Lily Peverell stood at the edge of the Daily Planet's bustling bullpen, one hand wrapped delicately around a porcelain coffee cup that probably cost more than the copier machines combined. She didn't sip from it—she was too busy people-watching. Or, more accurately, son-watching.
Hadrian—her Harry—was currently surrounded by a small constellation of starstruck reporters, including a beaming Jimmy Olsen and Lois Lane, whose default setting was skeptical but was somehow being charmed by her son. He handled them like he was born doing it. Calm. Cool. Casual. Smirking like he was in on a joke no one else knew the punchline to. Which, knowing her son, he absolutely was.
"He just called Perry 'Chief' and handed him a cappuccino," James said beside her, sounding both bewildered and oddly proud. "Where'd he even get a cappuccino? The coffee here tastes like printer toner."
Sirius, lounging on her other side like the world's most charming coat rack, smirked. "He made it. Watched him do it. Used magic to fix the frother on the second-floor espresso machine. Whispered something in Italian, and the thing started purring."
Lily gave them both the kind of look that said Please stop talking before I develop a migraine and start transfiguring people into paperweights.
Because while Hadrian was busy dazzling the Daily Planet like it was his name on the masthead (which, technically, it now was), Lily's brain was still trying to reboot from this morning's delightful little identity crisis.
She'd woken up on a private jet with perfect hair, a face that was technically hers (just with a jawline the gods might've sculpted during a particularly competitive round of divine poker), and a filing cabinet's worth of memories that did not belong to Lily Potter.
No. She was now Lily Evancourt-Peverell, rebranded like an upscale wine label, and apparently a walking heirloom of a magical legacy that involved—
She took a breath.
—Antioch Blackwood, Cadmus Evancourt, and Ignotus Peverell. The Three Dumb Blokes from Jolly Old Medieval England, who'd made a deal with Death herself (who, by the way, turned out to be a terrifyingly sarcastic goth in a pinstripe pantsuit) because they wanted magical powers.
The deal had been simple. In exchange for powers—actual, real, sparkly Homo Magi powers—they agreed that should their bloodlines ever merge, their firstborn heir would become Death's Champion.
Naturally, all three of those idiots had nodded and said, "Sure, not our problem."
Centuries later: enter Lily Evancourt (descendant of Cadmus), James Peverell (descendant of Ignotus and Antioch thanks to some questionable cousin marriages), and Sirius Blackwood (also Antioch, because of course he was). All three got sorted into the same private boarding school in the Scottish Highlands at eleven. Shenanigans ensued. Friendships were formed. Romance blossomed.
Then Hadrian was born.
And Death showed up like a snarky tax auditor from Hell, holding up the fine print.
"Congratulations," she'd said, examining her long black nails. "You made a son. He's cute. He's also mine now. Don't worry, I'll only activate the clause on his 24th birthday. You've got time to panic."
Lily had panicked. So had James. Sirius tried to hit on Death, because he had the survival instincts of a particularly charming jellyfish.
Now, twenty-four years later, their son Hadrian Peverell was Eidolon. Death's champion. Superhero. Magical demigod. Casual latte-orderer. And apparently the new owner of the Daily Planet.
"No wonder the kid glows like a bloody lightsaber when he's annoyed," Sirius muttered, plucking a grape off a passing tray offered by Dobson—formerly Dobby, who had apparently reincarnated into this world as a charming, bowtie-wearing Homo Magi valet with an encyclopedic knowledge of Peverell family traditions and an impressive disdain for modern fashion.
"Master Sirius," Dobson said smoothly, "please refrain from pawing the hors d'oeuvres. The shrimp is for the humans."
"I am human."
"You eat like a Labrador with a credit card," Dobson sniffed, adjusting his cufflinks. "Madam Lily, your schedule is open until tea, though I'd suggest briefing with Legal at some point today about ownership rights of interdimensional patents. The Thanagarian sword your son acquired last week is still causing paperwork."
"Thank you, Dobson," Lily said, blinking. "I... appreciate your thoroughness."
"You say that now," Dobson said ominously. "Just wait until you see the bill from the janitorial team."
She shook her head and turned her gaze back to Hadrian, who now had Lois Lane cornered—or possibly being interviewed by her. It was hard to tell. Lois, of course, was smiling like a shark with a press pass.
"Your son," James muttered, "is either flirting or verbally fencing. I can't tell which."
"With Lois Lane?" Lily raised an eyebrow. "He wouldn't dare."
"I dunno," Sirius said cheerfully. "He might. He's already got Death wrapped around his finger. I'm pretty sure flirting with a Pulitzer Prize winner is just a Tuesday."
"Personally," Sirius added, "I'm rather shipping him with that Amazonian Princess he was flirting with last night while they were fighting off an alien invasion."
"Lily," James added, "your thoughts are showing."
Because she was smiling. Sharp. Satisfied. Just a touch dangerous.
"Let her," Sirius said. "Our boy turned out alright. He might be Death's favorite mistake, but he's ours."
Lily nodded, her gaze never leaving Hadrian as he threw back his head and laughed at something Jimmy said. His armor might be gone, his hood packed away, his helmet silent—but she could still see the flicker of magic behind his eyes. The fire. The power.
And underneath it all, the boy who once played with toy brooms and called Sirius "Pafoo."
The boy who was now a god.
"Let them see the man," she said softly. "Let them admire the charm. But they have no idea who they're really dealing with."
James gave her hand a squeeze.
"Not yet," she added, sipping her coffee. "But they will."
Because Hadrian Peverell wasn't just Eidolon. He was everything the old bloodlines had feared—and everything they needed. The Champion of Death. The boy who lived. The man who would change the world.
And God help anyone who got in his way.
—
If Themyscira had a royal court of fools, Diana figured it would look exactly like this room.
The Oval Office smelled faintly of leather chairs, cheap cologne, and too much hairspray. Diana of Themyscira—Princess, Warrior, Ambassador, Defender of Truth and Maybe Humanity's Last Hope—sat perfectly still in her chair, radiating the kind of calm that meant something was about to explode. Probably a vase. Possibly a person.
Across the desk, President Donald Trump—yes, that Trump—was talking. A lot. With the energy of a man who thought he had defeated the alien invasion last night by tweeting about it in all caps.
"First of all, let me just say, that thing you did—where you flew through the air and, like, shoom!—incredible. Tremendous," Trump said, making a vaguely rocket-shaped gesture with his hands. "People are saying you're the best hero. Better than Superman. I didn't say that, but people are saying it."
Diana blinked. Once. Slowly. "I don't believe this meeting was meant for flattery, Mr. President."
"Right, right," he said, holding up both hands like she'd accused him of stealing her lasso. "We're here to talk... alliances. Themyscira and America—two great nations. One island of strong, beautiful warrior women, one very strong, very manly country with me as president. It's destiny!"
He looked over at one of his advisors. "Write that down. We can make that into a slogan. 'Destiny. Diana. Donald.' Boom. That's branding."
From the corner, Steve Trevor coughed in that I'm-trying-not-to-laugh-please-send-help way he'd perfected over years of military briefings and high school reunions.
Diana didn't move. "My people do not engage in... branding. Nor are we interested in commemorative action figures."
One of the advisors—balding, tie too tight, the general aura of a man who collected rare Beanie Babies—jumped in. "Of course not! But, hypothetically, if we did want to explore merchandising—educational materials, collectables, a Wonder Whopper meal at McDonald's—"
Steve gave a low groan and leaned toward her. "So, uh... still glad you came to Man's World?"
"I've fought cyclopes that made more sense than this," she whispered back.
Trump was still talking. "Now, let's talk about last night. That invasion thing? Big stuff. Very scary. I told everyone, 'Don't worry. We've got the best people.' And you were the best people! You, Superman, the Bat-guy, the speedy kid, the robot guy—love the tech, by the way—very modern—and that guy... what's his name? Egregious? Emoji?"
"Eidolon," Steve supplied. "The one in black armor."
"Right!" Trump snapped his fingers, which sounded like a dying cricket. "Eidolon. Big cape. Red glowy eyes. Very intimidating. Tremendous punch, just wham!—sent that big alien thing flying. You should've seen the replay. We've got it on loop in the Situation Room. Makes Rocky look like amateur hour."
"I don't know who this Rocky is, but I am sure he is amateur hour compared to Eidolon," Diana said, before she could stop herself.
Steve chuckled under his breath.
Trump leaned in, tapping the desk. "I want to give medals. Big medals. The best medals. And host a banquet—Mar-a-Lago, very exclusive. Eidolon can be the guest of honor. We'll serve... I don't know, dark-themed food. Maybe a black bean salad. Something spooky."
"Your idea of honoring warriors is a salad?" Diana deadpanned.
"No, no, it'll be classy. Very classy," he insisted. "We'll get a fog machine. Dramatic lighting. He likes dramatic lighting, right? With those glowing eyes? Total crowd-pleaser."
At this point, Steve had fully given up and was just watching with the fascinated horror of a man watching two trucks slowly crash into each other in slow motion.
"Mr. President," Diana said, her voice silk over steel, "we are not seeking medals or banquets. Themyscira exists to protect peace, not play political theater."
Trump squinted. "So... no action figures?"
She turned her gaze toward Steve. "Tell me again why you thought bringing me here was a good idea."
Steve shrugged. "Honestly? I thought it'd be hilarious."
It wasn't—not for the President's desk, which was now halfway to being cleaved in two from the sheer weight of Diana's restraint.
But even as the room descended into a debate about themed cupcakes and what kind of music Eidolon might listen to ("Heavy metal? Gothic jazz?"), Diana's thoughts were already drifting—back to Gotham, back to the night that had changed everything.
The invasion had been chaos. The sky had cracked open with starships. Buildings burned, the air thick with smoke and the scent of ozone and desperation.
And yet they stood.
Superman—radiant as Apollo, eyes lit with justice.
Batman—calm, cold, calculating. A living shadow with a plan for every possible scenario, including the one where they all died horribly.
The Flash—moving so fast he might've stopped time just to crack a joke mid-battle.
Cyborg—controlling the battlefield like a maestro with a city-sized orchestra of tech.
Green Lantern—willpower made light, sketching constructs like a kid with a cosmic crayon.
Shazam—literally yelling "SHAZAM!" and summoning thunder like it was his job. (It kinda was.)
And then...
Eidolon.
He hadn't landed so much as appeared, like the shadow between lightning bolts. Black armor rippling with magic and menace. His cloak fluttered even when there was no wind. Crimson light bled from his chest emblem—a symbol she didn't recognize but felt. It pulsed in time with the heartbeat of the world, and his eyes... gods, those eyes. Not rage. Not hate. But pain. Depth. Purpose.
He'd fought with a fury that was poetic. Like death dancing. And when he fell—crushed by Omega Beams—her heart had clenched.
Until he got up.
Until he rose.
He healed as though he was rewriting the rules of mortality. After the battle has ended, he had whispered words in a language older than Olympus and rebuilt the city around him.
Initially, she hadn't even caught his name until someone—probably Flash—shouted, "Yo, Eidolon! You good?!"
Eidolon had just floated down, cape swirling, and muttered something like, "Define 'good,' you optimistic lawn gnome."
She should've been annoyed. But she hadn't been. She'd smiled.
Now, sitting in this ridiculous room, listening to a PowerPoint presentation titled "Justice League: A Branding Opportunity," Diana realized something troubling.
She wanted to see him again.
Not just the power. Not the cape, or the eyes, or even the magic.
Him.
Whoever was under the armor, he carried a burden she recognized. A mission. A weight.
She would find him.
Because in a world full of noise and nonsense, he had been a mystery wrapped in darkness—and sometimes, the best way to find the truth...
...was to follow the shadows.
—
CC Jitters smelled like roasted dreams, unfiled taxes, and whatever ambition tasted like after three hours of sleep and too many espresso shots.
Iris West slid into her usual window booth like a caffeinated ninja—minus the stealth and plus a slightly unhinged tote bag spilling camera batteries, a tangle of charging cables, and a half-melted protein bar that may or may not have been from last week. She balanced it all with one hand and her triple espresso in the other, because multitasking was a survival skill at this point.
Around her, the café buzzed—both in volume and actual buzz, since half the city seemed to have collectively decided that alien invasions were a better wake-up call than caffeine.
"I swear, my cousin's girlfriend saw one of them lift a tank," whispered a barista behind the counter. "With. His. Mind."
"Oh, please," said her co-worker, eyes wide. "Did you hear about the Peverells? They bought both the Daily Planet and the Gotham Gazette. That's, like… peak comic book villain origin story right there."
Iris resisted the urge to roll her eyes, mostly because they were currently focused on her laptop screen. Headlines could wait. Right now? She was editing footage of MrBeast building a school for underprivileged sea otters. Or was it tofu-brick orphanages again?
Whatever it was, the man clearly had a money printer somewhere.
"Honestly," she muttered, adjusting her earbuds. "This guy's budget has more zeroes than Barry's calorie intake. What does he do, rob banks in his spare time?"
As if summoned by caffeine, chaos, or her utter lack of boundaries, her phone buzzed.
LOGAN PAUL.
She stared at the screen like it might self-destruct.
"Oh, no," she said aloud. "It's too early for shirtless stunts and concussion logic."
She answered anyway.
"Logan," she said, voice flat as her morning patience. "If this is about the goat again, I'm blocking you."
On the other end, Logan's voice cracked through with all the subtlety of a WWE entrance theme.
"Iris! Babe! Legend! Listen—this one's not about the goat. Mostly. Okay, tangentially, but focus. You will not believe what I've got."
She sighed. "You know what I won't believe? That you were awake before noon."
"No, seriously! Gotham. Last night. I was there. Aliens. Explosions. Me and the boys were ringside, and BOOM! Freakin' spaceship shows up! I tried livestreaming, but the Wi-Fi died harder than my crypto investments."
"You had crypto investments?"
"...That's not the point."
"Right. So, the world almost ends again, and your first instinct is to record it like a National Geographic special hosted by a man-child."
Logan laughed. "I mean, yeah. It's me. Also, Rico got the whole thing on the shoulder cam. Like, 4K resolution, baby. Cinematic gold. I need it edited ASAP."
Iris blinked. "You have alien invasion footage?"
"Yup. With commentary."
"Let me guess," she said, already opening her laptop. "'Brooooooo!' every time something explodes?"
"Okay, that only happened, like, three times. Four. Max. But listen, there's this one guy—dude in armor, glowing eyes, very Matrix meets Hades energy—he got nuked by some alien laser thing, and then he came back. Like, bones and everything grew back. It was gross. And awesome."
"Gross and awesome?" Iris muttered, downloading the file. "So… just your brand, then."
"Exactly! So you in?"
"Send the footage. I'll bill you later."
"Dope. Oh, and if I'm shirtless in any of the shots—"
"I'm using it as the thumbnail."
"BRO, NO!"
She hung up with a satisfied smirk and opened the video.
It was chaos. Beautiful, cinematic, world-ending chaos.
The sky looked like a Michael Bay fever dream. Buildings crumbled. Civilians screamed. And yet—amidst the pandemonium—there were the heroes.
Shazam, practically made of lightning. Superman, hovering like a glowing, disappointed dad. Batman, being so Batman it was almost parody. And then—
"Hi, Barry," Iris said aloud as a crimson blur zipped across the screen, punching and saving and crashing into things like his life depended on it. Probably did, actually.
But one figure caught her attention the most.
The camera lingered on him like it knew. Like even Logan Paul's footage understood this guy wasn't normal.
"Eidolon," Iris whispered.
He stood in the rubble like a myth dragged into the modern day. His armor shimmered with ancient symbols. His eyes glowed like someone had shoved stars into his skull.
And then the laser hit.
The alien overlord—tall, angry, with the fashion sense of a skeleton wearing GPS trackers—hit him full-on. Heat-seeking death beam. Eidolon disintegrated.
Disintegrated.
Bones, muscle, skin—gone in a flash of horror-movie gore.
And then?
He grew back.
Iris gagged. "Okay, ew. Nope. Nope. I did not need to see that ribcage regrow in 4K."
Still, she couldn't stop watching. She paused on a frame mid-reconstruction, stared at it. Something about it stirred a memory—her mom, telling bedtime stories about gods and ghosts and people who came back from death with fire in their veins.
Her phone buzzed again. Logan.
Logan: "Plz don't use that thumbnail."
Iris: [sends the screenshot of his scream-face with fire behind him. Caption: 'THE DAY I ALMOST DIED (feat. aliens and maybe Jesus)']
Logan: "I hate how good that is."
She grinned, then switched tabs to her own channel notes. The world didn't need another highlight reel. It needed the story. The real one.
Who was Eidolon?
Where did he come from?
And how the heck did he put himself back together like a death-defying Mr. Potato Head?
She shut her laptop, drained the last of her espresso, and stood.
Barry was probably at CCPD, pretending to do forensic work while secretly nursing a bruise the size of a football field.
She had questions. He had answers.
And if he tried to dodge with speed jokes again?
His Wi-Fi was done.
As she walked out, she muttered to herself, "Also, if Eidolon's single, I just want to ask. For journalism."
Because yes, Iris West asked the hard questions.
And she always, always got the scoop.
—
Iris West barreled through the sliding doors of Central City Police Department like a journalist-shaped hurricane with a latte addiction and a vendetta against secrets.
She was a walking headline.
Triple espresso in one hand (extra shot of chaos), camera bag bouncing against her hip, and a laptop case slung over her shoulder like a battle axe forged in the fires of WordPress. Her phone buzzed in her pocket every four seconds, mostly notifications from conspiracy forums and one very concerning tweet that claimed "Eidolon was just Jesus with a lightsaber."
She wasn't here to play.
Cops scattered like she was radioactive. One intern ducked behind a filing cabinet. A rookie saluted her by accident. And the vending machine? Still blinking from last night's power outage, looked like it might try to file a restraining order the moment it recognized her.
She was halfway to the forensics lab and already drafting the world's most passive-aggressive opening line—"Oh hey babe, cool alien invasion. Next time maybe loop in your girlfriend?"—when a voice called out.
"Iris."
She froze like someone had just yelled "Freeze!" in an action movie. Not out of fear. Out of instinct. That voice? That was Dad Voice. Capital D, capital V. Laced with weary authority, disappointment, and the subtle but unmistakable undertone of "I love you, but if you blow something up again, I'm calling your mother."
She turned. Slowly. Casually. Like she hadn't just been speed-walking like her sneakers were on fire. "Hey, Dad," she said, smiling like a Disney princess who just got caught trying to pick a lock.
Detective Joe West was standing by the coffee machine, cup in hand, expression somewhere between tired cop and why am I like this. His tie was askew, and his mustache was doing that thing where it twitched just slightly when he was trying very hard not to say something sarcastic.
"You got that look again," he said.
"What look?"
"The 'I'm-about-to-interrogate-my-boyfriend-like-he-owes-me-money-and-also-an-exclusive' look."
Iris blinked, feigning confusion. "I'm just here to say hi."
Joe pointed at her espresso like it was a murder weapon. "Triple shot. You only drink that when you're plotting. That, or when the Wi-Fi's down."
"That's profiling," Iris said. "You can't just arrest people based on caffeine choices."
"I'm not arresting you," Joe said dryly. "I'm stopping you from going full Lois Lane on Barry before he's had a chance to un-speed his brain. Kid barely slept. Pretty sure he sneezed and knocked out the precinct's entire Wi-Fi."
Iris tilted her head. "Speed-sneezed?"
Joe nodded, sipping his coffee. "Wi-Fi's still rebooting. Jenkins is blaming a cyberattack. I'm blaming metahuman allergies."
Iris rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine. Yes, I'm here to talk to Barry. But not to interrogate him. It's more of a... collaborative exchange of information."
"With the intensity of a shark that's smelled blood in the water?"
"Don't be dramatic," she said, then paused. "I mean, maybe just a little nibble. Like... a curious shark. With a press badge."
Joe gave her the patented Dad Stare. The one that could melt steel beams and guilt you into eating your vegetables at the same time.
Iris powered through it. "Dad. Come on. You saw the footage. Some alien warlord opens a space rift above National City, Batman's gliding around like a murder bat, Superman's fighting a literal flying demons, and this new guy—Eidolon—drops in like a video game respawn and starts tanking energy blasts with his face."
Joe raised an eyebrow. "And you're curious."
"I'm journalist curious," she corrected. "That's, like, three levels above normal curious. I need answers. Who is this guy? Where did he come from? Is he a new hero or someone freelancing in mythological cosplay?"
Joe sighed and leaned against the wall. "And you think Barry knows."
"He always knows," Iris said. "Even when he pretends not to. Especially when he pretends not to. It's like a sixth sense. The 'I'm lying to protect you' sense."
Joe pointed at her bag. "You brought your camera."
"Always," Iris said proudly.
He nodded. "Laptop?"
"Charged. Loaded. Ready to rumble."
"Notebook?"
Iris held it up like a weapon. "Color-coded tabs. Barry's in red. Eidolon's in silver. Alien overlords are gold with skull doodles."
Joe rubbed his face like he was suddenly rethinking all his life choices. "Just... do me a favor, okay? Don't push him too hard. He's been through a lot."
"I live to push," Iris said. "It's my love language."
"I thought your love language was aggressively texting in all caps."
"That's my second love language."
Joe took a long, soul-weary sip of his coffee, then glanced toward the hallway that led to the forensics lab. "He's in there. Door's probably locked. He may pretend not to be home."
"I'll knock," Iris promised. Then smirked. "Loudly."
As she turned to go, Joe called out after her, "If you find out anything about this Eidolon guy... I mean anything... loop me in."
Iris winked. "Only if you promise not to make me write a report."
Joe grinned. "No promises."
"Cool," she said. "Then if I disappear into a wormhole or get recruited by a secret alien council or something, tell Barry he owes me dinner. And also a lot of answers."
"Iris," Joe warned.
She waved him off. "Joking!"
Mostly.
And with that, she strutted down the hall like the caffeine-fueled chaos goblin she was, already rehearsing her first three opening lines, plus a flirty zinger in case Barry tried to distract her with a kiss. Again.
Barry Allen had better be ready. Because Iris West was coming.
And she brought the espresso.
—
Iris West burst into the lab like a caffeinated hurricane,
"Barry," Iris began, her tone sweet enough to rot teeth, "we need to talk."
Barry blinked, already bracing himself. "About what?"
Iris leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Eidolon."
Barry's eyes widened slightly before he masked it with a casual shrug. "I have no idea who that is."
"Uh-huh," Iris said, stepping into the lab. "So, you didn't have shawarma with him after the battle?"
Barry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, maybe I did. But he didn't pay for it. I had to cover his bill because he said something about it being uncool to pay for food after saving the world."
Iris raised an eyebrow. "So, you're telling me this guy saves the world and then mooches off your wallet?"
Barry chuckled. "Pretty much. But he's not a bad guy. Just... mysterious."
Iris pulled out her notebook. "Spill it. What do you know about him?"
Barry leaned back in his chair. "Well, he's white. British. Has a sense of humor that's very Deadpool-esque, but without the fourth-wall-breaking or the R-rated content."
Iris jotted down notes. "Got it. British Deadpool-lite. What about his powers?"
Barry's expression turned serious. "He's incredibly powerful. He can run as fast as me, fly, and he punched the alien overlord's clone—who had just knocked out Superman—so hard that the guy actually flew. That's not something you see every day."
Iris's eyes widened. "Wait, he punched a clone into the air? That's insane."
Barry nodded. "And that's not all. He has magic—used it to repair Gotham while I was off getting shawarma. He can teleport short distances, and his healing factor is off the charts. He got blown up twice—once by Omega Beams and once when he blew up the mothership with himself inside—and walked out of the ocean like it was just a regular Tuesday."
Iris stared at him. "So, he's basically a one-man Avengers."
"Pretty much," Barry said, sipping his coffee. "But he's also humble. Doesn't seek attention. Just does what needs to be done."
Iris closed her notebook. "Well, he sounds like someone worth keeping an eye on. And next time, maybe make him pay for his own shawarma."
Barry grinned. "Deal."
—
Billy Batson was mid-toast-pastry and mid-monologue, which meant everyone else in the Vasquez living room had roughly five seconds before things got dramatic.
"And then I looked Darkseid Junior right in the eye—totally unfazed, by the way—and I said, 'Not today, space punk!'" Billy stood on the couch like it was his Broadway debut, toaster pastry still clutched in one hand like a half-eaten microphone. "Boom! One lightning bolt later, that sucker was flying first-class straight to New Jersey!"
Freddy Freeman snorted so hard his orange soda exited through his nose.
"Yeah, okay," Freddy managed between cough-laughs. "More like he punched you into New Jersey."
Billy pointed at him, crumbs flying. "That was strategy, my friend. Ever hear of a rope-a-dope? I was giving him a false sense of security before unleashing the thunder. Classic move. Muhammad Ali would be proud."
Darla, who was sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a rainbow notebook and a glitter pen, clapped enthusiastically. "You looked like a comet, Billy! With arms!"
"Thank you, Darla," Billy said, taking a bow. "I'm pretty sure the other heroes owe me a thank-you fruit basket. Or at least, like, Batman's autograph."
Pedro looked up from his tablet where he was watching replays of the invasion. "You screamed the whole time."
Billy waved him off. "That was a war cry. Totally intentional. Fierce. Inspiring. Ask anyone."
"More like 'terrified soprano at a haunted house,'" Freddy said. "But sure."
That's when the front door opened, and in walked Mary Bromfield, looking exactly like she'd spent the last week battling finals at Gotham University. Her "Mythology 301: Icarus Had It Coming" sweatshirt was half-tucked into her jeans, and her ponytail somehow made her look even more like she had her life together—which made her the most intimidating person in the room.
She dropped her bag on the table and raised an eyebrow at the scene: a half-disassembled toaster doubling as a mothership, action figures in mid-air combat, and a trail of powdered sugar leading to Billy like breadcrumbs to a gremlin.
"I leave for one week," Mary said, "and suddenly my little brother thinks he's Thor with a Netflix subscription."
"Hey!" Billy objected. "First of all, Thor's cool, but I've got way more charm. And second—this isn't just a retelling. This is history. I was there. Frontlines. Lightning. Aliens. Boom."
"Uh-huh," Mary said, sitting on the arm of the couch with the patented Big Sister Smirk. "Start from the top, Spark Plug. And no slow-mo sound effects this time."
Billy sighed like a man burdened with greatness. "Okay. Fine. So. The alien invasion happened—obviously—and I lead the group of superheroes—again, obviously. Superman was down, Batman was being... well, Batman, and Wonder Woman was—"
He paused dramatically. The room held its collective breath. Even Eugene looked up from his spreadsheet of alien tech specs.
"She looked at me," Billy said, reverently. "I swear she looked at me. There was a moment. I could feel it."
Mary tilted her head. "Did she look at you like, 'Wow, thank you for your help, valiant warrior,' or more like, 'Aw, look, a fanboy in pajamas'?"
"It was intense," Billy insisted. "Like sparks-flying, music-swelling, soulmate-destiny-level intense. And then—"
He scowled.
"Then Eidolon showed up."
Freddy perked up. "You mean the guy who took an Omega Beam to the face and shrugged it off like a sneeze?"
Billy flopped back dramatically. "Yes. Him. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Anglo-Magic. Shows up outta nowhere looking like he was chiseled out of magic marble and starts doing everything better. Flying. Fighting. Speaking Elvish or whatever."
"He probably speaks Atlantean," Eugene said without looking up. "And Akkadian. And French. Fluently."
Darla added, "And he gave a little girl her puppy back! I saw it on TikTok. He went all sparkly and booped the puppy on the nose."
Billy groaned. "Great. Now even the puppies are on his side."
Pedro tilted his head. "I mean, the guy does look like he could stop a tsunami with a glowing staff and heal like, two hundred people with some kind of golden light."
"And did you see his cape?" Eugene asked. "It's like... flowing at all times. Even when there's no wind."
Mary crossed her arms and smirked. "So what I'm hearing is: you were this close to impressing Wonder Woman, and then the magic beefcake showed up and stole your spotlight?"
Billy pointed a finger at her, full of dramatic fury. "Exactly! I was so close! I had the perfect flirty line ready. Something like, 'Hey gorgeous, need a lightning strike?' And then boom! He drops in, glowing like a black and red disco ball with abs!"
Freddy choked on his soda. "Dude. You were gonna say that to Wonder Woman?"
"Okay, maybe not that exact line," Billy muttered, blushing. "But you get the idea!"
Mary leaned forward, eyes sparkling with teasing. "Tell you what. Next time you see Eidolon, you tell him I've got questions. Like who he is, where he got that ridiculous accent, and whether or not his skincare routine is FDA approved."
Darla giggled. "I bet it involves fairy dust and dragon tears."
"Bet it smells like old books and justice," Pedro said.
Billy groaned again, dramatically sinking into the couch cushions like they could swallow his shame. "You're all traitors. I saved the world, and somehow he's the one everyone wants to make into a Funko Pop."
Freddy patted him on the head. "There, there, lightning bug. You're our world-saver."
Billy peeked out from under a throw pillow. "...Thanks. I guess."
"And hey," Mary added with a wink, "you still have that super-cool slow-motion scream. Maybe practice that for the next invasion."
Billy sat up, eyes narrowed. "You know what? Next time, I'm gonna save the world, give a puppy back, and flirt with Wonder Woman. Just watch me."
The rest of the family burst into laughter again, and Billy—being Billy—soaked it all in with a grin, already planning his dramatic comeback.
But Mary? Mary was already opening her laptop.
Eidolon, she typed into the search bar.
Because mystery beefcakes with glowing eyes and anti-Omega-Beam armor didn't just walk into your little brother's thunderstorm without raising some questions.
---
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