Clark Kent wasn't sure what he expected when Lois said, "We're having lunch with the Peverells."
Maybe a press-lunch-meets-powerplay vibe, with enough suits and strategically vague answers to fill a Senate hearing. Maybe James Peverell would shake his hand, flash a billionaire smile, and pretend he didn't secretly run half the planet.
What Clark didn't expect was:
1) A private rooftop lounge that made the Metropolis skyline look like background decor.
2) A string quartet absolutely bullying Bach into submission.
And 3) Dobson. The butler. Who looked like Alfred Pennyworth and John Wick had teamed up to raise a child in deadly silence.
Also, Sirius Blackwood was somehow real. And louder than life. He was currently using a money clip to light a cigar. A cigar. While laughing at a crumpled Daily Planet article about some corrupt British MP who went to jail in the '90s.
"Still my finest contribution to international journalism," Perry White boomed, slapping the table like it owed him rent.
"That man's corruption was an art form," Sirius said. "He once tried to claim seven mansions as 'office space.' I'm pretty sure one of them was a castle."
Lois was deep in conversation with Lily Peverell, which, from a distance, looked like two moms chatting about PTA bake sales. Upon closer inspection, it was about quantum entanglement and a recent paper Lily published under a pseudonym that broke the internet and several Ivy League egos.
Lily Peverell had the energy of a woman who could smile sweetly while casually rewriting reality in her spare time. She had frightening levels of radiant intellect with just enough mischief to terrify theoretical physicists.
And James?
James Peverell—looking every inch like a character that had wandered out of a Bond film—sat at the head of the table with the casual authority of a man who didn't need to say he was the boss. He just was. Dressed in a three-piece suit so sharp it could cut glass, he swirled his wine like it was judging him, not the other way around.
Hadrian was across from Clark. Legs crossed. Tie loosened just enough to make it look deliberate. And smiling the kind of smile that made you wonder if he knew where your birth certificate was hidden.
"You know," Hadrian said, swirling his drink in a way that made Clark suspiciously aware of his own Midwestern upbringing, "I do love these family luncheons. Mum turns every conversation into a TED Talk, Dad reenacts the glory days of his hairline, and Sirius keeps proving that Interpol has a patience problem."
"I don't pretend," Sirius called from the next table without looking up. "They haven't proven anything."
James didn't even blink. "Except that your last expense report reads like Tolkien fanfiction."
Sirius grinned. "What can I say? I'm a visionary. Also, castles are tax deductible in certain jurisdictions."
Hadrian leaned in, eyes gleaming with something halfway between affection and chaos. "Welcome to the circus, Big Blue."
Clark exhaled. "So... this is normal for you?"
Hadrian tilted his head. "Define normal. If you mean 'godfather once bet the Prime Minister he could seduce the Queen of Monaco'—then yes."
Clark blinked. "He didn't."
"Lost the bet. Won a seaside Chalet and a dinner invite, though."
Clark stared. "I have so many questions."
Hadrian smiled like a cat who had just watched you spill your milk. "Dobson? Bring Mr. Kent the 1972 Highland. The real one. Not the museum decoy."
Dobson gave a nod that might've been a bow or a challenge to a duel and vanished like a magician with a vendetta.
Clark folded his arms. "You have a museum decoy?"
Hadrian blinked. "You don't?"
The string quartet hit a particularly ominous note, probably by accident. Or not.
"Okay," Clark said, adjusting his glasses and trying not to look impressed. "How long have you known?"
Hadrian gave him a look. A long, almost lazy once-over that felt like an X-ray. "That you're Superman? Since the first time I saw you. The disguise is adorable, by the way. Glasses, check. Awkward posture, check. Flannel? Clark, really."
Clark's ears went pink. "Lois likes honesty."
"Then you're both in trouble," Hadrian said cheerfully. "Journalists. Professionally allergic to it."
Clark didn't laugh. But he didn't frown either.
"Why me? Why now?"
Hadrian leaned back. The grin dimmed just a bit, enough to reveal the weariness behind it.
"Because the world's changing, Clark. People don't just need symbols. They need reasons to believe. You're hope. Me? I'm the warning label on the miracle."
They both looked out over the city.
"What are you, Hadrian?" Clark asked quietly. "Wizard? Alien? Eidolon? All of the above?"
Hadrian smiled again. That damn smile.
"Yes."
Dobson reappeared like an especially classy ghost, pouring the drink with the reverence of a monk performing a sacred rite.
Clark eyed the butler. "Do you trust him with your life?"
Hadrian didn't hesitate. "I trust him with yours. Which is a much bigger deal."
Clark looked back at him. "You're not just building a media empire."
"No. I'm building a world."
There was a beat of silence.
"You ever think about that League idea we discussed last night?" Clark asked, casually, like they weren't standing on the edge of rewriting history.
Hadrian didn't blink. "I thought I suggested it."
Clark shrugged. "We haven't voted yet."
"Please. You and the Princess already said yes. Batman's just playing hard to get."
Clark raised his glass.
"Welcome to the team, Eidolon."
Hadrian clinked his glass against Clark's.
"Let's make the world interesting."
It already was.
—
Hadrian leaned back in his chair with the air of a Bond villain on his lunch break—except instead of stroking a white cat, he was swirling a glass of elderflower tonic and silently judging Clark's necktie.
He steepled his fingers, glanced at the Rolex on his wrist—not to check the time, but to subtly let Clark know it was made from meteorite shards harvested during a Peverell-backed mission to the Kuiper Belt—and smiled like a cat who had not only caught the canary, but bought the whole aviary.
"So," Hadrian said casually, tapping the rim of his glass. "You should come with us to Gotham."
Clark Kent—six-foot-plus of Kansas charm in a blue Oxford shirt—blinked. "We?"
Hadrian tilted his head toward the table, where James and Lily Peverell were locked in a disturbingly polite debate with Sirius Black over whether poker should be banned on space stations. Sirius, looking like a rock star who got lost on the way to a Metallica concert, was explaining how poker in zero gravity added a whole new level of bluffing. James was unconvinced. Lily was taking notes.
"The fam's heading over there after lunch," Hadrian continued. "Business-y stuff. We recently acquired the Gotham Gazette. You know, like the Daily Planet, but with more stabbings."
Clark frowned. "You bought two of the biggest newspapers on the East Coast?"
"Technically, I bought six," Hadrian said, swirling his drink like a villain in an old spy movie. "The other four just aren't as stylish. But Gotham? Gotham's different. We're mostly going for PR, awkward handshakes, and pretending that the Gazette's editorial office isn't haunted. Spoiler: it is."
Clark folded his arms across his chest. "And what about us? What are we doing in Gotham?"
Hadrian leaned forward like he was about to deliver a monologue in a West End play. "Meeting someone darker."
Clark arched an eyebrow. "You mean—"
"Yes, Clark. Him. The brooding, cape-wearing, shadow-lurking night gremlin who punches clowns at 3 a.m. Batman."
Clark's jaw tightened. "How do you know he's—"
"Bruce Wayne," Hadrian said without missing a beat, taking a smug sip of his drink.
Clark just stared. "You—how? I only figured that out last night, and I had to use X-ray vision. Through the cowl. While he was punching a guy."
Hadrian sighed dramatically. "Amateur. You used your powers. I used logic. Novel concept, I know."
He leaned back again, clearly enjoying himself. "Let's do the math. Gotham's been a crime-riddled cesspool since forever. One day, a guy in a bat suit shows up. He's got the fighting skills of a Navy SEAL, the moral compass of a paladin, and tech that makes Stark Industries look like a RadioShack clearance bin."
Clark blinked. "What's a RadioShack?"
"Exactly." Hadrian smirked. "Now, who in Gotham has the money, the tech, the motive, and just the right level of unresolved childhood trauma to go full Dark Knight?"
Clark sighed. "Bruce Wayne."
Hadrian snapped his fingers. "And the Pulitzer goes to Mr. Kent. Look, I grew up around the guy. The Waynes, the Peverells, the Blackwoods—we're like the Holy Trinity of old money and suspicious family heirlooms. Bruce was always the mysterious older brother figure. Taught me how to throw a boomerang. Smelled faintly of gunpowder. Always late."
"You know how to throw a boomerang?"
"Better than he does a Batarang. True story: I once ricocheted one off a chandelier and took out three training dummies. Sirius wept."
"Because he was proud?"
"Because he'd bet against me."
From the other end of the room, Sirius called out, "Ask Bruce if he's done sulking about the Monaco incident! And that I still want my grappling hook back!"
Hadrian didn't turn. "You traded it for a bottle of enchanted absinthe!"
"And worth every hangover!"
Clark rubbed his temples. "Does Bruce know you know?"
"Goodness, no," Hadrian said. "He'd get so dramatic. Last time someone suspected he had a Batcave, he vanished for a week and returned with a new security system and a personality even gloomier than before."
"So you hacked the Batcomputer?"
Hadrian gave him a completely unconvincing look of innocence. "I said someone did."
Clark was pretty sure he was going to develop a headache. "You want me to meet him? With you? Like... form a team?"
Hadrian stood, buttoning his coat. "Well, yes. Someone needs to make sure the grown men with trauma issues and dangerous toys play nice."
"And you think Bruce will agree?"
"He'll brood for five minutes, pretend it's his idea, and then show up early in full gear. Classic Bat-move."
Dobson appeared beside them, like the ghost of butlers past. "Sir, the jet will be ready shortly. Would you like the Rachmaninoff playlist or Sirius's compilation of eighties power ballads for the flight?"
"Power ballads. Let's embrace the chaos."
Dobson bowed so low, his spine must have been enchanted. "Excellent choice, sir. I shall prepare the karaoke system."
"Wait, you have karaoke on your jet?" Clark asked.
"And a chocolate fountain," Hadrian said with a grin. "You're in for a treat, Kent. Come on. Let's go convince a billionaire ninja to join our Justice League."
As they walked toward the elevator, Sirius called out, "Tell Bruce I want my absinthe bottle back too!"
"You drank it!"
"Yeah, but it was enchanting! I miss the hallucinations!"
Clark sighed. "What have I gotten myself into?"
Hadrian just grinned wider. "A new world order, farm boy. Try to keep up."
—
Bruce Wayne sat hunched in front of the Batcomputer like a billionaire version of Gollum staring at his "precious." Only instead of a magic ring, Bruce was watching grainy satellite footage of a flaming crater that used to be most of Gotham's South Docks.
"Well," he muttered, tapping at the console with the practiced grace of a concert pianist doing nuclear forensics, "that's new."
The satellite image zoomed in, the camera's AI-enhanced zoom picking out glowing embers, twisted metal, and one very ominous donut-shaped scorch mark.
"Apokoliptian," Bruce said to himself, because talking to oneself in the Batcave was a Wayne family tradition. "But someone's been playing mad scientist. That clone wasn't just Darkseid. It had Kryptonian DNA stitched into it."
He squinted. There it was—right at the epicenter. A fading signature. Crimson energy, pulsing like ghost blood.
"Eidolon," he muttered.
Because of course, when Gotham gets invaded by an army of discount Parademons, some mysterious techno-warlock in black armor and glowing red eyes just happens to show up with his lightsaber suit and mysterious motives. Like a Sith Lord who shops at Hot Topic and quotes Shakespeare while setting things on fire.
Bruce leaned back, steepling his fingers like a man who was either about to solve a cosmic riddle or deduct tax fraud from your soul. Just behind him, Alfred was elbow-deep in charred Kevlar, muttering British obscenities under his breath as he repaired the cowl.
"If I may, sir," Alfred said in that tone that always sounded like it came with a side of scones and disappointment, "perhaps next time you consider not blowing out the voice modulator yelling at winged interdimensional nightmares?"
"I had to disrupt their echolocation," Bruce replied, not looking up. "Sound burst was calibrated to confuse their flight pattern."
"Well, congratulations. You confused me too. I thought we were being attacked by dubstep."
Alfred snapped the last piece of circuitry into place and placed the cowl on the worktable. "Voice modulator's fixed. And I've added the lead-lining, though frankly, if Master Kent wants a peek inside your brain, I doubt a bit of foil's going to stop him."
Bruce finally glanced over. "It's not for him."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "I assume you're referring to the glowing Mr. Edgelord from last night's monster mash?"
That was when the Batcomputer blinked. Not the normal glitchy kind of blink—this was the "sentient AI just rolled its eyes at you" kind of blink.
The screen shimmered red, lines of code crawling across it like digital spiders spun from sarcasm.
[MESSAGE INCOMING… DECRYPTING…]
From: EIDOLON//ShadowProtocol17
Encryption Level: Laughably Beyond Military-Grade
Delivery Method: Quantum Echo Rebound (P.S. I hacked your Batcomputer. Again.)
"Darkseid was just the appetizer. Let's talk before the main course eats your planet."
"Tonight. You, me, and your favorite Kryptonian."
"Location? Your choice, Detective. But do hurry. I've already made tea, and Big Blue's bringing the awkward silence."
"Tick tock."
Bruce blinked. Once. Slowly. The Batglare was activated.
Alfred, without missing a beat, asked, "Shall I put the kettle on? Or would you prefer I craft an EMP pulse that launches from your nostrils when someone says the word 'paradimensional'?"
Bruce stood, grabbing the cowl in one fluid motion.
"This wasn't Luthor," he said as he locked the helmet in place. "This was Eidolon."
Alfred folded his arms, eyeing the crimson-glowing message still dancing on the monitor. "Yes, I'd gathered that from the passive-aggressive font. I must admit, though, I rather admire his panache. One doesn't see a proper villain anymore. Just aliens and teenagers in spandex."
"I'm going to pick the location on the way," Batman said, voice modulated into gravel. "Someplace secure. Isolated. Familiar."
"Nostalgic?" Alfred asked, dry as the Sahara in August.
"Exactly."
—
Batman landed on the upper level of the derelict clocktower with a whisper of sound, which for anyone else would've been an impossible feat, but for him? Tuesday. His cape flared out behind him like a bat-shaped thundercloud, catching the gusting wind before folding back around him with brooding precision. Wet boots hit rotting floorboards. He straightened, already scoping out every corner of the tower, every loose brick, every shadow pretending to be innocent.
This place wasn't on any city records. It wasn't on the GCPD's radar or on any of the thousands of TikToks where would-be urban explorers tried to turn Gotham's filth into aesthetic content. No Wi-Fi. No power. No cops. No influencers. Just him and the kind of quiet that came after too many years of secrets.
Except, of course, he wasn't alone.
"About time, Bats," came the voice—dry, British, and very much enjoying himself from across the room.
Eidolon was lounging against the cracked remains of a support pillar like he'd been waiting for a friend at a café and not standing in the most haunted-looking place Gotham had to offer. His armor was blacker than Bruce's soul on a Monday morning, with crimson lines pulsing faintly across the surface like veins on some monstrous heart. The helmet made him look like a cross between a medieval knight and your worst sleep paralysis demon. Oh, and the glowing red eyes? Just the cherry on top.
Next to him, floating as if he hadn't noticed gravity was a thing, Superman crossed his arms and gave Bruce a mild look. The kind of look that said I know you didn't sleep again and I'm not mad, just disappointed. His cape billowed in the breeze like it had its own agent and stylist.
"You're late," Superman said, deadpan, like a line from a buddy cop film.
"I'm not late," Batman replied, voice gravelly and low. "I'm Batman."
Eidolon clapped, slow and sarcastic. "Oh, bravo. That was peak brooding. Classic delivery. I'd give it an 8.5, but you lost points for punctuality."
Batman's eyes scanned the two of them, unreadable. "You two seem... friendly."
"We bonded," Eidolon said, gesturing between them like a magician revealing a trick. "Talked about our tragic childhoods, interdimensional invasions, favorite colors. Very healing."
"He means we traded intel," Clark added. "Though he did get me to try a British accent."
"I have the audio," Eidolon added cheerfully. "It's going in my mixtape. Right after 'The Many Grunts of Batman: A Meditation.'"
Bruce scowled. "You find this funny?"
"Oh, everything's funny, mate," Eidolon said, pushing off the pillar. His armor gleamed faintly with each step. "But this? This is also important. Which is why before we dive into the inevitable speech about trust and teamwork and whatever else you've got bookmarked under Justice League Pitch.doc, I figured—full disclosure."
"I know who he is," Bruce said, jerking his chin toward Superman.
"And I know you're Bruce Wayne," Clark added, giving a little shrug like it was old news. Because, well, it was.
"And I know that you both know that you both know," Eidolon finished brightly. "Honestly, the trust circle here is adorable."
Bruce turned, his cape shifting with him. "And you?"
Eidolon's helmet tilted. "Bruce. Come on. Who else in this city has the absurd budget, the terrifying trauma, and the pathological obsession with thematic branding to go full-time bat cosplay and punch his way through the criminal underworld?"
Bruce's jaw clenched.
"I mean, really. You hide in the shadows like it's a religion. You buy out entire tech companies just to source gadgets that look like Halloween props. And, let's be honest, the 'I work alone' thing? So obviously compensating."
Superman cleared his throat, failing to hide a smile.
Bruce's glare deepened. "You hacked the Batcomputer."
"Well, yes," Eidolon said, lifting a gloved finger. "But in my defense, it was poorly guarded. I mean, 'Martha'? Your mother's name? That's not a password, that's a cry for help."
Clark chuckled. "You really did walk into that one."
Bruce didn't blink. "You said 'full disclosure.'"
"Right," Eidolon said, stepping forward. "Because if I'm asking you two to trust me with world-shaking secrets and possibly your Netflix logins, it's only fair I do the same."
His hand went up to his hood.
"Just... don't punch me, alright?"
With a hiss, the black armor around his head began to melt back, retracting like it had a life of its own. The red glow dimmed, revealing a face—familiar, young, and cocky in that very specific way that made Bruce's blood pressure spike.
Messy black hair. Bright green eyes. And that damned smirk.
"Hi, Bruce."
Silence. Not dramatic. Not tactical. Just stunned.
Bruce took a single step back. "...Harry?"
Hadrian James Peverell. Age twenty-four. British. Ridiculously rich and ridiculously clever. And very much supposed to be doing something safe and normal with his life. Like lecturing at Oxford. Or solving global warming. Not dressing up like a goth Terminator and freelancing as the world's biggest mystery.
"You were supposed to be in London," Bruce said, voice like thunder behind glass.
"I was," Hadrian said, his smirk softening. "Then Apokolips happened. And, well…" He gestured at himself. "This happened."
Superman glanced between them. "You two... really know each other?"
Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose. "His parents. James and Lily Peverell. And his godfather Sirius Blackwood. They looked after me after my parents died. Even from London. Watched from afar. Protected what was left."
"Like family," Hadrian said quietly. "And you? You were the scary older brother who taught me how to fight without smiling."
Bruce was still silent.
Then came a soft chime in his comm. Alfred's voice crackled in his ear, drier than a desert.
"Master Wayne," came the dry, utterly unimpressed voice of Alfred Pennyworth over Bruce's comm, "please tell me this doesn't mean Master Harry has missed his dental appointment again."
Hadrian looked up, grinning. "Hi, Uncle Alfie."
There was a distinct sigh from the other end. "Of course. He survives alien invasions and comes back with glowing armor, but can't manage to keep a calendar."
Bruce muttered something under his breath.
Superman smiled. "That was... a lot."
Hadrian turned, beaming. "So. Team hug or awkward silence?"
Bruce glared. "You're grounded."
Hadrian's smirk widened. "Aww. You do still love me."
—
Bruce didn't say anything for a long moment. He just stared at Harry—well, Eidolon, who now looked like what would happen if Gandalf and a Bond villain had a baby with a flair for dramatic entrances and emo eyeliner.
Then finally, Bruce—being Bruce—narrowed his eyes and asked in that gravel-smooth voice of his, "Do your parents know about this?"
Harry's grin didn't just return. It blossomed.
"Of course they do," he said. "So does Sirius. And Dobson."
Clark blinked. "Dobson? Wait—your butler knows too?"
"Clark, please," Harry said, looking genuinely offended. "Dobson's family has served the Peverells since before indoor plumbing. They've been organizing magical sock drawers since King Arthur was still debating whether round tables were too progressive. Magical blood, devastating cheekbones, and the organizational skills of a homicidal librarian."
Bruce was quiet. Which for him meant a hurricane of calculations behind those ice-blue eyes. Batman had contingency plans for alien invasions, killer clowns, demonic cabals—but this? This was an unscheduled spiritual meltdown.
Then he muttered, mostly to himself, "James. Lily. Sirius. They all have magic?"
Harry clapped his hands once, cheerful as a pub quiz host. "Yup! Purebred wizards, every last one. Mum's line goes back to the Evancourts, Dad's from the Peverells, and Sirius is from the Blackwoods. It's like the Avengers of old wizarding families. Also, yes—Dobson has magic too. Which makes him way scarier than Alfred, no offense."
Bruce's comm crackled.
"None taken, Master Harry," Alfred's voice said dryly, cutting through the silence like a butter knife through cold sarcasm. "Though I will note that while your Dobson may have homicidal librarian energy, I've been known to fillet a man with a cheese knife and still serve tea on time."
Harry saluted the air. "Respect."
Clark, meanwhile, looked like someone had just handed him the script to a telenovela he was supposed to star in. "I feel like I missed an entire series of memos."
"You missed the whole prequel trilogy, mate," Harry said. Then, because he was nothing if not dramatic, he flicked his wrist and conjured a trio of glowing, floating crests: a raven, a stag, and the Peverell triangle.
"Okay, story time," he announced. "Once upon a time in Medieval England, three idiot friends wanted to be magical badasses. Antioch Blackwood—yes, Sirius' ancestor. Cadmus Evancourt—Mum's line. And Ignotus Peverell—my great-times-a-billion-granddad. They wanted real power. Not just 'flick-and-sparkle' magic. We're talking Homo Magi stuff. So naturally, they did what any bunch of overconfident medieval drama queens would do."
Bruce's voice was stone. "They made a deal with the devil."
Harry raised a finger. "Worse. Death herself."
Clark shifted, clearly Not A Fan of that idea. "You mean, like, a metaphorical—?"
"Oh no, she's very literal," Harry said. "Death is real. She's tall, goth, terrifying, and wears a pinstripe pantsuit like she invented capitalism. Her eyeliner could qualify as a Class IV weapon. I'm 95% sure she critiques Nietzsche for fun and listens to My Chemical Romance on loop."
Bruce stared at him like he was trying to decide whether to punch him or adopt him. Again.
"And the deal?" he asked.
Harry pointed to each crest. "If the bloodlines ever merged, the firstborn heir would become Death's Champion. Her chosen hunter of… well, everything she doesn't like."
Clark looked horrified. "Wait—your parents' marriage—"
"Yup," Harry said, popping the 'p'. "Dad's mum was a Blackwood. So that's Blackwood and Peverell. Mum was an Evancourt. And voilà! Magical bloodline smoothie. I'm the first heir born from all three lines. Which means…"
Bruce finished it for him, because of course he did. "You became the Champion."
Harry nodded. "A week ago. Happy birthday to me. I turned twenty-four, blacked out in Grimmauld Place, and woke up with glowy armor and a job offer from Death. Comes with cosmic benefits and a surprisingly aggressive HR department."
Clark looked like he needed a nap. Or at least a cupcake.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Bruce asked. His voice wasn't angry—it was quiet. Quiet like the moments before a storm hits.
Harry's grin faded just a bit. "Because you already carry enough. Gotham, the League, your very long list of orphans. I didn't want to make you worry about me too. And if the awakening went sideways? If Death didn't accept me? It would've killed me."
Clark was already at his side. "But it didn't. You survived."
Harry tilted his head, smirking again. "Much to everyone's disappointment."
"So what now?" Bruce asked. Still calm. Still terrifying.
Harry's armor pulsed, magic humming like a warning in the air. "Now? I follow orders. I hunt the things even you don't know exist. Aberrations. Ghosts of time. Immortals who've overstayed their welcome. Monsters from the cracks between realities. Basically, I'm the pest control for cosmic nonsense."
Bruce crossed his arms. "And you think we're just going to let you do that alone?"
"Well," Harry said with a devilish glint in his eye, "now that you've seen my morally ambiguous sorcerer cosplay, I figured I'd let you apply for sidekick positions. Salary's terrible, but we've got cool cloaks."
Clark laughed. Actual full-chest, Henry-Cavill-charm laughed. "You're something else, Eidolon."
Harry winked. "Tell me something I don't know. Oh, and Clark?"
"Yeah?"
"Death's got a thing for you. She said you've got that tortured-but-handsome-in-a-boy-scout-way vibe. Said you remind her of a Greek statue that doesn't shut up about feelings."
Clark choked. Bruce sighed. Alfred quietly muted his mic.
Somewhere, in the space between time, Death laughed softly—like thunder in high heels.
And Eidolon, Champion of Death, flipped his hood up and whispered, "Showtime."
—
Wind howled like a banshee auditioning for a metal band, rain slapped the city sideways, and somewhere below, Gotham groaned like it was trying to get out of bed after a three-day bender. Perched at the edge of it all—literally—stood a figure that could've stepped straight out of a horror novel, or maybe a fantasy blockbuster if the budget was really high.
Eidolon.
Armored. Hooded. Glowing red eyes like he'd skipped the friendly neighborhood superhero vibe and gone straight for "final boss in a video game." Honestly, if Death ever needed a stand-in, Harry was right there with the resume and moodboard.
His voice, filtered through magic and mild sarcasm, sliced through the rain.
"Well, as riveting as tonight's episode of 'So You're the Champion of Death, Congratulations!' has been, we've got slightly more pressing matters to handle. Like forming the bloody Justice League."
He turned, arms crossed, crimson eyes now fixed squarely on the Bat of Brooding himself.
"You mentioned something last night, Batsy. A base. Off-grid. Underground. Shielded. Basically, every conspiracy theorist's dream Airbnb. I assume it still exists and isn't currently hosting mutant rats or Lex Luthor's second-rate clone army?"
Batman didn't even blink. Because of course he didn't. The cowl never moved unless it absolutely had to.
"It's real," Bruce said, in that classic, gravelly tone that sounded like he gargled justice for breakfast. "Old WayneTech site. Abandoned after the Cold War. Deep beneath Gotham. Structurally sound. EMP-shielded. Thaumaturgically inert."
Eidolon tilted his head, the red glow pulsing faintly brighter. "Big words for a man who thinks capes are a personality trait."
Bruce's mouth barely moved. "Six levels of failsafes. No digital footprint. Not even Oracle can access it."
"Ooh. Spicy," Eidolon replied, nodding. "Bet it's got better Wi-Fi than my castle. Though, to be fair, my signal's usually being devoured by leylines, storm spirits, or a cranky basilisk in the cellar."
Superman—yes, the actual Man of Steel, standing just far enough away to avoid being part of the Gotham aesthetic—chuckled under his breath.
"You live in a literal magical fortress."
"Yeah, mate," Harry said, glancing over at him, "and the owls keep nicking my socks. You ever fight a horde of feathered kleptomaniacs over laundry day? Didn't think so."
Clark gave him that signature Henry Cavill smile—the one that could probably stop wars or start them, depending on the jawline-induced swooning.
But Harry's tone shifted, ever so slightly. The rain didn't pause for dramatic effect, but if it had, it would've picked this moment.
"Jokes aside… it's time."
He turned back toward Batman. "We've got the speedster, the cyborg, the lightning kid, the space cop… and Wonder Woman."
Bruce's brow twitched. Not a lot. But enough for Eidolon to catch it and pounce like a particularly smug fox.
"Oh, don't give me that look. You know. You always know. You probably knew before I did. World's Greatest Detective and all. Probably analyzed my heart rate, pupil dilation, and embarrassing stammer the first time she said 'hello.'"
Bruce said nothing. Which was basically Bat-code for guilty but not confirming it because I'm Batman.
Clark was outright grinning now, because he was a decent person who enjoyed the chaos of watching a wizard poke the Bat with a metaphorical stick.
"She's aware, by the way," Harry added casually, adjusting his gauntlets. "The lasso glows brighter when I'm around. Don't know if that's a magic thing or just her trying not to laugh."
Bruce turned slightly, cape billowing like it had a wind machine just for dramatic flair. "Focus, Eidolon."
"Focusing, Boss Bat. Swear on Merlin's grave."
Then he clapped his hands, armored fingers ringing like tiny gongs. "Cyborg's already plotting a secure comms network. The rest are on board. All that's left is the Bat-signal equivalent of a group text."
"I'll handle it," Bruce said simply.
Eidolon tilted his head. "That easy?"
Bruce's mouth twitched into something almost like a smirk. "I have protocols in place. Always have."
"Of course you do," Harry muttered, "bet you've got a pre-signed lease agreement for the Hall of Justice, too."
"I do."
There was a brief moment of silence, then even Superman let out a soft "Wow."
Harry looked heavenward. "Okay, how are you this prepared? Do you sleep? Do you eat? Are you secretly five bats in a trench coat running on vengeance and protein bars?"
Batman just turned away, voice like thunder with emotional constipation. "Get the site warded. We'll need full shielding. Magic. Tech. Everything."
Harry gave a sharp two-fingered salute. "Consider it warded, shielded, and blessed by three druidic grandmothers and a disgruntled banshee named Maureen."
Clark floated a few inches off the ground, just enough to look majestic without trying. "And what about you, Harry?"
Eidolon turned toward him, helm gleaming crimson in the rain.
"I'm the wildcard, mate. Death's intern. Magic's problem child. I'm what you get when a teenage wizard dies tragically, comes back wearing armor, and starts treating reality like a game of Dungeons & Dragons."
Then, softer:
"But I'm also the tank. The magical artillery. The guy who walks into the void and stares down things that eat gods for breakfast."
He paused.
"And yeah, I've got a crush on the warrior princess with the sword and the attitude. Sue me."
Bruce was already typing into a sleek communicator, fingers moving with military precision. Clark was still smiling, because of course he was.
Harry stepped up to the ledge, cloak flaring dramatically in the wind. Gotham loomed beneath them, grim and unforgiving.
He turned just before vanishing in a swirl of crimson light. "Justice League roll call coming soon, lads. Let's give this broken world something to believe in again."
Then he was gone.
Batman kept typing. Superman watched the storm. The League was forming.
And the universe had no idea what was coming.
---
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