The Mount Justice stretched out before Erick like a forgotten reliquary, an underground cathedral of past glories and buried secrets. The air was dry and laced with a subtle ozone tang, as though the ancient generators still whispered echoes of battles fought long ago. The teleportation platform, its once-polished metal now dulled by time, vibrated faintly beneath his feet—a lingering remnant of the energy that had brought them here. Erick blinked to adjust the HUD in his helmet, the multifunctional lenses filtering the emergency red lighting that bathed the environment in bloody tones. The visor projected subtle overlays: thermal scans showing minimal heat sources, motion sweeps detecting only the group ahead, and a preliminary 3D map of the chamber built from sonic echoes and environmental data. He was here, in the heart of a DC Universe legend, and the weight of it hit him like a cold tide.
Artemis Crock had already stepped off the teleportation platform with firm, silent strides, her slender silhouette cutting through the air like an arrow in flight. Erick followed close behind, his own steps muffled by the reinforced soles of his Manto suit. The closeness in the phone booth still lingered in his mind—the accidental brush of shoulders, the subtle warmth of her body contrasting with the cold metal of the confined space. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the present. Artemis was real, not a character from animation or comics from his previous life. Daughter of villains, apprentice to Green Arrow, a lethal archer with a dark past. He knew her inner struggles, her conflicted loyalties, how she would join the team carrying secrets that could explode like a grenade. But reveal that? No way. His metalinguistic knowledge was his secret weapon, an advantage he would keep tucked away like an ace up his sleeve.
As they climbed the inclined ramp leading to the upper platform, Erick discreetly activated the biometric analysis mode on his HUD. The helmet—a fusion of Wayne tech (obtained indirectly through the League) and his own arcane transmutations—projected data lines over each figure ahead. He measured heights with millimeter precision, using triangulation algorithms based on visual angles and estimated distances. First, Artemis: 1.75 meters. Tall for a woman, especially a teenager—lean, athletic, with long legs that suggested speed and agility honed through years of running and fighting. Erick felt an involuntary pang of envy mixed with admiration; his own 1.68 meters put him at a physical disadvantage in many scenarios, something he compensated for with technique and elemental power. But here, among heroes, would he be the shortest? The thought irritated him, a reminder of his youth and human limitations not yet fully transcended by the symbiosis with the fire elemental.
His gaze shifted to the group gathered on the wide platform, a circular elevated area with rusted control panels and cracked screens that once displayed global threat holograms. Superboy—Conner Kent, or Kon-El—dominated the center with his imposing presence: 1.85 meters of sculpted muscle, pale skin contrasting against the black T-shirt emblazoned with the Superman emblem. Erick recognized the Kryptonian clone instantly from his past-life memories: created in a lab, struggling for identity, with powers including super-strength, invulnerability, and tactile telekinesis. Beside him, Aqualad—Kaldur'ahm—stood at about 1.80 meters, his Atlantean armor of green and gold scales glinting faintly under the red light. A submarine warrior, natural leader, with hydrokinesis and enhanced strength. Miss Martian—M'gann M'orzz—hovered slightly above the ground, her green skin and flowing red hair making her unmistakable; approximately 1.70 meters tall, with Martian powers like shape-shifting, telepathy, and invisibility. Kid Flash—Wally West—was more compact, around 1.78 meters, his yellow-and-red uniform vibrant even in the dimness, embodying super-speed and an accelerated metabolism.
And then there was Robin—Dick Grayson, the original Boy Wonder. Erick paused internally as he analyzed: 1.69 meters. Just one centimeter taller than him. The boy wore a simple black mask, brown leather jacket over a gray T-shirt, jeans, and worn sneakers—an urban, acrobatic look forged on Gotham's streets alongside Batman. Erick felt a fleeting connection; both were "normal" humans in a sea of superpowered beings, relying on skill, gadgets, and determination. Yet this still left him as the shortest in the room. The smallest, the youngest-looking, despite carrying two lifetimes in his mind. A subtle humiliation he would turn into motivation—height didn't define power, and he would prove it.
The adults watched over them like sentinels: Batman, a living shadow at 1.88 meters, black cape billowing even without wind, white eyes fixed on everything; Black Canary, 1.70 meters of lethal grace, leather jacket and sonic choker; and Red Tornado, the 1.90-meter android, standing motionless like a statue of red and gold metal.
Artemis and Erick ascended the final steps of the ramp, the metal creaking under their combined weight. The group turned toward them, gazes ranging from curiosity to scrutiny. Erick stopped beside Artemis, feeling the air thick with anticipation. His Manto suit—matte black with gray reinforcements, sealed helmet concealing his face—made him stand out as a tactical anomaly, more villain than hero in casual eyes. He noticed Batman analyzing him immediately, the Dark Knight's eyes sweeping every detail: the reinforced chest plate, the utility belt with grappling hook launcher, the articulated gloves. Erick held the gaze, his HUD flashing a quick analysis: Batman's heart rate steady at 50 bpm, posture subtly defensive.
Batman broke the silence first, his deep, gravelly voice echoing through the chamber like an inevitable judgment. "Very well. Everyone is here." He gestured lightly toward the group, his cape rustling like dark wings. "Today marks the founding of this team. You are young individuals with unique abilities, gathered for covert operations the Justice League cannot carry out in the open. The team's name… that is for you to decide. Choose something that reflects your collective identity, something that inspires trust and fear in the right places."
Silence stretched for a moment as the young heroes exchanged glances. Robin—Dick Grayson—was the first to speak, his youthful voice confident, carrying years of training under Batman's mantle. He tilted his head, the black mask emphasizing his sharp blue eyes. "And the leader? Who's going to be in charge? We can't run a team without structure."
Batman didn't blink, his expression a mask of stoic coldness. "You decide that too. Observe one another. Evaluate strengths and weaknesses. Choose someone who can unite the group, not just lead it through force. This is your team—take responsibility."
The boys looked at each other, palpable tension rising. Superboy crossed his arms, muscles flexing under his shirt, an ironic smirk tugging at his lips. "Well, this should be interesting. Anyone volunteering?"
Kid Flash—Wally West—laughed softly, his vibrant energy clashing with the solemnity of the moment. He scratched his messy red hair, the yellow-and-red uniform flashing like a beacon in the gloom. "Hey, hold up. Before we decide who's bossing who around, who are these two newbies? I mean, I know everyone here—Superboy, the strongest clone in the world; Aqualad, king of the seven seas; Miss Martian, the girl who reads minds and shape-shifts; Robin, Gotham's acrobatic prodigy. But you two…" He pointed at Artemis and Erick, mouth open in a mix of curiosity and suspicion. "You just popped up out of nowhere. What's the deal?"
Artemis crossed her arms, posture defiant, her bow shifting slightly on her back. Her lips curved into a sarcastic smile, almond-shaped eyes glinting behind her mask. "Artemis. Apprentice to Green Arrow." She said it with casual confidence, as if it were obvious, but there was a defensive undertone—she knew her past as the daughter of villains might surface eventually.
Kid Flash blinked, processing, then his face twisted in genuine irritation. He stepped forward, hands on hips, uniform snapping with the quick motion. "Wait a second… apprentice to Green Arrow? His sidekick is Speedy! Roy Harper, the guy who's been training with him for years! What do you mean 'apprentice'? He swapped sidekicks without telling me?"
Artemis let out a short, sharp laugh, tilting her head to meet his gaze directly. It wasn't arrogant, but playful—echoing the irreverence of her mentor, Oliver Queen, who had pulled her from a life of shadows. "Used to be Speedy. Now there's fresh meat in the game." She winked, her tone light but edged, as if testing the waters. "World keeps spinning, Flash-boy. Sometimes the old guard makes room for the new. Or are you still stuck in the era of baby sidekicks?"
Wally huffed, crossing his arms, a flush creeping up his neck. He opened his mouth to fire back, then closed it, settling for silence. His eyes darted sideways, avoiding Artemis's amused stare. The group chuckled softly—Superboy with a deep laugh, M'gann covering her mouth with a green hand, Aqualad nodding with a subtle smile. Robin gave Wally a friendly slap on the shoulder. "Relax, KF. She got you good."
Batman watched the exchange in silence, his presence an anchor of seriousness amid the youthful levity. He didn't intervene; this was part of the process—letting them get to know each other, letting dynamics form organically. Black Canary, beside him, smiled faintly, her blue eyes sweeping the group with a mix of maternal pride and professional assessment. She stepped forward, her voice soft but commanding as it cut through the air. "Let's save the boring parts for later—names, leaders, hierarchies. Why don't you go explore the base first? Mount Justice has secrets beyond these rusted walls. Superboy and M'gann, you know the place better than anyone. Show the newbies around."
Superboy nodded, uncrossing his arms and gesturing toward the group. "Fine. Let's go. This old cave has more rooms than it looks—dorms, training area, even a kitchen M'gann turned into something decent." He glanced at M'gann, who blushed slightly, her green skin taking on a rosier tone through a subtle shape-shift.
M'gann floated forward, her red hair rippling as if caught in an invisible breeze. "Yes! I love showing people around. There's a holographic library with League archives, a gym with combat simulators… and I baked cookies yesterday. You're going to love them." Her voice was bright, subtle telepathy projecting gentle waves of excitement, easing the group's tension.
Erick, who had stayed quiet until now, felt the moment was right to step in. He raised his hand slightly, triggering a neural command in his suit. With a low mechanical hum, the helmet disassembled smoothly—the plates retracting like petals of a mechanical flower, folding neatly around his neck like a tactical collar, a detail seamlessly integrated into the jacket. His face was revealed: messy black hair, piercing blue eyes, pale youthful features that made him look exactly the 15-year-old he was. He saw no point in hiding his secret identity from the team for long—secrets like that dissolved quickly in groups like this, and trust was essential for covert operations.
"Good idea," Erick said, his voice clear and confident, carrying a faint American accent laced with subtle echoes of Portuguese from his past life—though he kept it well under control. "You could show us the way? I'm Erick Smith, by the way. The metahuman from Gotham that… well, you've probably heard the news." He extended his hand to the group, an open gesture, while his fire elemental stirred inside him, a warm ember of anxiety and excitement.
Mount Justice pulsed with a spectral life, as if the walls of excavated rock and rusted metal still echoed the voices of legendary heroes who once inhabited it. The air was dry and thick with an ancient metallic scent, mingled with the accumulated dust of years of abandonment—a fine powder that danced in the beams of emergency red light, casting long, distorted shadows across the uneven floor. Erick Smith stepped carefully, the tactical boots of his Manto suit cushioning each impact against the grated metal platform as the group fanned out slightly to explore. His HUD, now retracted into the collar around his neck, still projected peripheral data across his vision—thermal scans displaying the companions' body heat as subtle auras, motion sweeps detecting distant echoes of dormant mechanical systems deep within the mountain. He could feel the fire elemental in his chest, a hot, restless ember reacting to the novelty of the environment as though sniffing out invisible danger. For now, though, it was only curiosity—and a hint of excitement he wouldn't readily admit.
Conner Kent—Superboy—led the way with heavy, reluctant steps, his broad shoulders tense beneath the black T-shirt emblazoned with the Superman emblem. He was a wall of muscle and brooding attitude, blue eyes narrowed in a perpetual expression of skepticism, as if the entire world were a bad joke he didn't find funny. Erick watched him sidelong, memories from his past life surfacing: the Kryptonian clone, grown in a glass tube, wrestling with Superman's shadow and his own fractured identity. Conner didn't talk much; his replies were short grunts, arms crossed like a barrier. "This way," he muttered, pointing toward a wide corridor to the right of the main platform, his rough, low voice echoing off the walls. He didn't glance back to see if the group followed—he just marched forward, as though guiding them was an inconvenience he endured out of duty.
M'gann M'orzz—Miss Martian—floated beside him, counterbalancing Conner's silence with an effervescent energy that seemed to brighten the gloomy surroundings. Her green skin glowed faintly under the red light, flowing red hair cascading like living flame, and her large, expressive eyes radiated genuine curiosity. She wore an oversized gray hoodie and black leggings, a casual look that contrasted with the grandeur of the base but made her approachable, almost welcoming. "That's right! Mount Justice was built in the '90s, you know? It used to be the League's main headquarters before… well, before an incident with a supervillain compromised security. Now it's perfect for us—isolate, underground, with old defenses that still work." Her voice was lively, carrying a faint Martian accent that sounded like a distant echo, and Erick felt subtle waves of telepathic empathy radiating from her, softening the group's tense edges.
Artemis Crock walked beside Erick, her presence a blend of feline grace and contained acidity. At 1.75 meters, she towered over his 1.68 meters, a subtle irritation he masked with focus. Her dyed blonde ponytail swayed with each step, and the compound bow on her back seemed a natural extension of her athletic frame. Erick noted the details: warm beige skin with golden undertones, sharp almond-shaped eyes like blades, lips perpetually curved in a sarcastic smile. She was beautiful in a dangerous way, like a poisoned arrow—and he felt an inevitable attraction, the beginning of something that could unfold into the complex web of connections he remembered from those stories. For now, though, it was all business. Artemis shot a sideways glance at Wally West—Kid Flash—who trotted behind them with hyperactive energy, his yellow-and-red uniform flashing like a warning signal in the dimness.
"Hey, Flash-boy," Artemis said, her voice dripping with playful acidity, as though she were prodding an open wound. "Still sulking over that sidekick thing? Because if you are, I can shoot you a consolation arrow—one that makes you run slower so you can reflect on life." She winked, her tone teasing but edged, echoing the irreverence of her mentor, Green Arrow.
Wally stopped for a second, mouth dropping open in mock outrage, messy red hair falling over his forehead. He was shorter than Conner but still 1.78 meters of pure speed, his metabolism making him look perpetually hungry and restless. "Oh, come on, Arrow-girl? You just show up out of nowhere and steal the spotlight? Speedy's the official sidekick of Ollie! I'm the speedster here—Kid Flash, fastest man alive! You think you can roast me like that?" He gestured wildly, though a flush crept up his neck, a mix of irritation and reluctant attraction to her boldness.
Artemis laughed—a short, cutting sound that echoed down the corridor. "Roast? I'm just getting warmed up, ginger. If you're so fast, why didn't you sprint to update your résumé? Fresh meat means the old stuff's getting rusty. Or would you rather I call you 'Sidekick's Sidekick'?" She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest, bow shifting slightly. Erick noticed how much she enjoyed it—a defense, perhaps, to mask her own insecurities about her dark past as the daughter of Sportsmaster and sister of Cheshire. But here, it was pure sweet venom, roasting Wally with surgical precision.
Wally huffed, speeding up to walk beside her, but lacking a sharp enough comeback. "You'll see. On a mission, I'll save you and then you'll owe me one." He grinned, trying to flip the script, but Artemis just rolled her eyes and gave him a friendly shove on the shoulder.
Dick Grayson—Robin—chuckled quietly behind them, his black mask hiding part of his youthful face but not his amusement. At 1.69 meters, he was the closest in height to Erick, a subtle connection that made Erick feel less isolated. "You two already sound like a comedy duo. Artemis, welcome to the chaos. Wally, chill—she's just testing you. That's how we get to know each other around here."
Kaldur'ahm—Aqualad—walked with measured steps, his Atlantean armor glinting faintly, the trident symbol on his chest a reminder of his underwater heritage. He was calm, a natural leader, standing at 1.80 meters with serene presence. "Focus, friends. The base is vast—corridors leading to lower levels, sealed rooms with obsolete technology. Don't get lost." His voice was deep, like the ocean, and Erick admired him inwardly: the Atlantean who would one day appear as a traitor to the team, yet always loyal at heart.
Conner grunted in response, not turning his head. "It's not like it's a maze. Just keep going straight." He shoved open a heavy metal door, the rusted hinges screeching, revealing a wide room: the old main control center. Cracked monitor panels lined the walls, cables hanging like dead vines, and in the center sat a dormant holographic table covered in a thin layer of dust. The air was colder here, with a low hum from distant generators. "This is where they planned everything. Now it's just… junk." Conner kicked an empty can across the floor, the metallic clang echoing like a gunshot.
M'gann floated to the center, touching the table with her green hands. A telekinetic spark partially activated it—flickering holograms appeared, outdated maps of global threats blinking in ghostly blue. "I fixed it a little! Look, this shows the outer defenses—force fields, deactivated plasma cannons. We can bring them back online with time." Her excitement was contagious, and Erick felt a surge of optimism—she was the glue of the group, empathy made flesh.
Erick stepped closer, tracing the holograms with gloved fingers. "Impressive. Old League tech—must have quantum encryption built in. I could help upgrade it, if you want. My… setup back home handles stuff like this." He avoided details about his basement lab, his AIs, or the transmutation circle. His metahuman past was public knowledge thanks to the Zsasz incident, but the ritual that anchored the elemental? That would stay buried until the right moment.
Artemis leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. "You sound like you know what you're talking about, Erick. Gotham teach you electronics between beatdowns?" Her tone was sharp, but carried genuine interest—she was testing him, just as she did with Wally.
Erick gave a small smile, feeling the elemental's heat respond to her proximity. "Gotham teaches survival. The rest I learned on my own. And you? High-tech bow—explosive arrows, or just the classics?"
She snorted. "A bit of both. But nothing beats a well-placed shot. And you? Fire from your hands—must be great for roasting marshmallows at campfires."
Wally jumped in again, unable to resist. "Hey, if we're camping, I'll bring snacks in seconds. Artemis, you bring arrows for hunting? Or just to puncture egos?"
Artemis turned to him, eyes narrowing. "Puncturing egos? With you, it's easy—like shooting fish in a barrel. But if you want to test it, ginger, I'll give you a head start. See if you can dodge a net arrow."
Wally laughed but stepped back. "Okay, okay. Truce. For now."
The group moved on, Conner leading with an impatient grunt. "Training room ahead. Big enough for simulations." He pushed open another door, revealing a vast underground gym: worn mats, punching bags hanging from rusted chains, broken holographic simulators, and reinforced walls marked with old impact craters—super-strength dents, laser burns. The air was damper here, carrying the faint smell of old sweat and heated metal.
M'gann lit the space with a telekinetic glow, making ancient lights flicker to life. "This is where we train! I use it to practice shape-shifting—like turning into an elephant or something." She demonstrated, briefly growing larger before shrinking back, laughing.
Erick surveyed the room, imagining training sessions: his taekwondo kicks against Conner's super-strength, or controlling flames against Kaldur's hydrokinesis. "Perfect for pushing limits. I could set up target drones—nothing fancy, just for practice."
Conner grunted, leaning against the wall. "Push limits? Just don't burn the place down." He offered no more, his brooding mood like a dark cloud, arms firmly crossed.
Robin leaped onto a mat, spinning through the air with acrobatic grace. "This place is gold! We've got to spar soon. Erick, you fight? Martial arts?"
Erick nodded. "Taekwondo, Muay Thai, boxing, judo. Nothing super, but it works."
Kaldur smiled. "Versatile. Good for the team."
Conversations flowed as they explored further: bunk dorms with rusted lockers, an improvised kitchen where M'gann offered cookies (sweet, crispy, with melting chocolate chips), and a library of dusty holographic archives. Artemis kept roasting Wally—"Hey, speedster, run to do the dishes?"—while Conner stayed reserved, answering in monosyllables. Erick absorbed it all, his elemental pulsing with potential. This was the beginning of something bigger—power, alliances, and perhaps deeper connections.
Advance chapters: patreon.com/cw/pararaio