Supergirl took a deep breath, trying to calm the tremor in her own hand. Cyborg, his internal sensors still buzzing with data from Azrael's impossible "fix," stood rigidly beside her. Azrael remained patiently still, his baby-blue eyes observing them, waiting for a response to his startling question: "Are you not a collection of deviations?"
"Azrael," Supergirl began, her voice gaining a renewed steadiness. "You're right. In a way, we are. Humans... we're not perfect. Nothing organic is. We make mistakes. We have flaws." She gestured to herself, then to Cyborg, acknowledging their own physical and emotional complexities. "My powers aren't always consistent. Sometimes I get hurt. Sometimes I misjudge a situation."
"And my systems," Cyborg added, his voice more controlled now, "while precise, still have limitations. They can glitch. They can be hacked. There's always room for improvement, or for error."
Azrael tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. "Then why do you permit these deviations? Why do you not... perfect them? As I corrected the conduit."
"Because it's not always about perfection, Azrael," Supergirl explained, trying to choose her words carefully. "Sometimes... those 'deviations,' those imperfections, they lead to something else. Something valuable. Like how a scar forms when a wound heals – it's a mark of something that went wrong, but it also shows you survived. It makes you stronger."
"Or a mistake in an experiment," Cyborg offered, pointing to a nearby science lab they were passing, visible through a large viewport. "Sometimes, a 'deviation' from the expected result leads to a new discovery. A new technology. Something we never would have found if we only pursued the 'perfect' outcome we originally envisioned." He looked at Azrael, hoping the logic would connect. "It's about growth, Azrael. Not just ultimate optimal state, but the journey to get there."
Azrael paused, processing. He shifted his weight imperceptibly, a purely human gesture that caught their attention.
"Growth," he repeated. "The acquisition of new states through interaction with existing threads. The evolution of complexity." He looked at his own hand, then back at the green light he had perfected. "The conduit... it will not 'grow.' It is now absolute. It will not deviate again."
"Exactly!" Supergirl said, seizing on his observation. "And that's the difference. Things like that light, they don't need to grow. They just need to work. But living things, people, we learn from our deviations. We get better, not by erasing the mistake, but by understanding it and choosing a different path next time."
"It's the process of solving the problem that holds value for us," Cyborg elaborated. "The struggle, the effort, the innovation. It builds resilience. It creates stories."
Azrael's gaze shifted between them, his expression a complex mix of comprehension and profound confusion.
He seemed to grasp the words, the logic, but the underlying emotional weight, the why of valuing imperfection and struggle, clearly eluded him. He had known only absolute perfection or its absence. The concept of valuing the journey over the instant destination, of finding meaning in the chaotic 'deviations' of life, was truly alien to a being who had perceived eternity.
"So," Azrael finally said, his voice slow, pondering. "To choose the deviation. To permit the flaw. To experience the 'struggle' you spoke of... this is what it means to 'live'?"
Supergirl and Cyborg exchanged another look, this one tinged with a weary understanding. Explaining abstract concepts like "growth through deviation" was proving difficult. Azrael needed a practical, tangible demonstration.
"Azrael," Supergirl said, her voice gentle but firm. "Come with us. There's something else we want to show you. It's... a very human place. And it's full of 'deviations' that lead to something important."
Cyborg nodded. "It's not about systems or conduits. It's about how people react to challenges, to their own flaws."
Azrael seemed to absorb their intent, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes that suggested he was eager for this new input. He floated silently as they led him away from the pristine, high-tech corridors, heading towards a section of the Watchtower less frequently visited by most of the League.
They arrived at a large, brightly lit chamber, different from any Azrael had seen so far. One wall was entirely transparent, revealing a bustling control room on the other side, filled with analysts monitoring global events. But it was the rest of the room that truly captivated. Along the walls were display cases, some containing tattered costumes, others broken weapons, fragmented pieces of alien tech, or worn-out journals. It was the Justice League's archive of their own history, their victories, and most importantly, their failures.
"This is our archives," Supergirl explained, her voice softening as she looked at a shattered shield. "It's where we keep things that remind us of our past. Not just our triumphs, but our... our 'deviations'." She pointed to a dented, scorch-marked piece of armor. "This was from a time when the League faced a terrible threat. We made a mistake, a big one. It cost us dearly, and this armor shows the damage."
Azrael drifted closer, his baby-blue eyes scanning the cracked metal, the singed fabric. He reached out a hand, hovering inches from a relic. "It contains the memory of 'failure'," he observed.
"Yes," Cyborg chimed in, his voice tinged with a solemn pride. "And we keep it. We don't erase the memory of that failure, Azrael. We study it. We learn from it. That failure taught us about our limits, about the importance of working together even when we disagree. It hurt, but it made us better. Stronger."
Supergirl pointed to another display, a faded map with a large red 'X' over a city that no longer existed in that form. "This map... it reminds us of a mission we failed to prevent a disaster. Many lives were lost. It was a deviation from our purpose, a deep sorrow." Her voice trembled slightly with the memory. "But that sadness, that regret... it fuels us. It makes us work harder, fight smarter, so we never see another 'X' like that. The pain of the deviation created a stronger resolve."
Azrael's gaze remained fixed on the displays, particularly on Supergirl's face, sensing the genuine emotion that emanated from her. He looked from the broken relics to her, then to Cyborg, absorbing the stories of struggle and growth. He was seeing evidence that "imperfection" was not always something to be instantly corrected, but something that could carry profound meaning and drive positive change.
The profound stillness returned, but this time, it was different. Not the emptiness of the void, but a quiet contemplation. Azrael was connecting the abstract concepts to the tangible, painful, yet ultimately formative, experiences of the beings before him.
Azrael floated silently for a long moment, his eyes drifting from the broken artifacts to Supergirl's earnest face, then to Cyborg's resolute one. He absorbed the narratives of loss, pain, and the deliberate retention of memory. The concept was still alien, yet the emotional resonance of their words was a powerful input he couldn't ignore.
"You acknowledge the 'deviations'," Azrael finally said, his voice soft, almost questioning. "You permit the existence of 'failure' and 'sorrow'." He turned his gaze, letting it sweep over the transparent wall, observing the analysts in the control room, then the distant, fragile blue marble of Earth. "You know that more 'deviations' will occur. More 'pain'. More 'sorrow'. Yet you continue. You place yourselves in the path of harm."
His baby-blue eyes fixed on Supergirl, then on Cyborg, a profound, innocent bewilderment in their depths.
"Why?" Azrael asked, his voice echoing in the quiet chamber. "Why choose to be a hero?"
Supergirl looked at the floor for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She looked back at Azrael, her expression open and vulnerable, yet undeniably strong.
"Because... because someone has to," she began, her voice gaining certainty. "When I first came to Earth, I saw so much beauty, so much life. But also so much pain. People hurting each other, or being hurt by things they couldn't control. My cousin, Superman, he showed me what it means to care, to use your power not for yourself, but for others."
She looked at the distant view of Earth, a faint, resolute smile on her face. "It hurts sometimes, Azrael. We've seen terrible things. We've lost friends. We've failed. But when you help someone, when you save a life, when you stop a 'deviation' from harming others... the feeling of hope, of joy that comes from that, it's worth the pain. It's a choice to stand for something good, even when it's hard. Because the 'threads' of connection between people, the shared lives, the families, the dreams... those are precious. More precious than anything."
Cyborg stepped forward, his cybernetic eye focusing on Azrael with a calm, intellectual intensity that was also deeply personal. "It's about responsibility, Azrael. My own 'deviation' – my transformation – gave me abilities I didn't ask for. But it also connected me to every data network, every system. I see the threats coming. And I see the people who are vulnerable."
He gestured to the archive walls, then back to the view of Earth. "When you've seen the fragility of those 'threads' up close, when you know you have the power to protect them, to prevent their unraveling... you choose to act. It's not about erasing all imperfections, because as Kara said, some are part of growth. But it is about protecting the innocent. About upholding the potential for good that exists within all those 'deviations'. We choose to be heroes because we believe in the value of every single 'thread' of life on that planet, and we choose to defend their right to experience their own 'growth', even the painful parts, without absolute destruction."
They stood side-by-side, their explanations echoing the fundamental values of the Justice League. Azrael listened, completely still, his eyes absorbing every nuance, every emotional resonance of their words. The immense, raw power he wielded seemed to shrink, for a moment, in the face of the profound, human choice they had just laid bare.
---------------
The perpetual twilight of Gotham City offered little solace as Batman moved like a shadow through the labyrinthine streets. Tonight, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and the distant cackle of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime was planning his next "grand joke," and Batman was already several steps into dismantling its grotesque setup, a meticulous dance of deduction and brute force. His comms were mostly quiet, the Watchtower a distant hum of vigilance, leaving him to the familiar, gritty solitude of his war on crime.
Simultaneously, high above, in a specially prepared observation chamber within the Watchtower, Azrael floated motionless. His baby-blue eyes, usually so serene, were currently ablaze with the swirling cosmic majesty of the Eyes of God. He wasn't focused on the grand cosmic ballet he once observed, but on the myriad, chaotic, and vibrant "threads" of Earth below.
Supergirl and Cyborg had spent the past two days immersing him in human concepts—art, music, historical documentaries, even debates on morality. He'd shown a particular fascination with the nuances of choice and consequence, the struggle for survival, and the intricate web of human emotions.
His gaze, spanning continents and oceans in an instant, finally settled on Gotham. He could perceive the city's unique, turbulent energy—the dark undercurrents, the flicker of defiant hope, the pervasive "deviations" that Batman so relentlessly fought.
Then, a specific thread caught his absolute attention. Down in one of Gotham's countless, grimy alleys, a man lay bleeding. Stabbed multiple times, left for dead, his life force rapidly unspooling.
Azrael perceived the raw, desperate, animalistic desire to live burning fiercely within the dying man. But intertwined with it, a darker, more potent thread—a burning desire for revenge, for absolute power to ensure he could never be hurt like this again, to control his own destiny.
Azrael remembered the League's words, echoing in his newly awakened awareness: choice, redemption, growth through imperfection. He recalled Kara's earnest voice: "when you help someone... the feeling of hope, of joy that comes from that, it's worth the pain." And Cyborg's pragmatic explanation: "It's about upholding the potential for good that exists within all those 'deviations'."
The concept of enduring harm to foster growth was still a vast, alien ocean to him, but the man's profound desire for continued existence, for the choice to live differently, was a pure, undeniable input. He saw the path of absolute vulnerability leading to an end, and he saw the choice for self-preservation, for the capacity to ensure one's own chosen "thread" could persist.
Without hesitation, Azrael reached out, his cosmic consciousness extending across the void between the Watchtower and the alley. He didn't touch the man physically, but his absolute will enveloped him, a presence that transcended space and time.
His voice, a telepathic whisper that resonated directly within the dying man's mind, bypassed all sensory input, cutting to the core of his desperate will. "You desire to live. You desire that which ensures you cannot be harmed again. You wish to possess the choice to live the life you desire, free from those who would end your thread. I offer you this choice. A new state. Will you accept?"
The man, on the precipice of oblivion, felt the overwhelming presence, the impossible offer. The promise of inviolability, of ultimate security, of the unassailable choice over his own future, resonated with every dying cell. He didn't understand how or who, only the absolute truth of the offer. With his last vestiges of conscious will, he accepted.
In that instant, with the silent, omnipotent will of Azrael's Eyes of God, the man's very being was fundamentally altered. His flesh, his bones, his blood—every part of him was re-threaded. Not healed, but reconstituted. He was given absolute invulnerability. The knife wounds simply... ceased to be. The blades of broken glass and the rough concrete of the alley, previously capable of tearing his skin, now merely brushed against a surface utterly beyond harm. He simply could not be harmed.
The man, now whole and utterly impervious, pushed himself up from the alley floor, his eyes wide, not with pain, but with a dawning, terrifying new sensation: absolute, unyielding power. The desire for revenge, previously a dark flicker, now ignited into a roaring inferno within his unassailable form.