Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Un grazie di fuoco

Beads of sweat dripped down the side of his face, breathing heavy and laboured as his hands seemed to clench and unclench around a weapon that he no longer had. His eyes were wild and erratic, moving from one corner of the room to the other, neck whipping back and forth to glance at the ceiling, to the dark corners of the space, to the wall at his back and then even under the very chair he sat upon.

His clothes were ruffled and disheveled, with two large stains slowly growing from beneath his underarms, the originally rather high quality suit, Dick assumed, now just utterly suffused with sweat. They’ve been waiting like this for hours now, but the mobster was adamant that his life was in imminent danger and that whoever it was they were running from, would be coming for them any moment now.

The mobster’s name was Jackson Inzerillo, of the now very recently defunct Inzerillo Crime Family in Gotham city.

Dick stood off to the side, half-concealed by the thick shadows in the corner of the abandoned office they were in. Jackson looked like he was about to jump out of his own skin at the smallest provocation, every muscle in his body tensed to flee even though he’d been the one to explicitly ask for this arrangement. No matter how many times they reassured him, his eyes still darted every which way as if trying to spot some phantom killer creeping up behind him.

Outside, storm clouds brooded over Gotham’s skyline, the faint patter of rain against the high windows adding a muffled, rhythmic pulse to the suffocating quiet of the space. A single cracked window bleeding just barely a thread of the city’s neon glow, right across Jackson’s sweat-soaked suit in a garish slash of pink and blue. The stench of stale tobacco smoke lingered in the air from some long-ago occupant, mingling unpleasantly with the rank odor of sweat that seemed to seep from Jackson in waves.

Dick’s gaze flickered over the mobster’s trembling form, and a pang of sympathy—or maybe pity—stirred in his chest. The man was far from blameless in a city as dark as this one, and a few months prior Dick was certain he had seen him still wearing an arrogant sneer on that ugly narrow face. But now?

Well, going into detail at this point would feel a little rude.

“Easy, Jackson,” Dick said quietly. His voice seemed to echo just a bit in the near-empty space. “Sit tight. We’re here. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

Jackson let out a shuddering breath. He tried to nod, but his head moved in an anxious sort of twitch instead, as though every muscle in his neck fought against the idea of stillness. He cast another wild glance at the ceiling overhead, leaving Dick half-expecting armed goons to come bursting through the vents.

Off to the side and down the adjacent hall, two more figures from their team were stationed. Their presence was nearly silent, but occasionally the scuff of a boot or the slide of gloved fingers on a weapon broke the delicate hush. Every so often, Jackson threw a frightened glance in their direction, as if uncertain whether they were really friends or just another threat lurking in the shadows.

“This level of paranoia seems almost a little much, don’t you think?” Tim whispered through their comm, lifting himself up to sit atop a discarded desk that had been shuffled out into the hallway, the hood of his Robin suit down as he angled his position to use the dark of the hall to hide his face. He shared a glance with Stephanie leaning back against the opposite wall, arms crossed above her chest.

Though Dick was aware they were constantly on alert, habits long forged in the necessities of their day-to-day, he could also clearly tell that they would much rather be anywhere else than here. Steph far more than Tim given the rather unimpressed look she happened to be sporting. Which made sense, given the quick turnaround this entire operation had been when they had put it together.

By his calculation, less than 24 hours had elapsed since Jackson had come barreling into the Gotham PD claiming his life was in danger and that he needed protection, to the point that he was willing even to provide any amount of insider information he happened to possess regarding the Gotham underground. In particular, in regards to a new up and coming crime family that had recently moved in that was making waves both locally and nationally if recent reports were to be believed.

They called themselves, The Vongola .

And according to Inzerillo, they were far beyond anything anyone had ever dealt with before. Logically, most of the folks as the station had been quick to dismiss such lofty claims, given that, you know - mobsters just didn’t necessarily bring about the same level of inordinate fear as say, a global alien invasion, a magical apocalypse or god forbid the Joker being back on the loose. Also, they had named themselves after clams of all things, and well - clams? Really?

Honestly, even Dick had his doubts. But ever the paranoid maniac himself, Bruce had insisted they indulge the request anyway and Dick was inclined to agree with his line of thinking. Though not the largest crime family in Gotham by any means, the Inzerillo weren’t just some run of the mill street level small fry. They’ve been operating in Gotham since well before Dick himself and likely even Bruce had been born and had expanded their reach so deep into the very soul of the city that they were just as much part of Gotham itself as the ever present darkness, rain and crime that seemed to perpetually plague the city.

To hear that they had been essentially annihilated in a single week, all without any sort of incident or fanfare was mind-boggling. How did something like that even happen? The local police were one thing, but them ?

The birds of prey.

Jason and his vigilantes.

Bruce and the Bat-Fam?

For that kind of carnage to slip directly beneath the noses of Gotham’s most vigilant crime fighters - it was certainly an uncomfortable prospect. Whether it was because the Vongola were uncommonly efficient—or simply dangerous beyond the usual Gotham brand—well, that currently remained to be seen.

A faint beep in Dick’s earpiece broke his reverie. He raised a hand to touch against the side of his comm, making a concerted effort in keeping his voice low.

“Talk to me.”

Barbara’s calm but baffled tone rang clear through his earpiece. “I’ve run some preliminary checks on the Vongola lead Jackson gave us. Not a lot on them in the usual databases—there’s only a patchwork of rumours and coded references. They’re pretty well insulated, which is honestly a little impressive. But…” She let the words linger.

“But what?”

There was a short pause, and the faint clack of keys in the background. “The rumour is that they’re connected to something overseas. Something… old. Historic even. I’m finding references referring to ‘rings,’ and ‘flame,’—stuff so cryptic it doesn’t even read like real intel. More like some private local mythology specific to the area.”

Dick exhaled, confusion knitting between his brows. “Alright,” he whispered. “Keep me posted on anything else you find.”

“Will do,” Barbara replied, and with a click the line went silent.

From the hallway, Steph snorted softly into the comm. “You hear how this guy’s breathing? He sounds like he’s just seen the Joker waltz in wearing his dad’s pajamas.” She spoke in a bored-sounding huff. She stood with one foot propped against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t know, Dick. He’s really jittery. Are we sure anything this guy says is legit right now? I know trauma when I see it.”

There was a faint shuffle as Tim leaned back against a battered filing cabinet. “To be fair, I’d also probably freak out if my entire extended family got bumped off in a week… but these guys named themselves after clams, didn’t they?” Tim glanced towards Dick. “I mean, I know mobster naming conventions can be weird, but ‘Vongola’? I keep thinking of an Italian restaurant special.”

Dick shot them both a look, though he couldn’t entirely suppress a tiny smirk. “Keep it down,” he whispered. “We’re supposed to be protecting him—and we won’t if we let our guard down too far.”

Jackson, oblivious to the hushed conversation playing out in earpieces, fidgeted on the rickety chair at the center of the office. His gaze whipped back to Dick, a silent plea radiating from his panicked eyes. The overhead light flickered, drawing out the dark circles beneath them. For all the man’s sins, in that moment he was just another terrified soul in Gotham, caught in the crosshairs of something he assumed was bigger and deadlier than he’d ever anticipated.

Dick took a step away from the corner, letting the old floorboards groan under his weight.

“Jackson,” he murmured, voice careful, “we need more details. Anything else you can tell us about the Vongola—safe houses, known associates, how they operate. We can’t protect you if we don’t know who’s coming.”

Jackson swallowed hard. The knot in his throat bobbed, and for a moment, he looked on the verge of bolting. “I told you everything I know,” he stammered, words spilling from his mouth in a single breath.

“We reached out… to them, maybe a month back. We were gonna strike a deal—arms, shipments, that sort of thing. But negotiations went south. Next thing I know, my father’s—” He paused, jaw clenching. “My father’s dead. Uncles. Cousins. All gone. And nobody saw nothin’. Not a single shot fired in the open, not a single witness.”

Dick watched him carefully. The trembling had intensified. “But you survived,” he said.

A flicker of guilt or fear—maybe both—swam across Jackson’s face. “For now,” he murmured. “I’m sure of it. These people don’t leave survivors. I’ve only gotten this far cause’ I was using the crowds around as collateral if they came for me.” He let out a hollow laugh. “Shitty, I know. But I needed to get to ya. You boys in tights are my only hope right now.”

“And I guess I’m chopped liver then.” Stephanie chimed in, edging into the office, though if Jackson had heard her he certainly didn’t make any show of it. She stepped closer, arms still folded, her posture betraying only mild interest. “If they’re as big and bad as you say, they’re sure taking their sweet time.”

He looked up, eyes rimmed with terror and desperate hope. “Please. Help me get out, and I’ll—I’ll talk. I’ll talk about everything my family was mixed up in. All of it. I’ll give you all the names you want.”

From the hallway, Tim’s voice floated over. “We got you dude, no worries. You’re safe.” He glanced towards Stephanie, who gave a short nod. “This whole building is under surveillance. Once we find them - we intercept. We figure out their method, track them back to wherever they’re hiding, blow this thing wide open.”

Jackson raked a hand through his sweat-damp hair, staring again at the corners of the ceiling. “Easier said than done. They’re like ghosts.”

“Not the first time we’ve hunted ghosts,” Stephanie interjected dryly, stepping fully into the room with bored sort-of confidence. “And if there’s one city in the world that knows how to chase monsters in the dark, it’s Gotham.”

A crack of thunder rattled the glass in the windows, and the rain began to fall heavier now, pattering an anxious rhythm that set every nerve on edge. The old office building groaned under the weight of the storm. For a moment, Dick could have sworn he saw a flicker of light from somewhere in the building below—like a flashlight beam, or perhaps just the reflection of distant lightning.

“All right,” Dick spoke. “We hold position. If the Vongola are sniffing around for Jackson, they’ll have to come through here eventually. We give them a welcome they won’t forget.”

Jackson swallowed again, his breath ragged. “They’ll come. I’m sure of it.” His voice cracked. “I can feel them watching.”

A low beep from one of their scanners signaled movement in the building. Tim hopped off the desk, gliding into a crouch. Stephanie brought a hand to her belt, readying for trouble. Dick gave Jackson a firm look—stay where you are—and then pressed a finger to his comm.

“Talk to me, Babs.”

Her voice crackled through. “Got company on the lower floors. They’re not on the official security feeds—somehow they’re bypassing everything—but I’ve caught them on a backup camera I rigged. It looks… It looks like just one person. A man, decently tall, wearing white of all things in this weather. Brown hair, with a mask on his face.”

“That’s them,” Jackson whispered, eyes wide. “They’re here.”

Dick could feel his heart rate pick up. Everything about the infiltration fit the pattern. It was too stealthy, too well-coordinated to be common thugs. The silent arrival, the bypassing of security—this was exactly the kind of surgical precision Jackson’s stories had hinted at.

In a single motion, Dick stepped back into the shadows. Even if they weren’t fully convinced about the unstoppable might of the Vongola, this was still Gotham—where any hush could prelude danger, death or disaster. If something was coming, he’d rather be over-prepared than caught off-guard. And if it all turned out to be a phantom conjured by Jackson’s fear, well… at least it would serve as a reminder: better to take a paranoid mobster’s stories with a grain of salt, but never forget that in Gotham, the line between paranoia and reality was perilously thin.

Tim and Stephanie exchanged glances, each falling into roles practiced a hundred times over. Tim vanished deeper into the shadows, ready to flank from behind. Stephanie melted back against the wall, eyes on the door, posture like a coil.

Dick’s gaze swept the room. A drip of water leaked through the ceiling, the sound of its impact nearly deafening in the sudden silence of the space. The overhead bulb flickered again. The city’s neon haze seeped in through that single cracked window, painting Jackson in uneasy streaks of white and pink and-.

…

Orange.

…

From behind, a metal gloved hand wrapped around Jackson’s throat, curling like a snake just as another clamped down to kill the gasp that slipped from his lips, his whole body rising to a stand just as the sound of their comms screamed to life.

“Bogey’s gone! He’s disappeared!”

But Dick was already on the move, legs bracing to leap towards the sudden invader before a shock of pain shot through his legs, the sight of his own breath causing his eyes to widen as the space all around them grew heavy with ice and frost. His legs bound by crawling glittering crystals that continued to trail higher and higher with each passing moment.

“I’m stuck!” He heard Stephanie cry from off to the side, the sound of both her and Tim’s struggling ringing clear throughout the quiet of the space.

But Dick was solely focused on the man that stood before him, tall and clad in all white with a faint trimming of orange that outlined the edges of his suit. He wore a plain expressionless white mask, gleaming metal gloves or gauntlets and had eyes - gods his eyes - so bright and molten that Dick felt as though he would just about burst into flames if they were to stare at him for long.

“Jackson!” He cried, reaching down towards his waist to gather a round of Nightarangs to throw at the apparent Meta that had just burst into the scene. But before he could so much as ready himself to throw them, he heard the masked mobster speak, staring directly at Jackson himself.

“Sei fortunato che la tua Volontà sia più forte del resto della tua Famiglia. Per ora puoi riposare come un uomo e non come un mostro. Mi dispiace e arrivederci.”

And there was only fire, as Jackson’s entire body was subsumed in roaring - brilliant orange flame. A stunned hush was quick to follow. It stole the breath from every throat in the space as Dick’s muscles tensed, straining against the icy prison that snared him from the waist down. He could hear Stephanie and Tim doing the same—fighting desperately against frozen columns that refused to give, no matter how hard they pulled or dug in with gauntlets.

“Jackson!” Dick shouted again, voice reverberating off the high ceiling. He tried to hurl a Nightarang, but the ice locked his throwing arm to his side, leaving him with only a helpless glare.

His entire focus was locked on Jackson, engulfed by that eerie, flickering blaze. It wasn’t like the raw, hungry inferno of a building fire. The flames themselves seemed to almost shimmer, tongues of orange tinged with fleeting threads of pale gold, weaving over Jackson’s suit and shoes and hands and face without so much as a scorch. In the center of that blaze, the masked intruder stood close, like a sentinel ensuring there was no interruption, holding his victim close - like a mourner comforting a dying man.

To his surprise, Jackson didn’t scream. As the heat washed across him, he only stiffened, his eyes wide before somehow growing soft. Some strange emotion flickered across Jackson’s face—fear, relief, acceptance, all merging into one final expression.

In a voice that trembled less than before, Jackson managed to speak, shifting his mouth free as he turned towards his own assassin. “Grazie…” he whispered, each syllable fragile as glass. “Th-thank you… for… for giving me this…”

The words struck Dick like a physical force.

Thank you?

For what?

He’s literally killing you.

He was literally on fire, pinned in place by the intruder’s unnerving abilities. Yet there Jackson was, offering gratitude like he’d just been granted a mercy instead of an execution. The masked figure merely inclined their head, the faintest tilt acknowledging Jackson’s final words. Then, as swiftly as it had surged up, the orange flame seemed to intensify, flaring bright enough that Dick had to turn his gaze away from the glare.

When his vision cleared a moment later, Jackson’s form had started to crumble. It wasn’t the horrifying spectacle of flesh charring or blackening—no, this was more like delicate ash peeling away, fragment by fragment, as though a thousand years of decay had happened in the space of a heartbeat. His arms disintegrated from the fingertips inward, drifting off into nothing. His trembling legs turning to delicate powder, each piece flaking into the luminous air until there was simply no body left to collapse onto the floor.

Finally, the last part of Jackson’s face disintegrated in a waft of gray dust, slipping through the masked man’s gloved fingers. All that remained was a faint shimmer of floating ash and a whisper of orange flame that vanished just as quickly.

Stephanie choked back a gasp. Tim swore under his breath. Dick’s heart hammered, a furious staccato in his chest—he’d never seen anything like it. Jackson Inzerillo, a man so desperately afraid for his life, who had gone so far to live as to reach out to the Police and the Justice League was simply… gone.

The hush in the office was absolute—Dick’s mind still working hard to grapple against the events that had just transpired right before his very eyes. They had failed. 

Jackson was gone.

And there had been absolutely nothing they could do about it.

Abruptly, he felt the cold around his legs begin to lessen. The glittering shackles gripping him and the others dissolved into air with a muted crack, vanishing the instant the white-clad mobster moved to take in their presence, the unexpected release causing Dick to stumble a step forward, free at last. He fought to right himself, ignoring the lingering numbness clinging to his calves. A quick glance confirmed Stephanie and Tim were likewise free, eyeing their now-exposed legs in astonishment.

“Why—” Dick started, just as the figure’s molten gaze snapped up, swirling gold boring into him through the veil of that blank white mask. Then slowly, the intruder lifted a hand—almost sheepish, like in an apology—before stepping back into the gloom.

A swirl of the same orange light lit the corners of the space, starting bright before shifting into a deep hazy indigo as they faded away. Before Dick could react, there was no one—just an empty space and a trail of ashen residue trickling down like motes of dust caught in the flickering light of the bulb still stuttering above.

Silence seized the room, broken only by the steady drip from the leaky ceiling and the intensifying rush of rain outside. Dick inhaled, forcing himself to steady his thoughts, heart still drumming in his chest. Stephanie and Tim drew in ragged breaths behind him, each also trying to process what it was they’d just witnessed.

“Did that… really happen just now?” Tim asked quietly, flexing his freed arms as though verifying they still worked.

Dick pressed a finger to his comm, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Babs,” he said quietly, “we lost Jackson. The intruder got to him first—turned him to… to ash. And then vanished.”

A short pause, then Barbara’s voice crackled through. “I’m… picking up nothing on cameras. No heat signatures except yours. Are you all right?”

Dick swallowed, turning his gaze to the flakes of ash on the grimy floor. “We’re okay. But - But somehow this… person neutralized all of us in second and then… took Jackson out in a burst of flame.” A flicker of memory sparked—Jackson’s word of thanks. “I-I can’t explain it well right now. We’ll regroup up top.”

Stephanie let out a shaky exhale, one hand braced against the wall. Tim said nothing, the uncertain look on his face mirroring Dick’s own inner turmoil. Guilt, already starting to gnaw at his thoughts from the corners of his mind. In one stroke, the so-called Vongola had proven they were far beyond the typical gangster fare most of Gotham was used to dealing with. Dick took a slow breath, forcing down the knot in his throat.

“We should have done more,” he murmured, not bothering to hide the self-reproach in his tone. They’d been in the same room, yet still let Jackson slip through their fingers. Perhaps if they’d trusted his story more, or taken a more direct control of the operation…

Stop, he told himself. This wasn’t the time to spiral.

Tim raked a hand through his hair. “I mean… it’s not like we weren’t prepared,” he argued quietly, though his voice carried a tremor of shock. “I set up sensors everywhere, stealth drones. We had Babs running point with building schematics and all local CCTV. We thought we had everything covered.”

“And that’s exactly it,” Stephanie added, still breathing a bit too fast. “We got outplayed by a guy who apparently walked through our entire security perimeter, manifested ice walls, and somehow incinerated Jackson without leaving an actual fire behind.”

Dick couldn’t help but recall the hush of that final moment—Jackson’s whisper of thanks to his executioner. He shook his head, trying to file the memory away for later dissection. “This is bigger than we realized,” he said, voice grim. “Much bigger.”

Barbara was silent for a few beats. They could picture her at the watchtower of her console, eyes scanning multiple windows of data, trying to make sense of it just like they were. “I’m running every camera feed in a three-block radius,” she finally said. “Nothing. Not even a phantom on any of the thermals. Whatever this person did, it’s like they were never here.”

Tim let out a humorless chuckle. “Great.”

A jagged streak of lightning lit the windows, momentarily revealing the sheets of rain lashing at the building outside. Thunder followed, rattling the hollow floors. In the brief flash, Dick glimpsed the pale dust of Jackson’s remains still scattered on the ground, then forced himself to look away.

“Come back to the safehouse.” Barbara continued . “I’ve started a deep dive into any global chatter around these ‘Vongola.’ I’ll see what else I can turn up.”

Dick took one last look around the dim office. The paint was peeling, and the stale scent of old cigarette smoke mingled with the cold dampness of the storm. It was just another decaying corner of Gotham, hiding secrets that even they hadn’t been ready for.

He gave a short, curt nod and pointed toward the door. “Let’s move.”

Tim led the way into the hallway, shining a small flashlight from his belt to keep an eye on any sign of a lingering threat. But the corridors were silent now—no footsteps, no suspicious movements. The battered desk Tim had perched on earlier lay askew, a testament to how quickly everything had erupted and then ended in a single, horrible instant.

Stephanie followed close behind, boots crunching on debris that littered the floor. As they descended the building’s stairwell, she stole another glance at Dick. “You okay?” she asked softly, her tone gentler than before.

He nodded, though the knot of guilt in his chest felt heavier with each step they took. “Not really,” he admitted. “But I will be. Let’s just get to Babs. We need to figure out what we’re dealing with.”

At the ground floor, Tim pushed open the rusted exit door that led onto a narrow alley, the wind whipping droplets of rain inside. For once, the city’s neon glow felt alien, reflecting harshly against the puddles and flickering across their weary faces. Dick braced himself against the chill, swallowing the sour taste of failure that still clung to his tongue.

They emerged onto the slick street. In the distance, police sirens wailed, mingling with the howling wind—a typical Gotham night, except the three of them knew it was anything but typical.

We should have saved him, he kept thinking.

But had Jackson really wanted saving in the end, or had he, on some level, welcomed that final cleansing judgment? In the stretch of silence that settled between them all,  he could almost imagine the faint echo of Jackson’s final whisper:

“Grazie.”

Chapter Text

Mosche ronzianti

“The Mosche are ready, Sawada. On your signal, we hit every point all at once to mitigate the spread. Ruin will go no further this day.”

“Thank you Spanner. You may begin operations - now.”

The machine was nearly four meters tall. Formed of large hulking plates that overlapped across one another to form a gleaming chitinous plated exterior. It was humanoid in shape with a rounded belly and arms and legs the width of tree trunks or standing columns, each finger tipped with a barrel of some sort of emitter and droning whine rising from its core. Across its body was a series of loose black fabrics that wove together to provide the machine a facsimile of clothing, like a heavy leather trench coat that framed its form and somehow made the unliving thing more menacing with than without. 

Its head was formed of a black metal visage, framed around the neck by a bulky silver collar that rose to nearly half the height of its face. The eyes were a dull red glass situated in goggle-like protrusions that seemed to be steadily growing brighter as time went on and from the base of its face, three long tube-like extensions jutted right out from where one would have expected its mouth to be. With the longest of the three in the middle giving the entire face an almost insect like appearance. 

Like a fly.

Moving quickly, Whisper drew her blaster pistol out from her holster, slung along the side of her waist and moved to take a defensive position right along the edge of the warehouse door, open to the docks as they were in the midsts of moving in new shipments of Venom from Gotham city. She stood right at the threshold of the warehouse, tension coiled through her frame like a spring. Several Intergang enforcers milled about nearby, half-hidden behind towering stacks of crates marked with Bane’s personal insignia. 

The night air that drifted in from the docks felt colder than usual, laced with the gritty tang of salt and metal. For a moment, she wondered if her imagination was playing tricks on her, or if the presence of this monstrous thing truly made the space seem and feel heavier than it was. No one in the warehouse knew how the machine had gotten there, or even what it was. Only that it hadn’t been there before when they had started moving the cargo. 

And like fire to oil that ignorance simmered into fear, very quickly. Whisper’s men muttered amongst themselves, checking and readying their weapons with unsteady hands. She raised one gloved palm, signaling them to hold back. Reckless gunfire might rouse this metal brute prematurely, or worse the boy in blue tights himself. 

A low hum emanated from the machine’s core. It resonated through the concrete floor, through the crates stacked high with contraband Venom, and into her very bones. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the device’s faintly glowing lenses. As the seconds ticked by, that droning sound rose ever so subtly in pitch, as though an engine somewhere deep inside was spinning up.

Andrei, an older Intergang thug with a scar running from his temple to his jaw, shifted nervously behind a forklift. His eyes darted to Whisper. “Boss?” he asked, voice trembling just enough to betray his fear.

Whisper offered him a sharp tilt of her head—a silent order to stand down. Whether this mechanical entity was friend or foe, provoking it didn’t seem wise. She watched with growing unease as the red glow in its eyes pulsed brighter, steady and hypnotic.

It made no sudden move. It offered no mechanical hiss or warning. Yet each second that passed made it feel more alive. The hum in its chest grew louder, vibrating, shifting into a low drone that echoed throughout the warehouse. Small shifts became visible: a subtle repositioning of the overlapping plates on its arms, the faint scrape of metal-on-metal where its torso connected to its hips. The black coat it wore seemed to rustle of its own accord, as if stirred by an unseen wind.

A single metallic click seemed to deafen the entire dock, making half the men jump. Whisper’s heart thudded, and she tightened her grip on her blaster. Dimly, she heard the distant clank of chains and the crash of a crate being dropped. No one bothered to yell at the clumsy mover; all attention remained pinned on the strange machine that dominated the doorway.

A second click rattled through the space, louder than the first. This time, the machine’s shoulders twitched and the red glow behind its goggle-like eyes brightened in a single pulse. Then, as if responding to an unheard command, it jerked its head upright.

And it was suddenly upon them all.

Initializing: Sun Attribute Core

Activating Autonomous Combat

Objective: Annihilate all traces of Ruin Energy

Current Flame Energy: 100%

It was like a scene right out of a war movie. Fire danced along splintered crates and twisted metal, the acrid smell of apokoliptian blaster shells practically saturating the air despite the bioship’s sealed environment. Clusters of battered Intergang thugs lay scattered across the concrete like pieces of broken debris—most of them unmoving, most of them clearly dead. Smoke rose from the countless open craters that dotted the space and the sight of glowing Venom mingling with the ocean brine and pooling blood of the gangers around left Connor feeling dizzy almost immediately. 

As the bioship descended, its organic hull adjusted in shape to attempt a gentle landing. Its form hovering for just a quick moment before it settled itself down. Inside the cockpit, Connor exchanged a glance with Bart, who was bent over a small holo-screen flickering at his wrist, his face set in a grim mask as his attention shifted between the wreckage beneath them and the data he had brought up. On the other side of the compartment, Garfield—still in his human form—pressed a hand against the transparent panel, his mouth curved into a worried frown.

The craft’s outer membrane peeled back, letting in the cold night air and another dizzying wave of exposed evaporating Venom. Connor stepped out first, Bart following at his flank, data still scrolling across his watch; Garfield and Cassie slipped out behind them, moving cautiously as they all moved to survey the scene. Smoke and the distant wail of police sirens mingled with the rhythmic slosh of waves against the pier. The sound of sizzling asphalt and ongoing blaster fire grew louder as they approached, stepping over spent shells, mangled crates, and countless - countless dead Intergang enforcers.

It was the League’s, The Team’s and The Outsiders’ entire goal to mitigate and minimize casualties whenever possible, and though these were all technically criminals, to see just so much death in one place - Connor felt like he was going to be sick. Whatever had done this had sought to ensure every shot, every hit, every action against these gangers would be as lethal as possible, given the number of figures he could see easily lacking heads, or torsos and sometimes even more.

And then they saw it. 

At the mouth of the partially destroyed warehouse: A towering, humanoid war machine looming like a statue above the wreckage. And in one of its massive arms, struggling feebly, was Whisper A’daire, gun firing again and again and again right against the machine’s rounded dome cap to almost no effect at all. 

Connor felt his body tense instinctively. Whisper was hoisted off her feet, pinned by the machine’s grip around her torso. The thing’s goggle-like eyes burned a menacing red, and there was a distinct whine of energy building beneath its armor, a crackle of some sort of green energy dancing across its sleek black frame in response to each shot that Whisper desperately fired.

Initializing: Lightning Attribute

Temporal Immutability

Current Flame Energy: 90%

Garfield took a step forward, brows furrowed. “What is that thing?” he asked quietly, rhetorically because without doubt Connor knew, that Garfield knew - none of them had ever seen a build of robot like this before. Nowhere near close to Ivo’s Monqis or even Lex’s spider bots. The closest thing this machine happened to resemble was the hulking shape and form of Black Beetle years ago, and even then would have likely dwarfed the Reach enforcer. 

“I don’t know,” Connor replied, voice tight. He could hear Cassie’s breath catch at the sight of the carnage. Bart’s gaze darted over the scene, data reflected in his mask’s lenses as he assessed the damage, likely searching for any possible survivors. Connor raised a hand to his communicator. 

“Things are worse down here than we thought. We have injured and we have dead onsite. Outsiders requesting backup.”

“Acknowledged.” Barbara replied. “Outsiders-Beta is en route to your location.” 

Before Connor could speak again, the war machine twitched, adjusting its grip on Whisper. She let out a strangled cry, clawing at the metal fingers locking her in place. Lights flared along the plates in the machine’s chest, and the whine of energy intensified, before the machine loosened its grip and Whisper fell to the ground in a heap of groans and curses. The ground trembled with each step the machine took, turning in its position to face their arriving team, its featureless gaze lookin on towards them - and then behind them after a moment. Its goggle-like eyes narrowing to pinpricks of red as it seemed to settle its sights onto a group of Intergang survivors currently attempting to flee from the scene. 

Five in total. All of them injured. 

It raised an arm, some strange indigo energy gathering in the tips of its barreled fingers. Without preamble, Connor jumped into action, taking off into a sprint immediately as he felt and heard and saw the rest of the Outsiders scatter and follow suit. The sound of the injured gangers being swept up into the bioship holding bay by Cassie, Bart rushing in to sweep Whisper out of harm’s way - Gar right beside him, already a Rhino mid-charge. 

The machine didn’t move, merely readjusted its arm to follow the trajectory of the bioship as Baby rose from the ground and into a hover. Connor made impact just as the fly-thing let loose a volley of who-knows-what, slamming himself bodily into one of the giant lower limbs that held it aloft. The sensation of crunching bone and warping muscle sending a shock he had never ever felt before right through his system, a searing lightning like pain shooting fully through his entire arm as he found himself coiling back to stare at his injured fist and broken fingers. 

And though the impact of his attack had seemingly moved the machine a couple feet back, the body and shell of the robot itself seemed entirely unscathed. 

“What the hell is this thing made out of?!” Garfield groaned from beside him, rhino gone and the younger man just absolutely swaying on his feet, hands cradling his face and nose as a trail of scarlet fluid trickled from between his palms down towards the ground. 

Feeling his body already starting to heal, bones steadily grinding back into place, Connor braced himself again, letting out a ragged breath as the last vestiges of pain subsided into a dull burning throb. He glanced at Garfield, whose nose was still spilling red out onto the concrete, clearly shaken but trying hard to refocus.

Before Garfield could respond, the war machine pivoted with startling speed. Its massive arm lifting once more, this time a red tinted energy crackling to life at the tip of each barrel-like digit. Connor heard Cassie’s voice from somewhere behind him, calling out, but the cacophony of the machine’s internal mechanisms and the pounding of his own blood drowned out everything but the urgency in her voice. He lunged to the side, narrowly avoiding a sizzling beam of red energy that blasted a molten hole through a nearby shipping crate.

“Kid Flash, status on the survivors?” Connor shouted, forcing calm into his voice.

Bart’s reply came from a blur of motion at the bioship’s open hatch. “They’re inside—still alive. Whisper’s in too, but she’s not exactly being cooperative.” The speedster’s helmet retracted a fraction, revealing sweat-matted hair and a grim expression. “We need to focus on bringing this thing down before it kills anyone else!”

“Ditto,” Garfield wheezed, wiping the last of the blood from his face as he sought to shake off the lingering dizziness. His eyes hardened with a renewed determination, and in a blink, he morphed into a massive, dark-feathered condor, rising quickly and gaining altitude. Behind him, the bioship followed him in his ascent as Connor himself rushed the machine with his arms spread wide. Once again he slammed himself fully against the shin of the fly-bot, but this time, aware of its strength, he dug his fingers into any opening or gap he could get a handle on, digging his heels into the ground to keep the robot pinned in place. 

Up above, he could see the silhouette of Baby readying her proton cannons, two large energy barrels growing right out of the front of her bioship form. With a brief flicker of white light, she fired, a searing column of energy tearing through the darkness. It lanced down from the bioship’s cannons in a single brilliant blink of white and Connor could feel the intense heat before the beam even reached its mark. At the last second, he released his hold and hurled himself backward, hitting the ground hard on one knee. The war machine, still entirely focused on aiming a shot at Baby, made no attempt at all to dodge.

The beam struck against the interlocking plates of its shoulder, sparks showering across the area, cast far and wide from the point of impact. A howling earthen screech—metal digging, scraping, grinding against stone—erupted from the base of its feet, the sheer force of impact from the shot blasting the war-machine back digging two long near eight meter ditches right through the dock’s concrete ground. 

Maintaining: Lightning Attribute

Temporal Immutability

Current Flame Energy: 75%

Another shimmer of dancing green fell across the gargantuan silhouette. The scattered clouds of floating debris giving way to the sight of utterly no damage across matte black plates. 

What the hell?

Connor stared in disbelief. Despite the full might of Baby’s energy cannons, there wasn’t so much as a scorch mark left on this thing. Rising back to his feet, he clenched both fists at his sides, frustration building. A few yards away, Cassie hovered above the fractured concrete, lasso in hand. She shared a glance with Connor. “You're seeing this too, right? That blast didn’t even dent it.”

“Connor,” Bart called out from across their comms. “My systems are picking up some strange energy signatures coming from this thing. Familiar but not—some kind of energy similar to Chronotron radiation. It's putting the whole thing in some kind of…temporal lock. We won’t be able to deal any damage to it, so long as its relative time sits still. It’ll be like trying to boil water that doesn't feel heat .”

“How do we nullify the field?”

“No idea. I’m running further scans right-.”

Initializing: Mist Attribute

Reality Manifestation

Current Flame Energy: 60%

“BART! BABY!” Bart heard his teammates scream from over the comms, the whole of the bioship spinning as it recoiled from the explosion of a sudden impact. Baby mentally cried in his head as she tried to steady herself mid-air, her cockpit going transparent so as to allow Bart full view of the incoming assault still bearing down upon them. 

Missile upon missiles were rocketing towards the bioship, one after another, the fly-thing loosing rocket after rocket from the tips of its fingers. A quick count totalled nearly forty-seven separate incoming projectiles and still somehow rising. Each missile was easily the size of a small person, and of a volume too large for the machine before them to house even four let alone a number ten times that value. 

And it was still firing!

“Baby evasive maneuvers!” Bart shouted, psychically linking with the bioship to help shift the vessel out of harm’s way, looping through the incoming volleys and aiming to weave each consecutive shot into one another. A trail of smoke and roaring winds followed in their wake, as Bart focused on narrowly avoiding the pursuing projectiles and Baby reformed part of the ship into a set of surface mounted turrets to fire at the rockets right on their heels.

But no matter how fast they moved or however many they shot down, they just kept coming. 

“Guys, it’s one thing for me to weave through a hail of missiles, it's another thing entirely for Baby who doesn’t have superspeed. A little help please!”

“We’re on it Hermano!” came Jaime’s immediate reply, just as a flash of gold manifested beside Bart’s form. Despite the intensity of the situation, Bart couldn’t help but smile as Ed teleported beside him, a firm hand falling on his shoulder, if a little unsteady. 

“Beta squad is here!” Ed called out, before leaning in towards Bart, chocolate eyes meeting forest green, equal parts serious, exasperated and fond. “I swear we have to stop meeting for date nights like this. Status on the gangers?” 

“Oh come on. You know it keeps things exciting.” Bart quipped back, all but certain his initial smile had gone just the slightest bit dumb, before he shook his head. Not the time Bart. Gotta keep things cool for now, life and death and all that jazz. “They’re okay for now. Well, those that are still breathing. We’ve stored them all in Baby’s cargo hold, but it looks like this thing’s pretty intent on finishing the job that it started .”

And another explosion rocked the side of the bioship, sending Ed careening off to the side as Bart braced himself against the controls. “Speaking of which,” Bart spoke up into the comms. “Any time now guys!”

“What do you think we’ve been trying to do ese while you two were flirting in the cockpit!” (Hehe, cockpit) Jaime cried back, the sound of their sonic blaster reverberating through their communicator. 

Once again linking with the bioship, Bart swiveled the vessel out of range of another incoming volley, the rockets blasting past before seemingly just fading away in a haze of inky dark smoke. The number of projectiles finally starting to drop in number as the machine was entirely subsumed by Outsider attacks. Down at the docks, Wendy surrounded the machine in a roaring gale, offsetting the missiles it continued to try and fire off. Of those that were successful, Blue was quick to intercept most, loosing sonic shot after sonic shoot, in an attempt to give the bioship space to breath. 

Then the very ground beneath the robot’s feet seemed to crack, before the earth itself seemed to rise up and fling the fly-bot up into the air, Terra off to the side, coordinating nearly perfectly with Wendy as the two of them caught the machine mid-air in a swirling mass of slicing wind and now grinding sand. With its vision entirely obfuscated, the machine had ceased its ongoing attack, the silhouette of its giant bulky form all that could be seen from within the writhing storm of grey and granite. 

Initializing: Storm Attribute

Reality Disintegration

Readying Storm Energy Pulse

Estimated Flame Energy Expenditure: 10%

Initializing: Sun Attribute

Activating Controlled Nuclear Propulsion

Estimated Maintained Energy Output Required for Expedited Flight: 900,000 Gigajoules

Estimated Flame Energy Expenditure: 5%

Current Flame Energy: 45%

No build-up. No warning.

A ring of violent red light exploded out from inside the storm, annihilating the twisting cyclone of debris in a single, soundless instant. Bart’s breath caught. The fierce current of wind and biting shards of concrete simply vanishing with neither sign nor trace of their presence left behind. Scraps of metal and dust right along the fringes of the affected field ignited into a haze of glowing embers before disintegrating altogether leaving naught but empty dead air.

“What was that?!” Wendy’s voice cracked over the comms. There was a panicked scramble as the Outsiders pulled back, each of them clearly rattled by the destructive pulse that had shattered their combined assault. Bart’s mind raced, analyzing the phenomenon from every angle he could think of. Nothing about that wave resembled anything typical of Apokoliptian tech, or LexCorp munitions, or even anything else in his extensive knowledge. Not Reach, not Genesian, nothing at all. He could only guess it was some form of concentrated energy weapon. 

He barely had time to think before the fly-bot sprang into action, catching itself mid fall with a roar of activating thrusters embedded in its heels and lower body. Bart, still synched with the bioship’s psychic controls, felt the entire craft freeze in place for a moment as he struggled to pull them into a rapid evasive maneuver.

A second later, with a blast of yellow light, the machine shot into the sky.

“Baby, we need to move— now !” Bart shouted. The organic hull of the bioship swelling beneath his fingertips as it responded, thrusters flaring bright. They retreated quickly - the war machine, large yet alarmingly nimble, right on their heels, leaving a trail of falling black clouds scattering in its wake. Bart felt his heart pounding in his ears as he tried to put just any amount of additional distance between them and the fly-faced bot .

He threw a look out the transparent cockpit viewport. Columns of whatever strange yellow energy it was using blazed around its limbs as it continued in its pursuit. Bart’s mind whirred with possibilities. Anti-grav propulsion? Nuclear drive? Chronotron Energy manipulation? Okay. Maybe that last one actually kind of had legs.

“Bart—heads up!” Jaime’s urgent tone crackled over their communicators. Bart jerked his gaze forward again, just in time to see the war machine close their remaining gap, soaring right over Baby. The shadow of its form, darkening the already dim interior of the cockpit beneath the night sky. 

Beside him, Ed readied a hand on Bart’s forearm, prepping to port them both as soon the situation grew too dire. “Damn it,” he hissed in disbelief.

Bart’s jaw tightened. “Hang tight hermano.” He mentally urged Baby to surge forward once more. They accelerated into a near-vertical ascent, the air around them hissing like steam from the friction. Yet the machine mirrored them relentlessly, travelling essentially parallel to their every single move. He could feel Baby’s growing unease—a reflection of his own. No matter how fast they moved, or how random they made their flight pattern the thing was still right on top of them.

“Guys,” he whispered into the comms, “I—I can’t shake it. We-uh, We’ll lead it over the water for now,” he decided aloud, voice steadying with determination. “Give the others time to regroup. We have to protect the survivors in the hold.”

Ed, bracing beside him, nodded firmly. “Let’s do it.”

Bart exhaled and willed the bioship into a hard turn out toward the open ocean.

Initializing: Rain Attribute

Temporal Slow

Readying Rain Energy Field

Estimated Flame Energy Expenditure: 10%

Current Flame Energy: 30%

Soaring overhead, Garfield watched as a giant field of blue energy erupted from the fly-bot, subsuming Baby, Bart, Ed and everyone else on the bioship in a sphere of shifting cerulean. For a heartbeat, Garfield could only stare. He recognized that the machine had done something—some new trick—yet he couldn’t comprehend what. Then, at once, every shape within that sphere stuttered, as though viewed through a broken reel of film, before the entire interior seemed to freeze. 

From his vantage high above, he saw the bioship suddenly stop mid-flight, thrusters flaring and loosing static flame. Bart and Ed were likewise suspended inside, and Garfield assumed alongside all of the injured gangers still stowed away on board. Connor and the rest of the Outsiders, who had been circling nearer to the docks, remained just outside the orb’s radius, but Garfield couldn’t immediately tell if they’d noticed what was happening yet.

His pulse kicked into overdrive. Garfield could feel the rub of icy wind across his condor feathers—harsh, biting. A primal alarm told him to climb higher, away from that sphere before it dragged him in. He banked sharply to the side, making for the safety of the altitudes above. 

But then the edges of that watery curtain shifted—only slightly, but still enough that Garfield felt the tiniest brush of that cerulean haze against his tailfeathers. Instantly, he felt his speed falter. It felt like an invisible weight was pressing down on the feathers themselves, freezing them exactly where they were. A wave of disorientation roiled through him, and for a terrifying second, he felt as if he would accidentally throw himself into the field. 

He cawed in alarm and pitched sideways, beating his massive wings frantically to retreat, ripping the feathers affected right out of his person. Escaping the sphere’s edge, Garfield tumbled out of the sky and shifted back into human form in a panicked sprawl, rolling across the dock’s battered asphalt with a thud. Winded, he propped himself up with one elbow, heart hammering.

“Gar! You okay?” Cassie’s voice rang out from behind him. She rushed over, picking her way around cracked shipping crates and scorch marks, reaching for his shoulder with concern.

Garfield nodded shakily, still trying to catch his breath. “Y-Yeah. Think so.” His wide eyes remained fixed on the bizarre watery sphere in the sky where the bioship and half his friends were trapped. “But the others…”

Beside him, Connor landed with a heavy thump, a swirl of concrete dust scattering off his boots. “We see it,” he said grimly, jaw tight. “I don’t know what that sphere is, but Bart, Ed, and the rest…they’re not moving.”

High above, the hulking machine hovered in front of the bioship’s hull, apparently immune to the sphere’s  effect. Its thrusters had tapered back to a gentle glow as it surveyed the interior of its own bubble. Then, with a soundless hiss of grinding plates, the fly-bot shifted its posture and dropped onto the curve of Baby’s outer shell, planting its heavy metallic feet with unnerving ease on the organic surface.

Initializing: Cloud Attribute

Trait Propagation

Strength Multiplier: 10^2

Current Flame Energy: 20%

In the silence that followed, it took literal seconds for Bart to realize he was the only one inside the bubble still able to move, a wave of vertigo threatening to buckle his knees. From his perspective, everything looked…frozen. Even Baby seemed to be caught in stasis. The lights along her living hull were locked at full glow, thrusters flaring in a single, unchanging moment.

Ed was right at his side—except not moving. His hand was still extended as if about to grab Bart’s arm for a teleport. He looked down at his own hand, flexing his fingers. Why wasn’t he affected? Did it have something to do with the Speed Force that always crackled in his veins—accelerating his perception and movements beyond normal comprehension? He swallowed hard. It made sense, but that just made this situation all the more complicated.

“It’s like…they’re paused.” His voice echoed in the suffocating quiet. He spun in place to look out the bioship’s viewport. The entire inside surface of the watery dome flickered with faint lines of blue-white energy. They reminded him of trembling lines in a pond or rolling waves of an ocean in a storm. Relevant note, he could still speak and still see, which meant that whatever this field was, it wasn’t affecting light or the molecules in the air, at least for now. 

A metallic clang emanated from the bioship’s hull, causing Bart to snap his head upward. Through the partially transparent hull, he watched as the fly-like war machine landed fully onto Baby’s roof.

“Oh, that’s bad.”

His gut lurched with fear for Baby—she was alive in her own right. He could sense her distress through their maintained psychic link, but she was locked in that same bubble of slowed time, her thoughts practically at a snail’s pace. In a particularly humourless thought, Bart figured she probably wouldn’t even feel any of the pain her body was going through till they were out of the field, as the machine braced its hands right up against her hull, gauntlets leaking purple, and promptly ripped the ceiling of the cargo hold fully open. 

For an instant, Bart just stared. Even though time inside the bubble remained in a near-standstill for everyone but him, it almost felt like the machine was moving faster than it had reason to, ripping apart the bioship’s hardened exterior with a single prying pull. He could feel Baby’s mental scream through their psychic tether—a slow, pained rumble, like the after-echo of a quake. Her consciousness was locked in temporal sludge, but even still the distress bled through.

He forced himself to focus. This thing wants the Intergang guys, he reminded himself. And it’s not going to care if it kills Baby in the process.

Bart let out a short breath, legs tense with Speed Force energy. “Okay, big guy,” he muttered, surging forward. Just as he blurred into motion, the fly-bot’s domed head spun sharply. In the swirl of suspended smoke and glimmering cerulean, Bart found himself staring into those dull red lenses—two lifeless, mechanical eyes that seemed to recognize him in real time, before turning fully to the injured gangers.

Initializing: Storm Attribute

Reality Disintegration

Current Flame Energy: 10%

Suggested Action - Withdrawal due to insufficient Flame energy

Confirm?

“No. Complete the mission #16.”

Affirmative

With no discernible wind-up, the machine’s arm extended. Bart dove under it at the last millisecond. The blow rushing over him by a hair’s breadth as he skidded across the bioship’s floor. He slammed into a nearby wall hard enough to rattle his teeth. Pain shooting through his ribs. 

He scrambled upright. Above him, the machine’s torso bent at an impossible angle as it scanned the limp bodies inside. The sphere’s watery haze distorting the scene like a drowning stage, and in that hazy gloom, Bart watched—horror-struck—as the machine’s fingers readied themselves to fire.

Targets Detected

Four flashes of red. 

Four unmoving figures subsumed by blood-red fire before burning away into nothing.

All Ruin Signatures neutralized

Current Flame Energy: 5%

“Activate self-destruct. Can’t have these heroes picking apart our secrets just yet.”

Action Confirmed

The hiss of superheated metal sent a pulse of dread through Bart’s gut as he watched the towering war machine straighten inside Baby’s ruptured cargo hold. He had to act—now—before this thing hurt or killed anyone else. Summoning every ounce of speed he had, Bart streaked up the bioship’s inner wall, aiming a flying kick at the fly machine’s head. 

The hit struck, landing full force against the construct and shockingly, the metal twisted, black matte plated bending inwards just ever so slightly. Bart felt his eyes widen. Damage? He just dealt damage! 

Was it because it couldn’t maintain both temporal effects at once. Was that it?

With a roll, he landed on the other side of the space, ignoring the shooting pain trying to claw its way out of his ribs as he readied himself for another assault. But just as he took off again, the war machine hauled itself through the jagged hole in the hull. Its thrusters rumbled in a low, menacing note that Bart could feel vibrating in his teeth. He lunged forward to latch onto its ankle, but the sheer heat of the thrusters repelled his attempt.

The machine took one last look around, before rising fully out of the bioship, its segmented plates locking together and the scorching glow of something began to spread across its chest. With a faint pop, the watery dome around Baby collapsed. Time resumed in a thunderclap of rushing air and startled cries. Ed cried out as he was freed from stasis, blinking in confusion at Bart on his hands and knees. Baby’s hull twitched, the bioship flooding Bart’s thoughts with relief and utter agony all at once.

“Bart!” Ed shouted, hurrying to his side. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” Bart managed, jutting a finger out towards the machine. “Look!”

They both swung their gaze upward. Through the shredded cargo roof, the machine was already drifting out to open sky. Now that the temporal field was gone, the rest of the Outsiders saw it too. Connor shouted something that got lost in the roar of the bioship’s damaged engines. He took off towards them, carried by Jaime. Garfield, in hawk form, followed from above while Cassie and the other Outsiders came flying at their heels.

But the war machine didn’t engage with any of them. Instead, it merely hovered in space before them—long enough for all eyes to lock onto it. The blazing lines that traced its joints and limbs flared, flickering from a soft red to a staggering scarlet.

Connor hesitated in midair. “Is it…melting down?” he yelled over the rushing wind.

Cassie, gesturing in front of the others, flew to a halt. “Watch out for an explosion!”

But no explosion came. 

The plating simply shifted, revealing jagged vents across the construct’s sides that expelled heat in trembling waves. Flames coiled along its arms, before turning inward. Metal plating sizzled, shrinking back like paper under intense heat. Layer by layer, the machine fed its own body to the flickering tongues of this blood-red fire.

Within seconds, the entire fly-thing had been fully engulfed, black plating peeling away in glowing fragments, exposing coils of machinery that themselves then began to disintegrate. Landing on the bioship’s surface, Garfield morphed into human form, mouth agape. Bart and Ed, staring out of the damaged cargo bay, could only stare as the monstrous robot silently dissolved into brilliant spiraling plumes.

In less than a minute, there was nothing left—no core to salvage, no debris to gather. The swirling flames simply winked out, leaving only drifting soot that quickly disappeared into the night sky. 

The sudden stillness was deafening.

Smoke swirled and eddied around the ruined docks, mingling with the acrid stench of melted metal and scorching corpses. In the wake of the monstrous war machine’s abrupt disintegration, the Outsiders found themselves working in an uneasy silence. Alarms from damaged security systems bleated intermittently. The distant wail of sirens breaking through the hush, promising emergency responders on a collision course with the scene.

Still reeling from the fight, Connor gently set his boots back on the battered concrete, casting a glance at the crater the fly-like robot had dug into the earth after tanking a full shot from Baby. “Everyone accounted for?” he asked, voice low.

“More or less,” Bart answered, examining the still torn hull of the bioship, a single arm held tight against his ribs. “We got hit hard, but we’re alright. Baby’s pretty hurt, though.”

Cassie hovered overhead, scanning the wreckage and the whimpering Intergang enforcers who hadn’t managed to flee or were too injured to do so. Garfield offered a hand to one bruised thug, dragging him away from the noxious puddles of chemical-laced Venom.

Connor glanced at the battered men with a grim expression. “Intergang might have answers,” he said, turning up the volume on his comm. “Oracle, you with us?”

A burst of static crackled in his ear, followed by Barbara’s voice, clipped and focused. “Reading you, Superboy. I’m reviewing the data Garfield just sent.”

“She’s probably sifting through so much backlog,” Jaime added over the shared channel. “You should see Oracle’s setup—like forty windows open at once.”

“It’s true,” Barbara muttered under her breath. “Stand by. I’m analyzing the robot’s design specs from the footage. There’s an insignia near its collar, but it’s partially obscured…” A pause, and the clack of rapid keystrokes echoed in their earpieces. “Let me enhance. Cross-referencing now.”

Bart smoothed a trembling hand through his hair, adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. “That thing manipulated time, or reality, or something else just as crazy. The basically-Chronotron radiation we picked up earlier essentially confirms it. We’ve got robots that have weaponized time, and that is both so cool and so moded.”

“We also got a good look at the symbol.” Garfield added, pulling another ganger free of the rubble that pinned her. “Kinda stylized… but I’m not recognizing it offhand.”

Barbara’s breath came through in a slow hiss. She tapped a few more commands. “It’s… similar to a crest we flagged last month,” she said carefully. “I can’t confirm—there’s a chunk of the design missing.”

Connor glanced around as paramedic sirens grew closer. “We’ll keep the line open. Let us know when you’ve got something.”

“Understood.”

With the immediate threat gone, the Outsiders divided tasks: triage for the injured, containment for the Intergang survivors, salvage of the warehouse’s remains. Terra shifted over a smoldering metal plate that still bore the faint impression of the robot’s gargantuan fist. She chewed her lip. “Who builds a killing machine like that just to wipe out an illegal Venom shipment op? Why here—why now?”

“I’m thinking the same thing,” Garfield said quietly, double-checking the vitals of a thug knocked unconscious. “A hush operation, maybe. They want Intergang out of the picture, or they’re trying to send a message.”

Wendy landed next to them. “Could be a new player in the underworld. But the tech… that’s next-level stuff.”

“I’m running a wide net on multiple intel channels,” Barbara broke in again. “Wait. I’m seeing multiple, near-simultaneous incidents across the globe—Tokyo, Star City, Keystone… a half-dozen sites so far. Similar bots, same tactics: drop in, annihilate everything, vanish or self-destruct. Local authorities have zero intel.”

Bart shot Connor a worried glance. “A coordinated strike.”

Barbara’s voice trembled just a fraction as she hammered away at her keyboard. “These hits look… surgical. All of them had targeted known black-market operations or suspected criminal HQs. And they’re all against major players, no small fry to speak of. Ha!—There it is. One clear image file from the League in Star City, referencing now. It’s…” She hesitated. “It is them. The Vongola.”

Connor arched a brow. “The who?”

Barbara took a moment, as if considering her words. Connor, Bart, and the others could almost hear the tension in her exhale. “The Vongola came up in a sting operation last month—the one in Gotham a while back, headed by Nighting, Robin and Spoiler. I was their woman in the chair. We tried to set a trap for them, after one of Gotham’s own mob bosses begged us for help. It ended in a bust: no leads, no arrests, and we lost the guy we promised to keep safe.”

A guilty edge colored her voice. “It’s why we only have fragments on them in the system. We never learned how big they really were, or how advanced their technology might be. After that night, all follow up leads just seemed to dry up. But it appears they’re a serious threat after all. Guess Jackson was right.”

A fresh wave of paramedics arrived, sirens cutting across the water. Police floodlights washed over the battered warehouse. Garfield helped guide the wounded to the approaching stretchers. Across the broken concrete, Intergang’s lethal contraband lay wrecked and forgotten, proof that the Vongola had come for more than simple sabotage.

“So the Vongola’s aren’t afraid to flex,” Bart said, crossing his arms across his chest. “Considering they did just reveal themselves in multiple cities all at once. Could either be a warning or something bigger.”

Barbara’s fingers tapped faster. “I’m pulling everything I have on them, but it’s not much. We’ll compile your recordings from tonight and share with the League and The Team. That’s the best chance we have of connecting more dots.”

Connor cast a final look at the broken cargo hold of the bioship. Baby’s hull glowed weakly as she clung to consciousness. “Roger that. We’ll gather what we can here, then meet at the Watchtower or HQ for debrief. Is the MPD inbound?”

“They are,” Barbara answered, subdued. “I’ll coordinate so they know who to take in to custody—Despite their less than stellar night, we can’t just let Intergang get away. Watchtower in 30 for full debrief Outsiders.”

“Roger that.”

Chapter Text

Attraverso il tempo e lo spazio

A shape moving in a field of white, streaks of blue cutting across the space - slipping by as if pulled by an unseen force. No. Wait. Not being pulled. The shape was rushing past them, moving at a pace that left all color trailing like fractured prisms. The vibrant lines of blue hissed and crackled at the edges, as if the speed of the shape’s passage seemed to buckle and shift the boundary between what was and what could be. The ever so faint images of countless scattered and innumerable scenes, of life and death, and love and joy and pain and hardship, playing across infinite oceans of shifting cerulean. 

The shape, now clearer - The figure’s outline expanded into a ghostly silhouette, arms pumping, feet striking ground that did not exist yet seemed as solid as any surface. There was a certain grace to how they moved—like a comet blazing through a brilliant white cosmos. The ripples of force that circled the figure far from gentle, but they held within themselves a beauty in their ferocity, their potential and immutability. Fleeting shapes emerged as echoes of the figure’s deepest memories—races against evil, heartbreak crystallized in a single scene, victories so grand and emotional they seemed to resonate in the speed-warped air. 

But as their view neared, there was something off in the figure’s stride. A tremor—small at first—cascading throughout the entire silhouette. Their arms still pumped, but with each renewed swing, the once-fluid grace seemed stained by fatigue. Every footfall threatened to buckle; each step seemed to boom and then tremble across the void. At times, the figure staggered, knees bending as if they might collapse entirely—but never quite yielding.

The runner refused to stop. Or perhaps it was because they couldn’t, even despite their exhaustion. Cracks of cascading blue lightning snapped at the corners of the blank expanse, intensifying whenever the runner seemed about to fall. And yet, somehow, that volatility seemed to provide them a second wind, again and again. They would straighten at the last possible moment, breath shuddering through unseen lungs, force rippling outward in defiance. 

But the weariness remained, a harshness building in those labored steps—an undercurrent of pain and unimaginable longing and desperation. No sound escaped the runner’s mouth, but a wordless cry poured through the ever shifting luminous haze. It was a silent, resonant petition—a call that transcended speech… 

Someone… Anyone… 

An unmistakable plea that poured from the runner’s essence—more potent than any scream: 

Please... 

Help me…

With an agonizing slowness, Tsuna opened his eyes, a weight sitting heavy inside his chest as the last of the dream drifted from his mind. He lay there, unmoving, the faint morning light painting gentle hues of red and orange and gold across his face. He drew in a breath, attempting to steady the churn of emotions warring within him. Guilt prickled along his spine—unexplainable and yet entirely undeniable. 

He felt responsible, somehow - for this faceless figure sprinting through time and space. He knew he shouldn’t. That the scenario that plagued this lost and desperate soul was none of his concern. That he didn’t know him. Had never met him, technically, and therefore owed no effort to try and help. He could practically hear Reborn already lecturing him inside his head, for allowing his heart to lead him when it was partially his own heart’s fault that they were where they were now in the first place. 

In an alternate dimension, near identical, but so very different from their own. 

But still. His conscience and his heart were what made him who he was. Perhaps a little too kind. Certainly too forgiving. But those were the traits that gave him his strength, that fueled his will to do whatever it took to keep his loved ones safe and the family protected. He couldn’t just leave someone in need to suffer, just because it wasn’t his place to be involved. If he had ever elected to follow that, The Vongola would have never survived Byakuran and the Millefiore, let alone Castello. The fact that he felt his intuition pushing him in the exact same direction, only solidified his conviction. 

Besides, Tsuna knew with absolute certainty that Wally West was not a threat. The man was a hero, like the rest of peers. Selfless and stalwart, who had sacrificed himself to save the world from an imminent disaster borne from an alien invasion. Or so Byakuran had informed him as soon as he had voiced details about his ever present seemingly constant recurring dream. But how to even help him? Where did he even start? And given the current global situation right now with Castello on the loose actively creating scenarios that forced them to intervene - would any of the others even have the time, resources or confidence in his decision to help him? 

Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, Tsuna swung his legs over the side of the bed. His newly acquired chambers, still unfamiliar, providing a momentary distraction as he let his eyes roam across the space. It was far larger than anything he was used to—still nearly empty, the extravagant floors gleaming with the dawn’s early light.

Tall windows opened on one side of the chamber, their drapes parted just enough to let in swaths of fiery gold that spilled onto the polished marble. The subtle shift of orange to crimson casting long shadows of the world beyond across the sparse and scattered furniture: a large wardrobe carved with intricate patterns of vines and ivy sitting idly in the far corner, an antique writing desk near the window, and a massive, canopied bed draped in silken sheets that almost seemed to shimmer in the light.

He pressed his palms against his eyes. “Soon…,” he murmured softly to himself, finally standing. The marble floor was cool against his feet, a brief shiver crawling up along his spine as he resisted the urge to rub at his arms. 

He moved toward the antique writing desk, where a mirror leaned against the wall. Its ornate silver frame looked as though it might have been stolen from a museum. He ran a hand through his hair, which had grown slightly longer since they arrived in this reality. Dark brown locks still stood somewhat wildly at the crown, refusing to lie flat no matter how many times he tried to comb them down. 

At least some things remained the same. 

He washed his face in the adjoining bathroom’s small basin—the towels, pitchers and toiletries, still very much a mess from the moment he had moved in. As he patted his cheeks dry, he caught his own reflection in the mirror again, noting the faint circles having steadily returned as of late. 

Soon. He told himself again.

Eventually, Tsuna left the bathroom and opened the wardrobe. Immediately his eyes glazed over the sight of the myriad suits and slacks and ties that hung within. Opting instead to reach out for a pair of loose orange track pants and a similarly coloured hoodie. He sighed contentedly. No one was ever making him wear a full three-piece suit during down time. Not now, not ever. 

Once dressed, he took one last moment to look himself over and then, with a soft but determined nod, he stepped out of his private chambers and into the corridor. The hallways as grand and impersonal as his room, stretching on for what felt like miles and miles. Polished floors, lofty ceilings, columns that looked centuries old. 

It wasn’t until he rounded a corner that the quiet of the space was abruptly broken by a childish huff. There, in the middle of the corridor, stood Reborn - in all his current eight-year-old glory. His usual black fedora ever present on his head, alongside a neatly pressed, dark suit scaled down to match his small frame, crisp tie perfectly knotted. Despite finally growing again, in many ways, the man looked the same as ever—poised, unyielding, and entirely too clever and smarmy for his appearance.

Tsuna paused, blinking. “Reborn, good morning.”

Reborn crossed his small arms over his chest. “You’re late.”

Tsuna suppressed a half-smile, remembering to keep the tone serious despite the sudden wave of fondness that swept over him. As much as it aggravated him at times, given how much the tiny hitman would constantly use it to his advantage, the former Strongest Seven were honestly just so fucking cute. “I’m five minutes early?”

The eight-year-old gave him a once-over, narrowing his eyes at the orange track pants and accompanying hoodie, his half-lidded glare sharp as ever. “Which is already late as far as I'm concerned,” he corrected with a sniff, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. “And really? Track pants?” His lip curled at the conspicuous lack of any real formality.

Tsuna let out a quiet breath, rolling his stiff shoulders. “I’m allowed to be comfortable in meetings between allies,” he answered, careful to keep his tone neutral. The last thing he wanted this early in the morning was to give Reborn fresh ammunition for one of his never-ending lectures. At least now, they didn’t involve any bodily harm, though that certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on the former Arcobaleno’s part.

With that, they fell into step together, heading down the sprawling corridor. As usual, Reborn’s pace was brisk—his tiny legs somehow keeping time with Tsuna’s considerably longer stride. Tsuna shot a sidelong glance down at the tiny hitman. “So, what’s on the agenda?”

“Primarily, we have an update from the Millefiore in Star City as well as Mukuro and the Varia’s operation in the US government and Belle Reve. The Shimon, Vindice and Dino, representing the remnants of CEDEF, will also be present. After which will be a debrief of the Buzzing Flies operation from three days ago, and the associated complications that have come of it.”

And Tsuna heaved a sigh. Overall, Spanner’s operation had been a resounding success, with each point of Ruin effectively snuffed out before they had a chance to spread out of control. But the Rovino were insidious and in at least a couple of the locations hit had managed to burrow their Flame of Corruption so deeply into some of the organizations they had infiltrated that full Vongola intervention had been required to support some of the Mosche. 

And Hibari had no choice but to tangle directly with The Man of Steel himself in Metropolis. Not that the combat obsessed Cloud Guardian had been complaining, given how exhilarated the man had been on his return. But still. It meant that the risk of further contact with the League has likely increased again outside of expected levels, just like in Gotham with the Inzerillo. 

So far, they’ve done well in keeping themselves and their activities under the radar in this parallel world, but with Castello actively and intentionally spreading his Ruin to such high-profile targets, all of them knew that conflict with the League was essentially an inevitability. They just had to ensure that it would happen on their terms, when they were ready and not the other way around. 

They couldn’t risk too much exposure at this point, not while they were still in the middle of building their network and none of them knew exactly how long it would take for any the absolutely obscene number of Super-Geniuses in this reality to come up with a way to study, track down and eventually monitor their Flame energy. True, they had the benefit of using an energy type never before seen in this world, that thus far, it seemed - only they had the ability to wield, but Tsuna knew better than to rely on absolutes. 

The Supers would find a way. Byakuran, with his immense amount of interdimensional knowledge basically assured it. And though their Flame powers, or rather their Entity powers , said marshmallow maniac had so unilaterally named after some extensive further study into the parallels between this world and their last, were downright terrifying here, that certainly didn’t make any of their members themselves invincible. Information was their greatest advantage right now, thanks to the Millefiore. Secret identities. Old grudges. Hidden locations of power. Things that have been, that are and will be thanks to the staggered nature of the flow of time between universes. 

They would use all at their disposal to remain ahead. Because so long as they were in control, the more effectively they could keep the Rovino and League from meeting. A corrupted, psychopathic and accelerationist Justice League would be the end of everything if they let it happen. Thankfully, they had at least until the reformation of the New Arcobaleno before Castello would attempt to hard commit to such a damning direction. After all, the Tri-ni-sette could not be completed without the rainbow, and the rainbow could not manifest if everyone in the given reality was either dead or Ruined. 

“I can practically hear you stressing yourself, Dame-Tsuna.” Reborn suddenly piped up, and Tsuna practically heard his neck crack with how fast he had whipped his head over towards the little hitman, heat and relief flooding his face at being caught in the beginnings of a spiral and before being abruptly pulled out of one. 

Tsuna inhaled sharply, catching himself. It was easy to fall into the old habit of letting his mind run wild with concerns—especially when the stakes felt this high. He was quietly grateful for Reborn’s admonishment, having brought him back into the present. He forced his shoulders to loosen, allowing the tension he’d been unconsciously holding to ebb away.

“Well, you can hardly blame me,” Tsuna replied, keeping his voice low as they continued walking. “There’s just so much happening Reborn… Castello is still roaming free. Hurting people while using our name and forcing us to intervene… Now we have to do damage control for Buzzing flies and then there’s—”

He hesitated, lips pressing into a thin line. He knew he didn’t even have to mention his dreams with how Reborn seemed to notice near instantly—his tiny frame having changed, but his insight never dulling. With a slight tsk , the eight-year-old hitman motioned for Tsuna to follow him into a small alcove framed by two massive columns.

Once they were out of immediate sight, Reborn crossed his arms and gave Tsuna the kind of stern look that used to make him sweat as a middle schooler. “Is it still happening?”

Tsuna took a moment before nodding. “Yeah…,” he confessed, voice subdued. “They’ve been coming back more often now, and while I’ve dreamt of him a few times before—running, as always, pushing himself like he can’t stop. This time, last night—he felt so… desperate. Like he was on the verge of giving up.”

He trailed off, recalling the vivid images he had experienced upon waking—blue lightning arcing across endless white, the figure’s willful refusal to collapse. He rubbed the back of his neck, disquieted all over again.

Reborn exhaled; it was difficult to say if it was annoyance or resignation. “We have no obligation to save him, Dame-Tsuna.”

A pang of guilt fluttered in Tsuna’s chest. He bit down on his lower lip. “But we might have the ability to,” he replied carefully. “If West is still in there, if he’s suffering…”

Reborn’s gaze flickered with something unreadable. “Suffering or not, we’re already juggling the Rovino’s infiltration, the League’s potential interference, and ‘the Light’ finally taking notice of our actions. Our priority needs to be ensuring the Tri-ni-sette doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.” He paused, his expression hardening. “And as I keep reminding you, involving ourselves further with these heroes only increases our exposure. If we get in over our heads, everything we’ve worked for here falls apart.”

Tsuna let the words settle. He understood that Reborn had a point—aggravatingly, like he usually did. A single miscalculation could jeopardize their entire operation. But the image of West struggling onward, unwavering yet so painfully alone, haunted his thoughts.

He found his voice again. “Is it really so wrong to try to help someone who’s done nothing but protect others?” He fought to keep defensiveness from creeping in. “He gave his life to save his world. If we can do something for him, how can we just stand by?”

Reborn’s small hand flexed once at his side, the hidden figure of Leon crawling into his palm. “We can stand by because it’s more prudent to. Because West has no impact on us. Because according to Byakuran he’s already set to come back. Eventually.” Reborn added as an afterthought. 

Tsuna clenched his fists. “But how long is eventually, Reborn? Months? Years?”

The adolescent sighed. “I don’t even know why I bother. It’s not like you're actually going to listen to me,” he muttered, though there was no real malice in his words, a familiar sort of fondness tiredly washing into his tone. One that he only ever reserved for Tsuna himself and maybe Dino. “You’ve got that annoying look in your eyes again that tells me there really isn’t a point in even trying.” 

Tsuna could only offer a faint, half-hearted smile at Reborn’s remark. “Thank you for understanding Reborn. I appreciate your caution. Really, I do. But after everything that’s happened… after seeing as much as we have, all the hurt. All the pain.” He trailed off, an undercurrent of stubbornness coalescing behind the softness of his tone. “Leaving someone else to just suffer - it would destroy me.”

Reborn shook his head, tired and long suffering, bringing Leon up to rest on his head. “I know. But you still have too many responsibilities to focus on right now. You’re the Don. The leader. There’s just no time.” And then he rolled his sharp black eyes and took a pause. 

“... So I’ll handle it.”

And Tsuna felt himself choke on his breath. “Wha-Really?” He sputtered, feeling the tension in his chest loosen, relief pooling into his limbs he hadn’t realized had gone taut. 

“Don’t look so shocked, Dame-Tsuna, it makes you look like a fish.” He folded his arms up across his chest. “But, we do this my way. No announcements, no big resource drain. I’ll gather what intel I can from Byakuran, Giannini… maybe Shoichi. He has a knack for this sort of space-time mumbo jumbo.”

Tsuna felt a pang of gratitude so strong, he nearly felt himself going in for a hug on the spot. Irrespective of the injuries he would likely sustain. “Thank you, Reborn. Really.”

Reborn glanced to the side, his tiny shoulders shifting with residual annoyance. “I’m only doing this because I can see how much it’s eating at you—and I can’t have my student falling apart before the fight even begins. Besides, if your intuition says that West will be important, then who am I to argue given the number of instances it has proven itself paramount.” His tone was dry, but a flicker of fond indulgence glimmered in his dark eyes. “Though make no mistake: if you let your concern for this speedster derail our entire operation, I’ll personally see to it that you regret it for the rest of your days.”

There was no malice in his threat—only that signature exasperated and simultaneously threatening affection Tsuna had grown used to. He nodded, posture straightening in acknowledgment. “I promise not to let it interfere.”

“Good,” Reborn answered briskly. Then he adjusted the brim of his ever-present fedora, looking every bit the no-nonsense hitman he’d once been. “I’ll speak to Shoichi as soon as the day’s meetings are wrapped. But on that note, if I’m doing this for you, I have one demand. Otherwise you get nothing from me.”

“Anything. Anything at all! You name it, Reborn. Thank you so much!” Tsuna nodded enthusiastically, not at all noticing the mischievous gleam in the raven boy’s eyes until a finger had been pushed right into his chest. “Uh…”

“Only suits and formal wear until West is saved.” 

And if Tsuna had had a minor meltdown right in that alcove, on hands and knees begging Reborn for anything else but that , well, that was between him and whoever Reborn ended up gossiping about it to. 

"NOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo!"

Chapter Text

La ricerca delle vongole

Okay, Tim wasn’t going to lie. He was perhaps getting a little obsessed at this point. 

They’d arrived in Sicily barely two hours ago, and already Tim was digging into his phone for leads, flipping through digital notes, cross-referencing online forums and newspaper articles, and scoping out personal vlogs of local influencers. In between, he walked with the group as they made their way up a winding narrow street that opened into a quaint cobblestone market. Beams of midday sunlight illuminated the centuries-old stone buildings, highlighting rows of decorated archways and rustic shutters. It was beautiful, serene, exactly the kind of place that people dreamed of visiting for a vacation. Yet he couldn’t shake the faint spring of tension and faint excitement building in his chest, the feeling that they were chasing a ghost—or perhaps something far more tangible and infinitely more challenging.

He, Dick, Conner, and M’gann had come here together, each stepping away from other obligations in order to try and peel back more layers of this “Vongola” enigma. Gotham had proven a dead end after the last remaining members of the Inzerillo either fled the city or simply disappeared, and every other associated faction of mobsters refused to cooperate out of fear of retaliation. The Outsiders’ own fiasco at the docks with those monstrous fly-faced machines had only added to the mystery: advanced weaponry, unknown energy signatures yet to be discovered and identified, an implied global operational capacity. Barbara’s search suggested roots in Italy, specifically Sicily, and not just because of typical mob stereotypes—there was apparently some real historical data linking the name “Vongola” to an archaic Sicilian crime family rumored to have vanished centuries ago.

Tim paused by an open-air stall selling fresh produce, letting the warm Sicilian sun wash over him. A swirl of conversation drifted by in rapid-fire Italian. He recognized enough to catch repeated references to local harvests, tourist prices, and jokes about the upcoming festival. 

He had always been the sort of person to welcome a puzzle. He liked to think of every new lead as an unfilled blank in a grand cosmic crossword—a place where facts and data could snap together into an elegant, unstoppable solution. He often forwent sleep just to eke out even the smallest amount of progress in any of the cases that landed in his lap and if anything, the more complicated the situation, the more it stoked that quiet spark of obsession he usually kept buried behind calm eyes and a composed demeanor.

Dick lingered behind him, one hand shielding his eyes as he squinted at a battered sign across the plaza. The faded letters hinted at some historical society, though it looked as if nobody had bothered maintaining it in years. “You know, sometimes, it would be nice to just skip all the recon and detective stuff. We’re in Sicily and we basically can’t even enjoy it. Such a bummer.”

Conner, discreetly scanning the crowd around them, let out a small laugh. “That would be nice, but news along the grapevine hints that the old families in Sicily aren’t exactly known for their transparency. Bit of an ironic inverse association. The bigger the group the harder they are to find. If the Vongola really were as huge as people say, we definitely shouldn’t be expecting some neon arrows pointing to their past or current doorstep.”

“Hey. We’re allowed to dream.” Tim responded back, with a fond roll of his eyes. He motioned for the group to keep moving past the warm bustle of vendors and tourists. M’gann fell into step to his right, apparently delighted by every new sight—the bright produce stands, rows of souvenir magnets shaped like cacti in colorful sombreros, no one could explain the connection to Sicily, but there they were. She’d taken on a local human guise: short, springy brown curls, a cheery smile, and casual jeans and a blouse. Tim appreciated how effortlessly she blended in—they had all learned the hard way that showing off superpowers overseas tended to complicate things. It was the reason they had to leave Gar back at home. The green skin was just too recognizable. Still, the four of them together were bound to stand out at least a little.

Tim scrolled through his phone notes again as they walked. “So, from what we gathered back home,” he said in a voice low enough to avoid drawing attention, “the Vongola apparently kept a fairly rigid hierarchy involving special rings—seven or eight, depending on who’s telling the story. These rings supposedly harbored...well, something beyond ordinary technology.”

He tilted the device so everyone could glance at the information shifting across the screen. “I’ve also run across repeated mentions of someone called ‘Vongola Primo’—the founder, supposedly from four centuries ago, but nothing else regarding any recent generations. Still, we can’t pin down whether the family truly persisted into modern times or if some new group co-opted the name.”

Dick whistled softly, crossing his arms over his chest. “If they really date back that far and only now popped up on the radar, we could be dealing with an entire parallel criminal culture if they have persisted until now. Think about it—centuries to refine their methods, amass their weird powers, and upgrade their tech. It’s like an entirely new League of Shadows.”

“Gross,” Conner added, features shifting into a small frown. “And from what we saw in those raids they held, like at the docks, they’re packing some serious heat. So why reveal themselves now?”

Tim typed away at a few notes. “From all appearances, they’re not just revealing themselves—they’re actively moving. Clearing out rivals, shutting down operations. They took Intergang’s entire distribution network apart overnight, plus rumors suggest they’ve done similarly in places like Star City or even Tokyo and Hong Kong against other smaller organizations. People either surrender or...well, you saw how things went in Gotham.”

Dick, scanning a nearby stall full of peppers and onions, let out a sigh. “And of course, that shakes up the delicate balance for all of us. Especially if we let them stay under the radar.”

Tim tucked his phone away, taking a moment to admire the vibrant square. A church bell chimed in the distance, and the mingled aromas of citrus and herbs drifted through the market. Only a few steps from them, a vendor cheerfully waved a bunch of grape tomatoes, calling out for customers. If not for their heightened awareness, it would all feel like a simple vacation. 

“We’re late to the party, clearly,” he admitted. But there was a faint smile on his lips. “But when are party-crashers ever on time eh? And at least we’ve picked up the trail. Gotham, Metropolis, here. There has to be a common thread. We just have to be ready for things to get ugly when we find it.”

“You’re telling me. Couldn't even leave a dent on Fly-face. And the last time I spoke to Clark,” Conner began, voice dropping lower, “he gave me a rundown of what also simultaneously went down at Intergang’s Metropolis HQ. The official League brief is still in the works, but when I met him in person, he leveled with me about just how bad it really got.”

Dick frowned. “Really?”

“Yeah. According to Clark,” Conner continued. “A single masked intruder effectively kept him, Hawkman, and Hawkgirl tied up in close combat. Meanwhile, those same fly-faced Vongola war machines ran basically the exact same kind of precision strike on Intergang’s stronghold as they did at the docks.”

M’gann seemed to still, her gaze shifting between Conner and Tim with sudden gravity. Clearly, this was the first time she was hearing this as well. Dick turned sharply from where he’d been scanning the market signs, his entire posture going rigid at the mention of a masked operative facing down multiple high-tier heroes, likely recalling, just like Tim himself, their own recent encounter with a masked Vongola agent.

Dick’s gaze shifted over to Conner. “Carter and Shayera aren’t amateurs, and teaming with Clark should make them unstoppable. This intruder fought all three?”

Conner nodded. “Yeah. And it was some fight apparently.”

Clark heard the explosions before he saw them—thick pillars of smoke coiling into Metropolis’s otherwise clear evening sky. He flew in low and fast alongside Carter and Shayera, scanning the ground with narrowed eyes. Even amidst the noisy cityscape—horns, sirens, the everyday hum of metropolis life—he could pick out the staccato cracks of energy weapons firing. Something big was happening below.

He spotted the building just as they rounded a neighboring block. By all public records, it was an abandoned office tower slated for demolition, tucked away behind a row of aging warehouses on the south side of Metropolis. But the League had uncovered whispers that it was actually an Intergang stronghold—a covert hub hosting weapons, contraband, and personnel. 

An entire side of the building looked almost ripped open, like a monstrous hand had torn away the reinforced concrete panels. Something was inside, systematically dismantling it from within. Debris littered the surrounding streets, twisted rebar jutted from giant openings left in the walls, and alarms wailed in ragged static bursts. He touched down on a scorched patch of pavement near the main entrance. The heat radiating from twisted steel and ruptured pipes prickled along his skin.

Carter landed to his left, wings of gleaming metal flaring wide. The flickering glow of nearby fires danced across the Nth metal feathers, and the reflection in Carter’s eyes denoted a warrior’s focus. Shayera arrived a heartbeat later, using the downdraft of her own wings to hover just above the rubble. The tension between all three was palpable, each of them instinctively tensing for a fight that was soon to be upon them.

“It’s worse than I thought,” Carter spoke out, voice low. A handful of half-destroyed vehicles burned in front of the structure, and battered men and women in ragged suits limped or crawled across the rubble-strewn yard. Clark’s enhanced hearing picked up the panicked shouts of those still inside, pinned down and desperate.

He followed Carter’s gaze and took in the sight of the perpetrators: tall, humanoid war machines pounding their way through the demolished front foyer. Each one was easily a story tall, blocky and rotund, but deceptively quick. Coloured energy pulsed around their segmented arms; Clark thought he saw built-in cannons glowing beneath the plates.

“These must be the same machines the League and the Outsiders have reported in,” he said, recalling a similar incident had been simultaneously reported just by the Metropolis docks. “Most locations are still in combat so we have minimal information on their capabilities but if Intergang is their target, they’re likely packing similar if not greater firepower to take them on.”

Shayera drifted forward, her expression grim. “We might not care much for Intergang, but we still can’t allow wanton slaughter - criminals or not.” She glowered at the nearest war machine, which was currently tearing a wide hole in the western wall, revealing a collapsed corridor beyond. Her mace crackled with stored energy. “We have to contain these machines.”

Carter hefted his mace up, tightening his grip. “Agreed. We move in, try to get their attention off any survivors. Then we bring these things down.”

Clark nodded once. “I’ll do my best to keep them busy. You two handle crowd control if possible, see if anyone is pinned down. Once we’ve got the civilians secure, we regroup to finish off the—”

A faint sound—like a compressed rush of air. 

Before he could even turn to look, something slammed into him from behind. The force of the blow hurled him off his feet, sending him crashing through a dislodged chunk of steel mesh fencing. Metal screeched; sparks flew. Clark slid several dozen feet before rolling to a stop near a collapsed guard booth.

His ears rang, as he scrambled upright, ignoring the jolt of disorientation that threatened to swamp his senses. Carter shouted something towards him, but it was lost beneath the sound of a powerful weapon discharging. Clark forced his focus onto the spot from which the attack had come, eyes narrowing against the dust that suddenly filled the surrounding space.

A figure stepped into view, striding over the broken asphalt with a casual sort of poise. The man’s clothing was bizarrely formal for such a battlefield—a neat black suit trimmed with thin lines of mauve that caught the light of nearby flame. A porcelain mask covered his face, sculpted into a permanent, predatory grin, the glossy white of its surface similarly reflecting the fire and blaring lights around them – turning that fixed, leering smile into something truly sinister.

Clark’s first instinct was that this might be some new metahuman mercenary on Intergang’s payroll. But one look at the war machines continuing their rampage—the positioning of their attacker, himself, the Hawks—and at the masked man’s unhurried stance, told him otherwise. This attacker was aligned with the robots, not with Intergang.

Carter let loose a warning swing, bringing his mace down in a powerful overhead strike at the masked figure. Open and testing. The intruder shifted his gaze up, a tonfa snapping out from behind the suit’s jacket in a blur of movement. The weapon intercepted Carter’s blow with a gleam of purple, driving the attack from its intended trajectory before the figure shifted back and loosed a kick right into Carter’s side. 

Clark watched as the blow landed, the speed of the movement and the momentum that followed it and could not compute in his mind the sight of Carter being blown back by an impact seemingly several times stronger than what the attack itself indicated. The sound of grinding stone and falling rubble rising from the space as Carter was practically blasted through yards upon yards of scattered debris. 

Shayera wasted no time, diving in from a higher angle. Her wings kicking up swirling embers and scattered ash as she angled a broad strike of her own against their assailant. But again, the masked attacker shifted stance, turning his body so that his own swing and Shayera’s oncoming blow collided near-simultaneously, locking both in a contest of strength.

In that moment, Carter recovered, blowing past more of the loose debris to dash in from the flank, determination burning in his eyes. He landed a swing at the masked man’s shoulder—one with enough force to crumble concrete. The assailant took the hit along the edge of a second tonfa, sparks flying as the two weapons met. The force of impact knocked the man a half-step sideways, scuffing the asphalt beneath. A soft hiss escaped through the painted grin on his porcelain mask.

Clark’s gaze shifted between them all: the war machines continued to push forward in the background, uprooting giant chunks of reinforced foundation from Intergang’s base. Flashes of scarlet and yellow energies illuminated the dark and jagged corners of the crumbling facility, while secondary explosions rattled loose panels from the walls and ceilings. He knew they were racing against the clock. They had to make this quick.

Shayera broke the clash and engaged again. This time, she used a feint—mace dipping low, then snapping high in a savage uppercut. The masked man slid one foot back, parried the upward strike with his left tonfa, then drove his right forward. His blow skated across Shayera’s pauldron but it still carried enough power to push into her wing. She let out a cry but didn’t give an inch.

Carter slammed in from the other side. The masked man—tonfas spinning—barely managing to intercept. He locked both weapons into an ‘X’ before himself to halt the Nth metal mace as the mighty blow landed. Carter’s wings beat against the air as he poured his strength into the clash, bearing down against their opponent until the very asphalt cracked beneath his feet. Then the attacker’s legs tensed, and with a violent twist of the hips, he freed his tonfas and slid out from under Carter’s push, diving into a quick roll to avoid a follow swipe from Shayera as he moved to establish some distance between them. The moment his boots touched solid ground, a quiet chuckle seemed to leave him—just barely audible beneath the echo of collapsing metal in the distance.

“Good,” the man muttered, his voice low and unnervingly pleased. “So not entirely docile after all.”

The man rolled his shoulders, as if testing them for damage, and Clark took that moment to press in at super speed, hoping to use the opening to his advantage. He landed a straightforward punch aimed at the masked man’s side—calculated to subdue without lethal force. But the attacker, much faster than anticipated, shifted back, swinging the tonfa in an arc beneath Clark’s arm. The blow whistled toward Clark’s face and he only just barely managed to twist himself away as the strike skated off his cheek instead of striking head on.

Blowing past the intruder, he spoke. “Carter, Shayera—I’ll cover you!”

Carter swept in with a low arc, mace humming with built-up energy. Shayera dove again from above, a perfectly timed pincer - two swinging arcs of crackling electricity rushing to meet their target as one. Clark squared his stance, ready to step in if the man tried to slip free or an opening presented itself. 

Tonfas flashed in a barrage of short, quick strikes as their enemy charged to meet Hawkman. Carter matched them blow for blow, Nth metal clashing, with a rain of sparks, against what was clearly more than just ordinary steel. Clark could see the masked man’s posture shifting—where before he had seemed to move smoothly but dispassionately, now there was a taut energy present in every motion, a barely contained fervor steadily building as the fight dragged on.

Shayera capitalized. She found a gap, slamming her mace down in a punishing overhead swing. The intruder jerked one tonfa overhead, catching the blow with a grunt. The force buckled his knees. For a moment, it seemed as though they had him pinned at last—Carter pressing in from the front, Shayera bearing down from above.

The man hissed. “Respectable.”

Clark saw an opening. He shot forward, landing a solid punch that clipped the intruder’s side. The man was blown back immediately, flying a good five or six yards before they were able to brace and reorient, tonfas digging into the ground. A low noise—maybe a growl, maybe laughter—seemed to escape him as he slid across the concrete, dragging a long gray trail across the pavement. For a brief second, the figure shook out his arms.

“Herbivores,” he said, voice nearly lost under the shriek of twisting metal as another portion of the building collapsed. “With bite. And here I thought this was going to be a dull assignment.”

Clark braced himself, scanning for Carter and Shayera. They were both catching their breath, battered but far from unbowed. He nodded their way, and they nodded back—silent agreement to strike again in unison. They did not have the time for this. They had to move on to stop the war machines from ravaging the entire stronghold.

The masked man exhaled slowly. “Allow me to pay you back in kind.” His tone was calm, the two tonfas rising up, the faint shifting of amethyst haze suddenly so much thicker around the man’s form, heavy and opaque, like a twisting living thing. “Prepare yourselves. For now, I will bite you all to death.”

And without preamble, he charged. 

His steps didn’t seem any faster at first glance, but the speed in which he cleared the space between them was nothing short of supersonic. Acting quickly, Carter swung out, but the masked man slipped past the blow almost lazily. A second later, Shayera swooped in, bringing her mace swinging from around from the flank—yet instead of dodging, the blow was simply allowed to connect.

Clark watched, stunned, as the spiked end crashed into the shoulder of the black suit with a hollow thud. What should have sent even a heftier foe like Grodd or Devastation flying instead barely seemed to rock their attacker at all. Sparks danced across the dense purple energies emanating from his body, and with a swift flap of her wings Shayera shifted herself back, eyes wide.

“H-How—?” she managed, voice cracking, but the man didn’t let her finish. Before Carter or Clark could intervene, the masked man shifted in place, throwing out a powerful steel tipped jab right into Shayera’s torso. Upon impact she was blown away, the sheer force of the attack driving her fully into a nearby truck with a shriek of shearing metal and cracking stone.

“Shayera!” Carter called, surging forward, wings flaring behind him as he unleashed a fully charged swing of flickering Nth metal. Once again, the intruder chose not to evade. Carter’s mace hammered against the flat of their chest—and slid near uselessly off its surface, as though colliding with an immovable wall. The same mauve energies shimmered along the intruder’s frame, centering on the point of impact before coalescing along his forearms. There was no grace or elegance in his technique this time, only brutal force as he reared back and delivered a single, devastating strike to Carter’s jaw.

A resonant crack tore through the smoky air. Carter’s wings seized, and he dropped like a stone. The blow carried him straight to the ground with a meaty thud, sending up a plume of dust. Motionless, Hawkman lay in the rubble, unconscious but thankfully not dead.

Clark grit his teeth, feeling his own shock race through his system. 

One hit. 

Carter was hardy even by superhuman standards—yet a single strIke was all it had taken to put him down. Adrenaline surged through Clark’s veins. “That’s enough!” he snapped, launching himself forward at breakneck speed.

The masked fighter turned to face him. He lifted one tonfa in readied acknowledgment just as Clark closed the gap and slammed a fist into the man’s midsection. He felt the suit crumple beneath his knuckles, heard a jarring impact reverberate through them both, as the masked man was sent skidding back, but still standing. 

A low, amused sound escaped behind the porcelain grin. “Finally some decent force.”

Clark shot upward into a quick hover, fists clenched. The war machines in the background had finished collapsing most of the building and were now withdrawing—he could hear the roar of their engines growing fainter. They were minutes from escaping entirely, and there would be no time to chase them if this man was still intent on fighting.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Shayera struggling to stand, battered but conscious. Carter, however, wasn’t moving, his wings slack. Steeling himself, Clark dropped back down. In the distance, an explosion rocked what must have been the central armory, shrapnel whistling through the air. The masked man seemed to pause for just a heartbeat, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. Then he turned his mask’s predatory grin toward Clark. 

“Again,” he said in a low, clipped tone. 

Clark’s gaze hardened. “If you insist.”

And he surged forward, faster than the blink of an eye. Before the other man could even react, Clark had loosed a series of rapid, punishing blows immediately against his person. His fists became like a blur of motion—a relentless unending assault that hammered at the masked man’s seemingly impenetrable defense. Each blow landed with easily enough force to topple a small building, and only grew stronger from there as the grinning masked man, finally, for a split second appeared as though he was reaching his breaking point. His body shuddered with each landed blow and Clark could hear the sound of bones shifting, cracking with every hit.

Yet the mysterious amethyst haze seemed to only grow more potent, more concentrated with each landed blow, and as Clark felt just on the cusp of landing what should have been a finish blow, the impact of the hit seemed to just stifle out… and die. 

Each following hit thereafter was the same, making contact but then entirely absorbed, or counteracted, met with an ever increasing uncanny resilience, leaving only the faint echoes of contact made. As the barrage continued without the masked man truly faltering, Clark knew he had to change course here.

He readied himself and then lunged, aiming to end the conflict with a single move. If attacking alone wouldn’t solve this dilemma, then at a minimum he could get them away or try to pin them down to give the others a chance. If he managed to get a hold of him properly, that would be it. Super strength or not, under Earth’s yellow sun, there were few out there that could outmatch a Kryptonian in a clash of pure might. He closed the gap in a blink, reaching out—

At the same time, the masked man rushed to meet him. Throwing an arm forward, he angled himself downwards toward Clark. A heartbeat later, the porcelain grin tilted up to meet Clark’s gaze—and the man drove a tonfa squarely into Clark’s unguarded chest with an almost casual grace.

Clark watched him as he did so, feeling the expected impact land with a muted jolt. His mind instinctively told him, That’s nothing I can’t handle. He’d endured far worse in the past at the hands of Darkseid, Zod and Doomsday. He’d taken full ion cannons, impacts from orbit, even nuclear detonations. A single blow from a metal tonfa, even while backed with super strength, shouldn’t make much of a difference, especially when he had seen it coming. 

He braced to absorb the impact, ready to exploit the contact to seize the attacker’s arm and pin them in place. But in that single, catastrophic instant, Clark realized he’d miscalculated. Something about the masked man’s technique—some specialized application of force—some mystical might brought upon by the trails of thick lavender clouds clinging to his form that seemed to cut straight through his kryptonian invulnerability. Or somehow, impossibly, deceptively hit hard enough to actually strike against his kryptonian hide as if it were basically human. 

Clark heard a sickening crack, and a white-hot pain exploded across his rib cage.

His breath seized. Every nerve flared, a raw, searing heat surged from his chest out to his extremities. It was as if all the air had been forced from his lungs, leaving him stunned and kneeling. The masked man drew back, the porcelain grin indifferent to Clark’s agony.

The ribs were broken. He could feel the bones shift in a way they never had before, grinding against one another. A disorienting, nauseating wave of pain told him this was a real and dangerous injury. He could barely even speak—his voice reduced to a choked gasp.

The man stepped away, weapons lowering to his side. Smoke and dust swirled around them, and for the first time, Clark realized the war machines were gone. The mechanical hum of their propulsion engines having faded into nothing. Carter staggered toward Clark, having regained consciousness sometime during their final bout, while Shayera circled from on high, seemingly preparing to mount one last desperate attack. But the masked fighter merely swept themselves back, battered and beaten and bruised all over, but far from broken - a swirling mass of black inky void manifesting at their back, the sound of rattling chains emanating from the dark. 

And without another word, they vanished. 

Carter, panting, clutched his mace and scanned the area, but it was useless. The masked attacker had escaped, the war machines had completed their grim task, and Intergang’s stronghold lay in flaming ruin all around them.

“…They’ve taken to calling the guy ‘Carnivore’ because of how he spoke,” Conner finished, letting the recollection of Clark’s story settle over them. Tim, M’gann, and Dick all stood in a small cluster around him, the bustle of vendors and tourists forming a bright, chattering backdrop. Yet beneath the cheery Mediterranean atmosphere, each of them had grown tense and quiet as the story came to a close. 

“ And they broke his ribs?” Tim recapped, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s… crazy.”

“No kidding,” Dick said. “Clark told you this personally?”

Conner nodded, folding his arms across chest. “Told me in confidence. He’s still reeling a bit from how things played out. Less about the loss, more about the loss of life totaled after our people could get in there. And that was the end of Intergang’s entire Metropolis network, with almost no survivors. Though once again, without any particular focus on leadership or any other relevant indicator between targets.”

“Which matches the pattern from Tokyo, Star City…,” M’gann mused softly, her gaze flicking over the colorful stalls. “If only we could glean what determines who’s a target and who isn't.”

Tim quietly scrolled through his phone, pulling up their compiled notes. “Just another thing to add to our list of unknowns. Still, the only tangible lead we’ve got points here - to a centuries-old and assumed defunct historical variant of our current Clams.”

He glanced across the crowded market, taking in the neat rows of produce, straw-woven baskets of olives and oranges, stands selling bright ceramics. Brightly dressed locals mingled with tourists snapping photos, the lively chatter forming an oddly idyllic setting for the four of them. They’d dressed down as well to better match the local atmosphere and maintain their overarching tourist personas—Dick in a casual jacket, Tim in cargo pants and a hoodie, M’gann in a light blouse and jeans, Conner in a plain white T-shirt that did nothing to mitigate the number of people ogling him without shame. 

Tim lifted his gaze. “So we should be systematic as we search, to keep from missing anything,” he said, keeping his voice low so only they could hear. “We know local records might yield something about the ‘Vongola’ name and Barbara flagged the municipal archives a few blocks away. We should also consider that any organized crime in the area might also have heard a thing or two—especially if the Vongola really have committed to some big resurgence. But approaching them directly seems risky.”

“Yeah,” Conner said. “They don’t exactly have a reason to be chatty with outsiders, and if they’re scared of the Vongola, like they were in Gotham, decent chance asking around will just cause em’ to clam up. No pun intended.”

Dick smiled as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “Then we stake out the city in small steps. Check the scattered archives around the area first, libraries, newspapers, any historical references. Then maybe after that we see what the local underground knows. Gently. Anything else on the docket, Tim?”

Tim was about to answer when M’gann’s eyes seemed to shift towards something behind him. He followed her line of sight. Two figures were weaving their way through the market crowd—one tall and blond, the other younger, shorter, with curly dark hair tinted faintly green. The taller wore a pair of tinted sunglasses and a carefree grin, while the shorter had a hoodie with comical bull-horn decals on top of their hood. They both looked about college-age or younger.

The pair threaded through the throng of shoppers, brushing past a vendor hawking tomatoes before making a subtle beeline toward the four heroes. Tim tensed. They’d had a few run-ins with local hustlers earlier, but something about these two felt… off. He shifted so that his phone was tucked away, and as the strangers drew near, he even caught them catching him moving to hide his phone.

“Ciao, signori—Americans, yes?” the blond youth greeted with a bright, disarming tone. “You seem a bit lost. Need help finding something? Good restaurants? Tours?”

Tim and Dick exchanged a look. Hustlers? Scamming tourists. 

Or something more?

“A tour does sound pretty decent.” Tim said, trying for a breezy, taken tone. “We hear Sicily’s full of secrets. Not looking for any basic tourist stuff though. We’re here looking for,” And Tim paused for effect, shifting before taking on a conspiratorial tone. “The Mafia.”

The blond grin widened, and he flipped his sunglasses up to sit on top of his head. “The mafia, huh? Well, I guess you’re in the right place I suppose. My name’s Bas-Bassin, by the way.” He motioned to his companion, who was half-listening, half-scratching at the bull horns on his hood. “This is Lambert. We help out foreigners from time to time—point them in the right direction. For a fee, of course.”

Dick feigned a lighthearted chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, we get it. We've been through this song and dance before. If you’ve got information about the, uh—” He dropped his voice and leaned in with a playful smirk. “—Mafia. Then sure. We’ll pay a finder’s fee for something worthwhile.”

Bassin—tall, lean, and with that wily smile—mirrored Dick’s conspiratorial posture. “Oho, so you are serious. Most tourists only flirt with the idea generally.” He cast a quick glance at his shorter companion. “Well if you’re really dead set on unearthing some old mob secrets, then maybe we can be of service.”

“There’s talk of an old stronghold.” Lambert jumped in them, with an accent heavier than Bassin’s but his english - no less good. Tim filed those particular facts away for later. “Tucked away from the main roads and high up near the edge of the mountains—linked to some influential crime famiglia from centuries back. Some folks say it was once the seat of a powerful Family, one that vanished or fell apart centuries ago. Others say it’s haunted by the spirits of those who took an oath they never renounced.”

Dick made a show of glancing at Tim, as though seeking approval. Tim let out a humm, pretending to weigh the advice. “That definitely sounds interesting.”

M’gann put on her best wide-eyed tourist look. “And—how would we get there?”

Lambert cleared his throat and extended an arm, palms up clearly waiting. Tim watched Dick roll his eyes and dig out a couple euros from his pockets. He watched as Dick placed the bills in the teenager’s palm and Lambert lifted a small notepad from his hoodie pocket. 

“There’s a route, not easy. You’d need an off-road vehicle or a decent rental that can handle bumpy terrain.” He scribbled a rough map, then offered the paper to Tim. “Follow the orchard roads outside the city limits, turn at a half-broken stone arch with an old saint’s statue. Eventually, you’ll see a gravel path leading up into the hills. At the top, you’ll find the ruin—just a crumbling estate now.”

“No need to worry about trespassing either.” Bassin crossed his arms behind his head. “It’s usually empty—nobody goes there.”

Dick glanced at the sketched directions and then back to Bassin and Lambert. “Sounds decent enough. And you’re sure it’s connected to the mafia?”

Lambert grinned. “We can’t be sure of anything—It’s just what the old rumours happen to say.”

Tim nodded back. “Fair enough. We’ll let you know how it goes.”

Bassin pocketed the money from Lambert with a rakish grin, stepping back. “Have fun.”

They spent the rest of the day combing through the local archives, pulling any old ledger or registry that so much as hinted at the Vongola name. It was long, arduous and tedious work, but near closing time, Tim came upon a battered 19th-century record referencing a “ Famiglia della Conchiglia ” or the “Family of the Shell”, located just a few miles away near the Southeastern mountains. The note was no smoking gun, but it did add weight to Bassin and Lambert’s lead.

By nightfall, the group had reconvened at a modest hotel on the outskirts of town to review the day’s findings. Tim and M’gann pored over scanned copies of old documents, while Dick and Conner checked in with Barbara. There had been nothing definitive thus far, but they had enough context clues to suspect the orchard location might actually have been part of or perhaps even was the original Famiglia della Conchiglia estate.

“That lines up Lambert’s directions,” Tim noted. “Probably not a coincidence.”

Dick let out a breath, leaning back in his chair. “We leave early tomorrow, do some quick aerial recon, to see if it’s safe. If it’s clear, we investigate. If it’s a trap, we spring it and see what happens.”

Morning light found them in a rented SUV, the sky bright, golden rays awash over vast rolling fields in every direction. M’gann took the wheel so Tim could navigate. Conner and Dick sat in the back, occasionally peering out the windows to take in the scenery and keep an eye out for any would-be tails.

They left the highways behind decently quickly, driving past farmland and small stone villages along theway. Eventually, they spotted the broken arch from Lambert’s directions—crumbling masonry sporting the remains of a saint’s bust. Beyond it, a narrow gravel lane wound upward through an overgrown orchard, leading to the ruins of a large estate perched at the crest of a hill backed by rising mountains.

A rusted gate spanned the driveway leading in, its chain thick and joined together with a lock so rusted it was basically just a single piece of jagged metal. There was no sign of any recent activity.

Dick unbuckled and hopped out, moving towards the gate. “No caretaker or guard in sight.” He tugged on the chain. “And I’m not even gonna consider trying to pick this .” He said with a face. 

Without a word, Conner stepped up. His eyes shifting left and then right to ensure they were alone, before, with a gentle but firm pull, he snapped the chain free from the old gate. It swung open on rusted hinges almost immediately, squeaking loudly in the still early summer air.

“Subtle,” Tim teased, stepping back into the SUV so M’gann could drive them onto the property.

The lane was choked with long grass and potholes, the orchard’s gnarled branches twisting overhead. They pulled up near the looming ruin. The estate was indeed more than a little half-collapsed—massive chunks of stone and mortar strewn across what might have once been a magnificent courtyard. They got out and moved in a loose formation through the debris. 

“Be careful,” M’gann spoke up. “Not everything here looks structurally sound.”

“Orchard’s definitely ancient,” Dick muttered, poking through a set of toppled arches. “But I’m not seeing anything particularly interesting so far.”

They spent a good half hour searching the first and second level. Dust and cobwebs caked everything. They found rotted furniture, a collapsed fireplace, and what might have been a dining hall overtaken by moss. All told, it looked like any other abandoned building that had been left to the elements.

“Total bust?” Conner asked after poking his head into yet another empty chamber.

Tim frowned. “Don’t give up yet. Lambert and Bassin seemed sure something was here, and I’m certain they definitely knew more than they were letting on. Let me start a scan,” he said, producing a WayneTech tablet out of the back of their SUV. He walked around the perimeter, letting the software stitch together a digital layout. 

“Nothing of note so far,” Dick muttered, edging around a broken archway. “Just an old shell of a building.”

“Hold on,” Tim called from deeper within the ruin. “Density scans show an irregularity under the east section—like a sub-chamber the collapsed floor doesn’t quite line up with.” He tapped the screen, highlighting a faint outline. “M’gann, can you density-shift down there to confirm?”

She nodded. “Sure. One second.” Closing her eyes briefly, she let her body phase through the cracked flooring. The others waited, scanning the area. A few moments later, M’gann’s voice echoed from below, muffled at first, then her head and shoulders reappeared through the rubble. “There’s definitely a sealed room below. No visible entrance from down here, but I can see a door blocked by a load of debris.”

Conner rose to his feet, brushing dust from his jeans as he moved to follow. “Then we go in the old-fashioned way. Lead the way?”

M’gann guided them around to a half-collapsed stone stairwell, buried under stone and debris, to the point only the faintest signs of etched steps could have denoted its presence. Conner knelt, pushing aside the rubble alongside M’gann, mindful not to destabilize the structure. After a few careful minutes, a rusted metal-bound door revealed itself.

Dick tested the latch—fused by time and rubble. “Tim, you seeing how thick this is on your readout?”

“Yeah. Probably an old storage vault or cellar room.”

Conner stood, rolled his shoulders, then braced himself. “Stand back.” One sharp application of Kryptonian super strength split the door from its hinges with a squeal or rending metal. Dust billowed as the door crashed inward, revealing a cramped barren corridor that seemed to lead to an even smaller space, the air within stale and thick with cobwebs.

Beyond, lay a cramped hidden chamber—unused for decades, maybe longer. Shelves lined one wall, laden with half-rotted leather-bound books. A single stone pedestal occupied the center, where an equally tattered, sizable tome lay untouched and waiting beneath what was likely layers upon layers of dust.

They paused for a moment, right at the entrance, as though the place itself demanded some modicum amount of reverence.

“Looks like it’s all been sealed here since… who knows when,” M’gann whispered.

Dick carefully stepped in first, shining a flashlight pulled from his belt over the shelves. He spotted old, water-damaged documents—ledgers, shipping manifests. Tim, however, was drawn straight to the large tome on the pedestal.

He brushed off layers of dust. The cover bore swirling lines and shifting arcs that seemed to suggest or act as a depiction of coruscating flames coiling around a stylized shell. The title, in faded golden script, was partly legible: Le Fiamme della Volontà.

“Burning Will…?” Tim muttered, flipping open the front pages. Time had taken its toll, but enough was intact to read. “It references something called ‘fiamme scaturite dalla volontà di vivere’—‘flames that spring from one’s will to live.’ And—” He squinted at another heading, “the Tri-Ni-Sette ?”

Conner approached, shining the flashlight directly on the text. “What does that mean?”

Dick shuffled over. “It mentions sette fiamme —‘seven flames’—guardians of this Tri-ni-sette , each with distinct attributes. This might be the earliest reference we’ve seen to the Vongola’s mystery powers—except it’s describing them as flames sparked by a person’s resolve rather than the coloured energies we’ve encountered.”

M’gann carefully turned another page with he telekinesis, mindful not to rip it. “It could be the closest thing they had to compare it to at the time. And your Gotham guy, did explicitly use fire based abilities right?”

Tim felt a rush of excitement quicken his pulse. “Right. So this is proof that, centuries ago, the Vongola were using these flame-based abilities. That they did have them at that time. And that it ties directly into this Tri-Ni-Sette concept - something 3s and 7s. It’s exactly what we needed to confirm that this ‘mythology’ is older and more real than we ever realized.”

Dick arched an eyebrow. “They’re not just advanced criminals or meta-humans. These flames the book speaks of… it’s basically a lost branch of ability we never even knew existed. Like some unique deviation from homo magi or an alternative branch of convergent evolution . ”

“It’s definitely not something typical humans develop.” M’gann nodded in agreement. “If it’s unique to certain bloodlines, that might explain why we never see it outside these families. But the war machines, the masked assassins… maybe they’re modern evolutions of this same power?”

“Well either way, as it stands, not all of this is salvageable, but we can try restoring it. Barbara should have some options for us.” Conner gently cut in, shifting forward to gently close the book in front of the rest. “This is exactly the kind of concrete lead we came here for.”

Tim nodded. “We have to handle it gently. It doesn’t exactly look the strongest.”

“Agreed.” Dick’s gaze swept the dark corners of the chamber. “Let’s pack up what we can and get out of here—Bassin and Lambert obviously knew something was here. Otherwise, they’d never have sent us.”

Conner snorted. “So we could do their work for them, likely.”

“My thoughts exactly. Let’s go. Quickly.” 

…

…

“I’m afraid it’s a little late for that.” A new voice suddenly cut in, indigo smog trailing into the small chamber, the outlines of Bassin and Lambert clearly visible within the faint light emanating from the doorway, alongside a third figure. Lithe and fair skinned, with short blonde hair and a distinctive striped scarf. In his arms, he seemed to clutch a book nearly the size of his chest, the source of the inky dark blue clouds suddenly bleeding into the space. 

“We’ll be taking that book, if you wouldn’t mind and I’d suggest not resisting.” The central figure continued. “Rankings indicate, a less than 20% chance of survival for you all should conflict arise.”