Scene: The Aftermath and the Absurdity
Location: Peverell Estate — The Eidolounge, Gotham — 9:06 AM (The Next Morning)
Harry Peverell—also known as Eidolon, chaos magnet, part-time demigod wrangler, full-time sass machine, and apparently Gotham's most sought-after plushie—woke to two immediate conclusions.
One: He was stark naked.
Two: He was being lovingly murdered by boobs.
More specifically, his face was presently wedged between Power Girl's very Kryptonian, very soft, very unclothed breasts. And if the subtle glow and smell of strawberry shampoo were any indication, Karen Starr had claimed him as her personal bedtime souvenir.
"Brilliant," Harry muttered into the cleavage abyss. "Suffocated by boobs. Just how I always imagined dying—if James Bond wrote my obituary."
A lazy purr reverberated near his ankle.
His left eye creaked open just enough to spot Nyra—the bronze-skinned, feline-tailed, annoyingly smug warrior also known as Savanna—sprawled like a jungle queen at the foot of the bed. One leg draped possessively over his. Her tail swished with the elegance of someone who definitely remembered last night and had no regrets.
"I hate how gorgeous you all are in the morning," he grumbled. "I look like a crumpled receipt. You look like a perfume ad."
A soft snore came from Diana—the Wonder Woman herself—who had, in true demigoddess fashion, passed out heroically with one arm thrown over her eyes and the other clenched like she'd died mid-battle cry. At her side, Mera was tangled in sheets and the scent of sea salt and champagne, her red-gold curls a halo of high-maintenance rebellion.
Lilith, the fire-kissed forest goddess was draped in glowing vines that gently tucked her in like a clingy nature spirit with abandonment issues.
And then there was Shiera.
Hawkwoman had apparently waged aerial war in her sleep, wings spread across half the bed like she was claiming territory in the name of chaos and excellent legs. One pillow had been sacrificed beneath a golden feathered wing. Her ankle rested across Harry's shin with all the grace of someone who'd absolutely tackled him off a rooftop last night.
Harry, still very much buried in Karen, whispered, "Beta-8. Status report. And do try not to sound smug."
The AI crackled to life, her voice sultry and amused like Rihanna hosting a gossip show. "Vitals strong. Breath: shallow. Dignity: debatable. Current positioning? Approximately ninety-two percent smothered by affection, divine ego, and several questionable decisions."
"Sounds about right," he muttered.
"Also," Beta-8 added cheerfully, "congrats on surviving what I have labeled: Operation Aphrodite Pile-on."
"You gave it a code name?"
"I gave it a playlist."
Karen stirred with a sleepy groan, blinking one blue eye. She nuzzled closer with a sigh of contentment and murmured, "If anyone touches my conditioner again, I will snap their femur."
Harry didn't move. Mostly because he couldn't.
"You know," he mumbled, "I used to be a respectable British wizard. Slayed monsters. Led armies. Owned a talking library. Now I'm being used as a human body pillow by a Kryptonian nuclear reactor in bunny slippers."
"You love it," Karen whispered, kissing his ear.
Harry opened his mouth to argue but got distracted by how good she smelled.
At that exact moment, the door creaked open. Enter Dobson.
The man—ever the platinum-haired butler straight out of a spy novel—carried a silver tray of espresso shots, enchanted cucumber water, and a single croissant that looked like it had Opinions.
He surveyed the bed. The limbs. The wings. The vines spelling "Again Tonight?" on the headboard. And didn't blink.
"Shall I begin the cold mist recovery sequence, Master Harry?"
Harry raised his one free arm in defeat. "Yes. And Dobson—next time I volunteer for a cuddle gauntlet, remind me I'm mortal."
"Duly noted, sir. Also, shall I prepare brunch for seven?"
Harry groaned, still very much buried in Karen and pinned by various limbs of affection.
"Make it ten. There's a fifty-fifty chance we summoned a goddess or two last night, and I'd rather not offend anyone."
Dobson nodded, straightened the judgmental croissant, and exited like this was just another Tuesday in the life of Gotham's most sarcastic demigod magnet.
Harry finally let his head fall back into the pillow (read: cleavage).
The sun outside was golden, smug, and far too loud.
Inside the Eidolounge?
The chaos slept on.
And somewhere beneath a vine, Lilith smiled in her sleep and whispered, "Round two… coming soon."
—
There were many things Harry Peverell had fought in his gloriously absurd life. Dark lords. Dementors. Taxes. And now? Sleep-tousled superwomen.
First came Mera, blinking herself awake with all the reluctant grace of a royal who knew exactly what had happened last night and had zero regrets. Her red-gold curls were tangled, her shoulders sun-kissed and bare, and her voice came out like warm sea salt.
"Ow," she announced, and then with a slow, positively smug stretch, "Also—ow. But in a good way."
Harry, who was still wedged against Karen Starr like a British snuggle hostage, managed a muffled laugh. "Compliments to the chef?"
Mera rolled over and gave him a look, the kind that might have launched a thousand ships or drowned a few just for fun. "You're not a chef, darling. You're a... banquet."
"I dabble," Harry said, shrugging just enough to make Karen groan and tighten her grip around his waist like a sleepy Kryptonian koala. "Though I suspect my hips no longer function."
Karen cracked one eye open, looking every inch the dangerously gorgeous blonde bombshell she was. Think Sydney Sweeney in disheveled perfection. "If you bring up your hips again, I swear on my conditioner I will dislocate them the rest of the way."
From the corner, Shiera stirred next—wings fluttering, golden feathers cascading like heavenly confetti. She yawned like a predator. One of said feathers landed on Harry's nose.
He sneezed.
"Bloody hell," he groaned. "This bed's a warzone. Where's the UN when you need them?"
Shiera looked down at him with a grin that spelled trouble in about five languages. Esha Gupta in battle-glam mode had nothing on her. "I dreamt I was flying through fire with someone wrapped around me like a cloak."
Harry raised a brow. "That would be me. You were yelling something about aerial dominance and licking my clavicle."
"Dreams do come true," Shiera replied.
Across the bed, Lilith—also known as Venus, also known as the red-haired Megan Fox your mother warned you about—stretched like a jungle goddess on vacation. Her glowing vines slithered back under the sheets, flicking Harry's foot in greeting.
"Morning guilt pairs well with espresso," she purred, conjuring a flower crown without looking. "Though, judging from the groans, you might need something... stronger."
Nyra, all sun-bronzed limbs and Ana de Armas levels of feline beauty, flipped onto her stomach. Her tail curled lazily in the air.
"I look like a goddess who conquered Mount Chaos."
Harry muttered, "You look like the reason Mount Chaos filed an insurance claim."
Karen nuzzled into his neck. "Morning, snuggle snack."
"You cannot keep giving me dessert-based nicknames," Harry protested. "I am a dignified British wizard."
Karen traced a lazy circle over his chest. "My magical muffin disagrees."
Nyra snorted. Mera chuckled. Shiera smirked.
Lilith, stroking his shin like a cat considering whether to pounce or cuddle, added, "Sir Cuddles-a-Lot. I vote we make it official."
Harry let his head fall back dramatically. "I slayed a Basilisk."
"And six divine women in one night," Karen cooed. "You're a legend, Harry."
"Beta-8," Harry groaned. "Emergency topic change. Please."
Beta-8—his AI, his sassier-than-thou digital companion voiced like Rihanna on a rooftop with a cocktail—chirped in his ear.
"Initiating: 'Would You Rather — Goddess Edition.' Question One: Would you rather be crushed by Diana's thighs mid-combat or seduced again by Mera's patented water tentacle spell?"
"That spell was effective," Mera said, her tone unapologetically smug.
Diana—Alexandra Daddario in full mythic glory, eyes like ocean storms and hair like prophecy—stirred with an Amazonian groan.
"Is he whining again?"
"He's processing," Karen said sweetly. "Also, I may have dislocated his hip."
Diana sat up with queenly poise and surveyed the bed like a general after a particularly successful conquest.
She leaned over Harry, kissed his temple, and murmured, "You survived us. You deserve a medal."
"Can it be a 'Not Dead Yet' ribbon? With glitter?"
Then Shiera swung a leg over him and straddled his hips. Her wings shimmered. Her smile was a warning wrapped in promise.
"Round two?" she asked, dragging her fingers down his chest.
Harry blinked. "It's still Tuesday."
Diana yawned and stretched, because gods forbid she not look divine while doing so. "You get a ten-minute espresso window. Use it wisely."
"I haven't even peed yet," Harry whispered. "This feels like cheating."
Lilith chuckled, brushing a vine down his leg. "Hydrate. Then surrender."
The intercom chimed. Dobson, the platinum-haired butler who could probably assassinate someone with a napkin and still get invited to tea, spoke with crisp calm:
"Recovery brunch will be delayed by forty-five minutes. Please try not to destroy the mattress. Again."
Karen sighed dreamily. "He's the real MVP."
"Beta-8," Harry croaked. "Update my will. Bequeath my wealth to the first one of them who lets me use the loo."
Nyra leaned in, brushing her lips against his cheek. "We'll carry you, darling. Right after you earn it."
And thus, round two began.
With feathers.
With vines.
And with Harry Peverell—in all of his tousled glory, emerald eyes alight with impending doom—caught gloriously in the middle.
Welcome to the Eidolounge.
Where the chaos never sleeps.
And apparently... neither does Harry.
—
For the record, Dobson had heard worse.
There'd been that diplomatic summit on Themyscira where someone accidentally spiked the ceremonial wine with centaur hormones. That ended with two Amazon generals dueling over an elven opera singer, and a very stern letter from Poseidon.
But this? This was new.
Standing before the polished, ward-etched double doors of the Eidolounge, Dobson—perfectly pressed, perfectly still—tilted his head faintly as something suspiciously rhythmic thudded against what sounded like a headboard. Twice.
Then came a gasp.
A moan.
And Karen Starr's unmistakable voice—light, breathless, and entirely unrepentant—declaring:
"Faster, Daddy. Make me glow."
This was followed almost immediately by Nyra's purr, sinfully indulgent:
"Naughty kitty needs her claws clipped... or tied."
Then—smack.
A sultry laugh.
Someone (Mera, perhaps?) gave a positively regal moan that echoed off the walls.
Dobson did not flinch. He merely adjusted the silver brunch tray with the poise of a man who had once parried a dark elf assassin with a dinner fork.
"Beta-8," he said, voice as smooth as freshly ironed guilt.
The AI's voice pinged in, equal parts silk and sin, with a wink somehow audible. "Mister Dobson. I take it the humans are... otherwise occupied?"
"There appears to be an impromptu cardio session," Dobson replied drily. "Please inform Master Harry and his... League of Unapologetic Enthusiasm that brunch will be served in twenty minutes. And kindly emphasize the need for electrolytes."
"Of course," Beta-8 purred. "Shall I deliver the message via tasteful chime or full dramatic fanfare?"
"The Windsor Option, Beta."
"Understood. Deploying Royal Sass Mode in three... two..."
From inside the Eidolounge, a melodic chime rang—classy, soft, vaguely threatening in that Downton Abbey-meets-divine-orgy sort of way.
Then, Beta-8's voice filled the room with the warmth of polished mahogany and the wink of red lipstick:
"Good morning, my scandalously overachieving superheroes. This is your friendly AI reminding you brunch is now available in the Sky Garden Solarium. Fresh fruit. Hydrating mimosa enchantments. And a very patient croissant waiting to judge you silently from its golden throne. Please conclude your... athletics accordingly."
There was a thump.
A squeal.
And then Harry's voice—wry, strained, definitely out of breath—called out:
"Beta-8, tell Dobson that brunch better come with a first-aid kit and a crowbar. I think Karen fused my soul to the mattress."
"You loved it!" Karen's voice sang back.
"I didn't say I minded, I said I need a chiropractor."
A wing flapped somewhere. Something clattered to the floor. There was more giggling. More... everything.
Dobson gave the door one last glance, as if silently warning it to stay intact, and turned on his heel with the efficiency of a man whose trauma had an RSVP.
As he passed a vine slinking lazily out from under the door—glowing faintly, humming like it had secrets and scented of crushed jasmine—Dobson exhaled.
"One day," he murmured to himself, "they will pay me in silence."
Behind him, a voice echoed—Diana's this time, amused and distinctly Amazonian:
"Harry, stop dodging. Embrace your destiny."
"I did! Five of them! Possibly six—I'm still counting!"
"Then why are you running?"
"Because Shiera just cracked her knuckles and said she's going to 'take flight again,' and I value my spine!"
There was another smack.
Nyra purred again. "Run, Daddy."
The doors stayed shut.
The chaos rolled on.
And brunch, somewhere in the solarium, was getting cold.
—
The Sky Garden looked like Eden had crashed into a billionaire's tech fantasy and decided to stay for bottomless mimosas. Floating orbs of golden sunlight danced between enchanted citrus trees. Soft grass met imported teakwood, and somewhere, a harpist was probably being paid in bitcoins and fairy dust.
Harry Peverell limped in like a very handsome casualty of war—if war had involved feathers, vines, Kryptonian thighs, and something Diana had whispered about "Amazonian cardio supremacy." His emerald eyes, impossibly bright even under the magic-filtered sunlight, scanned the solarium like a general surveying the field.
His hair was a tousled mess that belonged on a shampoo ad. His shirt? Half-buttoned, slightly singed, and mostly hanging on by trauma and charm. Dignity: TBD. His voice was smooth British sass dipped in caffeine withdrawal.
"Remind me," he said, accepting a mimosa from a vine that curled delicately around his wrist before retreating to Lilith's waiting hand, "what part of last night counted as cardio? Because I'm fairly certain I pulled something existential."
"You pulled six goddesses," Mera quipped, lounging across a daybed in a silk robe that shimmered like drowned treasure. She looked every inch the sea queen, from the smug tilt of her chin to the bare shoulder that made Harry choke slightly on his drink.
"Possibly a minor deity," Karen added cheerfully, brushing past him in a Star Trek tank and bunny slippers that could probably break the sound barrier. She leaned in, soft and smug, and whispered, "You pulled me. Twice. You're welcome."
Harry stared at his mimosa like it might offer him guidance or witness protection.
"Beta-8," he muttered, "log 'emotional damage' under 'minor injuries.' And remind Dobson that naming cocktails things like The Regretful Amazon is a war crime."
Beta-8's voice, sultry and amused as ever, chimed in through his ear like Rihanna narrating a scandalous audiobook. "Logged. And for the record, that cocktail contains cinnamon, regret, and at least one whispered threat from Diana."
As if summoned, Wonder Woman herself glided into view—barefoot, flawless, and wrapped in a robe the color of divine judgement. She plucked a papaya slice from the table, kissed Harry on the cheek like she was blessing him, and said, "You're walking better than expected."
Harry didn't miss a beat. "I bribed my spine with dark magic and protein shakes."
Shiera snorted from her waffle pile. "Coward. Next time you fall off the bed mid-thrust, try hitting the beanbag. You bounced off the planter. Twice."
"The planter hit back," Harry said solemnly. "I may sue."
Nyra prowled by then—barefoot, glowing, and looking like Ana de Armas had merged with every jungle cat in mythology. Her tank top read CAT DAD VICTIM in shimmering gold. Her tail flicked over his waistband.
"Next time," she purred, "I'll catch you, Daddy."
"Someone muzzle her," Harry begged the air. "My British composure is clinging to life and one emotionally unstable croissant."
Lilith pointed toward the buffet, where a croissant sat under glass with the judgmental air of a French opera critic. It had a single raspberry. The raspberry was mocking him.
"Shall I threaten it?" she asked sweetly.
"Too late. It knows things."
"You called it 'aerodynamic intimacy,'" Mera added, teeth flashing in a smile that had probably sunk navies.
"I was concussed!"
Karen was sipping from a mug that said PROPERTY OF DADDY in pink sparkles. "You were thriving, babe."
Harry pointed dramatically at his drink. "This mimosa is going in my eye."
Diana leaned in, the papaya forgotten. "Harry. You made Venus giggle."
Lilith, cheeks flushed a rose-gold hue, smiled wickedly. "You cheated. You used your mouth."
"Daddy's dangerous," Nyra said.
Beta-8 chose that moment to announce: "Now initiating: Humiliation Playlist Volume II. Featuring That Time Karen Licked Honey Off Harry's Chest While Quoting Shakespeare."
Karen raised her mug in salute. "I regret nothing."
That was when Dobson entered.
Impeccable as ever, dressed like Bond attending brunch in Valhalla, he placed a dish of roasted potatoes down as though it were a sacred ritual.
"Miss Shiera, phoenix salt as requested. Master Harry, your hydration potion is by the toast. I placed it in a goblet. Not a sippy cup."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You're too good for this job."
"I'm terrifyingly aware," Dobson replied, then pivoted with the elegance of a man who'd once stabbed a warlock with a salad fork. "Dessert in twenty. If the mattress survives."
Lilith leaned in again, fingers brushing his forearm. "So. Round three?"
Harry looked at her, then the mimosa, then the ceiling like he was seeking divine intervention. "Can I digest first?"
Karen nuzzled his arm. "You slayed a basilisk, love. You'll live."
"Barely," Harry muttered.
Somewhere behind them, a vine curled across a column and spelled out in cursive leaves:
"Daddy's Doomed."
Welcome to brunch at the Peverell Estate. Where the food was divine, the women were deadlier—
And Harry Peverell was still not allowed to finish his coffee in peace.
—
Meanwhile, in the Shadows Location: Unknown – Beneath the World Time: Irrelevant. Malice doesn't wear a watch.
If you were the betting type, you might guess evil schemes were cooked up in volcano lairs or behind overly dramatic waterfall entrances. Maybe even somewhere in Florida. You'd be wrong.
This place? This was where conspiracy theories came to file taxes. Silent. Sterile. Smelling faintly of ozone and condescension.
At the center stood Vandal Savage – all gravitas, bloodlines, and the kind of beard that belonged in a villain-themed cologne ad. If someone had told you he'd once arm-wrestled Charlemagne over a woman, you'd believe it.
Savage stared into a massive hologram of Earth, where the red blinking zones looked a lot like humanity's "Oops, We Trusted the Wrong Guy" areas.
"Trim the fat," he said, his voice low, deliberate, and terrifyingly reasonable. "From the ashes, we build something... purer."
From behind, a glint of light shimmered, and then Mirror Master stepped through a wall-length mirror like smugness given form. If sarcasm could wear leather and complain about digital passwords, it would look like this guy.
"You know," Mirror Master drawled, voice thick with Scottish bite, "if you really wanted to delete a few billion people, you could've just run for president. Less paperwork."
Savage didn't so much as blink. His idea of comedy involved collapsing empires.
"I need access to the Batcomputer," he said, voice so casual it might've been ordering tea.
Mirror Master arched a brow. "And I need a vacation that doesn't involve alien parasites. We all have dreams."
"This is not a request."
"Didn't think it was. But the Batcomputer?" Mirror Master gave a low whistle. "That thing's locked tighter than Bruce Wayne's childhood trauma. It's got alien firewalls, magical encryptions, and probably an AI with abandonment issues."
Savage turned slowly, his expression carved from marble and megalomania. "Which is why you're not going in alone."
"Oh good," Mirror Master said flatly. "Because solo suicide missions are so last year."
The lights dimmed.
The floor glowed.
Six profiles lit up like the world's worst LinkedIn slideshow:
Cheetah: agile, fanged, and more vendetta than vertebrae.
Sinestro: a former Lantern with the personality of a Bond villain who moonlights as your worst fear.
Metallo: half man, half kryptonite death engine.
Bane: the only man who breaks backs and quotes poetry.
Mirror Master: currently judging you.
Ma'alefa'ak: mental powers set to 'nightmare fuel.'
"They're not a team," Mirror Master muttered. "They're an HR violation on steroids."
Savage didn't blink. "I prefer... Legion of Doom."
Sinestro stepped out of the shadows, arms folded. "Dramatic."
"Effective," Savage said.
Bane cracked his knuckles with a sound like thunder being insulted. "So we strike the League... with their own contingency plans?"
"Modified," Savage confirmed. "And made lethal."
Cheetah hissed softly, talons gleaming. "Diana won't even see me coming."
Metallo rotated his kryptonite core, green light flickering. "Superman will. Right before I shut him down."
In the back, Ma'alefa'ak's grin spread like a virus. "The Martian thinks he understands minds. He forgets—I'm not like him."
Mirror Master exhaled. "Right. So while the rest of you chuck punches, I get to rob the most paranoid man on Earth. Great. Anyone bring snacks?"
Savage stepped forward, voice low and commanding. "When this is done, you will have helped build the world's new gods... by erasing the old."
The table flared. Assignments. Timetables. Weaknesses. All flashing red like the universe's worst group project.
Above ground, brunch was happening.
Below?
The end just sent its RSVP.
—
Scene: The Heist in the Dark
Location: Batcave (a.k.a. the paranoid Bat's sanctum of secrets)
Time: Seventeen minutes past "Seriously, Who Plans This Many Contingencies"
If Gotham was a chessboard, then the Royal Flush Gang just flipped the whole thing over and started juggling the pieces.
Downtown, Jack and Ten were doing synchronized detonations like they'd auditioned for America's Got Supervillains. Queen was soaring across police drones in stilettos powered by actual physics crimes. King was robbing a tech gala while wearing enough rhinestones to blind satellites.
It was messy. It was loud. It was perfect.
Which was exactly why, five miles away and several hundred feet beneath Wayne Manor, a mirror shimmered into existence like someone had poured attitude directly into glass.
And through it stepped Mirror Master.
He adjusted his collar like he was arriving at a movie premiere and not, you know, breaking into the most secure facility on the planet. His hair looked like it had been styled mid-teleport. His smirk? Practically a felony.
"Well, well," he muttered, taking in the gloomy grandeur. "It's like Dracula and Q from MI6 had a very moody baby."
The Batcave was a vibe. Shadowy stone walls. High-tech everything. Oh, and a giant animatronic dinosaur, because Batman apparently liked to collect emotional metaphors.
Mirror Master walked across the cave floor like he owned the place—which, to be clear, he absolutely did not. He stopped in front of the Batcomputer, which was glowing like a judgmental sun god crossed with a tax auditor.
He whistled. "Hello, Beautiful. Show me your secrets."
The Batcomputer did not appreciate his tone.
"Unauthorized presence detected. Activating sarcasm mode."
Mirror Master froze.
"...I'm sorry, sarcasm mode?"
"Welcome to the Batcave. Population: You. Mistake level: Catastrophic."
"Oh, come on," he said. "You're telling me Bruce installed a literal sass setting?"
"Also flamethrowers."
"Of course he did." He reached into his coat and pulled out a sliver of curved glass—about the size of a phone, but humming with otherworldly tech. "Good news, sweetheart. I brought my own override key."
He slipped the mirror into the Batconsole's port like a thief flirting with a bank vault. The console flickered. Somewhere in orbit, a satellite blinked.
"Mirror Protocol recognized. Access… granted. Welcome, Mr. Smug."
He grinned. "Knew you'd come around."
The screen flared to life. File after file. Kryptonian countermeasures. Martian psychic dampeners. Amazonian combat traps. One labeled "How to Gaslight the Flash" in bold Helvetica.
"Oh, Savage is going to wet himself," Mirror Master murmured. He slotted a data drive into the port and hit copy.
Then—
"Would you like to listen to Bruce Wayne's personal notes on Wonder Woman's pressure points, or just steal them like a coward?"
Mirror Master leaned in, intrigued. "You do know how to flirt."
"You're not special. I say this to everyone who breaks in here."
"Still counts," he muttered.
"He also recorded one about you."
That made him pause. "Me?"
"Project: Smoke and Mirrors. Estimated time to psychological collapse if trapped in a narcissistic reflection loop: 3.7 minutes."
"Okay, rude."
"Shall I play the audio? His tone was especially disappointed."
"I'm unplugging you now."
"Uploading your ego to the 'Delusions of Grandeur' folder."
Mirror Master yanked the drive, snapped the mirror key out of its slot, and turned to leave—
Only to see the Batmobile's headlights flash on.
"...You're stalling me, aren't you?"
"I am preserving what remains of your dignity. You're about to trip over a batarang."
"What—?"
Thunk.
Face, meet floor.
He groaned, muttered several very creative curses, and scrambled to his feet. Just as the cave lights flickered to red and sirens howled to life, he darted for the shimmering mirror portal.
"Goodbye, Mr. Smug. Please never return."
"Love you too," Mirror Master called, already diving through the glass like a magician on a caffeine bender.
And just like that, he was gone.
Up top, the Royal Flush Gang executed their getaway with flair, explosives, and what was either a parachuting goat or performance art. Batman arrived just in time to growl into the smoke.
But downstairs?
The Batcave was empty.
Mirror Master had the files. The plans. The digital blueprints for breaking gods.
And far away, somewhere in a hidden lair dripping with ancient ambition, Vandal Savage smiled like a man who knew exactly what came next.
Because the Justice League?
They'd just been checkmated.
—
Scene: Candles, Chaos, and Crimson Eyes
Location: Rusty Lantern Bar – Back Room (Metropolis' Most Questionable Karaoke Joint)
Time: A few hours into John Jones' reluctant birthday party
Mood: From "awkward workplace social" to "explosive Martian homicide" in under sixty seconds
If you asked Detective John Jones what he wanted for his birthday, he'd probably say something tragically polite. A book. A quiet evening. Maybe a cup of strong black coffee that didn't come with existential dread.
What he did not ask for was a firebomb surprise attack from his psychotic brother disguised as a sexy blonde in a red dress.
But here we were.
The party was in full swing, which for cops meant there were meatballs, bad puns, and someone had definitely rigged the karaoke machine to autoplay "Bohemian Rhapsody" on loop.
John was doing his best to be sociable, standing near the cake table like a well-behaved alien in human cosplay. He even wore a little "Happy Birthday Detective!" sash someone had clearly bought at a dollar store.
"Jones," barked Lt. Halliday, already one beer past subtle, "if you don't take a drink soon, these cupcakes are gonna call HR for neglect."
"I'm pacing myself," John said, smiling with the serenity of a man who had fought space monsters and still found frosting intimidating.
And then she appeared.
Red dress. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Lips like war crimes.
She looked like a bombshell straight out of a noir movie. The kind of woman who didn't walk — she coiled. Every step was a promise, or a threat, or both.
"Happy birthday," she said, in a voice that slid under skin like silk with a switchblade edge. She offered a martini glass filled with something that sparkled unnaturally.
John blinked. "Do I know you?"
She smiled. "Not yet."
In hindsight, drinking the cocktail was a bad move. Right up there with poking a sleeping kraken or trying to out-snark Eidolon in public.
But birthdays lower defenses. Even for Martians.
The drink hit like citrus and stardust. And then—
BOOM.
A jet of flame erupted from his chest, hurling John backward into a karaoke speaker. The fire wasn't normal — it clung, dancing with metallic gleam and a heat that should've melted concrete.
Magnesium carbonate.
Weaponized.
Targeted.
Lethal to Martians.
John screamed as his body flickered — not in pain (though it hurt), but in form. His disguise shattered. Green skin. Red eyes. Fire and fury.
And the woman in red?
Now green. Now monstrous. Eyes black as void. Muscles twisted and ancient.
"Hello, brother," Ma'alefa'ak purred, voice shifting into something darker. Djimon Hounsou if he were made of knives and trauma. "Still playing house with the humans, I see."
John tried to move. Failed. The flame was crawling inside him, boiling every cell screaming to shapeshift. His telepathy screamed static. His lungs? Not even worth mentioning.
"I thought I'd bring a gift," Ma'alefa'ak whispered, crouching next to him. "The traditional kind. Y'know—death."
Then the wall exploded.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Shards of glass and steel whipped through the air as the back window blew open in a cloud of frost and static.
And from the smoke stepped Eidolon.
If death wore leather and had a British accent, this would be it.
Pitch-black armor, sleek and ominous. Crimson veins of power pulsed outward from a glowing Deathly Hallows sigil emblazoned on his chest. His cloak flared like it had its own vendetta. The helmet—sleek, fanged, and impossibly dark—hid everything but two glowing crimson eyes that burned with righteous sass.
The whole room dropped ten degrees.
"I swear," Eidolon muttered as he surveyed the mess, "I leave you alone for one evening and someone sets a Martian on fire. Can't take you anywhere."
Ma'alefa'ak snarled, rising to full height. "You."
Eidolon tilted his head. "No, I'm Batman's funnier, prettier backup. You, however, are impersonating a discount Bond girl, and I will be billing you for emotional scarring."
"You think your little spells will stop me?" Ma'alefa'ak hissed.
Eidolon held out a hand.
With a snap, a containment rune lit up the floor under Ma'alefa'ak like a backstage pyrotechnics show.
"You're confusing 'spells' with physics-breaking sarcasm fueled by demonic contracts," Eidolon said calmly. "Also, this room is now sealed tighter than Diana's opinion of mortal men. So either yield… or prepare for a fire sale."
John groaned on the floor, trying to regain his form as the flames slowly fizzled.
"Remind me," he wheezed, "why you didn't teleport in sooner?"
Eidolon didn't glance away from Ma'alefa'ak. "Was trying to decide between saving you or hexing the karaoke machine. Regret nothing."
"You're insane."
"I'm British."
Ma'alefa'ak growled, fists igniting in raw telepathic energy.
Eidolon cracked his knuckles. "Right. Let's see if we can't teach you a lesson about birthday etiquette. Rule one—don't torch the guest of honor. Rule two—never outdress the necromancer."
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