotham now had one more reason to hate Tim Drake.

God, I really hoped I didn’t just create another supervillain.

📦 Editor’s Note: For more on the unlikely Robin/Anarky “partnership,” check out the (tragically out-of-print) Batman: Shadows & Systems #1 (a “totally real” issue). Or don’t. Not even sure why this part was relevant in the first place, to be honest; you’re not missing much aside from a very grounded Tim Drake.

Tim’s eyes were fixed on nothing in particular. Like he was about to defuse a bomb (or, more likely, just reliving some completely unnecessary memory), his hands clenched the edge of the seat, his jaw tight, and his nostrils flaring.

Kon leaned over, doodle-ready, and whispered, “You… gonna be okay? Or is this like… a ‘hold it in until the world explodes’ situation? ”

Bart snorted from his seat. “Either way, Rob looks like he’s rethinking all life choices at once. I respect the dedication.”

Slobo muttered, manspreading across the passenger seat like he owned the van. “Dude’s brooding so hard I could see smog.”

Klarion, floating slightly above the seats and grinning like a chaotic toddler with god powers, cackled. “Ah! Witness the human pretzel! The poor tortured Robin! His moral fiber bends but shall not break! ”

Anita leaned against the window, motionless, in the kind of deep sleep that could ignore a hurricane. Greta had slipped halfway translucent, her form flickering with each faint breath—the closest thing she had to sleep. Teekl had claimed Cassie’s lap, curled into a perfect furry donut, purring like it was entirely unaware—or entirely unconcerned—about the impending disaster around them.

Cassie’s eyes darted to Tim, concern flickering through the exhaustion in her voice. “Are you… good, though? ”

Tim didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even twitch a muscle. The silence stretched, heavy enough to press the air from the van.

Then the thought struck him, sharp and mildly horrifying: if Klarion wasn’t driving… then—

“Who’s driving?”

“Bart,” they chorused, a single voice split across panic and disbelief.

Tim swiveled toward the rearview mirror. There he was, vibrating with barely contained energy, one manic grin plastered across his face. One foot bounced on the dashboard as if it had its own schedule, the other lightly testing the pedals’ structural integrity.

“Yo, chillax! I got this—mostly! Probably! Maybe! We’ll live, dudes!” Bart yelled, waving his arms like motion could somehow force reality to agree with him.

Tim’s lips pressed into a thin line. He might’ve counted slowly to a thousand if he thought it could steady the vehicle—or maybe just his sanity.

Kon sighed, resting his head in his hands. “We’re not gonna last another day here… and I mean literally. Like, not even one more day.”

Bart yelped from the driver’s seat, whipping the van around a sharp corner with one hand while the other tested the pedals like they were part of a video game. 

Yeah, no. Maybe they should’ve just stayed at the station.

The zeta-tube hummed, static light bouncing off steel walls. Sparks jittered along the console as Raquel double-checked her gauntlet systems, snapping each piece into place with practiced precision. She twisted a dial, sending a soft click echoing down the hall.

Zatanna stood nearby, a grimoire floating in front of her. Arcane glyphs shimmered, unraveling into strands of violet smoke as she whispered under her breath. Every now and then, a glowing rune shot off the page and embedded itself into the steel walls, leaving faint scorch marks.

And then there was Wally. Slouched against a crate, vibrating with impatience like he was one second from sprinting laps around the room. One leg bounced erratically; the other foot tapped a rapid Morse code against the floor.

“This is so unfair,” he groaned, arms crossed tight. “The wannabe Justice League Juniors are out there trashing our good name, and we’re stuck babysitting Blüdhaven’s magic problem? ”

Raquel shot him a sidelong glance, one brow arched. “Magic problem that could level three blocks if we don’t step in.”

Zatanna’s low, amused smile tugged at her lips. “Careful, Kid Flash,” she drawled, voice deliberately theatrical. “Magic has… dramatic consequences.” She lingered on “dramatic”, making it sound like the title of a very ominous play.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Wally said, flinging his hands in the air so fast they blurred. “But come on! Off-brand Young Justice? That’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance! Don’t you get it? I could’ve been there—” He jabbed both thumbs at his chest.“—calling them out, racing their speedster, dunking on their branding! Instead, I’m stuck on Blüdhaven duty.”

Raquel shook her head with a smirk. “At least it’s a sightseeing trip to Blüdhaven’s magical hotspot.”

Wally pouted and crossed his arms. “Still not as good as fighting the ‘hot-topic’ team.”

Zatanna didn’t even glance up from her spellwork. “You’d have hated it, Wally. They’re not even good at being a team.”

Raquel snorted. “Honestly, you’d just be adding chaos to chaos. And we already have enough of that.”

“Exactly! ” Wally flopped onto a crate, kicking his legs. “And who better to teach them how to be a terrible team than me? ”

Raquel shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Zatanna’s smoke ribbon snaked around Wally’s ankle like a leash and tickled him. “Kid Flash,” she said, wagging a finger, “your impatience has a tendency to interfere with precise thaumaturgy. Less zipping, more zen.” Wally made a face as if the smoke had personally offended him.

A tone pinged from Raquel’s wrist. “Transport window in thirty,” she said, standing. She slotted the wrist panel shut, fingers already running diagnostics on the comm net. “We move fast, we move clean. If anything weird happens, we call it weird and then fix it. Got it?”

Wally says “ I’ve survived worse.”

Raquel rolled her eyes. “And yet you’re complaining like we’re chaining you to a desk.”

The zeta-tube flared, announcing their departure. Wally scrambled to his feet, flinging an arm in dramatic flair. “Fine. But mark my words—they’re missing the best part. The absolute best part!”

Raquel muttered under her breath, tightening her gauntlets. “We’ve all been marked for this ride. Great.”

Wally dragged his feet into the light, still muttering:

“Fake Young Justice. Ugh. They don’t even know what they’re missing. Which is me! ”

Zatanna’s violet smoke swirled around his ankles, tugging him forward like a gentle hand. Rocket checked the console one last time, taking a deep breath. “Alright,” she said, “let’s get to the bottom of this.”

The warehouse echoed with the chaos of fists, metal, and powers colliding. Dust shivered from the rafters as two teams crashed headlong.

CLANG!

Robin met Robin in the center, staffs sparking as they locked. Neither gave an inch.

Dick’s grin was sharp, testing. “Not bad~ Who’s been training you—daddy’s day camp?”

Tim’s reply cut flat and deliberate: “Yours.”

For a beat, Dick blinked, the grin slipping just a fraction. “…Cute.”

That half-second was all Anita needed. Her blade hissed past his shoulder.

“Eyes over here, boy wonder,” she teased, pressing the attack. pressing the attack, footwork crisp, every movement measured.

Across the floor, Kon and Slobo circled Conner, feints and jabs keeping him off balance. Kon lunged left, then pivoted behind him, snapping a quick one-two combo while Slobo’s massive frame blocked any easy escape.

“Seriously? Two-on-one? You’re kidding,” Conner groaned, catching a punch from Slobo and shoving back with superhuman strength.

Slobo’s fangs gleamed in the dim light. “Boo-hoo. Welcome to Czarnian hospitality,” he hissed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin.

Cassie snapped her lasso, the coil whipping around Artemis, cutting off angles and forcing her to retreat. Her movements were sharp despite the dark circles under her eyes. Artemis ducked and rolled with the momentum, firing an arrow mid-spin that whistled past Bart’s ear, buzzing sluggishly at her side. He's slower than usual.

“Little slow today, speedy,” Artemis shot, ducking another lasso strike and loosing an arrow in one fluid motion.

Bart zipped just far enough to avoid it, clutching his stomach. “Don’t judge me—I missed lunch, okay? And breakfast—and, technically, yesterday’s dinner—look, Speed Force metabolism is brutal!”

Cassie yanked the rope back with a smirk, pulling him back into position. “Focus, Imp! She’s actually aiming for your head.” Then, more to herself than him, “Last thing I need is to drag your body back after the week we’ve had.”

“Yeah, no kidding!” he yelped as another arrow whistled past.

Near the far wall, Greta blurred ghostlike through M’gann’s psychic strike, her form flickering like a bad signal. Klarion cackled overhead, orbiting lazily with Teekl clinging to his cloak.

“Phasing contest! Kitty bets the redhead wins!” he jeered. Teekl hissed, tail lashing like punctuation.

M’gann phased through Greta’s counter, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t a game.”

Greta’s voice was soft but firm, even as her outline wavered. “Could’ve fooled me.”

The warehouse became a symphony of movement: Bart zipping through small gaps, dodging arrows; Kon pinning Conner while Slobo pressed him into walls; Cassie’s lasso snapping around limbs, dragging and tripping; Anita moving like liquid steel, her strikes surgical yet fluid; Greta and M’gann weaving around each other in a deadly ballet; and Tim ducking and pivoting, exploiting openings with precise, practiced hits.

But under it all, Tim felt the weight dragging at his team. They were tired. Bruised. Stretched thin.

Tim pushed a glance toward the ceiling, noticing a faint shimmer in the shadows, the air vibrating almost imperceptibly. Nothing visible yet—just a premonition that the chaos above them wasn’t finished.

…

Of course, you'd think we'd continue the scene from here, unfortunately,

this was the part where the memory decided to pull them sideways, comic-book rules said so and all.

"It was supposed to be a normal weekend— mundane, peaceful, the kind where—"

…Except we’d already backtracked too far. 

Wrong memory. Reset.

The truth was: it began after Queen Bee’s arrest.
(Yes, her again. Don’t ask why she’s still relevant—we were wondering the same thing. She was only supposed to be the introduction, a speed bump, a “team-building” exercise. Instead, her name haunted every debrief like she was Young Justice’s final boss.)

San Francisco’s sky was a dull haze, the afternoon sun glaring against fractured glass and toppled streetlamps. Heat still shimmered from the scorch marks streaked across asphalt. The battle was over, but the city felt unsettled, buzzing with static that refused to fade.

The cuffs snapped shut around Queen Bee’s wrists. Her jeweled crown was cracked, her gown streaked with grime, but her glare burned hotter than the ruined street. She didn’t yell. Didn’t even spit venom. She just stared—like a curse already being written.

Tim stood at the front, shoulders tight, mask shadowing his eyes as if already calculating the next ten moves. He didn’t speak, but the way he checked their comms and glanced at Bee suggested his mind was already in the next debrief.

Cassie trudged up beside him, rope coiled loosely in one hand. She pushed damp strands of hair out of her face with the other, breathing hard. No heroic glow this time—just a tired teenager who looked like she wanted a gallon of water and maybe a week-long nap.

Bart collapsed onto the pavement behind them, doubled over and panting.
“Okay—note to self—do not—I repeat, do not—run laps around half of San Fran saving civilians—without a snack break!” He flopped onto his back and waved weakly. “Speed Force metabolism is a cruel and unusual punishment. Like, Geneva Convention violation levels.”

“You’re the only one who can even do that, buddy,” Anita said. She leaned against a crumbling streetlight, sword hanging at her side. Her tone was dry, but her eyes softened as she glanced at him. “So congratulations, Imp. You’re officially drafted into Team Evac forever,” she teased.

Bart deflated. “You mean forever and ever? Do I at least get hazard pay? Or, like… coupons? ”

“Nope! ” Anita replied chipperly with the drawn-out p.

Bart groaned like he’d been handed a death sentence. “Unfair! I want a refund on my powers. Or at least a pizza delivery button.”

Kon scuffed his boot against broken asphalt, glaring at the cuffed villain lying at their feet. “Seriously, all that effort—for her? A whole city block trashed, and the big finish is… what? Watching her glare at us like we’re her least favorite TV rerun? ”

Slobo threw an arm around Kon’s shoulder, still grinning despite a split lip. “Don’t complain. My way worked, didn’t it?” He jerked a thumb at Queen Bee. “Dropped in from ten stories up, boom, instant knockout. That’s efficiency.”

“You call that efficiency; I call that a heart attack,” Cassie shot back, arms crossed. Her voice was sharp, but her shoulders sagged with fatigue. “Next time, maybe try not to flatten the rest of us along with the villain?”

Slobo’s grin widened, fangs flashing. “Details, details. Still worked.”

“Barely,” Greta murmured, flickering nearby. Her outline stuttered like bad reception, her voice faint. “Also could you all not argue right now? Some of us are trying to stay solid.”

Bart raised a hand from the ground, muffled. “Same, honestly. Can’t feel my legs. Send help. Or pizza. Ideally pizza.”

That got a weak laugh from Cassie, who tugged her rope back into place. “He’s not wrong. We’re all running on fumes. Another fight like that and someone’s not walking away.”

Anita snorted. “Oh, please. We’ll walk away. Straight into bed. And then straight into burritos. I vote burritos. Or maybe milkshakes.”

Bart perked faintly at the word. “Milkshakes? Yes. All of them! Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry—actually no, mix them! I don’t care. If it’s sugar, I want it.”

Kon sighed, shaking his head. “We save a city, and your priority is dessert.”

“Obviously,” Bart said from the ground. “That’s called balance, Kon.”

Even Greta managed a tired flicker of a smile. “Guess I’ll just haunt the smell of milkshakes. Ghost metabolism is the worst.”

Cassie’s voice softened. Recalling a memory out of the blue. “You know… if Arrowette were still here, she’d have dragged us out already. Straight to smoothies or milkshakes. Said it was “mandatory recovery.” Her mouth quirked, tired but fond. “Kinda miss that.” She said fondly.

Bart flopped an arm over his eyes. “Oh, oh! If Arrowette were here? She would’ve picked off those robot bees one by one. Perfect aim. No real bees were harmed. Problem solved in, like, two minutes tops.”

Cassie huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. She always did make it look easy.”

“Yeah,” Anita murmured. “Also miss her bossing us into stretching after missions. Said it built character.” She rolled her eyes, though the edge softened. “Guess she wasn’t wrong. ‘Stretch, hydrate, and don’t eat junk food after a mission!’ You’d think she was Red Tornado’s favorite student.”

Kon snorted. “Better her than me. At least she listened.”

Bart groaned theatrically. “Don’t make me think about character-building right now. I’m haunted enough already.”

That cracked a laugh from Kon despite himself. “Better than being haunted by Red Tornado’s training drills. Bet he’s already writing up a lecture about this mess.”

“Lecture and a chart,” Anita added. “Color-coded.”

Tim finally broke his silence. His voice cut through, low but steady, pulling them back together. “We’ll manage,” he said, glancing at each of them in turn. “We always do.”

For a moment, the team just breathed. The wreckage around them hummed, the city slowly remembering how to be quiet.

Then Slobo tilted his head, his grin returning faintly. “Heads up—she’s still glaring at us, by the way.”

Every head turned toward Queen Bee, still pinned in cuffs, eyes molten with venom.

In perfect, exhausted unison, the team sighed, “We know.”

No sooner had the dust settled than the ground itself seemed to protest.

A sound like glass ripping apart screeched through the dunes. Purple light carved itself into existence, slashing across the sand as if the sky had been peeled open with a knife. The smell came first—iron and ozone, like a thunderstorm bleeding into reality. Then the laughter: high-pitched, sing-song, and utterly deranged.

Klarion the Witch Boy tumbled through the streets, cloak flaring dramatically behind him, Teekl perched like a gargoyle on his shoulders. The cat’s fur bristled, her eyes twin hellfires, while Klarion grinned wide enough to show every sharp tooth. His voice rang across the desert like he was announcing the end of the world itself:

“Rejoice, insignificant gnats! For your pitiful saga ends here, before the unrivaled majesty of—”

“Oh for the love of—seriously? Another fight? ” Bart groaned, clutching his head as he spun to stay upright. “We just finished fighting Queen Bee!”

Klarion’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief and malice. He raised one hand, a swirl of shadow coalescing into a twisting rift, a portal fueled by his chaotic magic. The other holding his staff. Purple lightning crackled, arcs of energy lancing outward, and the ground beneath it vibrated. “Ahhh, my loyal audience! Witness as your insignificant world collapses before me! Kneel, cower, despair! I will—”

“Really? Can you not right now?” Kon shouted, waving a hand. “We’re exhausted! Can we, like, reschedule the end of the universe for another day?”

Klarion froze mid-gesture, scowling. “What—brats! You shouldn’t interrupt me! This is my dramatic entrance, you insolent pests!”

“Too bad. We’re not here for the performance. We’re here for the fight,” Cassie muttered, tightening her grip on her lasso and taking a low stance. “Bring it on, Klarion.”

“Yeah, we survived your last ‘grand show’ just fine,” Anita added, rolling her shoulders despite the exhaustion. “Maybe tone down the monologue this time? Some of us have actual muscles left to feel pain.”

Tim’s voice cut sharp. “Positions, everyone. Eyes on him. Don’t be distracted.”

Kon scuffed his boot against the asphalt. “Fine. But if he destroys another block, I’m blaming him personally.”

Slobo grinned, fangs flashing. “Eh, same chaos, different day. Predictable enough for me.”

“You weren’t even here last time!” Bart shot back, waving a hand dramatically. “You don’t get to call this predictable!”

Greta flickered nearby, a tired half-laugh escaping her lips. “Predictable? Ha. He’s a walking nightmare with a wand. Can someone—anyone—promise me just one calm day? No portals, no apocalypses, no universe-level lunatics… just one! I swear, if I don’t get it, I’ll go ghost permanently. Like, full-time haunting mode, no coming back.”

Klarion’s grin didn’t falter. He twirled his staff theatrically, eyes gleaming with mischief and malice. “Behold! With this key, a window into every corner of reality itself—I shall unmake galaxies, shatter worlds, and—”

The staff pulsed violently. Purple energy coalesced, spinning into a portal in his palm, arcs of lightning lancing outward and cracking the asphalt beneath them. The teens flinched, instinctively dropping into battle stances.

“Everyone, get back!” Cassie shouted, her lasso snapping up defensively.

“Portal forming—get ready!” Tim barked, crouching low, muscles tensed.

Before Klarion could finish, he lunged forward, staff raised high, eyes blazing with menace—

His boot caught.
On a rock.
…
Not debris. Not shattered asphalt. Not a conveniently placed chunk of rubble.
Just a plain, harmless rock from the street.

Momentum betrayed him. His arms flailed, cloak tangling around his knees, staff slipping free and smacking the ground with a crack that echoed like a gunshot. Teekl shrieked in outrage, claws scrabbling at empty air, before landing square on his back as Klarion faceplanted into the asphalt.

…

Now that’s just embarrassing.

Kon’s jaw tightened; he let out a sharp exhale, almost a laugh but swallowed quickly.

Bart froze mid-zip, one foot hovering above the ground.

Greta’s form flickered nervously, her outline stuttering as if the universe itself had paused.

The portal convulsed violently. A sound like a hurricane detonated outward. Wind whipped across the dunes, howling like a living thing. “

“Guys, brace yourselves!” Cassie shouted, lasso looping around Bart. The portal’s pull yanked at their legs, jerking them toward the swirling void. Bart struggled to zip forward, phasing slightly—but the lasso held him back, groaning under the strain.

Anita’s hands flared with energy. Her eyes glowed faintly as she concentrated, pointing at the teens. “I can teleport one at a time! Stay calm and don’t fight the pull!”

Bart, thinking he could outrun it, shot forward in a blur of red lightning—but the portal’s gravitational claw yanked at him like a magnet. His momentum twisted him sideways, almost slamming him into a lamppost.

“BART—STOP MOVING!” Anita yelled, reaching out with telekinetic precision while trying to teleport him bit by bit. Sparks sizzled around her as she strained to hold onto his location.

Cassie tugged, looping the lasso around Bart again, trying to anchor him as he struggled. “Hold still, you speed demon!” she yelled, her muscles straining. Bart shot a glance over his shoulder, grin flaring despite the panic. “I’m TRYING! It’s-too-strong—“

Tim fired his grapnel at a nearby lamppost, the hook catching with a metallic screech. He swung to counter the pull, the rope stretching, groaning under the strain. But the portal’s force was relentless. 

Greta flickered nearby, half-solid, struggling to maintain cohesion. The pull made her form shiver and stutter like a corrupted signal. Anita locked onto her next, focusing intently, and with a bright flash, Greta’s shape stabilized momentarily—but the vortex tugged again, jerking her back.

Kon planted his feet, arms braced, attempting to resist with sheer strength. Slobo grabbed onto him instinctively, their combined weight barely holding against the portal’s gravity. Anita targeted them both in succession, teleporting Kon a fraction forward—but Slobo wasn’t fast enough, the pull dragging him backward.

Cassie’s lasso strained again as Bart phased in a desperate attempt to move, spinning in place. She yanked with all her strength, gritting her teeth, trying to keep him tethered. Sparks from the portal danced along the rope, sizzling like electricity.

Teekl hissed and dug claws into Klarion’s cloak as he thrashed, his staff flaring with erratic magic. Klarion himself was tumbling, spinning wildly, trying to regain balance, but his portal was an uncontrollable swirl now, feeding on his panic. He shouted, “I—THIS—ISN’T SUPPOSED—!” Energy arcs exploded from his staff, only amplifying the pull instead of controlling it.

Tim’s grapnel snapped. Reflexively, he lunged, latching onto Kon’s arm mid-fall. The portal’s force yanked them both, twisting, spinning. He let out a grunt, muscles straining as he tried to claw forward with his other hand.

“Got you! Hang on!” Anita called, her hands glowing bright with telekinetic and teleportation energy. She blinked, transporting Tim and Kon a few feet at a time—but the portal was relentless, stronger with every passing heartbeat.

Bart zipped again, trying to phase slightly, only to be yanked back halfway, spinning him like a top. Greta’s half-solid form flickered violently, sparks trailing as Anita focused on stabilizing her.

Cassie, panting and straining, adjusted the lasso, coiling it to maintain maximum leverage. Bart twisted against it, phasing and vibrating, but she held firm. “Not today, little red blur!” she yelled, pulling him closer as Anita prepped the next teleport.

Klarion, still tangled in his own cloak, howled in frustration, staff slamming into the asphalt. The vortex clawed at him too; his usual chaotic control over magic was failing. 

Step by agonizing step, Anita teleported each teen in short bursts: Tim, Kon, Greta, Bart, Slobo. Teekl clung desperately to Klarion, who was now flailing like a ragdoll in his own chaotic storm. Even the villain couldn’t escape his portal’s fury.

The city around them shredded like paper in a storm, debris spinning, glass cracking, asphalt tearing. The teens’ shouts mixed with the howl of the vortex, echoing across the ruined streets.

Cassie dug her heels in deeper, tugging again, eyes wide and teeth gritted. “Hang on, guys! Just a little more—” But the portal yanked harder, and even her lasso strained to its limits.

One final synchronized pull, one final flash from Anita, and the portal swallowed them all.

And that, my friends, was how it all really started.

Chapter Text

The room buzzed with overlapping feeds: security cams, news reports, and League dispatch logs.

Kaldur stood at the main console, hands steady as he cycled through the chaos. A flaming gazebo collapsed in one window, and an enormous duck float detonated in another. A police van spun like a toy top into precinct steps. Each incident catalogued, catalogued again.

The Justice League hovered in hologram behind him, silent judges over the chaos. Batman’s gaze was a knife; Wonder Woman’s  a warning bell. Martian Manhunter folded his hands, thoughtful. Green Lantern tilted toward skepticism, arms crossed tight.

“Looks like a bunch of kids playing outlaw to me,” Hal Jordan—Green Lantern said. “Big mess, no payoff. If you’re gonna wreck property, at least steal something shiny on the way out.”

“Not without intent,” Batman countered, his tone clipped. “They struck a bank in Coast City. A museum in London. A station in San Francisco. That’s not random.”

“Agreed,” Diana Prince— Wonder Woman said, her voice level. “Each location carries cultural or economic value. But their execution afterward… clumsy. Almost as if meant to be seen.”

Hal gave a low whistle. “Still don’t get how you even light a gazebo on fire but okayyy.”

A beat of silence.

“Wally would probably be impressed,” Dick said dryly.

Artemis snorted. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Clark Kent’s—Superman’s image flickered faintly in the feed, arms folded tight.“If they do have someone Kryptonian on their side—” his gaze cut, almost involuntarily, toward Conner “—that alone makes them dangerous. Even sloppy actions can turn catastrophic with that kind of strength.”

The implication hung heavy, though the footage had never confirmed more than a boy in a suit that mimicked his own. For all they knew, it was costume over muscle, nothing more.

“Guess who finally decided to weigh in,” Hal muttered, dry as desert sand.

Clark’s mouth tightened. “Apologies. I was late connecting—where are the others?”

Hal leaned back with a shrug that was all edge. “Flash is chasing one of their supposed escape routes in Central City. Green Arrow’s patching up Star City. So far? No leads—just panicked civilians and a lot of bad spray paint.”

He tipped his chin toward the frozen van feed. “So tell me again why we’re not just calling this what it is: cosplay with collateral damage.”

Silence answered him. Not amusement, just the weight of the footage still looping in the air.

Okay maybe a scoff but no one wants to talk about it.

Kaldur and the gang ignored the jab and flicked to another feed: grainy footage of a pale boy throwing a cop through a wall. Another figure vibrated in and out of focus, too fast for the cameras. On the roof of the getaway van, something feline clung to a thin figure whose face blurred into static. For a heartbeat, the distortion caught oddly—a flash of skin that looked faintly… blue.

“Again,” Kaldur said quietly, almost to himself, “this presence. Familiar, but indistinct. The footage resists clarity.”

Dick leaned in over his shoulder with the rest of the squad in tow—Artemis with her arms crossed, Conner already scowling, and M’gann’s brow furrowed in sympathy.

“So what are we looking at?” Artemis asked. “Klarion’s body double? But… blue?”

“Perfect,” Dick muttered. “Knockoff witch-boy to go with our knockoff Robin.”

Conner’s jaw tightened. “And apparently a cooler Superboy too.”

M’gann glanced at him sidelong, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said flatly. “I just don’t like posers.”

Hal made a low whistle. “So, let me get this straight: we’ve got Witch-Boy Lite, Diet Robin, Dollar Store Superboy, and a house cat. Oooh! Sounds terrifying.”

“Jordan,” Batman cut in, not bothering to look at him.

Kaldur did not turn from the feed. “I cannot confirm it is Klarion. Though the resemblance is tenuous.” He paused, his voice dropping lower. “But I do not trust coincidence.”

The League exchanged uneasy glances at that.

“Regardless,” Batman said, voice cutting through the static. “Copycats or impostors, it doesn’t matter. Their chaos draws eyes. Shut it down.”

Dick straightened, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. “Copy. We’ll track the van. If they’re fakes, we end it. If they’re kids in over their heads…” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “…we’ve got this.”

Artemis arched a brow. “Pretty confident—especially after shoving Wally onto Blüdhaven duty.”

Dick only shrugged, amused. “Hey, somebody had to give Walls something fun to do. He’d have volunteered to chase their speedster straight through a statue if we let him.”

Artemis smirked. “Blüdhaven counts as fun? Guess your definition’s as bad as his aim.”

Conner snorted. “Says the one who couldn’t hit a guy standing still last mission.”

Artemis shot him a glare; Dick bit back a laugh.

“That, or he’d accidentally start a parade,” Conner added, deadpan.

Dick shook his head, still grinning. “Point is—we don’t need fast right now. We need precise.”

“Or we just need to hit hard and fast,” Conner muttered.

M’gann slipped between them, her voice soft but certain. “We’ll find balance. We always do.”

Hal gave a low snort. “Balance, huh? Good luck explaining that to the press. Right now, half the headlines are asking if we’ve recruited anarchists. The other half want to know why Batman’s letting his sidekicks torch public landmarks.”

“That is exactly why it cannot continue,” Diana said sharply. “Public trust is fragile. Every misstep makes the League weaker in the eyes of the world.”

“Especially if they’re using those under our name,” Clark added, his expression tight. “People aren’t going to distinguish between Young Justice and impostors. They’ll just assume the worst.”

“Which may be the point,” J’onn J’onzz—Martian Manhunter said, his voice calm but grave. “Whoever orchestrates this gains power by discrediting us. Division through imitation.”

Hal raised a brow. “You’re saying this is bigger than kids with powers showing off?”

J'onn's silence was a response in and of itself.

Batman cut in, voice like a blade. “Speculation later. Action now. Robin—deal with them. Swiftly.”

Dick inclined his head, calm under the weight of the order. “Understood.”
A breath later, he straightened, letting his voice shift from deferential to commanding. “Alright. Field team, let’s move out. Keep comms open. Kaldur, you’ve got eyes on us?”

“Likewise Robin,” Kaldur answered. His focus never wavered from the screens as Robin and the others filed toward the zeta tube, their banter flickering in and out like static before the doors swallowed them.

“Show us the footage we haven’t reviewed,” Batman ordered, voice sharp enough to cut through the room.

“On it.”

The screens shifted under Kaldur’s hands. The frozen van appeared first, spray-painted in crooked white letters. Another angle bloomed across the monitors: a museum lobby littered with shattered glass, alarms still strobing in grainy red. A third feed rolled smoke over San Francisco streets, the station’s walls buckling under the impact. Calm and unshaken, Kaldur logged each image, cataloguing them steady as tidewater.

“Subtle,” Batman scoffed, eyes on the van feed.

“They punched through a police station’s wall,,” Hal pointed out dryly. “With a speedster, a teleporter and—” he jabbed a finger toward the blurred frame “—what looks like  a “Kryptonian,” like Big Blue said. How do you even get arrested with a lineup like that?”

“We intervene only if the Young Justice cannot,” J’onn murmured, his calm carrying the weight of inevitability.

Diana’s voice cut in, softer than the rest. “If they are children, they will not see the trap they walk into. They may not understand what they’ve already set in motion.”

Hal muttered under his breath, “Yeah, well, they’ll understand prison bars.”

“Enough,” Batman snapped. The word was final, warning.

Superman’s image flickered faintly in the corner feed. “They will not fail,” he said, steady, his arms folding tighter across his chest. “Let’s all have some faith in them.”

Kaldur lingered on the rooftop blur, thumb brushing the static smear on the frozen image like he could force it to sharpen. His voice came low, nearly drowned by the hum of the feeds.
“This will not end simply.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed, the closest thing he gave to reassurance. “They can handle it.”

Superman’s feed flickered, his expression softening. “Oh! Well looks like I’m needed elsewhere, Metropolis just called in. Just keep me updated okay?”

“Go,” Diana said, inclining her head. “We’ll regroup once the field reports come in.”

Hal gave a lazy two-fingered salute before his image cut. “Try not to let the kids blow up another city block, huh?”

J’onn’s calm murmur followed, fading as his form dissolved. “The rest will depend on how quickly this resolves.”

Batman didn’t bother with parting words. His image simply snapped off.

Diana lingered a moment longer, her gaze settling on Kaldur. “You will keep us informed?”

Kaldur nodded once, steady. “Always.”

Her feed vanished, leaving only the low hum of the monitors. The silence pressed in, heavier than their voices had been.

Silence settled. The absence of their voices was almost louder than their presence.

Kaldur turned back to the console, steady hands flicking through the feeds. Coast City. London. San Francisco. Each screen replayed fragments of destruction: shattered glass, fleeing civilians, blurred figures vanishing into smoke.

He slowed one feed. A Robin darted through the San Francisco frame, staff sweeping low to disarm a guard without breaking bone— his movements held back but precise, measured, skilled. Non-lethal. One of the few fotage saved from the recent incident.

Another feed showed him again, this time from London, last week, but the difference was stark. The strikes were brutal, meant to harm; the stance aggressive, teeth bared under the mask. Same colors. Same build. Same domino mask. But not the same boy.

Kaldur froze the London footage, catching the bloodied, half-grinning face mid-turn. His brow furrowed. A quiet hum filled the room as he leaned back, thumb flicking to quietly bookmark the file for later review.

“Hmm.”

The zeta glow spat the squad out into the night, static still prickling on their skin as they regrouped on a rooftop overlooking the bay. Neon from the streets below painted their shadows long across the gravel, the city restless and loud in the distance.

Dick was already moving, gauntlet casting a pale green glow across his mask. “Van’s on Coast route—headed west. Closest hub from San Francisco puts it right here: Coast City.”

Artemis tugged her bowstring with a sharp twang. “Green Lantern’s city. Guess Jordan’s mouth might actually come in handy for once.”

Conner’s grunt carried all the skepticism in the world. “Still can’t believe he called them ‘cosplay with collateral damage.’”

“Better than Wally’s ‘Hot Topic dumpster fire’ comment,” Dick said, tapping his gauntlet without missing a beat.

Artemis snorted. “Yeah, well, funny thing is, I wanted to laugh. But Batman was right there.”

M’gann pressed her lips together, shoulders trembling with the effort of not laughing. “I almost did.”

Dick barked a laugh, quick and unguarded, surprising even himself. Artemis smirked like she’d won something.

“Batman is scary,” she added, chin tilted. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Conner muttered, “You think he’s scary, you should see him in training mode.”

“Pretty sure I already have,” Artemis shot back, wrinkling her nose. “I still can’t feel my arm from last time.”

“Yeah, but at least you didn’t get launched into a wall,” Conner said flatly.

M’gann winced in sympathy. “That wasn’t his fault, Conner. You charged first.”

Conner grumbled something under his breath. Artemis smirked again.

The room seemed to breathe with them for a moment—banter stretching thin across exhaustion, laughter bubbling through tension. Then Dick’s gauntlet pinged again, refocusing the team.

The moment broke quick. “Kaldur’s already got a lock on the van.” he said, recalibrating the map.”Coast route, heading west. We could cut across the next two grids, and intercept in five.”

Artemis strung her bow in a sharp tug. “Good thing we don’t have Wally—he’d be halfway there and lost by now.”

“Or halfway through the van wall,” Dick said without looking up.

Conner gave a grunt that might’ve been agreement. “Then complain about how hungry he is.”

“Or how his new shoes weren’t made for running on rooftops,” Artemis added dryly.

M’gann bit back a laugh. “You guys are mean. Seriously bullying the one guy who can’t defend himself?”

Dick finally shut down his tech with a flick, the smirk tugging at his mouth undeniable. “We’re honest.”

Meanwhile, in the cramped bioship streaking over Blüdhaven skies, Wally sneezed mid-sentence and scowled.
“Okay, seriously,” he muttered, sprawled across the passenger seat, “I feel like somebody’s talking about me right now.”

Raquel didn’t even look up from the console. “They’re always talking about you.”

Zatanna smirked into her cape. “Usually not the good kind, either.”

Wally groaned, dragging his hands over his face. “I hate all of you.”

The van rattled down an empty stretch of highway, headlights cutting weak beams through fog thick enough to choke on. Outside was nothing but broken asphalt and crooked road signs swallowed by weeds. Inside was worse.

Not silence— exhaustion. The kind that sat bone-deep, turning every breath into work. Bandages tugged against skin, bruises bloomed under torn clothes, and every pothole sparked another round of muffled hisses.

No one complained.
No one had the energy.

Except Klarion.
Of course.

Perfectly unscathed, humming like he was auditioning for “Most Annoying Road Trip DJ,” one hand on the wheel, one finger tapping the dash. Teekl lounged in his lap, flicking her tail with smug disinterest.

“Alright, hear me out,” Klarion chirped, far too chipper, eyes gleaming as the glow from the dashboard caught the sharpness of his grin. “Gotham.”

The response was immediate.

“Absolutely not,” Tim muttered without opening his eyes, his head tipped back against the window, his face pale in the screen’s glow. His voice was low and final, like he’d considered setting Klarion on fire for even suggesting it.

“Oh, hell no,” Cassie groaned, wincing as she adjusted the ice pack—duct-taped in place courtesy of Tim’s absurdly overstocked utility belt. She shot him a look. “I like my vital organs exactly where they are, thanks.”

“Hard pass,” Kon grunted, shifting for the hundredth time to get pressure off his cracked ribs. “I don’t have the strength to deal with Gotham or Bat-paranoia. Bad enough we’re dealing with whatever the hell this week is.”

“Technically it’s only been two days,” Anita said from where she was wedged on the window side— dry, businesslike, half-joking. 

Kon’s voice cut in a beat later, “Same thing.”

Slobo, in the passenger’s, idly peeled dried blood from a knuckle and snorted. “Even I’m not that suicidal.” He flicked a grin at Klarion. “You tryna get us famous, witch-boy?”

Anita sighed, leaning back in the seat beside Bart, one knee propped up and her arm in a makeshift sling. “Klarion, I swear to God, if you turn this van east I’m throwing you out at the next exit. And Teekl too, if it encourages you.”

Teekl blinked lazily, gave a grumpy mrrow, and nestled deeper into Klarion’s lap.

Klarion pouted theatrically, one hand over his chest like they’d just betrayed him. “Cowards. You’re all no fun. Teekl, do you agree?”
Teekl blinked, gave a single disgruntled mrrow, and promptly shoved her face deeper into his lap like she wanted to smother herself to escape the conversation.

“Who even let you drive?” Cassie groaned, shifting forward with a wince. She shoved her ice pack against the seat, braced her good arm, and started climbing toward him. “Ugh. I’d take Bart over you—move. Just let me drive at this point.”

“Over me?” Klarion gasped, scandalized. “Blasphemy!”

Bart didn’t even look up. He’d folded himself into the seat corner, knees tucked, rubbing at his temple like the pounding in his skull had become a permanent soundtrack. “Look man,” he muttered, voice flat with exhaustion, “I’m usually down for dumb ideas— hell, I specialize in ‘em— but if you drop us in Gotham tonight, you’ll be the one fishing my body out of a dumpster.”

From the far back, Greta, pale and flickering faintly at the edges like an old photograph about to burn away, didn’t speak at first. But she managed a sharp glare, hood casting her face in deeper shadow.

“Not Gotham,” she said quietly, voice a soft rasp like cold air through a cracked window. “Serious bad things there. Worse than us.”

Slobo barked a laugh. “Hear that, bird-brain? Your city’s apparently worse than death. Impressive.”

“Gotham’s too far,” Tim cut in, clipped and final. “Don’t even think it’s an option.”

The glow of the holo-map flickered over his face, pale blue washing across the sharp line of his jaw and the tired shadows carved under his eyes. His fingers shifted restlessly against the console, narrowing in on their dwindling choices. Every route blinked red with detours, alerts, or danger zones—a net tightening around them the longer they stood still.

“Phew! Spooky Bat-town off the table, got it,” Bart said, rocking back on his heels like the tension couldn’t touch him. “Though, for the record? Would’ve been cool to see! I wonder how dark and broody it would be—“

“You want cool?” Greta asked dryly. “Try surviving the night first.”

“Coast City,” he said at last, voice rough. “It’s the closest. Bay Edge is low-key enough. Not too crowded this late.  South puts us in range of Lantern territory. So we lay low. Patch up. Sleep. Maybe figure out why the universe hates us.”

“Thank Gosh,” Anita exhaled, scrubbing a hand down her face. “But seriously, Klarion, no detours. No ‘mystic scenic routes.’ One more pothole and I am dying. And it’ll be your fault.”

“Duly noted,” Tim murmured, too drained for sarcasm.

Klarion flashed a grin with too many teeth. “Killjoys. All of you.”

Teekl stretched, flexing sharp claws against his thigh with a half-lidded, unimpressed stare.

“Even your cat thinks it’s a bad idea,” Kon grunted.

“He doesn’t get a vote,” Klarion sniffed.

Teekl’s ears twitched and she let out a pointed hiss, tail lashing.

Bart snorted weakly. “Dude, your familiar’s about three seconds from scratching your eyes out.”

Klarion opened his mouth to reply, but another sharp bump sent a collective wince through the van, a chorus of groans and curses. Kon bit back a hiss. Cassie’s hand flew to her shoulder. Anita let out a muttered, “Motherf—” while Greta visibly flickered for half a second, her outline blurring.

“Okay,” Anita snapped, shooting a glare toward the front, “if we die from this van before the bad guys get us, I’m haunting you.”

Greta shifted in her seat, pale eyes catching the glow of the dashboard. “You can stay in me,” she murmured, voice soft and dry. “It’s cold, but there’s room.”

Klarion glanced at the map, then flicked a switch. “Kay. Coast City it is. Bay Edge, abandoned motel, laundry service, optional milkshakes upon arrival.”

“Optional is a generous term,” Anita muttered. Greta’s tiny smirk— almost unnoticeable. Cassie nudged her from her seat.

Bart let out a weak, tired snort of a laugh, and even Kon cracked a crooked grin.

The tension broke for half a second— a shared, miserable, exhausted kind of humor.

The van rattled on, headlights cutting through the dark as the lights of nowhere bled faintly ahead. No one said aloud how bad it was getting. Not how the pain clawed in now that the adrenaline was gone. Not how the bruises felt deeper, the cold sharper, or how heavy everything had become.

But the way they slumped in their seats— battered, silent, too young for this kind of weight— they were always too young for this weight,  said enough.

The road stretched ahead, long and merciless.

And none of them were sure they were going to make it to morning.

Okay.

Yeah, for sure none of them are making it to morning because WHAT THE HECK MAN—

Tim’s team stood in the middle of what could only be described as the World’s Ugliest Warehouse™. Rusted beams crisscrossed above like tetanus waiting to happen. Half the skylights were shattered, the other half patched with duct tape older than Bart. The air smelled like mildew, smoke, and… was that raw fish? There were puddles scattered across the concrete, some suspiciously rainbow-slicked, and not a single one looked like water.

So yeah. Abandoned motel, my ass.

And across the wide, suspiciously fight-shaped open space?

The other team.

Cassie’s jaw clenched. Kon’s eye twitched. Anita whispered, “...you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Called it,” Bart muttered under his breath. “I told you. Abandoned warehouse. It’s in our contract somewhere.”

“I thought you were joking,” Kon whispered back.

“I’m never joking about abandoned warehouses.”

Kon’s lips twitched despite himself. “Yeah, well. Fair. I did say we wouldn’t last another day here.”

Cassie groaned. “You’re both the worst prophets ever.”

Anita muttered, “More like cursed prophets ever.”

On the far side, the approved squad lined up with painful symmetry. Crisp formation. Weapons raised. Posture straight out of a Justice League training manual. They weren’t even sweaty. Robin’s cape swished with suspicious drama, like the warehouse draft had been hired just for him.

Klarion snorted loudly. “Well. If it isn’t the discount aisle Justice League.”

“Funny,” Artemis shot back instantly, nocking an arrow without hesitation. “I was about to say the same thing.”

Miss Martian hovered a few inches off the ground, brow furrowed as her eyes darted between their bruises, their bandages, and their general aura of ‘we’ve had a week.’ Her concern softened her posture, but the other Superboy shifted beside her— tense, wary.

Slobo cracked his knuckles. Greta flickered faintly, already fading into the background like smoke. Bart groaned and slouched forward, muttering, “Oh this is so not the crossover episode I signed up for.”

Tim didn’t move. His eyes locked on Dick’s. The both black masks staring at one another, and something unspoken that made the air feel heavier than the warehouse stink.

For a heartbeat, the world held still.

And then—predictably, inevitably—Klarion broke it.

“So which one of you Boy Wonders forgot to call shots?” Klarion grinned, teeth sharp in the dim light.

The silence cracked—thin, dangerous.

We are so fu—

Elsewhere, a bow was pulled from the back of a closet. Fingers brushed over worn fletching, steady despite the years, despite the dust.

She hadn’t touched it since that day—since the fights that left her shaking, the words that cut deeper than arrows ever could. Since she’d walked away, telling herself it was for the best. That she’d earned the right to stop.

Memories flickered unbidden: late-night laughter over greasy pizza, the sting of bruises that never quite healed before the next mission, the way they shouted over each other but still moved in sync when it mattered. Her friends. Her family. Her idiots.

She’d promised herself. She’d promised them.

But promises never stood a chance against the thought of them out there, battered and bleeding, facing the kind of trouble they weren’t ready for.

Cissie pressed her lips thin, stringing the bow in one smooth, practiced motion. The sound rang sharp in the quiet room—familiar, final.

“Just this once,” she whispered. And maybe for the first time in years, it felt true.

Chapter Text

This— This is fine.

…Okay, no. Tim lied.
This is not fine.

Breathe, Tim.
Assess the situation.

So, here we are:

Stranded in a dimension we don’t recognize.

Surrounded by people we sort of know. (Okay, fine—they’re technically alternate-universe versions of them, though the outfit situation is… somewhat unsettling. Like, Dick with pants?) 

Who may or may not want to punch us into next week. (Though if Wally were here, he’d probably say that applies to Bart in both universes. Small mercies, I guess.)

So, yeah. Less fine. And, oh right—the team across from us.

Okay. Okay. Assess. Unknown variables, definitely armed, definitely not smiling.

Which makes them… potential hostiles. 

Which makes this is… potentially a combat situation.

Which means—NOPE. Bad idea. We just shook off the po-po. No sense in escalating this into an interdimensional headline: “Teenagers From Another World Throw Down In Warehouse. News at Eleven. Robin vs Robin.” Place your bets on who’s winning!

Actually? Wait, that’s a pretty sick headline idea, but not the point.

They'd meant to stick to the original plan—an abandoned motel with decent service, a quiet place to regroup. But a tail forced them off course, it meant improvisation, and the warehouse had been closer after all. Now it was feeling less like a hiding spot and more like a snare. It was a trap and we fell for it.

Though,we can fight. Of course we can fight.
But should we? Absolutely not.
Not unless we want this universe to hate us on arrival.

So.
No fighting.
…Ideally. That is.

But realistically speaking, atleast for them, it might end up happening anyway.

And judging from the past chapters? Oh, it’s so happening.

Though I don't doubt our abilities, making enemies the first things first in another place, let alone a whole new dimension— Is a BAD idea. 

Wait—have I said before? Doesn’t matter.

Déjà vu, it’s unimportant. Everything’s fake.

Right now? Time for the inevitable overdone flashback montage, courtesy to comic pacing gods.

Previously, on Young Just Us: The Original Disaster Squad; 

Cassie’s jaw tightened.
Kon’s eye twitched.
Anita muttered, “...you have got to be kidding me.”

“Called it,” Bart muttered under his breath. “I told you. Abandoned warehouse. It’s in our contract somewhere.”

“I thought you were joking,” Kon whispered back.

“I’m never joking about abandoned warehouses.”

Kon’s lips twitched despite himself. “Yeah, well. Fair. I did say we wouldn’t last another day here.”

Cassie groaned. “You’re both the worst prophets ever.”

Anita muttered, “More like cursed prophets ever.”

“Shh,” Tim hissed, but it was half-hearted—mostly because Klarion was already snickering behind them.

On the far side, the approved squad lined up with painful symmetry. Crisp formation. Weapons raised. Posture straight out of a Justice League training manual. They weren’t even sweaty. Robin’s cape swished with suspicious drama, like the warehouse draft had been hired just for him.

Klarion snorted loudly. “Well. If it isn’t the discount aisle Justice League.”

“Funny,” Artemis shot back instantly, knocking an arrow without hesitation. “I was about to say the same thing.”

Bart leaned toward Kon without moving his lips. “Wow, she’s already got the quippy comeback thing down. You guys think she’s like their Arrowette?”

“Pfft—as if. Cissie’s way better.” Kon curtly replied.

“Just because she's holding a bow, doesn’t make her Arrowette, Imp,” Cassie muttered. “I’m insulted that you even made that comparison.”

“She’s taller than you though,” Klarion whispered unhelpfully.

Cassie elbowed him. Hard.

Slobo cracked his knuckles. Greta flickered faintly, already fading into the background like smoke. Bart groaned and slouched forward, muttering, “Oh this is so not the crossover episode I signed up for.”

Tim didn’t move. Couldn’t. His eyes locked on Dick’s. Both black masks staring at one another, and something unspoken made the air feel heavier than the warehouse stink.

For a heartbeat, the world held still.

And in that heartbeat, Tim’s brain was already running the math.

Front exit: no good—blocked by their Robin, bow girl with the arrow already drawn, plus a Kryptonian clone and martian who could close distance faster than Bart could crack a joke.

Side doors: rusted, chained shut. Useless unless they wanted to waste precious seconds breaking them, which might as well be ringing a dinner bell.

Skylights: shattered, yes, but too high. Greta could make it. Bart maybe, if he got the angle right. Tim probably too with his grappling hook. However, the rest of them? Sitting ducks before they even hit the rafters.

Actually? Nevermind, Anita probably could teleport out of here but, looking at her and the team's condition? I doubt we could pull it off and have energy to scram.

Back wall: possible. Piled crates stacked near a loading bay. If they pushed and cleared the mess fast enough—no. Too noisy. Too obvious.

Which left option five: fight their way through.

He clenched his jaw. Bad plan. Terrible plan even. But if it came down to it, the only viable one.

Every breath was a countdown. Every shift of weight on concrete could be the spark.

And then—predictably, inevitably—Klarion broke it.

“So which one of you Boy Wonders forgot to call shots?” Klarion grinned, teeth sharp in the dim light.

Dang it, Klarion!

The silence cracked—thin, dangerous.

The two sides hovered, caught in a taut stalemate—neither lowering their guard, neither making the first move.

Bart groaned, throwing his hands up. “Man, I don’t know about  this could’ve been, like, the perfect opportunity to do the Spider-Man pointing meme. You know—the whole ‘hey, you’re me!’ thing? But nooo, circumstances gotta be all—” he gestured vaguely at the tense standoff, “—doom and gloom instead.”

No comment. 

Dead silence. Not even a twitch.

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. Every. Single. Time.

He bit back a sigh. Note to self: rearrange Bart’s comic stash alphabetically. Backwards. When they get home.

If they get back home, that is.

Though, the tension still held, nobody even laughed at that comment minus Klarion and Bart who laughed at his own words.

Until…

“WAIT. Wait wait wait!” Cassie blurted, throwing her hands up, palms open, stepping between both squads like she could physically hold the air apart. “Pause! Time-out! Nobody’s here to fight, okay?”

Nice save, Cassie!

Artemis didn’t lower her bow. Superboy didn’t unclench his fists. Even Miss Martian’s worried expression sharpened into suspicion.

“Look. We’re not here to fight… Right, ’Rob?” Cassie repeated, louder this time, planting her feet. Her look conveyed help a gal out over here?

Tim freezes.

Oh snap.

Right. Cassie needs help. She’s asking questions. And questions need answers.

Answers that we don’t have.

Tim looks over the others, seeing his team shifting uneasily. Anita's ghosting over her blades, Greta phasing in and out ready whenever, Bart's in a half-ready stance to bolt if needed, Kon and Cassie observing him waiting for a cue. Klarion just looking over, slightly amused,

Okay. Stay calm.

Well, calm-ish.

Crisis #1: Potential allies? Enemies? Unknown.

Crisis #2: Lost in some random dimension. Which, thanks by the way, Klarion.

Crisis #3: Still no clue where "here" even is.

Oh, and bonus Crisis #4: Everyone’s looking at me for answers.

Because of course they are. Why is it always me? Lead the group through a few near-apocalypses and world ending-events, and suddenly, you’re the designated problem solver for every cosmic disaster.

He sighs. Leadership's overrated. This is exactly why he isn’t the leader anymore… and yet here he is.

Tim’s brain runs through a dozen different responses, each worse than the last.

Option one: Honesty. Simple. Blunt.

"Hi, we’re from another dimension. Just passing through. No idea how we got here, but thanks for the warm welcome?”

Yeah... no. That’s insane, sounds like something Bart would say. Though he’s probably giving him too much credit.

Option two: Omit the truth.

"We’re travelers. Lost. Just trying to get home."

Better. Still sketchy, though. Sounds like the beginning of a bad sci-fi movie. But it’s better?

Option three: Deflect.

"Uh... who are you, and why are you here?"

Classic. Turn it around. Make them the problem. Easy peasy.

Tim inhaled slowly. Okay. Leader card played. Now damage control.

His brain ran through a dozen bad ideas before landing on one that was only mostly terrible. He stepped forward just enough to be seen, hands loose at his sides, posture straight. Not aggressive. Not submissive. Careful.
His eyes didn’t leave Dick’s.

Tim takes a breath, ready to roll with option two—

“We aren’t who you think we are,” Tim said evenly.

Dick’s head tilted, but his mask gave away nothing. “No? Then who are you?”

Tim hesitated. Options spun out in his head, none of them good. He settled on the least-worst.
“…We’re not from here?” Yikes. 

His team winced, Cassie shot him a look that screamed seriously?; Kon muttered under his breath; Anita’s fingers brushed the hilts of her knives, even Bart gave him a funny look, minus Klarion who snorted.

Great. Perfect. That didn’t sound insane at all. Nice one, Tim! You’re killing it!

Artemis scoffed. “Oh, that’s original. Not from here. What, aliens? Clones? Evil twins?”

Beside her, Conner’s glare deepened. “I’ve heard enough excuses.”

Tim’s jaw tightened. “It’s the truth…” Though the Clone thing isn’t quite far off…

M’gann floated a little higher, her voice soft but edged.
“Then why use our names? Why call yourselves what we are?”

Kon muttered, “Oh, this conversation again,” under his breath, earning a sharp elbow from Anita.Anita’s elbow dug into his side. “What, déjà vu from our favorite friends at the precinct?” Her snicker made his scowl deepen.

Tim started, “We’re actually—” He hesitated, realizing how it sounded out loud. Young Justice… from another universe? Yeah, no, that sounds even worse spoken aloud. 

It’s not exactly going to inspire trust. Especially if they already suspected us, how exactly were they supposed to believe that?

Tim started to reply, slow, controlled. “It’s complicated—”

"Complicated how?"

But then Bart cut him off, bouncing upright with a grin. “We’re Young Just Us! Yes! Nailed it.”

A beat of silence. Staring.

…

Tim froze mid-thought.

Every neuron in his brain simultaneously short-circuits. He slowly, very slowly, turns to Bart, eyes wide with disbelief. He mouths, “What. Are. You. Doing?”

Bart just beams at him like a golden retriever who’s proudly brought back a stick.

I’ve got this! His expression practically screams it.

He does not “got this.”

Greta flickered, hands half-raised like she wasn’t sure if she was apologizing or surrendering. “We… don’t actually know him.”

Kon huffed, arms crossed. “We never agreed to that name, by the way.” His tone had an edge—part pride, part wounded ego.

Anita sighed through her teeth. “Impulse, please, for once in your life, stop.”

Glad we’re all on the same page guys.

On the other side, Artemis raised a brow. “Young… Just Us?” she repeated flatly, like she couldn’t believe she’d even said it out loud. “Now that’s just tragic.”

M’gann winced, shoulders hunching. “It doesn’t sound very... "official",” she offered carefully, like she didn’t want to be mean but couldn’t help it.

Conner crossed his arms, scowl deepening. “Tell me that’s not what you actually call yourselves.”

Oh, we wish.

And Dick—Dick’s mouth twitched before he could stop it. He cleared his throat, trying for even. “Terrible cover.” His lips still threatened to betray him, tugging just shy of a grin.

Artemis shot him a sharp look, like don’t you dare laugh right now, but his smirk was already threatening to break through.

Tim pressed his lips into a thin line. If Dick laughed, if even one chuckle slipped out, he was never going to live this down.

Cassie waved both hands like she could physically rewind the conversation. “Ignore him! That’s not our name, I swear. He just—does that.”

Silence stretched, awkward and heavy, both sides staring each other down.

Okay, Tim. Get control back before—

And then Bart, never one to read a room, added brightly, "Okay, new pitch! Team Hot Topic Dumpster Fire!" His grin split wide, like he’d just solved the branding crisis.

Greta flickered uneasily. “Now that I think about it… that makes us sound like villains.”

Slobo barked a laugh. “Kinda true, though.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Cassie snapped. Then, through gritted teeth, “And no, we didn’t agree to that in the van, Imp. We all sat in silence. That’s not an agreement.”

Bart spread his hands innocently. “Silence is total agreement.”

Kon groaned. “Silence was us ignoring you.” His voice cracked at the edge, and Tim caught the way he shifted his weight—favoring his side. Still hurt. Still bleeding under the jokes. And I’m letting this circus run itself. 

Sadly these are his monkeys. Tim sighs.

What Tim didn’t expect however, were the other team’s reactions…

Artemis’s mouth actually opened, then snapped shut again. Her bow dipped an inch.
M’gann blinked, like she’d just misheard.
Even Conner’s glare faltered.

And Dick—Dick pressed his lips together, shoulders stiff, like holding back was physically painful.

Because all of them heard it.
Wally’s voice.

“Yeah, well—no offense, but if you’re gonna cosplay Young Justice, maybe don’t look like you fell outta a haunted Hot Topic dumpster fire.”

The silence stretched just a beat too long, until Artemis pinched the bridge of her nose. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
M’gann hid a small, guilty smile behind her hand.
For a heartbeat, something flickered behind the mask. Then-
Dick wheezed. Loud, sudden, helpless. His shoulders shook as he half-folded over, muffling the laugh in his fist. “Ohhh my gosh, he’d so love to be here.”

Everyone turned to stare like he’d just grown a second head.

Conner sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t mind him.”
Artemis muttered, “He thinks he’s funny. It’s nothing.”
M’gann added gently, “It’s… a friend. Inside joke.”

Tim’s team traded baffled looks. Greta flickered uncertainly, Anita raised a brow, Bart mouthed what the heck was that, and Kon looked seconds from asking out loud.

Tim inhaled sharply. Great. Exactly what we needed—more distractions. Focus. Don’t lose control of the room. 

“Look, uh—Imp—stop. Please. Leave it to us to explain.”

“Okayyy, then explain the whole… Robin and Superboy thing then?” Artemis cut in, bow never lowering.

”Right, about that—“ And that's when Tim should have jumped in, steered it home,

Instead, Kon opened his mouth. 

“I’m cooler,” Kon shrugged.

Tim’s going to curl up in his cape.

“Kon!” Cassie snapped.

“It’s true— I’m much cooler. I mean just look at him!”  he started, but Tim’s jaw tightened.

Across from them, Conner’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping low. “You think this is a game?” The words came out sharp, like steel.

Artemis’s gaze flicked between them, bowstring creaking under her grip. M’gann shifted closer to Conner, tension written in every line of her face. Even Dick’s smirk faltered into something harder, his weight settling like he was ready to move.

Tim’s stomach twisted. Perfect. Kon just picked a fight we cannot afford right now. He pinched the bridge of his nose under the mask, biting down the sigh. We need to thread this needle, not set it on fire!

Artemis’s eyes narrowed, suspicion sharpening again. “So what—you’ve got a Robin too. How does that work?”

Tim’s cape shifted as he squared his shoulders, buying a second to think. His jaw ached from holding his words too tight. “…It just does?” F%$k it, he’s digging his own grave. 

The answer dropped like a stone. Not satisfying. Not enough.
M’gann frowned, unease rippling across her features. Conner’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Even Dick’s stance adjusted, loose humor bleeding into silent calculation.

Tim’s pulse jumped. Great. Now they’re circling the teeth of the trap. Exactly where we don’t want them.

M’gann drifted a little closer, frowning. “And a speedster too? That’s… unusual.”

Bart grinned, finger-gunning. “What can I say? Lucky gene pool! Oh! I’m Impulse-by-the-way!” 

Slobo snorted. “Lucky gene pool? More like cosmic bad luck.”

Anita rolled her eyes, arms crossed. “Or, you know… just a magnet for chaos.”

Greta flickered, wobbling slightly. “…Maybe not that extreme… but it’s definitely… something.”

Klarion, lounging on a broken beam, chimed in with a sing-song lilt. “Copycats, doppelgängers, parallels, shadows—oh, I love a good identity crisis.”

Kon plowed ahead anyway. “Look I’m just saying… and let’s be real, it's not plagiarism if we don’t look alike. I mean, seriously—who just throws on Superman merch, calls themselves Superboy, and calls it a day?”

Cassie’s boot connected with his shin. “Ow! What was that for?”

Greta flickered, hands half-raised like she wasn’t sure if she was apologizing or surrendering. “We’re… just big fans?”

Tim wanted to sink into his cape and never resurface.

“Big fans,” Artemis echoed, voice dry as dust. Her bow didn’t waver an inch.

Kon pointed a finger toward Conner’s chest. “Oh, pu-lease. Like I’d ever be a fan of his.”

“SB!” “Kon!” his team barked all at once—half warning, half exasperation.

Conner’s glare was ice-cold, his voice low and deliberate. “You think this is a joke? You wear our names. Our symbols. And you expect us to believe you’re just… fans?”

Tim’s stomach lurched. Kon. Please. Stop digging.
“Conner,” Just drop it. Let them make the connection. He hissed under his breath, “don’t make this worse.” Hopefully they notice.

“As if this could get any worse,” Kon muttered back. “Not like we’re not already wanted for—uh—our “minor” crime spree.” He clears his throat for good measure.

Half his team turned on him with glares.

From across the warehouse, Dick’s eyes flicked, just a hint of surprise crossing his face. Conner, huh? That’s his name. He made a mental note, letting it settle.

Conner stiffened slightly, a micro-flinch, just enough that Tim caught it.

The humor bled out in an instant. The other team stiffened, weapons and stances tightening again. Artemis’s bow dipped, but only into a readied angle. M’gann’s suspicion cooled to wary curiosity.

And Dick—Dick finally spoke. His voice was even, but there was iron under it. “Names carry weight. If you’re wearing them, you’d better be ready to prove you can.”

His shoulders looked relaxed, but his eyes didn’t waver off Tim, studying him like a riddle that didn’t quite add up.

Artemis flicked a glance at Conner without shifting her aim. Conner caught it and made a sharp, deliberate noise in his throat, cutting the silence.

“Enough stalling,” Conner said flatly. “Why are you really here?”

Tim exhaled, cape rustling as he stepped forward. Okay. Reset. Keep it calm. Keep it simple.
“Right… look, we’re not here to cause trouble. We’re from—”

 Tim registered Cassie’s hands shoot up—classic peacemaker move. She cuts in. “Hold—we’re not your enemies. We’re just…” she hesitated, “…lost.”

Seriously? Do I have an invisibility cloak on? Why is everyone cutting me off?

Tim seized the opening, forcing his voice steady. “Like I said… we’re not from here. We’re from another—”

And then—predictably, inevitably—Klarion yawned. Loud. Obnoxious.

“Boooooring,” he drawled, stretching like a cat. His grin cut across the air, sharp and wild. “All this talking, talking, talking—when it could be so much more fun!”

Of course. Of course he would.

Before Tim could bark a warning, Klarion flicked his wrist. Crimson sparks cracked against the air like firecrackers, and the whole warehouse shuddered as shadows bent at impossible angles.

“Finally!” Slobo whooped.

“Oh no, no no no—” Tim groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Why do I even try?

“Klarion!” Bart yelled, pointing a finger skyward like it would somehow contain the chaos.

On the other side, Artemis’s head snapped up. “Klarion?” Her voice sharpened. “Did you just say—?”

Dick’s jaw tightened. He ducked to a corner, tapping his comm. “Kaldur. Confirmed. It’s Klarion. Warehouse, multiple hostiles—they’re acquaintances. We were being stalled.”

Kaldur’s calm voice crackled back. “Copy that. Proceed carefully. Don’t engage unless necessary. Be prepared for combat.”

“Wait no—” Cassie pleaded, but her voice was lost in the sudden tension.

Tim’s eyes scanned the warehouse, taking in the flicker of shadows, the twitching bows, the slight hum of energy from the metas. He squared his shoulders. “Positions, everyone. Now.”

On the far side, Dick’s cape shifted as he mirrored the motion, calm but precise. “Team, positions. Keep your eyes sharp. Hold unless I say otherwise.”

The two squads reacted instantly, pivoting, ducking, firing, coordinating in a tense, mirrored rhythm—each side instinctively reading the other. Artemis’s bow twanged again, an arrow streaking past a crate, narrowly missing one of Tim’s team.

The warehouse erupted into controlled chaos. Red sparks, whistling projectiles, and shouted commands filled the space.

And just like that, diplomacy was dead.

Man, they should’ve just stayed in the station.

The Bioship touched down with a soft thud in Blüdhaven’s industrial district, near the old Pier 13 warehouse—a husk of rusted cranes and cracked concrete, the smell of salt and oil clinging to the damp air. Shadows stretched long across the empty docks, perfect cover for whatever dark magic had decided to roost here.

“Finally… Blüdhaven at last! That trip took, like forever!” Wally vaulted off the ramp, arms flung wide like he’d just arrived at a beach resort. “Home of the finest seafood and cheapest arcade tokens in the tri-state area! I think…”

Raquel hopped down after him, folding her arms. “You’ve been whining since takeoff. Don’t act like this is Disneyland.”

“Disneyland doesn’t have crab fries this good,” Wally shot back, grinning as he zipped to one side of the dock and back again in a blur. “And hey, you’ll thank me when we refuel with a Blüdhaven special. Two pounds of grease, one napkin.”

“Gross,” Raquel muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

Zatanna descended last, her boots tapping softly against the concrete. Her eyes narrowed. A low hum of raw magic vibrated through the air, crawling along her skin like static. “Shh.” She lifted a hand, silencing the banter. “Do you feel that? The wards here are shredded. Something’s bleeding power all over the place.”

Raquel followed her gaze. Sparks of blue and purple danced across the warehouse walls, warping reflections in the puddles. “Woah…” Her voice dropped, uneasy. “That’s not a normal shimmer. It’s like the air itself is cracking.”

“Not cracks.” Zatanna drew a quick sigil, light trailing from her fingertips. “Portals. Unstable ones.”

Wally edged closer, curiosity burning brighter than caution. “Sooo… interdimensional wormholes of doom? Check. But, uh—” he tilted his head, squinting—“they don’t look that dangerous.”

“Don’t,” Zatanna snapped, her eyes flashing as she held her spell steady. “You don’t poke a live wire just because it looks pretty. Both of you, stay behind me.”

Raquel shifted her weight, jaw tight. “Yeah, listen to her, fast boy. I don’t need to watch you get shredded into… I dunno, time-confetti.”

Wally grinned, unfazed. “Relax, I’m a professional at not dying. Ninety-nine percent track record, by the way.”

“Make that ninety-eight if you take one more step,” Raquel warned.

Zatanna keyed her comm. “League, we’ve landed at the pier. Multiple magical spikes detected, portals forming. Over.”

“Copy,” Batman’s voice came through, calm and precise. “Pier 13 coordinates noted. Be careful.”

“Kaldur here. Keep your distance from the magic, team. Proceed cautiously,” Kaldur added.

Raquel’s gaze followed Zatanna’s. Sparks of blue and purple danced across the warehouse walls, reflecting in the puddles on the concrete. “Woah…” she whispered. The air seemed to twist, heat shimmering over distorted, translucent portals that opened and closed at random.

“Where do you think these lead?” Wally asked, leaning forward to peer into one of the swirling rifts.

Zatanna’s fingers twitched as she conjured a tiny glowing sigil in the air. “I don’t know. But it’s definitely not good. These are unstable… like the building itself is bleeding magic.”

Raquel frowned, glancing between the sigil and the nearest portal. “And you’re just… staring? This place is giving me the creeps.”

Wally barely registered her words, his eyes locked on the largest portal, its colors twisting like molten glass. He took a cautious step closer.

“Kid Flash, seriously—don’t touch anything,” Zatanna warned, her voice sharp. Sparks of magic crackled around her sigil, illuminating the warped floorboards.

“Yeah… you might get sucked in,” Raquel added, stepping in front of him with an exaggerated shove. “You’re literally staring at it like it owes you money.”

Wally blinked, torn between her grip and the pull of the portal. Something about it tugged at him—an itch he couldn’t shake, like it was calling him. He swallowed, trying to focus on anything else, but the swirling colors danced across his vision, impossible to ignore.

“Guys relax. I’ll be fine! Just checking, you know? See!” He leaned in, just an inch closer.

And that was all it took.

A violent pulse erupted from the portal, and a force yanked him forward before he could react. His feet left the ground, arms flailing as the shimmering vortex swallowed him up.

“KID FLASH!” Raquel yelled, lunging, but it was too late—he was already being pulled forward, his body tilting toward the portal. His fingers scraped against the air, trying to grab anything solid.

“Rocket… it’s pulling me in!” he shouted, voice strained, eyes wide with alarm.

“Hold on! Don’t fight it!” she yelled, bracing her feet, reaching for him with all her strength.

Wally’s vision twisted, the edges of reality bending as the portal’s energy clawed at him. Shapes and colors blurred together, disorienting him, and for a terrifying moment he felt weightless, untethered from the world.

And then… he saw them.

Beyond the portal, the League—but not their League.

The Flash stood tall, somehow different, younger maybe? Although serious, but definitely not like Uncle Barry, his lightning crackled differently around him, Wally thinks. Superman hovered nearby, cape rippling, every line of his face drawn tight with strain. Martian Manhunter loomed beside them, unreadable but heavy, while Batman lingered in the shadows, voice a promise of violence even unspoken. And at their center—someone Wally didn’t recognize. Sleek black suit, a sharp blue bird blazing across the chest, every movement carrying command.

“They’ve been gone two days straight,” Superman said, his voice low but urgent.

“They wouldn’t just vanish,” Flash cut in, tone sharper than usual, sparks prickling along his arms. “Not without leaving something.”

The man with the blue bird emblem spoke next, clipped but tense. “Last confirmed sighting was San Francisco. They were up against Queen Bee. Then Klarion appeared through a portal—and then nothing. They’re gone. I’ve already chased three false leads, but…” His jaw tightened. “Robin doesn’t disappear. Not without telling me.”

Wally’s stomach lurched. Robin? What on earth is going on?

“They can’t just be gone,” Flash said, quieter this time, more taut than flippant. “Impulse’s involved. If we don’t find him—he might get hurt.” A pause. “ And, uh… someone back home is so going to kill me if I don’t find him soon.” he continued.

Superman cast the bird-emblemed guy a sidelong glance, sharp and deliberate. Flash’s eyes flicked to the floor briefly, tension tightening across his shoulders.

Martian Manhunter’s tone pressed down like a stone. “If we do not act soon, the consequences could extend far beyond this world.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed before he spoke, scanning the room with surgical precision. “We move now. Every second counts. No room for mistakes.”

Then Batman saw him.

Before he could process it, all heads snapped toward him. Every eye in the room locked on the shimmer of the portal… on him.

“Uh… hi?” Wally muttered, his voice catching in his throat, slightly muffled through the portal’s shifting surface.

For a moment, the room went completely still. Shock, recognition, confusion— it hung thick in the air. Oh no. Everyone’s staring. Everyone’s staring at me.

Batman’s gaze pierced through the haze first, sharp and unyielding, like he could measure every inch of Wally through the flickering light. Wally’s chest tightened under that weight. Yup. Definitely terrifying. That’s Batman alrightly. Okay Wally, don’t panic. Don’t—oh crap, too late.

Then the figure with the blue bird emblem—clearly unnerved—stepped forward, hand reaching out. “Wait!—”

From the other side of the portal, Raquel’s grip tightened, muffled but fierce. “Hang on, Walls! I’ve got you!”

With a final pull, she yanked him free. The portal collapsed behind him, leaving him blinking, dripping, and slightly disoriented.

“Wha… what…?” Wally gasped.

“Kid Flash!” Zatanna snapped, shaking her head. “That was too close.”

Raquel frowned, eyes narrowing. “Well? What did you see?”

Wally swallowed, still staring at the space where the portal had been. “Uh… I think I should probably report that to the League.”

The shimmering rifts that had filled the pier wavered like heat on asphalt, flickering through hues of violet and blue. Wally’s vision spun, residual colors twisting in his sight, edges of reality shimmering like glass. He could still feel the pull of the portals in his chest, hear ghostly echoes of voices that weren’t quite real. Then, as quietly as they had appeared, the portals dissolved into thin air.

The smell of ozone lingered faintly, and the docks felt emptier somehow, the magical tension gone—but in Wally’s mind, the image of that alternate League, of that blue guy reaching toward him, lingered like a pulse he couldn’t shake.

Wally’s heart hammered in his chest, and his hands were still trembling from the portal’s pull. His eyes darted around the empty pier, trying to find some clue, anything familiar. What was that…? And… who was that…? His breath came fast and shallow, and he felt a flicker of unease gnawing at the back of his mind.

The warehouse echoed with the chaos of fists, metal, and powers colliding. Dust shivered from the rafters as two teams crashed headlong.

Tim’s staff snapped up on instinct, intercepting a blow—metal against metal, the impact reverberating down his arms.

CLANG!

Alright, we’re back to this scene now. Familiar, everyone? 

Anyway, brace yourselves guys. Cause shit’s about to hit the fan.

Robin met Robin in the center, staffs sparking as they collided and locked. Neither gave an inch.

Dick’s eyes narrowed, scanning the movements. Nice form— he thought, impressed despite himself. The rhythm, the balance, the subtle shifts in weight before each strike… familiar. Too familiar. That’s… actually really good. 

As for Tim however, while his body braced for the counterstrike, His  brain was cataloging everything—stance, timing, follow-through. He knew this rhythm. The shift of weight before a strike, the precise control of momentum, the way the staff became an extension of the body.

Because holy #%$^, it’s FLIPPING DICK GRAYSON!

His chest tightened. The assumption was gone, replaced with certainty—and an almost embarrassing spark of awe. Of course it’s him. He always knew it was him. The fluidity, the edge of theatricality tucked beneath perfect form, even the way he grinned mid-clash—no one else fought like that.

Dick’s grin was sharp, testing. “Not bad~ Who’s been training you—daddy’s day camp?”

Tim’s reply was flat and deliberate: “Yours.” Oh my gosh, it really is Dick. No one quips mid-battle like him!

For a beat, Dick blinked, the grin slipping just a fraction. “…Cute.”

That half-second was all Anita needed. Her blade hissed past his shoulder.

“Eyes over here, Boy Wonder,” she teased, pressing the attack, footwork crisp, every movement measured.

Right, Tim. Focus.

“Cheating already?” Dick barked, shoving her back with the butt of his staff. “You kids play dirty.”

“Only way to win, Robin.” Anita shot back.

Dick pivoted sharply, staff whistling as he swung for Robin’s head—

And hit Empress instead.

She smirked, appearing in Tim’s place, blade locking against his staff with a clang. The sudden shift threw Dick off balance for half a heartbeat.

“What the—” he snarled, twisting away, only for Tim to snap back into position behind him.

“You’re welcome, Bird Wonder,” Anita murmured in Tim’s head, her telepathic nudge just enough to keep their rhythm tight.

Dick spun, blocking Tim’s strike at the last second, but his eyes flicked between them, calculating. “Teleporting tag-team? Cute trick. But tricks don’t win fights.”

“Depends on the trick, we just happen to have many.” Anita said sweetly, vanishing again. She reappeared just as Dick lunged for Tim, their weapons clashing so hard sparks spat against the concrete.

Tim’s jaw clenched. He usually hated relying on her like this, hated that it felt like he needed it—but for now, it was keeping Dick just one step behind…

Across the floor, Kon and Slobo circled Conner, feints and jabs keeping him off balance. Kon lunged left, then pivoted behind him, snapping a quick one-two combo while Slobo’s massive frame blocked any easy escape.

“Seriously? Two-on-one? You’re kidding,” Conner groaned, catching a punch from Slobo and shoving back with superhuman strength.

Slobo’s fangs gleamed in the dim light. “Boo-hoo. Welcome to Czarnian hospitality.” His other hand shot out—grabbing a chunk of rebar from the floor and bending it into a jagged hook mid-swing, aiming straight for Conner’s ribs.

Kon’s smirk widened. “Don’t worry, we’ll send you a postcard.”

“…Conner.” Kon added a wink for good measure.

Before Conner could give a heated retort, Kon’s hand clamped onto his shoulder—tactile telekinesis flaring. The concrete beneath Conner’s boots buckled and cracked, pinning him for a split second as the telekinetic grip dragged his balance off-center.

“What the hell—” Conner grunted, shoving forward only to have the air shoved back into his lungs. Kon’s TTK released in a shockwave, slamming him chest-first into Slobo’s waiting uppercut.

The Czarnian’s punch landed like a freight train, rattling Conner’s teeth. He staggered, shaking it off, but Kon was already in his face, jabs blurring, every strike sharpened by bursts of telekinetic force that hit harder than his fists alone should allow.

“Got a whole playbook you’re not using, huh?” Kon taunted, ducking a swing. “Shame. And we’re supposed to be the same.”

Conner’s eyes narrowed, heat vision flaring—only for Slobo to hurl the twisted rebar into his line of sight, forcing him to blast it apart before the beam could land.

“Keep lookin’ at him,” Slobo growled, circling in again, “and I’ll take that pretty head of yours, off your shoulders.”

Cassie snapped her lasso, the coil whipping around Artemis, cutting off angles and forcing her to retreat. Her movements were sharp despite the dark circles under her eyes. Artemis ducked and rolled with the momentum, firing an arrow mid-spin that whistled past Bart’s ear, buzzing sluggishly at his side.

“Little slow today, speedy,” Artemis shot, ducking another lasso strike and losing an arrow in one fluid motion.

Bart zipped just far enough to avoid it, clutching his stomach. “Don’t judge me—I missed lunch, okay? And breakfast—and, technically, yesterday’s dinner—look, Speed Force metabolism is brutal!”

Cassie yanked the rope back with a smirk, pulling him back into position. “Focus, Imp! She’s actually aiming for your head.” Then, more to herself than him, “Last thing I need is to drag your body back after the week we’ve had.”

“Yeah, no kidding!” he yelped as another arrow whistled past.

Artemis snarled, snapping her bow sideways to block the golden cord, muscles straining as she shoved against Cassie’s pull. “Not bad. But you’ll have to try harder.”

Bart grinned, bouncing in place. “Don’t worry, we can try all day! Or at least until my blood sugar crashes.”

“Would you shut up while we’re trying not to die?” Anita barked from across the room, blade flashing against Dick’s staff.

“Multitasking!” Bart called back, zipping behind Artemis just long enough to tap her shoulder. “Tag, you’re it!”

Artemis whirled, losing an arrow point-blank—only for Cassie’s lasso to whip taut, dragging Artemis’s shot wide.

Near the far wall, Greta blurred ghostlike through M’gann’s psychic strike, her form flickering like a bad signal. Klarion cackled overhead, orbiting lazily with Teekl clinging to his cloak.

“Phasing contest! Kitty bets the redhead wins!” he jeered.

Teekl hissed, tail lashing like punctuation.

M’gann phased through Greta’s counter, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t a game.”

Greta’s voice was soft but firm, even as her outline wavered. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Their forms passed through one another in a blur—two shadows brushing against the other but never touching—before M’gann spun, psychic pressure rippling outward like a wave. Greta staggered, flickering hard as if her whole body had skipped frames.

Gritting her teeth, Greta vanished into the floor, reappearing at M’gann’s flank. Her hand swiped through the Martian’s side like smoke, but the gesture carried weight—a reminder that if Greta solidified mid-swipe, it would cut deep.

M’gann countered instantly, turning her psychic push into a mental blade, slicing toward Greta’s mind instead of her body. Greta gasped, clutching her head as her form spasmed, glitching between solid and phantom.

Klarion clapped gleefully from above. “Oooh, I love a meltdown match!”

But Greta steadied, pulling herself back together with visible strain. Her translucent eyes narrowed on M’gann. “I’m not breaking—because you tell me to.”

M’gann’s expression flickered, sympathy straining through her battle focus. “Then stop fighting like you’re holding back.”

Tim ducked under Dick’s strike, staff scraping the concrete as sparks rained where they’d clashed a moment before. His arms ached, every muscle screaming, but his brain wouldn’t stop cataloguing—stances, tells, every line of attack. His grip slipped for half a second, nearly costing him the block, before instinct hauled it back into line.

Then Dick did a quick spin, pivoting midair in that impossible, smooth way. Classic Dick. Tim’s pulse stuttered for a fraction of a second—fleeting fanboy moment—but he shoved it aside. Geek out later. Focus first.

Anita blinked into place beside him, catching her breath. Sweat slicked her temple, her blade wavering only a fraction in her grip. “This is… getting old fast.” She coughed as she blinked again, chest heaving, that split-second delay nearly fatal.

“Tell me about it,” Tim muttered, twirling his staff to block another strike. His gaze flicked toward Klarion, still circling gleefully above, tossing lazy sparks that made the warehouse groan and warp. He was the variable. The reason both teams were here fighting. The one piece no one had pinned down yet. 

Dick lunged, staff arcing fast enough to rattle Tim’s teeth. “Funny,” he said lightly, “you’re swinging like you’ve got something planned. Is this how you usually spend your nights? Punching strangers while your ‘friend’ wrecks the place?” he demanded, chin jerking toward Klarion, who’s playing with fire as of the moment.

Tim’s jaw clenched. “We’re not with him.” He parried, low and tight, then jabbed forward. “If anything, he’s the reason we’re here.” 

He remembers Stephanie’s comment way back, “Congratulations, Rob, you’re officially the first Robin to get grounded by association.” Okay, technically not grounded, but same thing.

“Convenient,” Dick shot back, tone sharp but not dismissive.

Tim swallowed hard, fighting to keep the words even as he sidestepped another blow. “You don’t have to trust us. Just see for yourself.”

He shifted, a sharp whistle cutting through the din. A signal.

Cassie caught it instantly, her lasso snapping not at Artemis this time but upward—coil arcing toward Klarion’s ankle. Bart blurred in a ragged streak, his speed uneven but enough to tug the rope taut at just the right moment.

Klarion yelped, spinning mid-air, Teekl hissing and clawing at the lasso. “Unfair! Unfair! I wasn’t playing with you!”

“Playtime’s over,” Cassie snarled, bracing herself and pulling with everything she had left.

Artemis growled, eyes narrowing. She fired an arrow in one clean motion, severing the lasso mid-pull. “Not on my watch.”

“Artemis—!” M’gann’s voice rang sharp, but before she could intervene, Bart zipped forward in a ragged zig-zag, snatching the free end of the lasso before it could recoil, however his form shuddering, not the clean lightning line it should be. He stumbled, nearly tripping over himself, but whipped it back into play.

“Thanks for the assist, blondie!” Bart chirped as he skidded past Artemis—hand darting out to tag her shoulder on instinct. “Boop!”

Artemis spun, furious. “What—are you—!” She lost another arrow point-blank at his retreating back.

Bart yelped, zigzagging wildly. The arrow clipped the lasso instead, nearly unraveling Cassie’s bind before Bart clutched it tighter, saving the tether by sheer luck. “Hey! Friendly fire much?!”

“You’re not friendly!” Artemis snapped, already knocking another arrow.

Kon shoved Conner back with a blast of tactile telekinesis, sending him skidding across the cracked floor. Before Conner could counter, Kon redirected the TK upward, slamming into Klarion’s ribs. the push stuttered, sparks spitting as his control wavered. The sorcerer lurched, sputtering sparks as the invisible force kept him off balance.

Conner recovered fast, barreling forward—and Kon had to block him head-on, TK crackling as their fists met. “Eyes on me,” Conner growled, teeth bared. “You don’t get to ignore me.”

“Yeah, no, that’s kind of the point,” Kon shot back, holding his ground. “You’re in the way, Clone boy.”

Conner’s eyes flashed. “How did you—” He lunged without thinking, throwing all his weight into a tackle meant to drive Kon through the floor.

But Kon wasn’t there. He slid aside with fluid precision, TK tugging at Conner’s center of gravity to send him crashing past, skidding across broken concrete.

“Woah! Touchy,” Kon called after him, lips curling. “Guess I struck a nerve.”

Anita blinked out of sight in the same breath—then reappeared above, blade flashing silver in the grim light. She slashed downward, not at Klarion, but through the air around the lasso, weaving it tighter, binding his arms in a constricting knot. Her voice echoed directly into his head, cold and taunting: “Not so fun when you’re the one cornered, huh?”

Dick lunged instantly, staff swinging up to knock her blade wide. “You think you can just stab your way to victory?” He shoved her back hard, forcing Anita to blink out before she lost her balance.

Klarion shrieked, his body jerking as his concentration faltered.

Miss Martian’s psychic shove cut off, staggered by Greta’s sudden lunge through her chest. The ghost girl shot upward, body half-fading. Her hands sank into Klarion’s chest—and then solidified for just a heartbeat. His howl tore through the rafters, crimson sparks bursting uncontrolled.

Dust rained down as a support beam cracked.

Tim saw it—saw everything. His pulse raced, staff deflecting Dick’s next strike almost automatically.

They were exhausted. Bruised. Running on fumes.
And yet—
They were winning.
If Tim could just keep them locked on target, they could end this.

Dick’s eyes flicked up toward the chaos above, suspicion clouded by something else—hesitation.

Tim seized it. “We told you—we’re not with him!” His staff snapped forward, parrying hard, forcing Dick back. His eyes never left Klarion. “This ends with him.”

Cassie heaved on the lasso, dragging Bart with her as the coil cinched tighter around Klarion’s ankle. “Down you go!”

Slobo roared, charging into position, though his limp made him slower, but momentum carried him through. He caught Klarion mid-fall and drove him into the floor hard enough to split the concrete. “Courtesy of Czarnia,” he growled, pinning the shrieking sorcerer with sheer brute weight.

Klarion writhed, sparks sputtering weakly, the lasso glowing gold against his skin. Teekl screeched from the rafters, tail lashing, but didn’t dare leap.

And for one heartbeat—just one—the battle stopped.
Both teams froze where they stood, weapons raised but still, every gaze locked on Klarion thrashing between them.

Tim’s chest heaved. His grip tightened around the staff slick in his hand.
Not a truce. Definitely not trust. Not yet at least.
But maybe… finally, a breath.

Only his body betrayed him. The adrenaline that had carried him—no them, this far—the only thing that was keeping his focus sharp, his limbs moving; all burned out at once. Oh no.

First, Cassie’s knees buckled, the lasso slipping loose from her sweat-slick grip. She gasped, shoulders trembling from strain she’d been biting back for minutes.

Then, Bart stumbled into her, blur breaking apart into stutters of speed. His goggles skewed sideways as he slumped against her arm, still trying to joke—but no sound came out.

Kon then promptly hit the ground next with a grunt, his telekinetic field sputtering out in a final fizz of sparks before his chest heaved shallow and still.

Anita flickered mid-step, her blade clattering from nerveless fingers. She reappeared half a foot too low and crumpled, coughing once before she hit the floor hard.

Slobo toppled last, his roar cut off as his knees gave way. He crashed down like a felled slab of concrete, dust billowing around his motionless frame.

And lastly, Tim—his staff slid from his numb hands, arms no longer answering his will. He had just enough time to think not yet before the dark swallowed him.

THUMP.

Then silence.

Only Greta hovered above the heap, her flickering outline steady where theirs had failed. She tilted her head, voice soft and toneless. Unsurprised.

“…Oh. Welp, there they go.”

Klarion thrashed against the bindings, outraged. “What—what is this?! Everyone just dies on me?! That’s not fair! That’s not fair at all!”

Teekl hissed in sharp agreement, tail whipping.

The others however,  just… stared.

Artemis lowered her bow by degrees, eyes flicking from Klarion’s thrashing form to the heap of unconscious teens. “…What the hell on Earth just happened? Did they just turn on him?”

M’gann drifted closer, scanning the heap with furrowed brows. Her voice was soft, cautious. “Guess they weren’t with him after all. Not really.” 

“I can still feel them—they’re alive. Just… completely drained.” M’gann continued, the relief in her tone didn’t hide the edge of unease.

Greta’s flicker steadied, her reply almost too calm. “Don’t worry. That’s just… how they are sometimes. Push too hard, burn out, crash.” She tilted her head slightly. “It happens.”

Conner’s arms crossed tight, jaw working as he stared down at the collapsed group. “…So after all that, they knock him down,” he points at Klarion’s thrashing figure, “And then pass out like that? That was kinda… underwhelming.” he added.

A ragged breath broke the silence. Dick—half wheezing, half laughing, staff tucked under one arm as he tried to process what he’d just seen. “Nah, it was just kinda whelmed, honestly—”

“Rob. No.” Artemis snapped before he could push it further, sharp and automatic.

He raised both hands in mock surrender, though the twitch of a grin betrayed him.

For a long, strange beat, the only sound in the warehouse was Klarion screeching into the bindings, Teekl yowling as the cat tried—and failed to claw him loose.

“…Kaldur, did you catch all that just now?” Artemis muttered finally, pressing fingers to her comm.

A calm voice crackled back almost immediately. “I did. Just catalogued  all of it. Do we need to send the Bioship?”

Dick hesitated, glancing at the crumpled forms of the other team. His voice lost its humor as he exhaled. “Yeah… And bring some medical supplies too. Though not for us.” His eyes flicked to Tim, who lay limp near the center of the pile. “…For them.”

Static hummed for half a second before Kaldur replied, steady as ever. “Understood. Preparing extraction now.”

And with that, the silence pressed heavier, the only movement coming from Klarion’s futile thrashing, and the faint rise and fall of Tim’s chest.

Chapter Text

The room was still, heavy with the hum of orbiting machinery. Around the long table sat Earth’s mightiest—Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Flash, Green Lantern Hal Jordan, Green Lantern John Stewart, Green Arrow, Black Canary, Hawkman, Hawkgirl, Martian Manhunter, Red Tornado, Captain Atom, Dr. Fate… Basically the whole Justice League VIP section.

Batman stood at the head of the table, gloved hands clasped behind his back. “You already know why we’re all here.”

A low ripple of acknowledgment passed through the room—curt nods, hard stares. Even Flash was uncharacteristically quiet, drumming his fingers on the table instead of cracking jokes.

“For the past two weeks,” Batman continued, “a rogue team operating under the Young Justice name has moved across multiple cities. Their actions have caused property damage, civilian panic, and widespread confusion. The result: public confidence in our junior team—and, by extension, the League—has plummeted.”

Hal leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his ring glinting in the overhead light. “So what are we talking about here? PR cleanup, or full-on containment? Because if this is just another meeting that could’ve been an email, then I should g—”

Batman’s voice cut him off, low and sharp. “May I remind you about the robbing incident in your city?”

Hal blinked. “Hey, I wasn’t even there when that happened! I was off-world! Guy was covering sector duties that week—”

John Stewart didn’t look up from the datapad in front of him. “You’re still listed as sector lead, Hal. Paperwork doesn’t care about your vacation days.”

Hal groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Unbelievable! Miss one crazy PR heist and suddenly I’m public enemy number one. It’s not like they brought Doomsday to Coast City! Geez people.”

“And this is exactly why we don’t leave it to Guy.” John coughed.

“Enough,” Diana said, her tone like tempered steel. “This isn’t a laughing matter. Every reckless action done under the Young Justice name undermines the trust we’ve built.”

Oliver Queen—Green Arrow leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Somebody’s clearly pulling strings here. This kind of coordination doesn’t come from amateurs, ya know. Whoever’s behind it knows exactly how to make the kids look bad. I mean they have a flipping rogue Robin, like seriously?”

Dinah Lance—Black Canary’s eyes narrowed. “And it looks like they’ve done their homework. Each attack mirrored the team’s known tactics. Just enough to fool the press, and the public.”

“Even the exploding duck in Central City?” Hal asked, eyebrows raised.

A beat. No one had anything to say to that.

Batman’s expression didn’t waver. “Which is why we focus on containment and optics. We manage this cleanly, or we lose ground we may not recover.”

Arthur Curry—Aquaman’s voice rumbled across the table like distant thunder. “Containment won’t stop public fear. People want answers, not silence. Every city touched by this chaos demands reassurance that their protectors still stand for something.”

J’onn’s calm voice followed, deep and resonant. “Aquaman is correct. But fear is not our only enemy. The pattern of these attacks suggests outside influence. This could be a stress test—designed to see how far we can be provoked before we fracture.”

Carter Hall—Hawkman’s wings shifted with a faint rustle of metal and feathers. “Then whoever’s testing us is about to find out we don’t fracture easily.” 

Kendra Saunders— Hawkgirl smirked, leaning back in her chair. “Careful, Carter. That almost sounded optimistic.” she chided.

He gave her a flat look. “Almost.”

Red Tornado spoke next, his voice precise and even, like an audio file on loop. “I recommend maintaining surveillance on the captured impostors. Further rash action could compromise public trust or expose internal coordination failures.”

Nathan Adam—Captain Atom leaned forward, metallic fingers tapping against the table with a faint clink. “We’ll also need full scans on whatever energy or tech signatures they were using. Some of those explosions didn’t read like standard ordnance.”

Batman gave a short nod. “Kaldur has been reviewing the surveillance footage from several incidents. There he found… inconsistencies—formation shifts, tactical choices that don’t match any of the team’s previous patterns. He believes it’s better presented when the full League is assembled.”

Arthur inclined his head slightly, voice steady. “He contacted me as well. Whatever he found, he was certain it wasn't a coincidence. He might have a hunch on something we ourselves may not know.”

Clark’s brow furrowed. “So you’re saying it's not just imitation; it might be something deliberate? ”

Batman didn’t answer, but the silence spoke enough.

Dr. Fate’s voice reverberated through his helm. “Nor were they purely technological. The balance of magic has been… unstable. There were significant spikes in Blüdhaven— A portal breach where Kid Flash, Rocket, and Zatanna intervened. If this pattern continues, it may point to something far older than simple impersonation.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. “Zatanna’s report mentioned that as well. She observed localized distortions—energy flares inconsistent with any known thaumaturgic field, and Kid Flash has seen what’s behind one of those wormholes. We’ll need to cross-reference them with the timing of the attacks.”

Barry frowned, fingers drumming rapidly. “So while the team’s cleaning up these fake-outs, someone’s using that chaos as cover for something bigger?”

John Stewart nodded once. “Wouldn’t be the first time. We’ve seen this play before—distraction on one end, setup on another.”

Clark’s gaze moved to Batman. “You’re thinking this isn’t just about the impostors.”

“I’m thinking,” Batman said evenly, “that someone wanted our attention divided. And until we know who, we should assume every move since this began has been deliberate.”

A silence fell across the table—thoughtful, heavy.

Then Batman’s communicator lit up. He glanced down, eyes narrowing. “Update. Young Justice has successfully captured the impostors. All of them are in containment, unconscious but stable.”

Hal exhaled. “Well, that’s something.”

“Not enough,” Carter said. “We still don’t know who sent them or why.”

Clark leaned back, thoughtful. “Then we start with what we do know—through the team themselves.”

Batman nodded once. “Agreed. We’ll contact Mount Justice for immediate debrief.” He turned to Red Tornado. “Establish the secure link.”

The android inclined his head, glowing eyes flickering as he worked. “Channel initializing. Encryption at maximum.”

Dr. Fate’s voice lingered, quiet but certain. “Whatever force set this in motion… it is not finished.”

The Watchtower lights dimmed slightly as the comms interface flared to life—the League turning their focus to the screen as the call to Young Justice connected.

And something tells them that there’s more to this than meets the eye.

Moments ago, they’d been watching the "Other Young Justice" for a while now—or, as Wally insisted on calling them, the Hot Topic Team. 

"Don't compare them to Justice," Artemis snapped, lacing her signature combat boots. "They’re barely even a decent distraction. I voted for Fake Justice." Dick grinned from across the room. 

"They've got a Robin. That's practically a compliment, Arty." She threw a glove at him. This time, he caught it with a flourish.

Now, crouched above the fog-wrapped docks, he regretted sounding so confident. The air tasted like rust and rain. Below them, the decoy van skidded into the abandoned textile warehouse, headlights slicing through mist, chasing the team's van till they’re cornered. 

M’gann’s voice brushed into his mind. They’re in.
Define "in." I just watched their Superboy jump out of a moving vehicle, Artemis thought, sharp and dry. 

We’re about to make some terrible life choices, Dick said, watching through his lenses. Is everyone ready?
Conner’s response was a low grumble. I’ll take the big ones.
You always take the big ones, Dick teased. Share the fun with us sometime.

Klarion snorted loudly. “Well. If it isn’t the discount aisle Justice League.”

“Funny,” Artemis shot back instantly, knocking an arrow without hesitation. “I was about to say the same thing.”

Of course we're familiar with the scene that comes after it, the whole stall fest, "Young Just Us!” and then “Hot Topic Dumpster Fire?”. They sure look like it… 

“Terrible cover.” His lips still threatened to betray him, tugging just shy of a grin.

Of course, Klarion struck first, and then chaos followed. 

“Team, positions’ . Keep your eyes sharp. Hold unless I say otherwise,” Dick barked, ready to strike. Artemis rolled into cover, Conner charged straight through debris, and M’gann raised a glowing green barrier that sizzled against hexfire.

But they didn't expect what came next. The Hot Topic Team exploded into motion—trained motion. The ghost phased through spells, and the teleporter blinked to intercept another. Blondie Girl caught a hex midair and slammed it back like a volleyball. Their Superboy—different build, body glowing faintly green—absorbed the brunt of an explosion that would’ve crushed a tank.

They’re working together like they’ve done this a hundred times, M’gann said. It’s not improvisation. It’s instinct!

No way, Artemis countered. They’re barely older than us… maybe.

Or younger,  Dick thought grimly, watching their Robin flip a bo staff identical to his own and redirect a spell back at Klarion with perfect precision. Hard to tell under all that drama.

All that drama you say? Conner grunted, I’m getting my face clawed off by Budget Kiss Fanboy.

Artemis cracked, I dunno, Rob. Their Rob is a pretty solid impersonation of you.

Wally’s rubbing in on her.

Dick pretended not to hear.

He watched their Robin—flip a bo staff identical to his own and redirect a spell back at Klarion with perfect precision. Something about the other Robin's posture made Dick’s stomach twist. He looked too… familiar. Clearly trained, but from who?

Dick’s grin was sharp, testing. “Not bad~ Who’s been training you—daddy’s day camp?”

Other Robin’s reply was flat and deliberate: “Yours.” Funny guy, Dick thought.

For a beat, Dick blinked, the grin slipping just a fraction. “…Cute.”

That half-second was all Empress needed. Her blade hissed past his shoulder.

“Eyes over here, Boy Wonder,” she teased, pressing the attack, footwork crisp, every movement measured. Still, Dick Dodged that, but it caught him off guard—

M’gann, he sent, can you read them?

She hesitated. I can try. Just a brush.

They are moving too fast, too violently, M’gann sent, forcing her to focus on the roaring energy signature of Klarion’s magic. I seriously can’t believe we fell for this. 

All she heard was distortion and… straight monologues?

Ignore the distractions, M’gann! Find their anchor! Dick commanded, dodging a sweep of the teleporter’s hand, which blinked away before he could counter, raw magical pressure and trying to pierce the minds of her immediate threats.

Near the far wall, The ghostgirl  blurred through M’gann’s psychic strike, her form flickering like a bad signal. Klarion cackled overhead, orbiting lazily with Teekl clinging to his cloak.

“Phasing contest! Kitty bets the redhead wins!” he jeered.

Teekl hissed, tail lashing like punctuation.

M’gann phased through Greta’s counter, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t a game.”

Greta’s voice was soft but firm, even as her outline wavered. “Could’ve fooled me.”

First, Klarion, let’s start with him. Her consciousness brushed the edge of the Lord of Chaos and recoiled instantly. Klarion’s mind is a storm of hexes and screaming, she reported, wincing. It’s not thought—it’s pure, white-hot magical noise. Static. Though flashes of random memories surface here and there. Notably about his cat.

Aww, Klarion loves his cat, she thought. It would’ve been a sweet sentiment if it weren’t for the fact that he’s kinda throwing hexes at them for sport.

Focus M’gann.

She tried the hovering ghost girl next, who was phasing idly around her team’s attacks. She’s intangible, M’gann thought. Her mind is so faint… I can barely grasp it— ...She grazed the phasing girl's mind. So faint... I can barely grasp it— ...Hope Harrison Ford doesn't die. Star Wars bet— Movies? She’s thinking about movies!

Wait, no. Something’s not right.

M'gann shifted, needing concrete intel, aiming for the speedster next. Too fast! she cried out. His mind is a blur of hyper-kinetic memory fragments and future anxieties! I can’t—  …No! The Force isn’t ready for me yet! I’m not ready to duel Darth Vader and babysit the galax— M'gann snapped back just as the speedster tripped over his own feet with a surprised "EEP!" and barely dodged an arrow from Artemis.

“Ca—Wonder Girl, Arrowette-lite is crazy! She’s out for blood!” 

She tried to pin down the teleporter. She blinks too often! M'gann realized, tracking the shifting energy signature. I can only catch a split-second— ...Seriously? Another hex? Klarion, you— Gone. Okay, step left—no, right!—Gone. —grab a Robin!—Gone. WRONG ROBIN!— Boop. Holy, I just dodged that!— Gone again. —This is ridiculous. Like two Robins?— Gone. Kon, watch it!—Gone.

Kon?

M'gann pivoted, aiming for the Superboys grappling with Conner. She hit the pale kid first. Why is Superboy just wearing a T-Shirt? Ugly. Must destroy. Must smash. SLOBO SMA— M'gann flinched. Okay, let’s not get copyright infringement over here! Hard pass!

She quickly shifted to the other Superboy, Conner— or well, Kon she presumed. The glowing Superboy’s thoughts were a bizarre mix of battle calculation and casual whining. Shoot, I still owe Kyle fifteen bucks. It’s been weeks already…  Eh, I’ll pay him back later— Kon(?) roared, blocking a hit from her Conner, the green glow around him intensifying.

M’gann then desperately reached for Wonder Girl, who was using a glowing lasso to trip Conner while simultaneously deflecting Artemis’s Arrow with finesse. Maybe I should've stayed with Cissie. Zeus, I need a break. Diana and Mom are probably worried about me by now. Diana? Wonder Woman? M'gann thought, her mind a tangle of panic and information overload. They're not evil, Dick! I think—they're... incredibly normal and completely stressed out! Normal? Artemis shot back, forcing a reload. They just took down Conner!

M'gann desperately tried to filter the noise, the sheer volume of Star Wars references and familial panic. She then went for the quietest, most focused mind—the other Robin, currently engaged with Dick. His mind was a cold, quiet pool of calculation.

Her consciousness slipped past his defenses—and hit a wall. Not static. Not speed. A fortress.

Then came the thought, clean, deliberate, and delivered with the cold precision of a knife slipping through paper. I know you’re reading my mind, Megan. Your shield is weak on the northern end, and I know your real name is M'Gann M'orzz. Now stop.

A beat.

Then, with absolutely breathtaking pettiness Also, your cookies are burnt.

The psychic link detonated like someone had slammed a door in her face.
M’gann physically jerked, gasping, hands flying to her temples as her shield flickered for a fatal half-second.

Artemis’s head snapped toward her. What?! What happened, Meg?!

M’gann blinked rapidly, completely frazzled. He—he knew my name! And—
Her voice cracked with genuine Martian betrayal. And my baking!

Conner practically growled. You told him? He punctuated the accusation by hurling Slobo into a wall hard enough to offend architecture.

I didn’t say anything! M’gann squeaked. He just—picked it out of my brain! Like it was sitting on a shelf!

Dick didn’t look away from the other Robin, expression narrowing.
Same stance. Same footwork. Same weirdly judgmental aura. Nothing’s adding up. They know things they shouldn’t.

Still don’t know how he knew about my cookies, M’gann thought.

Out loud.

Into the still-active link.

Every single teammate turned toward her at the exact same time like a flock of judgmental pigeons.

She froze. …Woop. My bad team..  hehe…

Despite the psychic humiliation, the fight surged on—controlled chaos, spells flying, fists meeting faces, and way too many people yelling each other’s names.

Dick lunged, staff arcing fast enough to rattle the other Robin’s teeth. “Funny,” he said lightly, “you’re swinging like you’ve got something planned. Is this how you usually spend your nights? Punching strangers while your ‘friend’ wrecks the place?” he demanded, chin jerking toward Klarion, who’s playing with fire as of the moment.

His jaw clenched. “We’re not with him.” He parried, low and tight, then jabbed forward. “If anything, he’s the reason we’re here.” 

“Convenient,” Dick shot back, tone sharp but not dismissive. He doesn’t buy it though.

His opponent swallowed hard, fighting to keep the words even as he sidestepped another blow. “You don’t have to trust us. Just see for yourself.”

He the. shifted, a sharp whistle cutting through the din. A signal.

Then just as they were about to get the upper hand for wearing the team out, they pivoted on Klarion like they’d trained together for years. The ghost girl phased through a spell that should’ve disintegrated her. The teleporter blinked through magical shrapnel like he was skipping puddles. Their Superboy tanked a hex that would’ve folded a semi.

And in under sixty seconds, they had Klarion hogtied like he’d tripped into a rodeo, as if they weren’t on the same side moments ago.

Which was impressive.

And also really, really suspicious.

And just like that, the room fell silent again.

One by one, the impostors collapsed where they stood, like puppets with their strings cut. All except the ghost girl, who hovered in midair, translucent and faintly glowing.

She looked at the stunned heroes, then at her fallen teammates, and said dryly, “Should I also drop down and fall asleep with them? It seems to be the preferred method of victory around here.” 

Artemis groaned. “No thanks.” Dick couldn't help a sharp inhale of laughter that he quickly stifled.

“…Kaldur, did you catch all that just now?” Artemis muttered finally, pressing fingers to her comm.

A calm voice crackled back almost immediately. “I did. Just catalogued  all of it. Do we need to send the Bioship?”

Dick hesitated, glancing at the crumpled forms of the other team. His voice lost its humor as he exhaled. “Yeah… And bring some medical supplies too. Though not for us.” His eyes flicked to the other Robin, who lay limp near the center of the pile. The resemblance wasn’t entirely lost on him. “…For them.” he adds.

Static hummed for half a second before Kaldur replied, steady as ever. “Understood. Preparing extraction now.”

Greta drifted closer, still faintly glowing.

“So… what now?”

They’d figure something out with her.
Eventually.

“Kaldur, contact the League,” Dick called, gesturing toward the comms as Artemis and Conner lifted the unconscious teens. “Let them know the perps are in custody.”

Kaldur inclined his head, calm as ever. “On it,” he replied, already moving toward the console.

And now we're here, Present time. 

Kaldur’s thoughts wouldn’t quiet. The details refused to add up—the fight, the precision, the strange teamwork. The team they’d captured wasn’t right. Everything about that group screamed experienced unit, not cosplayers LARPing Young Justice’s greatest hits. Their style, their coordination, their attitude—they didn’t move like strangers pretending to be heroes or villains tainting their name. They moved like a team who already were one.

On top of that, their fighting styles didn't line up to the fake Young Justice's style from past week’s footage, almost as if they’re an entirely different group in the first place.

The zeta tube had barely cooled when Wally burst through it, half-dressed in his uniform and still tugging on his gloves.
“Get out. You’re telling me I missed that?”

Dick didn’t lift his eyes from the console, fingers flicking through data like he was playing ninety chess games at once. “Yeah, man. The universe conspired against you. Total tragedy.” He chuckled.

“Nu-uh! You conspired against me! They seriously called themselves Hot Topic Dumpster Fire!” Wally clutched his chest like someone had stabbed him with a clearance-rack spiked choker. “Do you get what it means that I missed that? That was free serotonin. That was emotional support chaos. That was history, man!”

“It wasn’t all that, Wally, really—”

“You had comedy gold in your grubby little hands, and I wasn’t there to witness it?” Wally threw his hands up. “I’m filing a formal complaint with, like, the universe or whatever. And I swear—this is how serious I am—I’m not playing video games with you Rob for, like… three whole days!”

Conner, looking one eye twitch away from leaving the room, pushed off the wall and crossed his arms. “You didn’t miss much. They merely stalled, we exchanged a few hits, then they passed out on us. That’s it.”

“But I could’ve been racing their speedster!” Wally’s voice cracked like he was auditioning for Force-sensitive puberty. “A scientific miracle! A cultural exchange! A bonding experience between two enlightened kinetic beings egg!”

Kaldur didn’t even pause as he rechecked the League footage. “Which is exactly why they did not bring you, Wally.”

Wally’s jaw dropped. “Wh— I am hurt. I am betrayed. I am—”

A thought slipped into the telepathic link before Megan could censor herself. You would have gotten launched into a wall again.

Wally gasped. “Wow. Even my own team conspires against me.”

Artemis smirked. “Wally, you get launched into walls on your own.”

“Unrelated to this discussion!”

“They’re not worth noting.” Conner grunted.

Artemis tilted her head, smirking. “Still thinking about them, Conner?”

“I’m not jealous,” Conner said, which was exactly what someone jealous would say.

“Never accused you of being jealous,” Artemis said sweetly, “but now that you brought it up—”

M’gann, who’d been quiet on the fringe of the room, finally snapped back into her body like she’d just returned from a mental field trip. Her brows knit together, expression soft but unsettled. She glanced between them.

“I don’t think Conner’s jealous,” she said, voice gentle but firm. “I was… listening in a little during the fight. Just surface thoughts. Curiosity.” Then her nose scrunched, like she’d sniffed an emotional flavor she didn’t enjoy. “They felt… normal, really. Coordinated, like close friends who’ve done this before. Like a puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit.”

Artemis arched a brow. “That’s comforting.”

M’gann drifted closer to Conner and nudged his shoulder, a quiet but unmistakable show of loyalty. “And for the record? If you think I’d ever pick some knockoff team over him, absolutely not.” Her smile brightened in that classic, sunshine-M’gann way. “Conner’s my person.”

Conner tried, valiantly, to pretend that didn’t make his ears pink.

Artemis softened just a hair. “Alright, alright, I’ll let him off the hook. This time.”

Before she could twist the knife again—or Conner could deny blushing—the zeta tube flared to life. Zatanna and Raquel materialized, stepping out mid-conversation like the universe had decided to drop more chaos into the room.

Zee sighed, flipping a strand of hair over her shoulder. “Okay, please tell me we didn’t just miss an actual brawl while Wally was out here playing with wormholes like he was re-enacting a low budget sci-fi movie.”

“Wormholes?” Dick looked up at that.

Raquel laughed, unstrapping her gauntlets. “Yeah, Blüdhaven was a mess. There were magic spikes and portals all over the place. One of them decided to eat Wally for like two seconds.”

“What?!” Artemis straightened immediately. “He got sucked in?!”

“Hey, hey!” Wally held up both hands. “Not sucked in, just—temporarily inconvenienced by the laws of physics!”

A pause. “Okay, maybe I did get sucked in a teeny-tiny bit.”

Zatanna grinned. “Kid Flash seriously came out looking like he’d gone through five rollercoasters and a blender.”

“Did not!” 

“Did so!”

Artemis stepped closer, voice fueled more with concern. “Wally.”

Wally rolled his eyes, voice softening into that “don’t-worry-Artemis” tone he uses when he’s trying to stay calm. “Seriously… it was just a weird portal. Seemed like an entirely different dimension. Though, I’ll explain once the League’s in the loop.”

Artemis stepped closer, all sharp edges gone. “You better be okay, Walls.”

“I’m good,” he promised, smiling small but steady. “Scout’s honor.”

Artemis frowned, not buying it. “You sure?”

“Promise,” he said, giving her a small, reassuring grin.

Kaldur, meanwhile, ignored the chatter around him, folding his hands behind his back. His gaze drifted toward the distant lights of the city below. “The timing of these portals and the appearance of our impostors… it surely cannot be coincidence,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge of gravity.

Dick’s eyes narrowed, the weight of that possibility sinking in. “You think they’re connected?”

“I think,” Kaldur replied, measured as ever, “that our situation is… larger than it appears. Something is orchestrating events beyond the surface.”

M’gann’s brow furrowed. “The team might not even be our enemies in the first place,” she offered quietly, hesitant but unwilling to stay silent.

Dick opened his mouth to respond, but the room remained still. Even Artemis, perched on the edge of a console with her arms crossed, didn’t interject. Both he and Kaldur murmured in thoughtful agreement, the unspoken weight of strategy and suspicion hanging between them.

A few seconds passed. The hum of the Watchtower’s machinery filled the silence, punctuated only by the occasional beep of a monitor or the distant whir of ventilation. Then, crisp and decisive, the console in front of Dick chimed—three tones sharp and exact.

The holographic insignia of the Justice League pulsed across the screen, casting pale blue light on the team’s faces. Every head snapped toward it instinctively, bodies tensing for the next wave of orders.

Dick straightened, snapping to authority even as adrenaline coursed in the background.” Okay. Eyes front team.”

The holograms of the Justice League flickered to life above the central table, their faces lit in pale blue. Batman’s image stood at the center, flanked by Superman and Wonder Woman. Around them, the other League members waited—Hal Jordan, John Stewart, Aquaman, Green Arrow, Black Canary, Hawkman, Hawkgirl, Martian Manhunter, Red Tornado, Captain Atom, and Dr. Fate… Minus Captain Marvel, who seems to not be present at the moment.

“Report,” Batman said, voice sharp, cutting through the low hum of the Watchtower.

Dick straightened, hands clasped behind his back. “We located the impostors at the Blüdhaven docks. They’d hijacked a van—spray-painted the initials YJ on the side like a neon target. We tracked them to a warehouse and engaged when they entered.”

“They resisted?” Diana asked, tone calm but probing.

“They fought,” Artemis said, crossing her arms. “Hard. But not like amateurs. Coordinated, precise, like they’d trained together.”

“Then great job apprehending them, team,” Clark added, nodding.

“Umm…”

“Mm?”

Conner folded his arms, one brow raised. “We… didn’t take them down. They wore themselves out. By the time we cornered them, they were already running on fumes.”

A tense pause settled over the room. Batman’s voice cut through, low and measured. “Condition?”

“All contained,” Dick said. “Medical scans underway. No immediate danger. But they were exhausted. Knocked out before we even got the chance. They must’ve fought something considering their injuries were recent.”

M’gann added quietly, “They were injured. Some of them are bad. It looked… older. Like Robin said, they’d been fighting for days before we even got there.”

Hal’s brow furrowed. “You’re sure they weren’t playing dead?”

“Positive,” Dick said. “I checked their vitals myself. They’re stable now. Each in separate containment, with meta-dampening collars in place. We’re not taking chances.”

Arthur’s expression darkened. “Then we must ask what, or who.”

J’onn’s voice carried softly. “Their minds, if touched, might reveal the truth—if it can be done safely.”

“No one probes them without authorization,” Batman said flatly.

The Watchtower briefing room went still. The young heroes traded micro-expressions—guilty, nervous, trying very hard not to look like they’d already done exactly that.

A beat passed.

Then Dick exhaled, the kind of sigh that meant he’d already decided to take the fall. “Okay, full transparency… we didn’t probe deeply. But… we did skim a bit into their thoughts during the fight.”

M’gann winced, shoulders tucked. “I did it,” she admitted softly. “Just surface thoughts. Nothing invasive. Just something that might give us a tactical edge.”

Dick stepped forward before she could take on any of the weight. “I made the call. We needed intel fast, and I trusted Miss Martian to keep it light and safe. If anyone’s getting benched for it, it’s me.”

Batman’s jaw tightened—just barely. Not anger. More the restrained tension of someone who knew he’d have made the same split-second decision in the field but couldn’t say that aloud with witnesses.

J’onn turned to M’gann. “What did you perceive?”

M’gann pressed her palms together, gathering her thoughts. “Not much that was useful. They were… unfocused on anything mission-critical. Their minds didn’t feel coordinated the way their bodies did. I caught flashes of random things. Star Wars arguments. Cat memories. And their Superboy who apparently owes money from Kyle? Though there were names mentioned that were familiar in their minds,” She blinked helplessly. “I honestly got more noise than intel.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Clark’s mouth. “Thank you for being honest about it.”

Clark looked around at the team—each standing a little taller now that the secret was out. “You made a judgment call in the middle of combat. You kept the touch light and non-harmful. And you owned it immediately when asked.” His gaze softened in that big-brother way of his. “That matters.”

Carter huffed, crossing his arms, but didn’t argue.

Kendra nudged him with a wing. “See? No disasters. Yet.”

Batman stepped forward, cape trailing like a shadow with opinions. “Going forward, all psychic contact must be cleared,” he said, voice stern but no longer icy. “But your honesty is noted.”

The tension in the room dissolved—not fully, but enough for the team to breathe again.

Clark nodded toward the screens. “Now. Let’s look at the data you recovered.” His tone warmed. “And figure out who these kids really are.”

Dick nodded. “We’ve logged everything we found. Transmitting copies now.”

Hal gave a low whistle. “Efficient. Almost like you’ve done this before.”

Batman didn’t look at him. “Now, Names.”

Dick nodded. “We didn’t find civilian identities in the database, but from what they called each other during the fight—and from cross-referencing old footage—we’ve got at least codenames, and a confirmed name from one of them.”

He flicked a control on his wrist, pulling up floating projections: blurry images from the battle.

“First, their Robin. Standard build, similar gear and costume design. When he went down, we recovered his belt and equipment.”

Clark leaned forward slightly. “And?”

Dick hesitated. “He had files. Our files. Young Justice dossiers. Names, power sets, mission summaries, even training footage. Looks like someone’s been studying us.”

A ripple of tension passed through the holograms. Batman’s eyes narrowed behind the cowl. “Continue.”

“The one in the leather jacket with the ‘S’ shield goes by Superboy, but Robin called him Conner, though they generally refer to him as Kon.”  Dick’s tone flickered, just slightly. “Yeah, same name. Similar power set, too. Minus that he could fly. Potentially more. Possibly cloned or genetically modified.”

Conner’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Then there's a blonde girl— Lasso, flight, and super strength. Calls herself Wonder Girl.”

Diana’s expression shifted immediately, the stern-warrior edge softening into something gentler, almost wistful. “A child claiming Themysciran ties?” Her voice carried a quiet ache, the kind that suggested she was already imagining a face she’d never met. “If she truly bears Amazon gifts, then she should not be wandering the world alone…”

Dick nodded, picking the thread back up. “Unconfirmed. However, her powers and technique line up, but we’ll need your insight to tell how legitimate her case is.”

M’gann hovered nearby, hesitating for a moment before speaking. “She… mentioned you, Diana. In her thoughts. Wonder Girl—it wasn’t anything malicious. You seem familiar to her.”

The words struck a chord. Diana’s eyes flicked up, a faint, maternal warmth blooming behind them, softening the careful lines of command and discipline.

Batman didn’t let the pause linger. “Continue,” he said, clipped but not unkind, nudging the briefing back on track.

Diana drew a slow breath—composed again, but warmer now. “Very well. We will determine the truth later.”

“Secret,” M’gann said. Moving onto the next file. “She could fully phase. No record of a meta like her in this dimension.”

That earned the room’s first true ripple of unease.

Fate’s helm angled toward the holographic profile, golden light flickering across the girl’s translucent outline. “Her physiology is… unstable.” His voice dropped into something darker. “Half here, half elsewhere. A soul split, or displaced. This is no simple metahuman anomaly.”

Diana leaned in as well. “She looks barely alive.”

“Barely anchored,” Fate corrected. “It is possible she exists between realms. A liminal child.”

Hal whistled under his breath. “Yikes. That’s—uh—not a phrase you want to hear from Helmet Guy.”

“Hal,” Batman warned.

Hal just grinned, elbowing Barry, who wasn’t even trying to hide his snicker. “Dude, look at him. He’s fascinated. Little ghost girl’s giving you a run for your money, Bats.”

Batman did not blink. “No.”

But the corner of his jaw twitched.

M’gann shifted slightly, voice quieter now. “I tried reading her surface thoughts… it was like… like trying to tune into a radio station underwater. Mostly static. Also… she’s… thinking about Star Wars? Like, something about Harrison Ford?”

Diana, standing nearby, tilted her head, lips twitching in a faint smile. “Star Wars?” she murmured. “Even in the middle of a battle, she… finds normalcy in it. That’s… actually a bit comforting.”

Dr. Fate’s helm tilted slightly, fingers tapping against the edge of the projection. “Unconventional, but harmless. Though I would caution against relying on pop culture as a shield in combat.”

M’gann groaned, internally. Yes, I’m a psychic in the middle of chaos, and I just got lectured about Star Wars references.

Fate hummed, fingers tapping the edge of the projection as if he could feel its aura. “There are rituals for cases like this, but they are… complex. Dangerous.”

Hal arched a brow. “Translation: we need someone who reads Latin while chain-smoking.”

Barry snorted.

It took Fate a long moment before he begrudgingly admitted, “Constantine would… have insight.”

“Of course he would,” Hal muttered. “I swear that man collects cursed children like tax audits.”

Batman’s gaze cut over sharply. “We’re not calling Constantine until we must.”

“Fair,” Hal said. “Last time he helped, my ring was haunted for a week.”

Diana looked back to the hologram of the pale, half-flickering girl. “Whoever she is… she’s suffering.”

Dick exhaled slowly. “Yeah. We figured that part out pretty quick.”

“Next up is Empress,” Dick continued. “Teleportation. Nearly hit me with a sword during the fight.”

Artemis scoffed under her breath. “She almost stabbed me too. Twice. And I’m not even counting the time she tried but missed and pretended it was on purpose.”

Hal raised a brow. “Teleporting sword girl? That’s new. And terrifying. Mostly terrifying.”

Barry squinted at the hologram as it flickered to life, displaying a brief freeze-frame of Empress mid-blink, blade glowing. “Do we even have anyone in the database with that power set?”

“No,” Batman said. “No matching meta. No matching tech. No confirmed alias either. Continue.”

“Then there’s Slobo,” Dick said, pulling up a grainy image. “Lobo physiology. Smaller. Meaner. Possibly Czarnian.”

“Lobo has a kid?” Barry whispered.

“Unknown,” Kaldur said, voice even. “But his strength rivaled Superboy’s. And that’s not an exaggeration.”

Conner crossed his arms, jaw tightening. “Meaner… smaller… that’s terrifying.”

Wally flopped into a chair, legs dangling. “So… little angry space baby? Got it.”

Then the next image flickered into existence: blue-tinted skin, red markings, and a grin too sharp to be human.

“Then we have Klarion,” M’gann added.

Fate’s helm tilted, the golden metal suddenly colder. “Impossible.”

Artemis crossed her arms. “It looked pretty possible when he threw a chaos blast at us.”

“He looks different,” M’gann said. “Blue skin, altered energy signature. But his magic—there’s no question. It is the Prince of Chaos.”

“Lord of Chaos, actually,” Wally corrected, because of course he did.

Diana frowned. “You believe he changed form?”

Dick stepped in before that spiraled. “We’re not jumping to conclusions. But considering it’s… Klarion… it’s plausible.”

Conner lifted a brow, deadpan as ever. “What is wrong with him, anyway? And why is he blue?”

Wally threw both hands up. “THANK YOU. Finally someone said it!”

There was a beat of silence.
Every head in the room slowly swiveled toward Wally.

Wally blinked. “What? Why are you all looking at me like that? Were we all just gonna accept Smurf Klarion like it’s normal?”

Even Fate hesitated, helm turning slightly—like he was also wondering why the ancient Lord of Chaos suddenly looked like he’d lost a fight with a paint bucket.

“True,” Diana murmured.

“Then their speedster,” Dick continued, fingers flicking through the holo-feed, “called himself Impulse. No civilian match either. But definitely meta-speed. He’s fast. Uncontrolled… Impulsive.” Dick had to hold a snort from his own words.

Barry tilted his head, curiosity flickering. “Impulse, huh? Never heard that handle before.”

“Neither had we,” Dick said. “He however mentioned something about a Speed Force and—”

Wally perked up immediately. “Wait—Impulse?”

Barry squinted at him. “Familiar, Kid Flash?”

“Well—yeah! I’ve heard the name mentioned in the por—”

The world didn’t give him the chance to finish.

The Cave screamed.

Alarms detonated across the room, a tidal wave of red light and harsh sirens. Warning glyphs pulsed across every wall. The League’s hologram stuttered, fractured—and died as emergency lockdown seized the system.

Zatanna staggered, hands slapping over her ears. “Seriously?! What now—?!”

Conner’s whole posture snapped from casual to combat-ready. “The cells.”

Kaldur didn’t so much as blink. His voice sliced right through the noise. “They are attempting to escape.”

A new hologram burst to life—J’onn, face grave, voice low and resonant. “Their mental signatures have shifted. Their restraint is failing. If we delay even a moment, the situation will escalate beyond containment.”

Another feed locked in beside him—Batman, already mid-step, gaze cutting over the room like he was counting exits and solutions at the same time.

“Debrief is on hold,” he ordered, tone absolute. “Kid Flash, Zatanna, Rocket and Kaldur—finish your report later. Right now, we contain this.”

His cape flared as he turned. “Move. Now. Every second matters.”

Then he stopped.

His focus snapped to something behind the team.

A beat.
Another.
Even the alarms seemed quieter for that half-second.

Hal Jordan’s finger jabbed toward the doorway. “Uhh… Bats? Was the kid always standing there?”

The room froze.

Impulse blinked in the doorway, wide-eyed, grin half-curious, half-panicked, like he’d just wandered into a surprise party he wasn’t sure he wanted to attend. Are those their snacks?

“Uhh… hi?” His voice small.

Time stretched. Shock. Recognition. Confusion. Every hero’s gaze locked onto him, the silence almost vibrating.

Then—snap.

Empress appeared behind him with a blink, hands firmly on his collar. “IMP! Oh my gosh, we gotta go—”

“WAIT!” Dick barked, lunging—but it was too late.

Another blink, a faint crackle, and they were gone. Just empty space where seconds ago both speedster and metahuman had been standing.

Wally stared at the empty space where another speedster had just been. Holy Dejavu. “Wait a dang minute! He just— He— OUR SNACKS?“

Hal—never one to miss a moment—leaned closer to the flickering transmission. “Okay, just saying… if one of them starts dimension-hopping or blowing stuff up, it is not on me this time.”

From somewhere behind him came a quiet, incredulous snort. Barry.

“Hal,” Diana warned, her tone cutting through the hum of the Cave.

“What? I’m just saying—” Hal held up his hands defensively, glancing over his shoulder at the still-snorting speedster.

“Enough.” Batman didn’t raise his voice, but it dropped the temperature of the entire Cave. “We will meet you all there. Stand by for instructions.”

The transmission blinked out.

Silence.
Just alarms and Wally’s brain finishing its reboot cycle.

Dick exhaled a shaky laugh. “Well, Walls… maybe it’s not that far-fetched you’ll be racing alongside another speedster tonight.”

Wally’s face then lit up like Christmas. “YES!” He fist pumped in glee.

Ohoho, this was gonna be fun.

The warehouse breathed with quiet menace. Moonlight cut through the high windows in fractured beams, dust swirling lazily in the pale shafts. At its center, Robin stood perfectly still, staff held loosely, eyes sharp and glinting, as if he could see through the walls themselves.

Around him, the air pulsed with unnatural energy. One figure flickered in and out of existence, teleporting short distances with soft pops that echoed faintly like distant gunfire. Another hovered, translucent and silent, phasing effortlessly through crates and walls, a faint shimmer tracing her outline.

Two hulking shapes lingered in the shadows, their movements slow but deliberate. Muscles coiled beneath taut fabric, capable of crushing steel with a single punch. Even without motion, the air seemed to resist them, heavy with restrained force.

Closer to the far wall, a towering figure stood with the poise of royalty, golden armor catching the meager light, her stance unyielding. A subtle ripple ran across her presence—a mockery of Themyscira’s grace, but sharpened with menace.

And somewhere near the rafters, a blur streaked past, too fast to follow, leaving only a faint crackle of energy and the metallic scent of ozone. The smallest member, but the most lethal in motion, like a heartbeat too quick to anticipate.

All of them centered on Robin, whose eyes glowed with calculated patience. The warehouse itself seemed to bend to him, shadows pooling where he stood, every heartbeat of the building synchronized to his silent rhythm. The team waited, perfect in their imitation, poised on the knife-edge of movement, ready to strike.

Young Justice wouldn’t know what’s coming.

Chapter Text

The place smelled like butter and microwave popcorn.

Cissie King-Jones sat cross-legged on the couch, wearing a sleep shirt that said “aim high” with an actual arrow through the text. Her hair was in a messy bun that had collapsed hours ago, and there was a half-finished bowl of instant mac on the coffee table beside an open laptop and a stack of laundry she’d been “folding” since morning.

She clicked through channels without watching them, eyes glazed over. It was Sunday. Laundry day. Grocery day. Normal day.

She was so, so proud of her normal days.

The last news she’d caught about capes was something about Aquaman opening a desalination plant, and that had been more than enough excitement for her.

“—in other news, San Francisco authorities continue to investigate Friday’s strange magical disturbance downtown…”

She would’ve kept looking through other channels if the words “Young Justice” hadn’t followed right after.

Her thumb froze midway.

“Witnesses say the team successfully stopped Queen Bee from releasing a mind-control pheromone over the Bay Area, effectively preventing what officials are calling an ‘apian apocalypse.’”

A picture flashed on-screen—grainy, low-res, but she caught the colors: red, yellow, and blue. Their colors.

“However, the celebration didn’t last long. Klarion the Witch Boy appeared shortly after Queen Bee’s capture. What followed was described as a ‘spiraling magical anomaly’—and in a matter of seconds, both Klarion and the Young Justice team vanished.”

Her stomach dropped.

She set her phone down, slow, like any sudden movement might change the headline.

“The Justice League has not commented on the disappearance, though sources confirm that all known tracking signals from the team have gone dark.”

The footage cut to a bystander video: spinning lights, a scream, and Cassie shouting something as wind howled around her. Then static.

Cissie realized she was standing. She didn’t remember when she’d moved.

“Meanwhile, multiple families on the East Coast have reported missing teenagers over the same seventy-two-hour period, including Gotham Academy student Timothy Drake, Central City’s Bartholomew Allen II, and Metropolis High’s Conner Kent. Authorities have not yet established a link—”

Her breath hitched.

Names she hadn’t said out loud in years.
Names she’d tried so hard not to listen for.

The news kept rolling. She didn’t.

The mac and cheese on the coffee table was forgotten. The spoon slipped off the edge and hit the carpet with a wet thup.

She turned, slowly, like she was trying to fight the instinct but couldn’t win. Her closet door creaked when she opened it.

The old duffel bag was buried behind a yoga mat, an unopened box of running shoes, and a lifetime of “I’m done with that.”

She hadn’t touched it since that day—since the fights that left her shaking and the words that cut deeper than arrows ever could. Since she’d walked away, telling herself it was for the best. That she’d earned the right to stop.

Memories flickered unbidden: late-night laughter over greasy pizza, the sting of bruises that never quite healed before the next mission, and the way they shouted over each other but still moved in sync when it mattered. Her friends. Her family. Her idiots.

She’d promised herself. She’d promised them.

But promises never stood a chance against the thought of them out there, battered and bleeding, facing the kind of trouble they weren’t ready for.

She sat for a second, staring at it. Then she yanked the zipper down.

Bow. Arrows. Finger guards. The faint smell of wax and cedar.

Cissie pressed her lips thin, stringing the bow in one smooth, practiced motion. The sound rang sharp in the quiet room—familiar, final.

“Just this once,” she whispered. And maybe for the first time in years, it felt true.

Her pulse was hammering. It didn’t feel like fear—it felt like muscle memory.

“Cissie?” her mom called from down the hall. “Sweetheart, what’s going on?”

Cissie slung the quiver over her shoulder. “Just—something came up.”

Her mom appeared in the doorway, dish towel over one shoulder, brow creased. “Is it about that news thing? Honey, you’re not—”

But Cissie was already stepping into her shoes, heart racing, the voice in her head louder than any protest: They’re gone. Again. I can’t lose them again.

Yet despite being lost in her thoughts, TV behind her kept talking “...still no confirmation whether the missing teens and the vanished young heroes are connected… Up next… Teenagers from another world throw down…”

Cissie pulled her hood up and grabbed her keys.
“I’ll call you!” she said, and she meant to sound steady, but it came out cracked around the edges.

She swung the door open—then froze.

Standing on her front porch, one fist half-raised to knock, was none other than Raymond Terrill. Jacket zipped, eyes wide, and clearly about two seconds away from doing the same thing she was: running headfirst into trouble.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The duffel bag strap dug into her shoulder. His knuckles hovered in midair.

“…Cissie?”

“…Ray?”

They spoke at the same time, then both blinked, caught in the collision of coincidence.

“What are you doing here—” they said together again, overlapping perfectly.

Ray let out a breath that sounded halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Wait, sorry. You first.”

She shifted her weight, glancing past him at the car parked down the street, the faint echo of sirens somewhere in the city. “You saw the news.”

“Yeah.” His voice softened. “Figured you did too.”

The air between them was tight with unspoken things—worry, recognition, the shared itch of old habits that never really die.

Cissie’s hand tightened around her keys. “Then I guess we’re both too late to pretend we’re out of it.”

Ray’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Guess so.”

She took a breath. “Then let’s go look for them.”

He nodded once, already straightening up, slipping into the rhythm of an old mission. “Back to base?”

Cissie zipped her jacket, eyes steady now. “Back to base.”

The porch light flickered once as the door swung shut behind them.

Dick froze mid-step, eyes wide, arm snapping out like he was trying to grab someone slipping out of reality itself. His breath hitched—sharp and startled. For one impossible moment, the air right in front of him rippled like heat off asphalt. A smear of yellow and red flickered there, shaped just enough like a person to make the room collectively go, “Wait, hold on—” Then it vanished. 

Wally hovered at his shoulder, jittery energy personified. “Dude, that looked like me.” He pointed at the air accusingly. “Don’t manifest alternate versions of me without warning. I have allergies.” 

Dick barely registered the comment. His hand was still halfway raised, fingers trembling just enough to betray how close that moment had been. “He was right there,” he muttered, voice thin. “I almost grabbed you.” 

Wally blinked hard. “Me me? Or alternate-universe me who still eats his veggies? ” 

Superman leaned in slightly, scanning the space with that x-ray concentration face. “Whatever it was—it wasn’t a simple spell or projection.” His brows pinched. “It felt… anchored. Like it belonged to a real person.” 

“An echo,” J’onn added, eyes narrowing. “Or a breach. Something guided.” 

Before anyone could unpack that anxiety burrito, a blast of emerald light crashed into the room like someone kicked open reality’s side door. Kyle Rayner stumbled in, looking like he’d fought a kaiju, a divorce lawyer, and a migraine all in the same ten minutes.

 His suit was scuffed, his hair looked freshly electrocuted, and his ring flickered weakly with protest. He clocked the crowd immediately. “Uh.” He held up a hand. “What did I miss? Sorry, I just got here, and now suddenly everyone looks like I missed some crossover event.” 

Wally spun toward him so fast the air puffed Superman’s cape. “Great. Perfect. The art major finally arrives.” His arms are folded, dramatically bitter. “We were literally about to brief the League on the missing Young Justice. Y’know, THAT crisis? The one you should’ve been here for? ”

Kyle blinked hard. “Ugh, I just got here! Look, I was fighting a lava eel the size of a building, okay!

Wally waved that off like Kyle had just said he’d been stuck in traffic. “Okay, well, that’s cute, because while you were playing sushi chef, Dick here almost got jump-scared by multiverse-me.”

Kyle stared. “…Multiverse you? That’s actually the most cursed sentence I’ve heard all week.”

“Right? ” Wally said, already gearing up. “So before we even got to the ‘our entire junior superhero roster has vanished’ part, the universe decided to speedrun a breakdown! The portal opens, boom—other-me, staring Nightwing down like a confused hologram—and then zip, gone.”

Kyle stepped in closer, squinting like Wally had grown a second head. “Hold on. Hold on. You’re telling me Dick reached out to an alternate-universe you before he disappeared? Why would anyone reach for you first? ”

Wally threw both hands up, insulted on a cellular level. “I didn’t ASK him to! It was instinct! Reflex! The multiverse pulled a fast one, and Dick reacted! Blame the universe, not my magnetic personality! ”

Kyle barked a laugh. “Magnetic? More like static cling.”

“I’ll cling to your FACE—”

“Try it, lightning rod.”

They were suddenly inches apart, crackling with competitive fury like two raccoons fighting over the same slice of cosmic pizza.

Superman subtly inched out of the splash zone. J’onn watched them like they were a strangely compelling nature documentary. Batman contemplated early retirement.

“That’s enough,” Batman’s voice cut like a blade through their argument, instantly shutting the two down like a parental kill switch on steroids.

Dick darted between them, hands on their chests, pushing them apart. “Please don’t fight—or flirt—while a dimensional wound might be literally opening in front of us.”

Wally recoiled like Dick had just called him a mutant. “Flirt? With him? Dick! Are you… insane?”

Kyle’s lip curled in mock offense. “Oh, come on. You couldn’t handle me if your life depended on it.”

“Oh please, I totally can—”

“Nope.”

“Yes!”

Dick groaned, burying a hand in his face. “Ladies, ladies! Meeting first, make out later. Save it. We—have—important—stuff—to discuss! ”

“I’m not going to make out with HIM,” Wally hissed.

“No one said you will—“

“You just did!”

“Standards,” Kyle sniffed, waving a hand like it was the Mona Lisa. “I have standards. Yours, however… are microscopic.”

“Bold of you to say, Rayner,” Wally shot back immediately. “When yours are lower than mine.”

“Higher than your hairline,” Kyle countered, unfazed.

“Lower than—”

Dick’s patience snapped. He lunged forward, grabbing both by the collars and yanking them apart. “Both of you. Drop it. Now.” With a deadly smile on his face, of course!

Gosh, if only looks could kill.

The room held its breath. Silence—brief, glorious—lasted exactly one second before the air behind them pulsed again. Louder. Sharper. It was like the portal itself was clearing its throat and judging them.

Superman tensed, jaw tight. J’onn’s eyes glowed faint green as he exhaled slowly, assessing. Even Batman’s cape swished, as if bracing for impact.

Wally leaned toward Dick, voice low and urgent. “If another me pops out… promise me you’ll tell him not to do the bowl cut thing. Timeline integrity, bro.”

Kyle muttered under his breath, “If another you pops out, someone’s gotta knock me out before I say something I regret.”

“Consider it done,” Wally said with a grin, sealing the multiversal pact like a pro.

Kyle’s jaw tightened, eyes locking with Wally’s. “Consider it mutual.”

Dick leaned back, smirking, arms crossed this time .“Okay lovebirds. I tried breaking you two up, but apparently that’s impossible. Can you at least take your chemistry somewhere else? I’ve had enough third-wheeling for one day.”

J’onn’s eyes glowed faint green, his tone measured. “Indeed. Though I must admit, the display is rather entertaining.”

“J’onn—“

Batman didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance at them, nor tuned in on the conversation. His cape pooled like ink at his feet, stretching across the Watchtower floor. 

His voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Call the rest of the League. Everyone to the Watchtower who can respond. Zatanna, Zauriel, and the Hellblazer on standby. Those who are engaged elsewhere can catch up, but I want every magic user ready to move at a moment’s notice. If Fate or Shazam can be contacted, make it happen.”

Wally swallowed, taking a tiny step back from Kyle. “Wait—Constantine? That’s it, the world’s ending.”

Kyle shifted nervously. “And… What about the Spectre? Shouldn’t we—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“Are you at least thinking abou—”

The entire room hit him with a synchronized “don’t test him” stare.

Batman exhaled through his teeth. “…We’ll call him if we need him.”

“For now, all hands on deck,” he said, voice low but edged with something that wasn’t quite fear and wasn’t quite anger. “The missing teens take priority. Media coverage is already ramping up—and if anyone connects their civilian identities to their hero ones, we’ll have a second crisis at hand.”

The words were League-official. The strain behind them was all heavy—the kind that made even Superman glance over like he was checking whether Bruce was about to punch reality into behaving.

Kyle tried to lighten the mood, leaning back casually. “On the bright side, at least we get a few days without Impulse bouncing off the walls.”

Wally snapped his head around and GLARED like Kyle had insulted the Speed Force itself.

Kyle immediately lifted both hands. “Hey—you make that joke constantly! I do it one time, and suddenly I’m the villain?”

Wally kept glaring.

Kyle wilted. “Unbelievable.”

But even he couldn’t keep the smirk going for long. His shoulders dropped, and his voice shifted to something smaller, the edges of genuine worry creeping in. “Though you’re right, two days is… a lot. Even for them. No check-ins, no civilian sightings… if they’re not home, and they’re not here…”

He swallowed, eyes flicking toward the still-flickering afterimage of where the portal had been.

“Geez, Kon still owes me fifteen bucks,” he muttered, softer. “And a pizza too. For breaking into my apartment. Again.”

The joke fell flat, not because it wasn’t funny, but because everyone suddenly felt the weight behind it.

J’onn’s head tilted, calm but observant in that unnervingly perceptive Martian way. “We should attempt contact with Red Tornado,” he suggested. “If anyone has insight into their last known movements, it would be him.”

Superman nodded immediately, that instinctive warmth pushing him toward any avenue that wasn’t doom-flavored. “And maybe check in with the other former team members? Raymond, Cissie—someone might know something.”

Batman cut in fast—faster than usual, almost like the words scraped on the way out. “Cissie King-Jones is off the board.” The tone wasn’t harsh, just final. “She’s retired. She has a stable civilian life. We’re not pulling her back into this life.” His jaw set. “She deserves that peace.”

He didn’t blink, didn’t budge. You could’ve thrown a batarang at him, and it would’ve snapped in half against the sheer Bat-conviction.

Dick nodded quietly—he knew better than anyone how hard Bruce worked to keep a rare, properly retired hero actually retired.

Superman softened slightly but stayed firm. “Then what about The Ray?”

Batman didn’t dismiss it. He inhaled, every word measured. “Terrill… maybe. He’s harder to track. And if he’s in light form again, he may not even be reachable. He’s been off the grid for a while—we haven’t seen him in action.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Last time he went off-grid, it took three strike teams, a satellite array, and a very annoyed Doctor Light just to find him.”

Wally muttered under his breath, eyes rolling. “Ray’s basically a flashlight that became a cryptid.”

Batman didn’t react. “Still, if he’s on Earth and in human form, he might know something. Contact him. Carefully.”

Dick didn’t even realize he was moving until he was right beside Bruce, close enough to see the tightness around his eyes—the kind that meant the Bat façade was barely holding.

“Bruce…” Dick said quietly, a hand hovering near his arm but not quite touching. He looked like he wanted to grab him and shake reassurance into him, or maybe just stand there so Bruce didn’t have to hold the weight alone.

Bruce didn’t respond right away. His gaze was locked on the dead comms panel, like he was trying to force it to spark to life through sheer billionaire stubbornness, but there was a flicker underneath it—something tight, sharp, and personal. He didn’t say a name, but everyone in the room knew exactly which missing teen had him thinking three steps ahead.

Tim might as well have been a neon sign in Bruce’s brain.

Every line of him radiated tension—shoulders braced, jaw clenched, breath held too tight. His eyes kept flicking toward the communications console in these small, betraying movements. Like maybe the universe would take pity and light it up. Like maybe Tim would suddenly ping the Watchtower and say, “Hey, I’m alive. What’s up? Sorry about the interdimensional nonsense. My team is totally fine!“ Whatever Tim would say, or something along those lines, anything.

But nothing came.

Tim still had Jack and Dana. He had a home. A civilian life. A life that would erupt into chaos the second someone outside this room asked the wrong question.

And besides, how do you tell his father that his son vanished alongside a team of superhero teens?

Superman exhaled slowly, like he was trying not to crush the air between his hands. “Look, Kon’s tough,” he said, but the words were softer than usual, not for reassurance—more for himself. “Really tough. But two days with no message? He would’ve called. Even if he was grounded. Even if he was in trouble.” His throat bobbed. “He would’ve called Ma or Pa.”

Batman finally spoke again, voice low. “Two days is long. Too long, in fact.” His eyes narrowed, calculating a dozen worst-case scenarios at once. “And this time, there’s no sign of Klarion. No magical residue. No traceable energy signatures. Nothing.”

Dick ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “They’ve gone off-world before. Hell, they’ve disappeared for weeks on missions. They went to space with no supervision! And they came back, but this?  We have to find them, Bruce.”

Wally’s foot tapped—a restless, anxious staccato. “But now we get a glitchy multiverse with me popping in like a cursed pop-up ad? And zero sign of the team? Yeah, I’m gonna vote ‘bad.’”

Superman nodded grimly. “We’ll find them League. All of them.” He paused, letting the weight of the words hang. “But we’ll need every bit of help we can get.”

J’onn inclined his head. “I will prepare telepathic search protocols.”

Batman straightened, armor whispering as he moved. “Then we start now. Before anyone else connects the dots.”

Tim. Kon. Bart. Cassie. Greta. Anita… even Slobo, sometimes.
Kids who’d saved the world more times than anyone cared to admit—and yet, still heartbreakingly mortal.

The room fell into a silence thick enough to taste.
The Justice League wasn’t panicking. Not yet, at least.
But they were close.

“While the League is coming, I think you should go ahead and look for Impulse.” Was the last thing Kid Flash heard before he dashed out of the room.

Wally zipped through the gleaming halls of Mount Justice, the hum of the orbital station vibrating under his feet like a giant, judgmental Roomba. Every corner, every corridor, every blinking console blurred by, but his radar vision was locked on one target: Impulse.

“Impulse! I know you’re in here, you little speedster!” Wally yelled, voice echoing off the reinforced metal. “And give back my snacks! Those were limited-edition energy bars, man! LIMITED. EDITION! I tell you!”

What hurt more: the theft or the betrayal? Honestly… he’d say it was a solid tie.

Though something about his energy prickled under Wally’s skin. Impulse might be related to what he saw in the Portal back at Blüdhaven, cause it all feels so wrong. Potentially off-world wrong. Which means… Maybe the whole group is too. Fantastic. Love that for me. A totally normal amount of existential dread right now. Possible multidimensional teens on top of identity theft? Looking real great for them right now.

Wally probably should’ve explained what he saw behind that portal. Doing so might’ve saved everyone from this wild goose chase. But the idea of chasing another speedster got him so excited, it completely slipped his mind. Too late now—three corridors in, and there was no way he was hitting the brakes.

A flicker of movement sparked at the edge of his vision—blue energy, thin and serpentine.
Wally skidded to a halt, boots squealing across the polished floor. His eyes narrowed. Spotting nothing but…

“Klarion.” Wally said, throat dry, because yeah that was definitely the Witch Boy.
Hovering casually like a bored gargoyle, with Teekl perched on his shoulder and judging absolutely everything in the room.

Klarion tilted his head, his smile sharpening. “Mmh. Ginger snack.” He inspected Kid Flash like he was a new flavor of Pop-Tart. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Great. He’s not attacking. Yet. Just staring, sizing me up, probably thinking about his next move. My absolute favorite pastime: being psychologically bullied by a blue chaos toddler.

Klarion tilted his head, eyes glittering. “Relax, Speedy~ Not here to hurt anyone… yet.”

Wally snapped, “First of all, wrong Supes you’re calling, dude. Speedy is Green Arrow’s sidekick—erhm—well, he used to be Green Arrow’s—look, it’s complicated, okay? Point is, that’s not me.” Sorry, Roy. 

Klarion blinked once. Slowly. Like Wally had just handed him a sudoku puzzle in ancient Sumerian.

Then that unhinged grin snapped back into place.
“Oh, delightful. You’re defensive.”

Wally groaned. “I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

“Names are such flimsy little things anyway,” Klarion purred. “Mortals cling to them like labels make you sturdier. As if calling yourself the right word will keep the universe from chewing on you. But you…” His grin widened, teeth too sharp, too many. “You’ve got that delicious little panic sparkle around your edges. Means I can call you whatever I like.”

He hummed, tapping a finger to his chin. “Speedy. Kid Flash. Gingerbread. Future puddle. It’s all the same to me.”

He stepped forward, ready to bolt in any direction Klarion didn’t expect, but the sorcerer just tipped his head at him—mocking, curious. Teekl gave a low trill that somehow communicated, Look at this fool.

Klarion’s grin sharpened, like he’d plucked the thought straight out of Wally’s head and decided it was spicy. For a heartbeat the metal floor beneath Wally vibrated with unpredictable magic. Hex energy coiled in Klarion’s palm—ready to launch.

Then—his smile twitched. His eyes snapped sideways.
He felt something. Someone.

A new vibration zipped down the hallway toward them—steady, bright, familiar. Here comes The Flash!

Klarion’s grin collapsed into an annoyed scowl.
“Ugh. Adults.”

He muttered something under his breath, snapped his fingers—

POOF.

Gone.
Teekl’s meow echoed a half-second longer than the sorcerer’s did.
Only violet shimmer remained, curling like smoke rings that mocked Wally on their way out.

Wally blinked. “Seriously? You dip the moment backup arrives? How cowardly can you—”

A gust of wind slammed into the hallway, and the Flash materialized beside him, lightning crackling harmlessly along the walls. Barry’s mask tilted toward the dissipating shimmer.

“Wally… were you just being menaced by a blue chaos demon with a house cat?”

“I WAS,” Wally declared, throwing his arms up. “Did you see that guy?! He literally popped in, monologued, made vibes weird, and then bailed the second he sensed you coming. I got reverse jump-scared! Unbelievable.”

Barry tried not to laugh. Failed. “That’s… concerning. Even for us.”

“Dude, I got smurfed by magic!” Wally cried. “First, I missed out on a team brawl, then my snacks were stolen, and now this? This is my villain arc.” 

Barry patted his shoulder with the gentleness of someone comforting a startled puppy. “Let’s not go that far.”

“Wait… hold on a second.”

Barry’s eyes narrowed as he processed the hallway, the fading shimmer in the distance still lingering in his mind.

“Klarion’s out!”

Wally froze mid-sprint, eyes wide. Then he looked at Barry, and the realization hit them both at the same time.

“Oh… shoot,” Wally  said. “You’re right.” He didn’t realize he’s out of his cell cause of how spooked he was., and he’s been spooked since the past hour—

“We’ll deal with him, Wally. Don’t worry. Focus on finding Impulse if you can.”

Wally groaned, rubbing his temples. “Yeah. Got it.”

Okay. Reset. Focus. Find Impulse. Find Empress. And maybe explain everything after this. Klarion’s just out here playing peekaboo with us. Whatever. Snacks first—no, speedster first. Then snacks.

He took off again, hugging the walls, eyes scanning for the faintest flicker of Impulse’s speed signature. Mount Justice was a maze of metal, shadows, and mystery portals, but Wally West was not about to lose to a Lord of Chaos… or a speedy teenage thief with sticky fingers.

The hunt was so back on.

Anita yanked Bart through another jump, the world stretching like warm taffy before snapping back into the sleek corridors of Mount Justice. They landed in a heap—more specifically, Bart landed on Anita, which earned him a very sharp elbow to the ribs.

“OW—hey!”

“Bart.” Anita’s voice crackled like static right before a lightning strike. “What—what part—of ‘stay hidden’ did your brain just delete?”

Bart threw his hands up defensively. “I was hidden! Right up until I wasn’t!”

“You walked. Directly. In front of them. During A MEETING WITH THE LEAGUE! ”

“I was hungry! ”

Anita’s jaw dropped. “Hungry? HUNGRY? You risked us getting caught because you wanted snacks?!”

“Correction,” Bart said, finger raised like he was giving a TED Talk, “I risked getting caught because the meta-dampening collars don’t work for jack squat. Also—hello? Phasing out of the cell was, like, the obvious move. I got bored waiting for the League! ”

Anita pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something in two different magical dialects that probably translated to “I regret everything.”

Bart kept going. “Plus! I was totally ready to explain the situation if you didn't poof me out of there mid-sentence! I had a whole speech prepared and everything!”

“Starting with ‘Uhh... Hi? ’; you were about to monologue while they were in the middle of a debrief about us.”

“Look, it would’ve been very convincing! ”

She grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him lightly. “You absolute disaster of a velociraptor, we are fugitives right now! You should’ve just waited for Rob’s cue!”

Bart blinked at her. “Rude. Accurate, but rude.”

Before Anita could launch into another lecture, she froze, eyes widening just a fraction. Bart felt it at the same moment—the air pressure shift, the hum of multiple power signatures converging, and boots hitting the floor from opposite hallways.

They both turned.

Three shadows to the left.
Two silhouettes to the right.
One very familiar Bat signature closes in from dead ahead.

Bart swallowed.
Anita whispered, “Oh no.”

Bart corrected weakly, “…Uh. Oh.”

The cuffs were too tight.

Ugh, not this again. Tim’s definitely having a laugh.

The holding cells were way too clean for the chaos that had landed in them. The lights were low, a pale, humming blue that made everything look like it was underwater. Seven transparent cells stretched down the corridor, each one containing a Young Justice member—minus one.

No…minus two.

Okay, fine, minus three.

One had Houdini’d out twenty minutes ago, leaving nothing but an empty cell and the faint memory of a very smug grin. The second had gone after him, probably to stop him from doing something catastrophic—or at least very expensive. And Klarion, of course, was supposed to be in a specialized containment pod at the opposite end of the building, but naturally, he’d already escaped, because why would a Lord of Chaos respect even the fanciest security measures?

Tim knew because the lights had been flickering in Morse code for the past five minutes. He didn’t need to decode it to understand the message—it was Bart, and Bart’s messages never made sense unless you were just as equally unhinged. 

Case in point:
“I THINK THIS PLACE IS RESTRICTED, ROB, SO DON’T TELL THEM YOU’RE JEWISH, OKAY? ”

Useful? No.
Confusing? Yes.
Concerning? Absolutely.

Also—
…Wait.
How does Bart know he’s Jewish?

Tim sat cross-legged in his cell, cape wrapped around him like a discount blanket, doing his best “harmless and compliant” impression for the cameras. Around him, the rest of the team hovered somewhere between “barely awake” and “deeply unbothered.”

Cassie was out cold, arms folded like she’d fallen asleep mid-protest. Conner was slouched against the wall, snoring faintly—loud enough that Tim half-expected someone to come in just to check if he was doing it on purpose. Greta had phased halfway into the floor, which looked both eerie and strangely domestic, like she’d decided the tile was her new bed. Slobo sat backward on his bench, carving something rude into the glass with a chipped nail, each scratch squeaking like a dare.

So yeah. Panic level: zero.

We’re chill.

The meta-dampening collars buzzed faintly against their necks, but Tim could tell they weren’t working—wrong frequency, wrong. signature, not calibrated for their own energy. Whoever had built them was competent, for sure, but they hadn’t planned for extradimensional teenagers, not that he could blame them, of course. 

Also, he’s got no superpowers for the collar to turn off, so there’s that too.

The past 48 hours were tiring enough; the best sleep he's ever had was passing out on cold, dirty concrete, and the cells are actually not half bad. Though frankly, he can’t even remember the exact events that went down the past 2 days because of how absurd everything has been lately.

He tilted his head toward the nearest camera, the lens blinking at him with all the authority of a goldfish. Klarion had hijacked the feed twenty minutes ago. Every so often the static would twitch, resolving into Klarion’s face grinning wildly in reverse color or upside down. He’d been popping in and out of their systems like a bored cat pawing at a laser pointer.

Anita was probably still teleporting around the facility, whispering coordinates to Klarion or leaving hex marks behind for Bart to find. That was their system now—chaos in stereo.

A sudden whoosh of displaced air made him glance up.
Bart—or at least a very convincing clone of him—was standing just outside his cell, vibrating faintly like bad hologram reception.

Tim sighed. “Speed clone?”

The clone nodded enthusiastically, mouthing through the glass, THEY HAVE GHOST CUFFS!

Tim blinked at him, deadpan. “What.”

Bart pointed dramatically to the cuffs on his wrists, then made an exaggerated ghostly boo gesture, wiggling his fingers like a six-year-old at a Halloween party.

Bart jabbed a finger dramatically toward Greta’s cell, where the ghost girl was half-sunk into the floor—and, notably, wearing shimmering restraints that were actually glowing. 

How did Tim not notice that?

Tim squinted. “Oh, that’s—”

Bart mouthed slower, as if speaking to someone profoundly dense. GHOST. CUFFS.

He then threw his hands up, miming a theatrical haunting, and whispered just loud enough for Tim to hear through the barrier, “They’re ghost-proof, dude!”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not a thing.”

It was, in fact, absolutely a thing. It’s literally right in front of him actually. Tim just finds it stupid, therefore it’s not a thing according to Tim’s book.

Greta waved weakly from her cell, raising one cuffed wrist with a miserable little shrug. “He’s not wrong,” she said, her voice echoing faintly. “They hum when I phase.”

So ghost cuffs work flawlessly… but the meta-dampening collars? Nope. Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course.”

“See! ” Bart said, way too smug, then poked his head halfway through the wall of Tim’s cell, grinning wide. Tim didn’t even flinch. “You’re not supposed to be here, Imp.”

Bart, clearly unwilling to let logic win, gasped dramatically, “BUT LOOK! ” then pointed at himself and mouthed, ME TOO! I HAVE GHOST CUFFS!

Tim stared at him. “…You’re not a ghost.”

Bart leaned closer to the glass, stage-whispering, “Not with that attitude.” Then he phased his head halfway through the wall of Tim’s cell—because of course he did—and whispered, “Told you! ” before vanishing again in a ripple of displaced air.

Tim stayed still for a moment, trying to decide if acknowledging any of that made him complicit.
He decided it didn’t.

From Slobo’s cell came a lazy snort. “That kid’s cracked.”
Tim rubbed his temples. “Yeah. But he’s efficient about it.”

The corridor flickered, a ripple of light passing through like the whole place had taken a deep breath. Klarion’s doing it again—he’d gotten into the sound system this time. Somewhere, faintly, the intercom was playing what sounded like elevator jazz with random bursts of evil laughter.

Tim leaned back against the cool glass wall of his cell and exhaled slowly. The situation was technically bad, but it didn’t feel like it. They weren’t captured—they were just…waiting. A bunch of extradimensional teens napping in what was supposed to be a top-security holding wing, while their resident chaos gremlin and teleporting witch tag-teamed the facility’s nerves.

And that was fine. Because Tim had time.

Tim leaned back and exhaled.
Technically, they were captured.
Emotionally?
This was babysitting with extra steps.

He caught another flicker of light from the camera. Three quick flashes. A pause. Two short ones.

He smiled faintly. Bart was spelling “T minus five.”

Showtime soon.

He leaned his head back, eyes half-closed, mentally cataloguing exits, guard patterns, and possible hackable nodes. The hard part was staying awake long enough to keep an eye on Bart’s progress through the vents.

Tim could practically hear the hum of the air vents arguing with Klarion’s tampering. Every few seconds, the speakers would spit out half a pop song before morphing into demonic giggling. Then silence. Then, inexplicably, the opening notes of “Yakety Sax.”

If he tilted his head far enough, he could see the security camera near the corner jerking around like it was possessed—which, given their current company, was entirely possible.

Cassie stirred in her sleep, mumbling something about “five more minutes,” and Conner, without even waking, muttered, “same.” Greta’s head poked halfway through the wall to glare at them both before fading back out again.

Tim ran a gloved hand down his face. This was fine. Everything was fine.

Somewhere in the walls, an alarm started to go off—shrill and panicky—and immediately cut off mid-blare, replaced by Klarion’s voice drawling, “Oh, relax! Nobody likes the sound of panic.”

Tim didn’t even flinch. That was…about their normal, honestly.

The lights flickered overhead, then went bright white, then dimmed again, like the building itself was getting whiplash. Through the haze of flickers, Tim caught Bart’s clone reappearing down the corridor, waving both arms like he was hailing a cab.

“Tim!“ The speed clone whispered loudly. “We may or may not—might’ve accidentally got ourselves cau—”

He froze mid-sentence, eyes darting behind Tim, and his expression went comically guilty.

Tim didn’t need super-speed to know what that meant. Someone was coming.

The clone gave him a quick salute, mouthed something that looked suspiciously like “good luck, Rob,” and then vanished in a blur.

The next sound was footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and way too controlled to belong to anyone on their side.

Tim straightened automatically, muscles remembering training that felt a universe away. The others were still mostly out—Cassie snoring, Kon blinking awake with a confused grunt, and Slobo pretending to be asleep but very obviously watching.

Through the haze of flickering lights, a shadow stretched across the corridor.

Not just any shadow. A cape.

The shape of the boots alone made Tim’s pulse spike with something that was equal parts dread and déjà vu. And when the figure finally stepped into full light—sharp jaw, cowl, that same unflinching silence—Tim felt the weight of every world he’d ever known tilt slightly off-balance.

It was him.
Not his Bruce, but Bruce all the same.

Younger, considering Dick’s still Robin. Armor is sleeker. Sharper lines in the symbol.

This universe’s Batman.

He walked down the corridor like gravity bent for him, stopping at the center cell. Tim’s cell.

Behind the glass, Tim’s brain ran through ten possible explanations, four escape plans, and one extremely stupid idea—all at once.

The hum of the collar filled the silence between them, that faint static note that sounded suspiciously like laughter if you were tired enough.

Tim adjusted his sitting position, feigning calm.
He felt his lips twitch, unbidden.

Because, oh, this was a rare opportunity. A multiversal gift. A chance to do something he could otherwise never do in normal circumstances.

The cameras glitched again—Klarion’s last bit of mischief. For a fraction of a second, the feed filled with cartoon bats and the words “HELLO GOTH PAPI?” scrawled across the screen.

Tim almost lost it right there.

He took a quiet breath, composed himself, and leaned forward ever so slightly, eyes catching Batman’s through the glass.

The opportunity of a lifetime was standing right in front of him, cape and all.

He smiled—just a little.
He had the funniest opportunity to do something.

The alarms hadn’t stopped, but Batman didn’t seem to notice. Or rather, he didn't seem to care. He moved through the flickering light like the chaos was irrelevant noise. The hum of disrupted systems, the off-key elevator jazz, the faint echo of Slobo quietly humming the Jaws theme—all of it slid right past him.

Tim could respect that level of focus. Even if it was, you know, slightly terrifying.

Batman stopped directly in front of his cell, gloved hands clasped behind his back. His eyes—those thin white lenses—narrowed slightly. It was the exact kind of silence that made most people start talking just to make it stop.

Tim didn’t. He’d played this game before.

He sat there, unblinking, chin tilted up just enough to say, "Yeah, I see you too."
And the air got…thick.

Two bats. Two worlds. And one long, extremely passive-aggressive staring contest.

Finally, Batman broke the silence first. “I take it you’re their leader.”

Tim’s mouth twitched. He could’ve gone serious—could’ve said something cryptic and Batman-y back. But where’s the fun in that?

“More like their strategist,” he said lightly. Then he jerked his head toward Cassie’s cell. “Our leader’s right over there. Though she's sleeping right now, feel free to bring it up with her if you want a strong speech about teamwork and the power of friendship.

It earned him a pause. Which, in Bat-language, was equivalent to a full-blown reaction.

Batman’s gaze flicked toward Cassie’s unconscious form, then back to Tim. “You don’t sound surprised to see me.”

Tim shrugged casually. “You wear a cape, you show up in the dark, and you glare a lot.  If it broods like a bat and glares like a bat—yeah, I’d be more surprised if you weren’t here, Batman.”

A beat.

The faintest tilt of the head. That tiny, unnerving micro-expression Bruce always had right before he asked a question that could peel your soul open.

“Who trained you?”

Tim smiled faintly. “Trade secret.”

“Your team calls you Robin.”

He raised a brow. “That’s a common bird.”

“Not in this context.”

Something thrilled down Tim’s spine—equal parts terror, nostalgia, and pure mischief.

His team is rubbing on him.

Tim almost laughed. He could feel it bubbling at the edges of his composure, the absurdity of the moment—being interrogated by an alternate version of his mentor, in a cell built to hold people like him, while Klarion, Bart, and Anita were probably halfway to turning the facility into a carnival ride.

No! I can’t laugh yet! I’ve got to hold it in!

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, mirroring the way his Batman used to crouch in front of criminals who thought they were being clever.

“Do you always open with existential questions,” he said softly, “or am I just special?”

For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Just the sound of the collar’s faint static and the distant whine of Klarion’s next prank queuing up through the speakers.

Batman finally spoke. “You remind me of someone.”

Tim couldn’t help it. He grinned, slow and sharp, the kind that always got him side-eye from Cassie.

“I get that a lot… Kinda like you,” he said. Then, casually—like he wasn’t about to implode from how surreal this all was—he added, “Bruce.”

The name hit the air like a glass dropped on tile.

Batman froze. Just a flicker—just long enough for Tim to know he’d landed the punch.

The alarms wailed louder, the lights strobed, and somewhere in the walls Klarion’s laughter echoed like a ghostly ring.

He knows it's not right to reveal his cards too early, but Tim just sat back, smug as sin, and thought, This was so worth it. 

Chapter Text

Cissie’s fingers clamp around the rock like she’s trying to choke it into respecting her. Chalk dust bursts from her knuckles and scatters in the wind, dramatic, cinematic, and completely earned. Mount Justice's cliff face rises above her, as if judging her life choices, black stone streaked with sea-spray salt. She pulls herself up anyway.

Every climb feels like she's uncovering a version of herself that had been buried beneath years of normalcy and bad excuses. Her muscles burn in the same sharp way she used to chase as a child. That old flame flickers. God, she missed this. She had forgotten what it was like to have her heartbeat synchronized with purpose.

The wind lashes across her cheek, loud and booming, practically yelling, "Go on, girl!" in an ancient mountain language. She grabs for the next hold.

Her fingers slip for half a heartbeat. Panic sparks. Then instinct takes over: tighten the grip, shift weight, and breathe. I used to do this half-asleep. I used to do this while holding actual arrows. You can’t embarrass me into quitting, physics.

She claws up again.

Her shoulder trembled. The lactic burn digs its teeth in. Cry later, she thinks. Preferably in the shower where no one can tell. She perseveres.

The final ledge is right there—annoyingly far and ridiculously close. She gathers every last ounce of willpower, fires it upward, and catches the rough edge with her glove just as momentum abandons her. Her feet scramble; her arms burn—

And then she’s finally up.

Cissie hoists herself to the summit and kneels for a moment, knowing that if she collapses completely, she won't be able to stand again until the next solstice. Cold air cut into her lungs. The ocean behind her shines like a silver coin tossed into the horizon. The sunrise turns the sky orange, as if nature is actively attempting to create mood lighting for her comeback. Her hair smacks her in the face, because of course it does.

And she rises. Not as the girl who walked away, not as the washed-up prodigy—she rises as Arrowette.

The entrance to the Young Justice base looms ahead, weathered and familiar, almost daring her to step forward. She squares her shoulders, holds her breath, and gives the moment the gravitas it truly deserves.

“Arrowette… is back.”

The air remains still. The universe freezes. Somewhere, a composer cues a triumphant swell—

And a glow appears behind her, as if someone has turned on the flashlight app.

Then a voice, painfully casual: “Uh—hey.”

Every molecule in her body goes rigid.

Ray descends like the world’s most polite UFO, landing lightly a few feet away. His glow dims to “annoying hallway light” levels. “Soooo—” he gestures vaguely at the cliff she nearly died on, “you know there’s a side entrance, right? Like, an actual path? With stairs? And a handrail? I literally used it five minutes ago to take out the trash.”

Cissie’s soul leaves her body.

“I mean, I could’ve picked you up too, you know. With the flying thing, I do. If you just asked…” He blinks, thoughtful. “Or shouted. Or coughed loudly. I wasn’t doing anything important.”

“Ray.” Her eyelid twitches with Olympian effort.

“And don’t get me wrong, the climb was cool! Very gritty-reboot-with-a-softcore-soundtrack vibe. Just saying it was, like… optional? At best?”

“Ray.” She turns toward him like a glacier learning patience. “Let me. Have. This.”

Ray immediately straightens. “Right! Yes. Got it. Capital-D Dramatic Return. You’re killing it. Love the windswept thing.” He shuffles aside and gestures at the door like a confused but supportive maître d’.

Cissie strides past him, head high, dignity strung together with pure spite and cardio. The mountain saw her rise again. The climb saw her. Her heart saw her.

Even if Ray absolutely did not.

The door to Mount Justice groans open like it hasn’t been touched in decades, even though it’s been… what, two days? Two. Stupid. Days. And somehow the silence hits like years. It feels like years. It’s been years since she’s been here.

With that familiar hydraulic sigh, the one that used to mean late-night training or someone sneaking into the kitchen at 3 AM for leftover noodles. The sound echoes through the empty halls, hollow in a way Cissie has never heard before.

Cissie steps inside first, and the whole base feels like it exhales dust.

It shouldn’t feel this empty.

Cissie steps past the automatic doors, boots echoing across the long corridor. The Young Justice base used to buzz—voices, footsteps, someone yelling about snacks or training simulations or who stole whose hoodie. Now the silence hangs heavy enough to bruise.

She moves out of instinct more than memory, feet turning corners she told herself she’d forgotten. Turns out the layout stuck in her head anyway, clinging on like an annoying pop hook she never wanted to like but could still hum word for word.

Ray glides in behind her, glow lowered to a soft pulse that dances along the walls like reluctant mood lighting.

Cissie breaks the quiet first. “So. What brings you here, Ray?”
She doesn’t look at him, but her eyes flick over the base—scanning, calculating, remembering.

Ray shifts in the air. “What brings me here? You mean besides the giant cosmic kidnapping situation?” He rubs the back of his neck. “Honestly? I… couldn’t sit this out.”

She snorts softly. “Funny. Thought you bailed from the Young Justice scene or went solo.”

“Same to you,” Ray says, shrugging mid-hover. “But I just—” He sighs, glowing a little brighter with the exhale. “Something about this? About them? It felt wrong to ignore. Kept itching at me. Like cosmic tinnitus.”

Cissie walks past the old rec room doorway. The light’s off. The couch is still there—ripped up and ugly, but familiar. Her throat tightens, and she forces her voice steady. “So you just decided to appear on my doorstep?”

Ray coughs, awkward. “Uh. Kind of.”

“Kind of?” She raises an eyebrow.

He drifts lower, boots thudding on the floor. Walking feels more appropriate now. "You came to mind when I first saw it—the news, I mean… so I went looking for you."

Cissie comes to a stop while walking. The air feels thicker. “Why?”

Ray fiddles with his glove seam, glowing faintly and embarrassed. “Because—I dunno—you’ve always been the type who pretends she doesn’t care until she suddenly cares enough to punch tectonic plates apart.” He shoots her a tiny smile. "I figured you'd hear about the others going missing and either freak out or look for them by yourself."

She huffs. “Rude. Accurate, but rude.”

“Plus,” he adds, voice softer, “you were part of the team longer than me. Even if I wasn’t in Young Justice that much, I still… orbit. You guys rubbed off on me.”

She stares at him for a long second. “…Orbit? Really?”

“I’m trying for poetic metaphor; work with me here,” Ray mutters. “What I’m saying is, I still care even if I’m not an active member.”

Cissie rolls her eyes, turning a corner into the main hallway. The lights flicker on automatically as she enters—familiar, yellow-white, and cheap.

They walk side by side now, Ray’s glow nudging shadows away ahead of them.

Cissie speaks again, quieter. “I didn’t think anyone would come get me.”

Ray blinks. “What? Cissie, Why?”

She gestures around them—at the empty halls, the stillness, the old echoes. “I left. I burned out. I spent years trying not to think about this place, these people.” She swallows. “Didn’t think the League would want me back. Didn’t think the team would either.”

Ray bumps her shoulder lightly with his elbow. “Cissie. You don’t stop being part of something just because you step away. Trust me. I’ve tried.”

She smirks despite herself.

He continues, quieter now. “And besides… someone had to make sure you didn’t try climbing a mountain again when there were perfectly good stairs.”

Cissie groans. “Ray, I swear—”

“Hey, I’m not judging!” Ray throws his hands up. “Like I said, it was very epic. Very gritty. Ten out of ten comeback montage.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You climbed a cliff for dramatic effect.”

The air still smells like recycled oxygen, cheap deodorant, and the faint, lingering musk of too many teenagers pretending they don’t need to clean. Her throat tightens, but not from the scent.

Ray hovers just behind her, his light dimmer than usual. “This feels… weird,” he murmurs.

Weird doesn’t cover it.

Cissie walks forward, boots crunching on something. She glances down—a slice of pizza, petrified into a geological specimen. 

Pizza.
Cold.
Greasy.
And now very, very moldy.

The kind of mold that says, "Someone meant to eat me but then got abducted by the abyss."

Her chest tightens. “They were gonna eat this.”

Ray peeks over her shoulder and winces. “Dude. This pizza is fossilizing.”

“That’s the point,” she snaps, softer than before. “Rob hates wasting food. Kon would’ve inhaled the whole thing before it got cold. Bart? Please. Bart has the metabolism of a cosmic vacuum cleaner. Nothing survives long enough to mold around those boys.”

Her chest cramps. “They wouldn’t leave this,” she mutters, half to herself. “Not like this.”

Ray moves ahead, peeking into the main room. “Ciss…”

She joins him, and the full picture sweeps over them like a gut punch.

Chairs pushed back. A hoodie thrown over the couch arm. Someone’s comms piece is still sitting on the table, next to a half-written grocery list that reads:

milk
bananas? whyyyyy??
whatever Kon keeps stealing *aka MY ENERGY BARS  >:(
ice cream for nita bc she had That Day again
can we have potato chips too? –Bart

No. –Rob
Aww :(( –Bart

And at the far end of the table—
A can of Zesti sitting lukewarm and neglected, like someone stepped away for two minutes and never stepped back.

Cissie touches the can with two fingers. Warm. Too warm.

“They didn’t prep for anything big,” she whispers. “If they were going off-world, there’d be a checklist. Rob would've left spreadsheets, and they'd probably contact our mentors about it…" She sounded unsure, considering the fact that this was well... for them. The majority of their missions were rather impulsive, and it's not unreasonable to believe that this is one of them.

Ray nudges a fallen blanket with his boot. “They were mid-movie binge. Look—”
He points toward the couch. A remote lies abandoned under a pillow. The screen still shows the paused frame of some space opera, two characters mid-argument. Is that Operation: Mirror Siege 4?

Ray trails behind her, eyes darting everywhere like he’s waiting for a raccoon to jump out of a vent. “So… has this place always been…”

Cissie finishes for him. “A mess?”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

She huffs out a tiny, bittersweet breath. “No. They probably had some game night or hangout before… y’know. Everything.” Now’s not the time to be emotional.

Cissie pushed back her feelings and moved deeper into the base. Each step uncovers another little sign of vanished life.

A board game left mid-turn. Anita’s and Cassie’s hair ties being everywhere.
Kon’s jacket was lying crumpled on the stairs like he’d bolted up them.
A pair of gloves Tim always loses sitting smack in the middle of the floor, as if he’d taken them off for “just a sec.”

“I hate this,” Cissie breathes. “It feels like they’re about to walk in any minute. Like they’re just—out training. Or arguing in the hallway. Or—”

“But they’re not,” Ray says softly.

Cissie stops at the center of the room and forces herself to stand steady. “Alright. We don’t panic yet. But we’re not finding answers here.”

Ray nods. “So. First stop…”

“The Watchtower.” Her voice sharpens, the archer focus clicking in. “If anyone knows anything, it’s the League.”

Ray’s light flickers brighter, determination replacing dread. “Let’s move. Before this place makes me start spiraling.”

Cissie casts one more look over the base. The mess, the warmth, the careless chaos of a team that thought they’d be back in five minutes.

Her jaw sets.

“Let's go,” she murmurs.

Even the empty room seems to hold its breath, as if listening.

The Watchtower should feel like the throbbing heart of interplanetary diplomacy. A shining nexus of alien dignitaries and cosmic gravitas.
Right now?
It has the exact energy of a middle school cafeteria, if the lunch tables had mood lighting and a view of Earth from low orbit.

Wally West and Kyle Rayner are at it again—loud enough that the floor panels are preparing a class-action lawsuit.

To be fair, the only reason the argument lasted this long is that Superman simply went back to Metropolis to “deal with a situation,” and J'onn went to get "refreshments," which is code for I'm not listening to this for the third time today. When their backs vanished around opposite corners, Wally and Kyle apparently took it as a cosmic green light to resume hostilities at full volume.

Kyle is mid-meltdown, arms flying around like he’s trying to sculpt the world’s angriest balloon animal. “Don’t give me that look! You can’t chew me out for not liking your—your cousin, nephew, hellspawn, whatever—cause YOU don’t even like Bart!”

Wally sputters with the wounded offense of a man who has never once had a quiet thought. “I never said I didn’t like him!”

“You didn’t say you did either!”

“Sorry for not being emotionally demonstrative every five minutes; he’s also my first cousin once removed, by the way—”

“That’s not something to brag about, Wally!”

“It’s a fact! … and wait, what do you even mean by that?”

Bruce tries to sink back into his own thoughts, but Wally and Kyle’s bickering keeps leaking in like a bad radio station with a grudge.

Dick Grayson sits between them like he’s trying to absorb chaos through osmosis. Shoulders hunched. Eyes forward. The expression of a man who has survived too many rooftop stakeouts to fear mortal nonsense. He stares ahead with a patience that can only be described as “Robin trauma-induced zen.” He glances toward Bruce for backup.

He shoots Bruce a pleading look that says, If you love me, you’ll distract them with a training exercise or fake a comms alert… or start the meeting early. Please, I’m begging you.

Bruce gives the wall a sudden, deep, philosophical interest. He would rather fight Darkseid shirtless in a pit of kryptonite dust before entering this argument. God, he missed the days where Speedsters and Lanterns were two peas in a pod. Now it feels like you have to separate these two under every circumstance.

Barry?
A saint. A cinnamon-flavored beam of moral clarity. The kind of man who could make even Bruce crack a smile on purpose.

Hal?
…A walking cosmic red flag.

Technically dead, not-dead. Spectre-fied rather. Ghosting around the multiverse while wearing divine judgment like a fashion statement. And absolutely, 100% still on Bruce’s watchlist because Batman does not trust that man with a single atom.

Bruce tries to keep going down that mental rabbit hole, but the peanut gallery detonates behind him.

Wally snaps, full hater energy radiating like a solar flare, “You must be so fun at parties.”

Kyle fires back, affronted, “At least I get invited!”

Wally leans in with the slow-burn menace of a man who has been waiting his whole life for this roast. “Who said you’re invited? You wouldn’t even be a plus one. You show up only to open. invitations. The audacity of that energy is insane.”

Kyle looks personally victimized. Dick closes his eyes in prayer.

Bruce presses onward, trying to keep his inner monologue from fleeing the scene.

Rest in peace, Barry; your presence will truly be missed.

Hal? Not so much.

The universe gave Hal a second chance at life, and Bruce took it personally.

Wally gestures wildly. “See? Even Batman agrees with me!”

Bruce does not react. He hasn’t reacted since 1939.

Kyle sputters, “He doesn’t agree with you—he’s just doing that thing where he pretends to be a wall so he doesn’t have to make eye contact!”

Dick sighs the sigh of a man who has considered faking his own death for less. The kind of sigh that says, “If someone doesn’t start this meeting in the next five seconds, he might.”

Kyle jabs a finger at Wally. “He set my sketchbook on fire trying to ‘increase morale.’ I am ALLOWED an opinion.”

“Not that opinion in front of me! Also you deserved your sketchbook on fire; remind me to give Bart ice cream for that.”

”You’ve said far worse stuff about him!”

”He’s my cousin! Not yours! ” 

“Your cousin first removed, by the way. ”  

Dick mutters, “If there’s a higher power, give Roy this energy twice over.”

Wally whips his head around so fast the air crackles.
“Dick. Back me up here. Best friend privileges. C’mon.”

Kyle chokes on his own indignation.
“EXCUSE YOU—no. Absolutely not. You don’t get dibs. Dick is my—uh—close associate. Acquaintance-plus. Whatever. Point is, he’s on my side.”

Dick: “…Acquaintance-plus?”

Wally gasps like someone slapped the Speed Force out of him.
“You don’t get to CLAIM him, Rayner! I put in the YEARS!”

Kyle jabs a finger. “Friendship is not a rewards program, West!”

“You don’t own the era of Dick Grayson friendship!”

“Name ONE era!”

Kyle’s eyes dart wildly. He commits.
“THE TITANS—YOU VELOCITY GREMLIN!”

Wally shrieks, offended. “I WAS IN THAT ERA TOO, YOU CONTRACTOR LANTERN—”

Dick gives up. He plants his face in his hands and accepts his fate.

The doors hiss open.

Wonder Woman strides in, radiant enough to drown out the bickering energy, and instantly slows to a halt. Wally and Kyle straighten so fast it’s a miracle they don’t give themselves whiplash. Diana looks at Dick, perplexed.

Dick lifts one eyebrow—the kind of eyebrow that says I can’t legally leave, but I spiritually checked out ten minutes ago.

More League members enter.
Hawkman stomps through first, wings half-furled and already radiating “someone parked in my space” energy. He clocks Dick instantly and freezes like someone dropped a continuity error in front of him.

“Why’s Nightwing here?” he says, glaring as if Dick personally caused his reincarnation cycle. “Thought you were Titans-side.”

Dick tilts his head, voice steady but threaded with that don’t-poke-the-bird energy only former Robins can achieve.
“It’s a Robin matter. I’m not sitting it out.”

Kyle’s eyes flick toward him—quick, soft, admiring.
Then he wrenches his gaze away so fast he might’ve sprained modesty itself.

“Right,” Carter grunts. “Missing kids. Figures.”

Red Tornado glides in behind him, his presence instantly grounding the room.
“They were under my supervision. I, too, am invested in their return.”

A cluster of others file in and find seats.

Right as the shift in atmosphere settles—heavy and focused—Superman strolls back in with the breezy ease of someone who just finished dealing with an evacuation in downtown Metropolis.

J’onn reappears behind him, holding a tray of neatly arranged snacks like he’s hosting an intergalactic book club.

Both of them slow down, taking in the battlefield of wounded pride and scorched “friendship” between Wally and Kyle.

J’onn blinks. “I was gone for eight minutes. Water?”

Superman murmurs, “That… tracks. "Oh, and thank you."

The room’s tone settles. Heavy. Focused.
The kind of silence that means the Justice League is about to get serious.

Chairs scrape. Capes settle. Hawkman folds his wings like he’s preparing for an IRS audit. Red Tornado projects the agenda in a neat hologram. Clark takes his seat with that “teacher about to start class” posture. Even Wally and Kyle dial themselves down to a simmer, sinking into chairs on either side of Dick like chastised toddlers.

Bruce’s gaze sweeps the room, austere and assessing.
Diana folds her arms like a diplomatic guillotine.
The Flash logo on the wall hums faintly, the lights dim just a notch, and the air thickens with that pre-briefing tension—the moment before the first slide appears, before the mission parameters are laid bare.

J’onn sets the snack tray on the table with reverence, as if offering tribute to the meeting gods.
Superman laces his fingers together.
A collective inhale rolls through the room.

They’re right on the cusp of beginning.

Everyone leans in.

This is it.

Finally—

Then—

The doors explode open with the confidence of someone who has absolutely no time for subtle entrances.

Cissie King-Jones storms inside like she owns the orbital tax documents. Ray hovers behind her, looking like the world’s most anxious personal lantern, hands tucked in, glow dimmed to “please don’t perceive me.”

Every head turns.

Batman’s posture shifts by one millimeter—basically a full-body scream by Bat-standards. “Cissie.” There’s a softness tucked under the gravel, microscopic but there. “What are you doing here?”

Cissie meets his stare head-on, no flinch, no hesitation. She stands like she’s back on that battlefield years ago, an arrow nocked whether anyone sees it or not.

“It’s Arrowette,” she says, voice steady as forged steel, “and I’m here to help find my team.”

“You’re retired.”

“Was retired.” Her voice lands like she’s driving tacks into the floor. “Not anymore.”

“It’s dangerous.” Batman doesn’t even blink, but every word carries worry welded to authority. “I’m sorry, Cissie, but I won’t let you walk back into trauma you worked to escape from.”

That hits something raw in her—sharp as broken glass.

She steps forward, chin lifting, fire burning behind her eyes. “Worked to escape? Batman, I didn’t escape anything. I retired.” Her hand curls into a fist. “And if you think I’m going to sit at home while my friends—my family—are missing? While the people I grew up with might be hurt or worse? No. I won’t let anyone, even you, stop me from it.”

She laughs, tight and bitter. “Besides, I’m traumatized enough already. Ask anyone. I've already lost someone I care about before; I'm not going to stand by and let it happen again."

Some heads swivel. Clark shifts in the background, worry bending the edges of his posture, his cape fluttering like even it wants to help. Diana’s brows pinch the tiniest bit. J’onn’s gaze softens. Even Guy looks uncomfortable.

Ray takes a tiny hover-step forward behind her, glow dimmed but body tense like he’s ready to throw hands, lasers, or emotional support cookies.

Batman’s jaw tightens. “Cissie—”

“No.” Her voice cracks like a whip. “You don’t get to tell me to stay behind to “protect my mental health” when me not helping them will screw me up worse. I still wake up some nights thinking about the day I almost killed a man because he murdered Dr. Money.”

The air freezes. A few League members glance at each other—they remember that case.

Cissie’s breath hitches once, then steadies. Controlled. Deadly calm.

“You think sending me home is going to keep me safe? It’ll just leave me alone with guilt and silence and every awful ‘what if’ imaginable. And I am DONE letting fear run my life.”

Her voice rises—not shouting, but full and commanding.

“I can’t sit out while people I love are missing. I can’t sit out while you all run yourselves ragged. I won’t. Not again.”

Batman tries to push one more time. It’s quiet, low, and loaded. “You don’t have to do this.”

Cissie fires back without missing a beat. “I do. I want to—no, I have to, because if I don't, guilt will eat me up worse than any villain could. Let me help. Let me fight for them. Let me be who I trained my damn life to be.”

Silence ripples through the room like a shockwave.

She steps forward, chin lifted like she’s about to punch fate itself. “Besides, we’ve already saved the world together before. Heck! We’ve saved the universe! So you don’t get to sideline me because I took a break, Batman. I’m fully capable of handling myself on the field. So let. Me. Have. This.”

Wally’s eyes go huge; he whispers to Dick, “Dude, she just Batman’d Batman. Is that, like, even allowed??”

Kyle leans in too. “She might be my new role model. Sorry, Diana.”

Dick shoots Kyle a tiny smirk—half impressed, half entertained—and Kyle looks away again, like Dick’s smile physically short-circuits a Lantern ring.

Clark takes half a step forward, worried but hopeful. “Bruce…” he says softly, the first hint of backup.

Ray hovers beside Cissie, jaw set, glow brightening like a threat. He nods once, silently promising he’s not going anywhere. “Superman. Batman.”

Batman looks around the room. At the heroes watching. At the girl—no, the woman—standing in front of him like a steel arrow braced for flight. At the fire behind her conviction.

He inhales. Barely. The air shifts.

And he nods.

Slow. Defeated. Respectful.

“…Very well.”
A beat.
“Arrowette.”

The Watchtower reacts like someone dropped a match into oxygen.

Shock, pride, relief—all of it flares.

Wally lights up like a Christmas tree, practically vibrating with secondhand triumph.

Kyle lets out a low whistle—the kind that means “I’m adding that moment to my mental highlight reel forever.”

Carter crosses his arms, feathers ruffling, and grunts,
“Kid’s got more backbone than half this room. Good.”
Which, coming from Hawkman, is equivalent to a standing ovation and a fruit basket.

Clark releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The tension in his shoulders unwinds, his whole frame softening. Relief and pride mingle behind his eyes.

Diana smiles—radiant, warm, and fiercely approving. She looks at Cissie like she’s watching a warrior reclaim her armor.

Red Tornado inclines his head in a perfectly measured gesture of respect. “Your resolve is noted. And welcome.”

J’onn stands at the far side of the room, silent but unmistakably moved—his expression shifting in a way only those who know him recognize as deep, solemn pride.

Dick crosses his arms, studying her with that unmistakable mix of pride and finally, someone said it energy.

And Bruce…
Bruce gives the smallest nod. The kind that reverberates through the Watchtower like someone rang a sacred bell.

Cissie stands her ground, fierce, steady, and unshaken. Her hands stop trembling. Her heartbeat steadies.

The fire in her chest is finally allowed to burn.

She nods once.

“Let’s bring them home, League.”

Batman’s glare could peel paint right off Arkham’s walls. Tim’s stare could probably peel himself if he stared long enough and the universe got bored.
The air between them doesn’t just sit heavy—it marinates. Broods. Curls at the edges like Gotham fog deciding it wants a speaking role.

And somewhere in the middle of that psychic arm-wrestle, he remembers—sharp as a splinter—right. His face. His actual face. Out. Bare. Unmasked.
Completely Tim Drake-ing his way through a Batman interrogation with zero armor except sarcasm and spite.

Bruce exhales, deep and tectonic, like he’s bracing for round twelve of parenting a child he did not sign up for but somehow keeps finding in his house.

“You know who I am,” he says. A statement. A threat. A test. A check in chess, only not final.

Lean into the theatrics. Commit to the bit. Become the bit.
He channels that low-tier villain energy Lonnie once described as “discount Sinestro but with better skincare.”

Sinestro who? Because he’s got nothing on dollar-store villain Tim Drake. He is him; he is the moment.

“I know more than that, Bruce.”

There—a flicker. Barely an eyelid twitch. But Tim sees it. Absorbs it into his collection of Micro-Expressions Bruce Wayne Probably Doesn’t Know He Makes.

He shifts subtly, letting himself fall into that eerie poise Bruce hates because it mirrors him too well.

“I know the League,” he says, voice smooth like he definitely didn’t practice this monologue inside a 7-Eleven freezer at 3 a.m. “Clark Kent. Diana Prince. Barry Allen. Hal Jordan, John Stewart, Guy Gardner. J’onn J’onzz. Oliver Queen. Dinah Lance. Carter and Kendra. Arthur Curry. Nathan Adam. All of them.”

Names like stepping-stones. Clean. Accurate. Surgical.

“You’re not unique in that sense, Bruce Thomas Wayne.”

An exquisite lie. He is catastrophically, painfully unique.
But that’s none of Batman’s business.

“And Robin,” Tim adds gently, because he’s evil like that. “Dick Grayson. Elegant kid. Great lines. Nostalgic flair. I could go over the rest of Young Justice too, if you’re taking roll call.”

Bruce barely moves. “I’m aware. Robin tells me you kept profiles on them.”

Another blink. Half a blink. A quarter.
Tim pockets it like candy.

He knows that I know.
And he knows I know he knows.
Exquisite.
Mental chess, baby, and I just stole his bishop while pretending not to know how the pieces move. Hah! Take that, universe!

“So it appears you’ve been observing us for a long time,” Bruce says. “Your attention to detail is… impressive.”

That word.
Impressive.

His brain lights up like someone threw dopamine into the microwave and set it to popcorn.
Externally, he managed a tiny shrug. Barely a muscle twitch.
Internally? Tim is shrieking like a pterodactyl who has just discovered karaoke.

He choked back the sound, but a rogue laugh escaped anyway, thin and strangled.
“I have my ways,” he said lightly.

A memory blindsides him: nine-year-old Timmy losing his absolute $h*# because Dick Grayson did a flip on live TV and he just solved a conspiracy adults with actual degrees didn’t even notice.
Okay, maybe the red-string murder board was pushing it, but he was nine. Nine-year-olds are chaos incarnate after all. He knows this because he knows Bart. Who’s technically four-something-five, but the point still stands. 

Bruce tilts his head. “That sounded ominous.”

Tim resumes his budget Sinestro cosplay. Hands clasp behind his back. Perfect posture, with that uncanny Bat-adjacent precision he definitely did not learn from anyone officially. Gosh, he's oddly really good at this. The Wizards and Warlocks sessions are seriously starting to pay off.
"Mystique is important, Bruce; you should know this." After all, you taught me that, he says, allowing the smirk to spread wider.

It’s petty. Petty as hell. Tim should know better, and he does—but if his team has already dug the gravehole, he might as well help nail the coffin to their deathbeds.

Bruce studies him—really studies him—like he’s waiting for Tim to split open and reveal which category of cryptid he is.

Tim widens the smirk like a dare.

Chess. Pure chess.
Every twitch a gambit. Every inhale is a threat.
He thrives on it.

"I expected you to be unconscious like the rest of your team."

"It takes more than a scuffle to knock me out."

Tim gestures vaguely, casual in that overcorrected way that absolutely screams not casual.
“Us out. I mean—uh—yeah, whatever. Anyway, great job with the decor. These cells? Great ‘see-through minimalism.’ Very chic. Very League containment. Really ties the kidnapping together. Though I appreciate the first aid, do you give all your rogues good healthcare?”

Bruce doesn’t bite.
Doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t even tilt.

Processing.
Tim can feel the gears turning.

That means the chessboard's still active.

So Tim presses. Gently. Deliberately.

He rocks back on his heels, hands clasped behind him like he’s got nothing but time. “Y’know, Bruce, I expected more from you and the League. The Young Justice here too. I mean, really? Sending out just four members against a group of eight superpowered teens?" A bluff; Tim does not have superpowers, as far as they know. “A bit embarrassing, don’t you think? They didn't even knock us out themselves; we wore ourselves out. Must sting, right? Missing the outlier? I mean—pattern recognition, Bruce. You're slipping.” Okay, ouch, maybe I went a little too far on that one. Sorry, Dick. He doesn’t mean it.

There. The tiniest tightening at the corner of Batman’s mouth.

A point for Tim.
Scoreboard updated.

He can practically feel Bruce reassessing him in real time. Rebalancing threat levels.
Good. Stir him. Make him chase the wrong hypothesis.

Batman finally speaks. Calm as a glacier.
“What’s your game here?”

Tim smiles without showing teeth, saying,
“I don’t know what you mean.” with fake innocence, like he was at an audition for a poster boy rom-com heartthrob.

Bruce says nothing.

A dangerous silence expands.

This is it.
This is the part where Batman either cracks his theory… or discards it.

Tim waits.
Let the tension hang.
Keeps himself perfectly, precisely still.

Mental chess:
Hold posture.
Bait move.
Counter.

Bruce’s eyes narrow—fractionally—as if one puzzle piece finally clicks into place.

Bruce doesn’t blink.

The silence goes tight, drawn like a bowstring.

Then he starts—not with accusations. With data points.

“You named members of the League,” Bruce says. Calm. Precise. “Every identity you mentioned is public-facing or semi-contained. Nothing out of reach.”

Tim almost relaxes.

Almost.

“But your tone,” Bruce continues, “didn’t match someone quoting information they studied.”

There it is.
The shift.
The new angle of attack.

“It matched familiarity,” Bruce says. “Comfort. You spoke like someone recalling people they’ve known… not reporting intel.”

Tim keeps still.
Inside, his heartbeat is beating his ribs like bongos.

Bruce steps closer—not threatening, but absolutely cornering.

“And then there’s the inconsistency in your files.”

Tim’s stomach dips.

Bruce goes on.

“You had dossiers on several members of Young Justice.”
His voice doesn’t sharpen, but the air does.
“Yet the one you didn’t have? Robin.”

Tim forces a blink that’s hopefully normal-person speed.

“You didn’t have his civilian identity,” Bruce says, “because it isn’t accessible. Not to infiltration agents. Not to metahuman traffickers. Not to rogue black-ops groups.”
A beat.
“Certainly not to a boy who’s only been active a handful of weeks. Or rather, Two days.”

Tim swallows dryly. His mouth feels like someone filled it with chalk.

“And yet,” Bruce goes on, “you knew his name.”

The cell grows colder.

“You addressed him as ‘Dick Grayson’ without hesitation. With casual familiarity. Not curiosity. Not testing. Recognition.”

Tim tries for a shrug. It looks more like a twitch.

Then Bruce adds, softer:

“You said my name the same way.”

Tim freezes.
Literally stops breathing for a second.

Because Bruce’s identity?
That file isn’t just sealed.
It lives behind so many fail-safes even Barbara doesn’t poke them without a full weekend.

“And that,” Bruce says, still maddeningly calm, “is when your supposed ‘intel’ stopped making sense.”

He stands straighter.

“You weren’t learning who we were. You were… confirming it.”

Tim’s bones try to commit mutiny.

Bruce lifts a hand—not to threaten, but to make the next point land.

“Even your team…” he says. “You eight didn’t behave like newly assembled operatives.”

Tim’s breath catches.

“You moved like people with history,” Bruce says. “Shared training. Shared trust. Habits you can’t fake.”

He glances at the corridor where the others are held.

“The team we’ve been tracking? The impostors? They don’t have that cohesion. They fight each other more than their targets. They’re unfamiliar. Sloppy.”

A pause.

“You were not.”

Tim fights not to fidget.
He holds still—Bat-still.
A stillness Bruce notices.

“And your reactions,” Bruce says, eyes narrowing. “Every time I challenge your knowledge, you don’t get defensive. You… anticipate the direction I’ll go.”

Tim mentally screams into a pillow.
Externally, he tilts his head.

“And whatever you are,” Bruce adds, “you’re not guessing.”
His tone drops half a note—too sharp to be soft. Too soft to be sharp.
“You’re remembering.”

Tim doesn’t breathe.

Bruce makes the move.

“…You’re not here to gather intel,” he says.
“You already had it.”

Another step.
A shift on the board.

“You’re not studying us.”

A breath.

“You know us.”

Bruce delivers the final deduction—not dramatic, just inevitable.

“…You’re not from here.”
A pause.
“Not from this world.”
Another.
“Possibly not even from this dimension.”

Check.

Not checkmate—
but Tim feels the floor tilt like the board just slid beneath him. Or rather, the whole board flips over his face.

Tim’s face betrays nothing, but only because he’s holding every muscle like a hostage.

“…Right.” Thin word, not a defeated one. More bracing-for-impact than surrender. “Okay. Cool. Fun. What initially gave it away?”

Bruce tilts his head three degrees. In Bat-language, that’s equivalent to a PowerPoint titled You Absolutely Know What You Did, Timothy.

Even if this technically isn’t his Bruce but still–

Tim inhales like he’s about to pitch a startup idea at gunpoint. He leans forward, fake-casual, knee bouncing once before he slams it still. His fingers instantly betray him and tap out the Morse for I’m Fine I’m Fine I’m Fine.

“So what was it?” he tries again, tone airy in that very “I am absolutely spiraling” way. “My smile? A little too… Joker-adjacent for your liking? ” He throws in a shrug that’s way too loose to be natural. “Or the fact that I called you ‘Bruce’ like I’m auditioning for Wish-brand Anarky?  If it helps, I regret that one the most.” Now Tim’s not sorry for that; take a walk at D*sney, Lonnie.

Bruce does nothing. Absolutely nothing. A silence so dense it could be used for radiation shielding.

Tim grins harder, because that’s his only defense mechanism that isn’t slamming his head into a wall.

Tim feels his grin flicker. He leans in like he’s interrogating the Bat instead. “Seriously Nothing? Not even a micro-expression? I've earned it, you know.”

Bruce blinks. One slow, deliberate blink. It’s basically a paragraph.

Tim brightens. “There! See? A sign of life.”

Bruce finally speaks. “The collars.”

Tim stops mid-ramble. “…Um. Huh?”

“The meta-dampening collars,” Bruce says, voice flat as a concrete slab. “They didn’t work.”

Tim blinks. Hard. “They… wouldn’t work on me anyway? Because I am famously Not A Meta?” He jazz-hands weakly, like presenting Exhibit A: A Totally Normal Boy™.

“Impulse and Empress were unaffected,” Bruce continues. “That alone suggested you—and they—weren’t what you claimed to be.”

Tim freezes. That one sinks straight through him.

Bruce goes on, relentless only in logic. “That was the hunch. The moment something didn’t add up. Everything after—” he gives Tim that Bat-look, the one that feels like infrared scanning straight through your excuses—"confirmed it."

Tim’s breath hitches. Just a little. Just enough.

“…The League stuff,” he mutters. “The knowledge dump.”

“You shouldn’t know any of it,” Bruce says. Not harsh. Not accusing. Just fact, laid out neat and devastating.

Tim presses his thumb into his palm until it stings—a tiny anchor in too-deep water.

Tim flinches. Barely. The kind of tiny wince you pretend is just dust in your eye.
Super chill. Super normal.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “Okay. That’s—yeah. That’ll do it.”

“You’re not denying it,” Bruce observes. No edge. No judgment. Just the human equivalent of a forensic analysis lamp shining straight through Tim’s soul.

Tim rubs his thumb across his palm, grounding himself with the one gesture he can control.

“Should I?” he asks, softer than he meant to. It slips out stripped bare—raw honesty from someone who normally armors it in sarcasm. “You already figured it out. You’re… you. World’s Greatest Detective. Anything I say now is just set dressing on a case you solved twenty minutes ago.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, and there’s no flourish in it, none of the usual performative flippancy. Just tired fingers trying to keep his brain from leaking out his ears.

“This is what I get for trying to make it a game, huh? ” he mutters. “You always see through it.”

Bruce’s eyebrow ticks upward by something like half a millimeter.

Not disapproval.
Not triumph.
Just: Data point acquired.

Tim hates how much worse that feels.

Bruce isn’t angry, but he isn’t satisfied, either.
He’s just… processing. Running cross-checks. Peeling Tim open layer by layer with the kind of quiet precision that makes interrogation rooms feel warm and friendly by comparison.

I guess there are some things that don't change in the universe, huh?

For the first time, without gear.

Without a mask.

He feels seen—

and not entirely sure if that’s victory or vulnerability.

Tim inhales, draws the whole messy knot of emotion into a tight line, and pushes the mental chessboard back toward Bruce.

Fine. Let’s restart.
The opening gambit fizzled.
New board. New angle.

He straightens, sliding back into that carefully built posture—chin up, shoulders set, expression steady. The mask behind the mask.

“So,” Tim says, tone light but balanced, “what’s next? More deduction? Or is this where you tell me how much trouble I’m in? ”

Bruce doesn’t blink.

Check.
Not mate.
Not yet, at least. He hasn’t accounted for the others, and Tim is counting on that. The board is still wide open, and he knows exactly which pieces haven’t moved. A particularly fast one at that.

Then Impulse—patron saint of Impeccably Terrible Timing—fires off;

“ROB—okay, okay, super quick rundown, I’m apparently faster than the Flash now? Which shouldn’t be, like, a thing biologically—or chronologically—or physics-ally—look, I’ve never actually raced him, but I thought he’d be way faster, like our Wally-fast, you know? But well—ANYWAY! I thought Batman was gonna chew me out five minutes ago so I sent a Speed scout to warn you—except then Nita—Empress grabbed me like I was a badly-calibrated GPS signal, and then Flash and Kid Flash chased us but I guess I was faster—Grife, this place is—”

A streak of red-yellow brakes hard in front of the cell window. Bart stops mid-sentence, mouth hanging open.

He stares at Batman like he’s just been caught using a flamethrower to reheat ramen.

Batman simply exists in his direction. No blink. No breath. Just a full, immovable Bat-presence.

The atmosphere congeals. Bart makes a noise so small and high-pitched it might classify as a tiny frightened hamster squeak.

“EEP!”

Yeah.
Good luck, Bruce.
Even you are going to need some prep time for this one.