Mount Justice — A Few Days Later
The cavernous briefing room of Mount Justice had transformed into something resembling a high-tech war room crossed with a teenager's bedroom. Banks of monitors displayed star charts, tactical readouts, and communication feeds from the Watchtower, their blue glow casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. Empty energy drink cans and snack wrappers littered the surfaces around workstations where the adults had been maintaining their constant vigil. Batman coordinating with world governments, Superman organizing the League's response, Scarlett running tactical simulations with military leaders across the globe.
But for the Young Justice team, the past three days had meant one thing: lockdown. And teenagers were not built for lockdown.
"I'm literally dying," Wally announced with the dramatic flair of a Shakespearean actor, his lanky frame somehow managing to occupy an entire briefing room chair despite being half its size. His red hair stuck up at impossible angles from repeatedly running his hands through it, and the dark circles under his green eyes spoke of too much nervous energy channeled into pacing, vibrating in place, and generally making everyone else anxious. "No, seriously, I can feel my molecules starting to separate. Is that normal? That's not normal, right?"
"Please don't vibrate through the floor again," Kaldur said from his position at the main tactical display, his deep voice carrying that particular note of patience that came from three days of managing a team of restless teenagers. His dark skin had a slight sheen of stress-sweat, and even his usually perfect posture showed signs of strain. "Red Tornado literally just finished repairing the structural damage from yesterday's... incident."
"That was barely an incident!" Wally protested, his voice cracking slightly as he gestured wildly. "More like a minor hiccup!"
"You fell through three levels of the mountain," Dick pointed out from his precarious perch on the back of a chair, casually spinning an escrima stick around his finger with the kind of effortless grace that suggested hours of practice born from boredom. His dark hair was even more disheveled than usual, and there was a restless energy in his blue eyes that matched Wally's, though he channeled it into impossible acrobatics rather than molecular vibration. "Conner had to punch through solid rock to catch you before you hit the geothermal generators."
"Details!" Wally waved dismissively, then immediately perked up as movement near the kitchen area caught his attention. His head snapped toward the source with predatory focus. "Wait, is that actual food? Please tell me someone made something that doesn't come from a military ration pack or require adding water and hoping for the best."
The source of his hope was M'gann, floating three feet off the ground near the kitchen counter with an array of Earth foods spread before her like a professor's lecture materials. Her green skin practically glowed with enthusiasm, and her short auburn hair bobbed as she moved between different items with the careful attention of someone conducting a very important experiment. Which, in a way, she was.
Her subject was Koriand'r.
The Tamaranian princess sat on one of the tall kitchen stools, her impossibly long orange hair cascading over one shoulder like liquid fire, examining a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the intense concentration usually reserved for defusing bombs. Her luminous green eyes—which seemed to contain actual starlight—flicked from the sandwich to M'gann and back again, her exotic features composed in an expression of scholarly curiosity mixed with deep suspicion.
"You are absolutely certain this substance will not cause internal combustion?" she asked, her melodic voice carrying the kind of accent that suggested English was definitely not her first language, though she spoke it with careful precision. "On Tamaran, foods displaying this particular shade of purple were often laced with xeno-toxins designed to eliminate political rivals."
"It's grape jelly," M'gann explained with the patience of someone who'd had similar concerns about Earth food during her own cultural adjustment period. Her voice carried that warm, slightly musical quality that made everyone feel like they were talking to their favorite teacher. "Completely non-toxic. Sweet, actually. The purple color comes from actual grapes—which are fruits, not poison delivery systems. And the brown substance is peanut butter, made from ground peanuts."
"Peanuts," Koriand'r repeated slowly, rolling the word around her mouth like she was testing its weight. "These are... nuts which grow upon pea plants?"
"Well, technically they're legumes that grow underground, but—" M'gann caught herself diving into botanical accuracy and smiled instead. "They're safe. I promise. I had similar concerns when I first arrived on Earth. Martian food customs are quite different."
Standing behind Koriand'r's stool, positioned close enough to rest a protective hand on her shoulder if needed, was Hadrian. At almost sixteen, he'd grown into the kind of build that suggested he could bench press a small car without breaking a sweat, though he carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who'd never felt the need to prove anything to anyone. His dark hair was perfectly styled even after three days of stress, and his emerald green eyes moved constantly between Koriand'r and the rest of the room, cataloging threats, exits, and the emotional temperature of every person present. He'd barely left her side since the briefing three days ago, positioning himself as her unofficial guardian and cultural translator.
"She's right," he said quietly, his voice carrying that steady, unshakeable calm that had become Koriand'r's anchor in this strange world. "Earth food is generally safe for human consumption. Though I'd strongly recommend avoiding anything Wally attempts to cook."
"Hey!" Wally's voice cracked with indignation. "My cereal-pizza fusion was a culinary breakthrough!"
"It was a crime against nature," Zatanna corrected without looking up from the advanced magical theory textbook balanced on her knees. She'd clearly inherited her father's dramatic flair for the theatrical, though she'd channeled it into a carefully cultivated air of mysterious cool that probably would have been more effective if everyone hadn't seen her sing Disney songs during dish duty. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun secured with what appeared to be a magic wand, and her brown eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that suggested she was probably planning something. "I'm pretty sure it violated several international treaties regarding crimes against food."
"And possibly the Geneva Convention," Neville added dryly from his position by the training area, where he'd been methodically working through a strength routine that would have hospitalized most professional athletes. He'd grown into the kind of massive frame that made doorways look inadequate, his black hair damp with sweat and his pale green eyes carrying that particular brand of dry humor that came from being the most sensible person in a room full of chaos. Despite his size, he moved with surprising grace, like a dancer who happened to be built like a small building. "The part about cruel and unusual punishment."
Koriand'r took a small, tentative bite of the sandwich, chewed thoughtfully for a moment that stretched with the tension of a bomb disposal, then smiled—the first genuine, unreserved smile any of them had seen from her since her dramatic arrival three days ago.
"It is..." she paused, searching for the right word, "...pleasant. Sweet, as you indicated. Though quite different in texture from starfire fruit."
"Starfire fruit?" M'gann asked, settling into the stool beside her with the eager curiosity of someone collecting stories from another world. Her eyes lit up with genuine interest. "Tell me about starfire fruit!"
"They grew in the royal gardens on Tamaran," Koriand'r said, her expression growing distant and soft with memory. "Golden fruit that captured sunlight within their flesh, glowing like imprisoned stars. My father would..." Her voice caught slightly, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "He would pick them fresh each dawn for the morning meal. The entire royal family would gather in the crystal pavilion, and he would slice each fruit with ceremony, releasing the stored light to dance above our heads like tiny suns."
The room grew quieter, everyone recognizing the shift in her tone from wonder to pain. It was a pattern they'd all learned over the past few days—any mention of her home world would start with warmth and magic, then inevitably fade into loss and grief.
"The gardens sound beautiful," M'gann said gently, her voice carrying the kind of understanding that only came from losing a world of your own. "What else grew there?"
"Crystal blooms that sang in harmony with the wind," Koriand'r continued, her voice growing stronger as she focused on the memories rather than the loss. "Singing vines that would hum lullabies when the moons rose. Fire roses that bloomed only at midnight, their petals warm to the touch and bright as forge flames. And the wishing trees—ancient things whose leaves would whisper secrets if you knew how to listen."
"Dude," Wally breathed, momentarily forgetting his attention deficit in favor of genuine wonder. "Your planet sounds like something out of a fairy tale."
"It was," Koriand'r said simply, and the weight of past tense in those two words made everyone wince.
From the training area came Donna, her athletic frame moving with the fluid grace of someone who'd been raised by Amazons and trained by warriors. Her dark hair was damp with sweat and pulled back in a practical ponytail, and her storm-grey eyes held that particular look of rigid control that everyone had learned to recognize as her 'I'm absolutely fine and don't you dare suggest otherwise' expression.
She'd been spending a lot of time in the training area lately. A lot more time than usual.
Her gaze swept the kitchen scene—M'gann and Koriand'r chatting like old friends, Hadrian standing protectively behind the alien princess, close enough that the heat from his body would be warming her shoulders. Her expression didn't change, but her grip on her water bottle tightened just enough to leave small dents in the metal.
"Any word from the adults?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral as she moved toward the refrigerator with the kind of deliberate casualness that fooled absolutely no one.
"Nothing new," Kaldur replied, looking up from the tactical displays with the exhausted patience of someone who'd been fielding this question every hour for three days. "The Citadel fleet hasn't been detected by any of our early warning systems, but Batman has the entire Eastern Seaboard on high alert. Three more Justice League members arrived at the Watchtower this morning—Green Arrow, Black Canary, and Zatara."
"My dad's there?" Zatanna asked, finally looking up from her book with a flash of concern.
"Magical consultation," Kaldur confirmed. "They're exploring every possible defense option."
"And Jessica?" Kara asked from her position near the windows, where she'd been pretending to read while actually using her super-hearing to monitor radio chatter from three different government agencies. Her blonde hair caught the afternoon sunlight streaming through the cavern's concealed openings, and her blue eyes held the kind of intensity that suggested she was barely containing the urge to fly up to the Watchtower and demand answers. She'd clearly inherited all of her cousin's protective instincts but none of his patience.
"Still at Oa with Hal," Kaldur confirmed. "The Guardians are... deliberating the situation."
"Deliberating," Conner snorted from his corner, where he'd finally abandoned his calculus homework in favor of methodically destroying practice dummies with increasingly creative applications of super-strength. His frame was lean but powerful, dark hair falling into blue eyes that currently held the kind of frustrated anger that came from being trapped in a mountain while bad things approached Earth. "Like there's something to deliberate about. Bad guys coming to destroy Earth and commit genocide. Seems pretty straightforward to me."
"The Corps has protocols," Hadrian said quietly, his hand moving to rest briefly on Koriand'r's shoulder as she tensed at the mention of the Citadel. "They can't commit to every planetary conflict without considering the broader implications—"
"Every planetary conflict?" Koriand'r's voice cut through his explanation like a vibrosword through paper, sharp with sudden anger that made the air around her seem to shimmer with heat. Her glowing eyes flared brighter, and for a moment she looked less like a lost refugee and more like the warrior princess she'd been born to be. "This is not some border dispute over mining rights or trade routes. This is genocide. They destroyed my world. Murdered billions of innocent people. Enslaved those who survived. And they will do the same here."
"I know," Hadrian said calmly, his emerald eyes meeting hers without flinching, steady and unshakeable as a mountain. "I wasn't defending their position. I was explaining their bureaucracy."
"Their bureaucracy," she repeated, her accent thickening with emotion as her hands clenched into fists, "dictates that some lives matter more than others."
"That's not—" Kara started, then stopped as Koriand'r's burning gaze shifted to her.
"Is it not?" Koriand'r asked, standing from her stool with fluid grace that didn't quite hide the tension coiled in her movements like a spring under pressure. "Tell me, if this Citadel fleet had appeared over Krypton, would the Corps have hesitated to act? If they threatened Thanagar, or Rann, or any of the 'core worlds' with established representation in their precious bureaucracy?"
The room fell silent at that, because they all knew the answer, even if none of them wanted to say it out loud.
"Look," Roslyn said, speaking up from her spot by the secondary monitors where she'd been pretending to organize mission files while actually stress-eating her way through a bag of gummy bears. At thirteen, she'd learned to use her analytical mind and gentle nature to defuse tense situations, though her blue eyes currently held the kind of frustrated helplessness that came from being the most grounded member of a team of superpowered individuals facing cosmic threats. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a practical braid, and she wore the kind of expression that suggested she was choosing her words very carefully. "Maybe the Corps has their reasons, maybe they don't. Maybe the universe is just unfair and bureaucratic. But that doesn't change the fact that you're here now, and we're here, and we're not going to let them finish what they started."
"Your world matters," M'gann added quietly, her voice carrying the weight of personal experience and loss. "What happened to Tamaran... to your people... it matters. And it's not going to happen again. Not here. Not while we can do something about it."
"Does it matter?" Koriand'r's laugh was bitter, hollow, the kind of sound that spoke of too many disappointments and betrayals. "Then why am I here alone? Why did no one come when we broadcast distress signals across the galaxy? Why did the great Green Lantern Corps ignore our pleas for help when the Citadel first arrived in our system?"
Her voice cracked slightly on the last question, revealing the raw pain underneath her anger.
Hadrian moved closer, his presence solid and reassuring beside her like an anchor in a storm. "Because the universe isn't fair," he said simply, his voice carrying the kind of quiet certainty that came from personal experience with cosmic injustice. "Because bureaucracy exists even in space. Because sometimes good people make bad decisions for what they think are good reasons." He paused, his voice growing softer. "But you're not alone now."
Koriand'r stared at him for a long moment, her glowing eyes searching his face for something—doubt, perhaps, or the kind of empty platitudes she'd heard too many times from politicians and diplomats. Instead, she found only steady certainty and something else, something warm and protective that made her chest tighten with emotions she didn't have names for.
"You barely know me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I brought this danger to your world. To your people. I am the reason the Citadel will come here. If I had died with my world—"
"Don't," Donna said suddenly, her voice sharp enough to make everyone turn and stare. She was leaning against the refrigerator, her arms crossed and her expression fierce with the kind of protective anger that could level buildings. "Don't you dare finish that sentence. Your sister is the reason the Citadel will come here. The Citadel is the reason your world burned. You're not the villain in this story—you're the survivor."
"Donna's right," Dick said, swinging down from his perch to land beside them with typical Robin grace. His dark hair was even more disheveled than usual, and his blue eyes held the kind of intensity that came from too many nights spent planning impossible missions. "You didn't choose any of this. You didn't ask for your world to be destroyed or your sister to sell out your people. You did what any of us would do—you fought as long as you could, you survived when survival was the only option, and you came looking for help."
"And you found it," Wally added, his usual hyperactive energy replaced by surprising sincerity. His green eyes were steady for once, focused entirely on Koriand'r with the kind of attention he usually reserved for pizza or particularly interesting scientific phenomena. "Maybe not from the Corps, maybe not from the 'important' people with their protocols and their bureaucracy, but you found us. And we're not exactly nobody."
"Speak for yourself," Zatanna said with a slight smirk, though her dark eyes were warm with affection and determination. "Some of us are definitely somebody. I mean, I'm practically magical royalty. My dad's Zatara, master of the mystic arts, wielder of backwards incantations, occasional Justice League consultant—"
"And occasional pain in Batman's ass," Dick added with a grin.
"That's just a bonus," Zatanna replied primly. "The point is, we've got connections. We've got power. We've got really, really good dental plans."
"Dental plans?" Koriand'r asked, looking confused.
"She's being ridiculous," M'gann said with fond exasperation. "Ignore her. The point is, you're not facing this alone anymore."
"You're stuck with us now," Conner added, finally abandoning his demolished practice dummy to join the conversation. His brown eyes were serious despite his casual tone. "Whether you like it or not."
"That's a terrifying prospect," Neville observed dryly, though his pale green eyes were warm with acceptance.
"We're a terrifying bunch," Kaldur agreed with a slight smile that transformed his serious features. "But we're effective."
Despite herself, Koriand'r's lips quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "You are all... strange," she said, but there was affection in her voice now rather than confusion.
"Weird is kind of our brand," Roslyn said with a giggle. "Normal people don't tend to hang out in secret caves plotting to fight alien armadas."
"Fair point," Wally conceded. "Though technically this is more of a mountain than a cave."
"It's a cave inside a mountain," Dick corrected. "Which makes it extra weird."
"I like weird," Kara announced. "Weird is interesting. Normal is boring."
"Says the girl who can benchpress a tank," Zatanna pointed out.
"I can benchpress two tanks, thank you very much," Kara replied with dignity. "And that's beside the point."
"What is the point?" Conner asked.
"That we're all weird, and that's what makes us awesome," Roslyn said firmly.
M'gann floated up from her stool, moving to hover beside Koriand'r with the kind of gentle determination that had made her the team's unofficial emotional support system and cultural ambassador. "When I first came to Earth, I spent weeks convinced I was going to accidentally start an interplanetary war. Every mistake felt like it might be the one that doomed everyone I'd come to care about."
"Did you?" Koriand'r asked with genuine curiosity. "Start a war?"
"Not yet," M'gann said with a slight smile. "Though I did accidentally read the President's mind during a diplomatic meeting between Earth and Mars. That was... awkward."
"You read the President's mind?" Wally's eyes widened with delight. "What was he thinking about? State secrets? Nuclear codes? The location of Area 51?"
"Lunch," M'gann replied with a straight face. "He was really hoping the meeting would end before his pastrami sandwich got cold."
That actually drew a laugh from Koriand'r—a genuine, musical sound that seemed to lift some of the oppressive tension from the room like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"The point is," M'gann continued, "guilt doesn't change the past. It just makes the present harder to bear. And right now, we need you focused on the future."
"She's right," Hadrian said, his hand finding Koriand'r's shoulder again in a gesture that had become as natural as breathing over the past few days. "The Citadel made their choice when they decided to be conquerors. You made your choice when you decided to fight back instead of surrendering. Now we make ours."
Donna watched the exchange with carefully controlled expression, her grey eyes moving between Hadrian's protective stance and Koriand'r's obvious comfort with his presence. Her jaw was tight, but when she spoke, her voice was steady.
"What he said," she agreed, though the words seemed to cost her something. "We've all got blood on our hands, one way or another. Some of it earned through our choices, some of it just... circumstance and bad luck. What matters is what we do with the time we have left."
Koriand'r studied her for a moment, perhaps recognizing something in Donna's tone that spoke of personal experience with loss and guilt and the weight of responsibility.
"You have lost people as well," she said softly. It wasn't a question.
"Haven't we all?" Donna replied, her voice carefully neutral.
Another moment of silence, this one heavy with shared understanding and unspoken grief.
Then Zatanna clapped her hands together with deliberate cheerfulness, the sound sharp enough to break the spell of melancholy that had settled over them.
"Okay, enough doom and gloom!" she announced with theatrical brightness. "M'gann was giving our alien princess a crash course in Earth culture, right? What's next on the curriculum? Because I vote for the really important stuff."
"Such as?" M'gann asked, floating back toward the kitchen counter with renewed enthusiasm.
"Entertainment!" Zatanna declared. "Movies, music, television shows that will rot your brain in the most delightful way possible. The stuff that actually matters."
"Ooh, music!" Roslyn perked up, abandoning her pretense of organizing files in favor of bouncing slightly in her chair. "Koriand'r, have you heard any Earth music yet? It's incredible! We've got everything from classical symphonies to death metal to—"
"Please tell me we're not starting with death metal," Kaldur interjected with mild alarm.
"What's wrong with death metal?" Conner asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Everything," Kaldur, Dick, M'gann, and Roslyn said in unison.
"You people have no appreciation for artistic expression through aggressive percussion," Conner said with mock dignity.
"We have plenty of appreciation," Dick countered. "We just prefer our artistic expression with actual melodies and lyrics we can understand without a translator."
"That's what makes it art!" Conner protested. "The incomprehensibility!"
"That's what makes it noise," Donna corrected.
"One person's noise is another person's symphony," Neville observed philosophically.
"That's beautiful, man," Wally said, wiping away an imaginary tear. "Really deep. Did you come up with that yourself?"
"No, I read it on a bathroom wall," Neville admitted.
"Even better," Zatanna declared. "Bathroom wall philosophy is the purest form of human wisdom."
"Are all Earth bathrooms equipped with philosophical writings?" Koriand'r asked, looking genuinely confused.
"The good ones are," Wally said solemnly.
"He's lying," M'gann said quickly. "Don't listen to him. He's always lying."
"I resent that," Wally protested. "I'm occasionally truthful."
"When?" Dick asked.
"When I'm asleep," Wally replied promptly. "Can't lie when you're unconscious."
"You talk in your sleep," Zatanna pointed out. "And you definitely lie then too. Last week you spent twenty minutes having a conversation with someone named Professor Chicken about the aerodynamics of banana splits."
"Professor Chicken is a very serious academic," Wally said with dignity. "And banana split aerodynamics are more complex than you might think."
"I want to know more about this Professor Chicken," Koriand'r said, and there was genuine curiosity in her voice.
"No, you don't," everyone else said simultaneously.
"Trust us on this one," Hadrian added. "Wally's subconscious is a strange and terrifying place that we don't fully understand."
"I'm sitting right here," Wally pointed out.
"We know," Donna said dryly. "That's what makes it so concerning."
As the conversation devolved into the kind of ridiculous banter that had become their specialty, Koriand'r found herself relaxing for the first time since her arrival. The easy teasing, the obvious affection underlying their mockery, the way they could shift from serious conversation about life and death to playful arguments about music and bathroom graffiti without missing a beat—it was so different from the formal court life of Tamaran, yet somehow deeply familiar.
"They are like this often?" she asked Hadrian quietly.
"Pretty much constantly," he replied, a fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he watched Wally attempt to explain the cultural significance of bathroom philosophy to an increasingly bewildered Kaldur. "Wait until you see them try to decide on pizza toppings. Last time it took three hours and nearly ended in actual combat."
"Pizza?"
"Italian food. Bread, sauce, cheese, various toppings arranged in a circle and heated until everything melts together. You'll either love it or hate it—there's no middle ground with pizza."
"I would like to try this... pizza," Koriand'r said thoughtfully. "And this music they speak of. And this television that rots brains in delightful ways. And..."
She paused, her glowing eyes taking in the scene around her—Wally now debating the relative merits of different musical genres with increasingly dramatic gestures while standing on his chair, Dick attempting to mediate while clearly enjoying the chaos, Zatanna trying to demonstrate proper spellcasting technique with a pretend magic wand that was actually a breadstick, M'gann and Roslyn giggling at something on a tablet, Conner and Neville exchanging the kind of long-suffering looks that came from dealing with their teammates' antics on a daily basis, Kaldur maintaining his dignified composure despite clearly being amused by the entire spectacle, Kara defending her musical preferences with Amazonian determination, and Donna watching it all with an expression that suggested she was fighting a losing battle against her own smile.
"And I would like to understand how you all became... this," she finished.
"This?" Hadrian asked.
"A family," she said simply. "Even when you argue, even when you disagree about death metal and bathroom philosophy, you are clearly family. I can see it in how you move around each other, how you speak. How you protect each other without thinking about it, how you can insult each other and somehow make it sound like love."
Hadrian followed her gaze, taking in his teammates—his siblings, his friends, his chosen family—with fresh eyes. She was right. Somewhere along the way, between missions and training sessions and shared meals and stupid arguments about pizza toppings and music preferences, they'd become something more than a team. They'd become the kind of family that was built by choice rather than blood, held together by shared experiences and mutual trust and the kind of love that showed itself through teasing and protection in equal measure.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I guess we are."
"How?" Koriand'r asked, her voice carrying a note of longing that made his chest tighten with emotions he couldn't quite name. "How does one build such bonds? On Tamaran, relationships were... different. More formal. Based on duty and position rather than..."
"Rather than what?" he prompted gently.
"Rather than this," she said, gesturing at the ongoing chaos. "This easy affection. This joy in each other's company even when you are trapped in a mountain waiting for an alien armada to arrive and destroy your world."
Before he could answer, Wally's voice carried over the continuing debate about music and philosophy and the proper way to construct a sandwich.
"Okay, Princess!" he called, spinning around to face them with the kind of manic energy that suggested he'd had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. "Time to settle this for us. The fate of your Earth cultural education hangs in the balance, and we need an impartial judge."
"I don't think she's impartial," Dick pointed out. "She's been here for three days. She's practically one of us now."
"Three days is long enough to develop opinions," Zatanna declared. "Trust me, I had very strong feelings about Earth pizza within my first hour."
"What kind of feelings?" M'gann asked curiously.
"Passionate love followed by temporary lactose-induced illness," Zatanna admitted. "Worth it, though."
"The question," Wally continued, undaunted by the tangent, "is this: Rock or pop? And choose carefully, because your answer will determine whether we start your musical education with the classics or the contemporary hits."
"Can't she like both?" Hadrian asked reasonably.
"That's cheating," Dick protested with mock seriousness. "She has to pick a side. It's the law."
"Whose law?" Donna asked, speaking up from her position by the refrigerator.
"The law of... musical... jurisprudence," Wally said, clearly making it up as he went along. "Very serious stuff. International treaties have been signed."
"I'm pretty sure that's not a real thing," Roslyn said.
"It is now," Zatanna declared, waving her breadstick wand with authority. "I just made it legally binding through the power of magic."
"That's not how magic works," Kaldur observed.
"Says who?" Zatanna challenged.
"Says basic magical theory and probably several international laws about the unauthorized use of supernatural forces for legislative purposes," Neville said dryly.
"Those are more like guidelines," Zatanna replied airily.
"Everything's a guideline if you're brave enough," Conner added helpfully.
"That's a terrifying philosophy coming from someone with super strength," Donna pointed out.
"Thank you," Conner said, taking it as a compliment.
Koriand'r looked between them all, then at Hadrian, her glowing eyes bright with something that might have been wonder.
"Like this," she said softly, answering her own question from earlier. "This is how family is built. Through shared ridiculousness and the willingness to argue about meaningless things with great passion."
"Hey!" Wally protested. "Musical preferences are not meaningless! They're a window into the human soul!"
"Your soul must be very confused," Dick observed. "Considering your playlist includes everything from classical to death metal to what I'm pretty sure was a children's educational song about the digestive system."
"That song is catchy!" Wally defended. "And educational! Do you know how the large intestine works? Because I do, thanks to that song!"
"Please don't sing it," everyone said in unison.
"Too late!" Wally announced, and launched into what was definitely not a song that should exist but somehow did.
As the argument shifted to whether they should ban Wally from choosing music ever again, as M'gann started floating different snacks over for Koriand'r to try, as the others gradually migrated toward the kitchen area to join the impromptu cultural education session, Koriand'r found herself thinking that maybe—maybe—losing everything didn't have to mean losing hope.
Even if the Citadel was coming.
Even if her sister had betrayed everything they'd once held sacred.
Even if she'd brought danger to these people who'd welcomed her with open hearts and ridiculous debates about bathroom philosophy.
For the first time in months, Koriand'r felt like she might belong somewhere. Like she might have found something worth protecting beyond mere survival.
The feeling terrified her almost as much as it comforted her.
But as Hadrian moved to help M'gann assemble what was rapidly becoming an impromptu feast, as Donna grudgingly joined the conversation about Earth customs while pretending she wasn't enjoying herself, as the others gathered around with their easy acceptance and their ridiculous debates and their obvious care for each other and now, somehow, for her...
Koriand'r thought that maybe terror and comfort could coexist.
At least until the stars began to fall.
"So," Zatanna said, settling onto a stool with her breadstick wand still in hand, "rock or pop? The people demand an answer."
Koriand'r looked around at all their expectant faces, these strange Earth teenagers who'd somehow become her anchors in a universe gone mad, and smiled.
"Both," she said firmly. "I choose both."
"I knew I liked her," Hadrian murmured, and the warmth in his voice made something flutter in her chest that had nothing to do with her alien physiology.
"Cheater!" Wally accused, but he was grinning. "I respect that. Welcome to the family, Princess."
And despite everything—the coming war, the impossible odds, the weight of being possibly the last Tamaranian in the universe—Koriand'r found herself believing that maybe, just maybe, she really was home.
---
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