Santa Prisca — Midnight
The Kobra Pit (Now with 300% More Bad Ideas)
To say the old Venom facility had seen better days would be like saying Voldemort had a mild nose situation. The once-industrial compound now looked like someone handed a bunch of snake-worshipping theater kids a ruin and said, "Go full Aztec-doomsday-core."
Green-and-gold banners depicting a fanged serpent coiled around a skull hung like venomous streamers. The air was thick with incense, Venom fumes, and that ominous weight of something awful is about to happen and nobody brought snacks.
In the middle of it all stood the Pit—a cage-arena hybrid that looked like it had been built by an angry gladiator with a rebar fetish. The sand was soaked with old blood. A bonfire roared from an iron brazier shaped like an open cobra mouth because subtlety died when the cult showed up.
And the man running this little Hunger Games cosplay?
Kobra.
Emerald robes. Wide grin. And the general energy of a preacher who's 50% messiah complex, 30% snake oil salesman, and 20% definitely sacrificed a goat last Thursday. (Okay, 40%.)
He raised his arms dramatically, his voice a mix of honey and hiss.
"Kobra lauds the strong! Kobra frees the worthy! Kobra will withdraw… if one among you may survive our champion."
Translation: "We're totally going to kill someone, but in a very theatrical way."
The dozen prisoners kneeling along the arena edge did not cheer. Mostly because they were chained, gagged, or praying to any available gods—including several fictional ones.
A few heads turned in quiet desperation.
And that's when Bane stood.
No fanfare. No dramatic music cue. Just the ominous sound of heavy boots on stone and the feeling that somewhere, a gym had cried tears of envy.
Even after weeks of recovery and escape from whatever shadowy hole Shadowflame had dropped him in, Bane still moved like a battle tank on legs. His face bore the faint imprint of a fist-shaped vendetta, and his eyes gleamed with something worse than fury.
Patience.
Kobra blinked. "Ah. The Beast of Peña Duro speaks with his feet."
Bane didn't respond. He simply rolled his shoulder and held out a thick, scarred arm.
One of the cultists scampered over with a fresh tank of pure Venom—none of that cut-rate street junk, no watered-down booster sludge. This was the good stuff. The kind that came with no expiration date and a ten-minute rage blackout guarantee.
The injector hissed. Bane's neck corded, spine arching ever so slightly as the liquid fire surged through his veins.
Muscle piled onto muscle. His already-wide frame thickened into something that made armored trucks look insecure. Veins pulsed like hydraulic tubing. And when he exhaled, it was like the Pit itself took a nervous step back.
"Let's begin," Bane rumbled, in that voice that sounded like a bear gargling Shakespeare.
Kobra clapped his hands. "Behold! The challenger has—oh sweet Kobra what is that smell—ah, yes! The gate opens!"
CREAK-SLAM-CLANG.
The far gate groaned open.
At first, nothing came out.
Then Mammoth stumbled into view.
Except he wasn't Mammoth. Not exactly.
What came out was a rail-thin version of the brute who once threw boulders like dodgeballs. His eyes were sunken. His skin hung off his bones like a Halloween costume three sizes too big. He looked like he'd been surviving off gruel, scorn, and bad fanfiction.
But Kobra was practically vibrating. "Witness, disciples! The rebirth of the beast through Kobra-Venom!"
The cultist nearest Mammoth plunged a needle into his neck.
Then all nine circles of steroidal hell broke loose.
Mammoth's body went full Cronenberg in seconds. Muscles exploded outward like someone had pumped him full of air and spite. His ribcage cracked open and reformed, bulk doubling and tripling with a sickening wet pop-pop-pop that sounded like bubble wrap being stepped on by Satan.
Hair grew coarse. His teeth sharpened. Spines burst along his back in crooked ridges. His arms thickened into trunk-like battering rams, and green-lit runes flared beneath his skin like something out of a dungeon boss fight.
He hit the ground with both fists. The stone cracked.
He roared.
The crowd lost its collective mind. Which, to be fair, was already on very shaky ground.
Bane cracked his knuckles. "You've been… modified."
Mammoth just growled, saliva dripping from between tusk-like canines. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
This was not about words anymore.
This was monsters and mayhem in a cage soaked in madness.
Kobra threw both arms wide, grinning like a man about to livestream a trainwreck. "LET THE WORTHY PREVAIL!"
The cult screamed in unison: "KOBRA HUNGERS!"
Bane took one step forward, boots crunching the bloodstained sand.
Mammoth flexed. His knuckles cracked like thunder.
High above, hidden behind cracked lenses and ancient steel, a camera blinked red.
Recording. Watching.
Waiting.
Because what was about to happen?
Was going to be legendary.
—
If anyone ever asked what it felt like to be inside a snake cult's version of a WWE pay-per-view, Bane could now say, with confidence: hot, loud, and very stupid.
The Kobra Pit was a circle of rebar, blood-soaked sand, and questionable decisions lit by the angry glow of a cobra-shaped brazier. Around it, cultists in emerald robes cheered like they'd just discovered pyrotechnics and a group coupon for exorcisms.
At the center of it all?
Kobra.
Tall. Smirking. Swaggering like a man who'd definitely sacrificed a goat for brunch and then posted about it on TikTok. He twirled his fingers in the air, letting his voice ride the drums like a serpent on Red Bull.
"LET THE WORTHY PREVAIL!"
Translation: Welcome to pain-town, population: whoever blinks first.
On cue, Mammoth charged.
He was less "man" now and more "emergency kaiju protocol." Kobra-Venom had done a number on him—bulked him up, added some glowing green rune tattoos, and given him that slightly-too-fast twitch that suggested his DNA was halfway to basilisk.
And Bane?
Bane met him with a punch.
CRACK.
The kind of impact that made you check your dental insurance. Fists collided. Sand exploded. Somewhere in the crowd, a cultist fainted. (Probably from excitement. Possibly from blunt-force trauma.)
Mammoth snarled, pivoted, and threw a left hook. Bane ducked. Countered with an elbow that would've shattered a lesser jaw. Mammoth barely flinched.
"Big boy moves fast," Bane growled, voice like a truck full of gravel.
"Kobra blesses the bold!" Kobra called from the stands, hands raised like he was conducting violence instead of an orchestra.
Bane said nothing. He was too busy dodging a hammer-fist that cracked the rebar cage.
Mammoth roared and tackled. Bane braced—and was launched.
For a man whose nickname once involved breaking the Bat, Bane did not often fly.
He landed hard. The kind of hard that leaves dents in the earth and cracks in your dignity.
Still, he rose.
"You hit like a subway," he muttered.
"You look like one too," Mammoth rumbled.
They slammed into each other again.
Fists. Feet. Headbutts.
Mammoth threw a roundhouse that knocked the breath out of Bane's lungs. Bane replied with a gut punch that would've liquefied a lesser man's kidneys.
"You call that rage?" Bane growled. "I've had deeper fury from stubbed toes."
"You've had deeper everything," Mammoth snapped, and then picked Bane up and suplexed him into the floor like a bad habit.
BOOM.
Bane hit the dirt hard.
And this time?
He didn't rise.
Not right away.
Not like Bane.
Kobra practically glowed, his grin stretching like a cobra ready to strike.
"Behold!" he cried. "The titan falls! The serpent rises!"
The cultists caught the cue and screamed in unison like they'd rehearsed this in choir practice:
"HAIL KOBRA! HAIL KOBRA! HAIL KOBRA!"
The chant echoed through the pit, bouncing off steel and stone like an overzealous stadium wave from hell.
Bane's fingers twitched.
His breath came in harsh, slow gulps. His mask hissed—refueling him with another dose of raw Venom. But the eyes?
Those were old. Cold. Focused.
Inside, the Beast of Peña Duro wasn't dead.
He was calculating.
Because where Mammoth was fury, Bane was discipline. Where Mammoth was strength, Bane was strategy. And where Mammoth was the monster Kobra made…
Bane was the one they should've left buried.
—
Santa Prisca Airspace — Bio-Ship Interior Twenty Minutes Out — Give or Take a Meteor Strike
They say you can tell how serious a mission is by how quiet the Bio-Ship gets. If that's true, this one was somewhere between "planetary extinction" and "Batman forgot to eat breakfast."
I stood near the front of the cabin, arms crossed over black-and-gold armor that practically hummed with heat. My crimson chest-sigil flickered with firelight, the way it always does when I'm trying very hard not to think about the things I could reduce to ash. Y'know, casually. Like a hobby.
Robin — Dick, the original flavor — was leaning against the side panel, arms crossed like he invented the posture. His smirk was locked and loaded.
"So," he said, eyebrows doing gymnastics. "Santa Prisca's back on their snake-oil nonsense?"
"Yes," I replied, my voice gravel-dipped and low, because I've learned that sometimes leadership is 70% tone and 30% looking like you could rip a tank in half.
Miss Martian — Megan — perked up from her seat across the cabin, green fingers tapping the floating hologram.
"But they've stopped all shipping," she said, head tilted, curls bouncing like Ariel Winter had just popped into frame. "They're running full production but not distributing anything."
"Which means either someone's replaced the cartel," Aqualad — Kaldur, cool and composed as ever — added, his voice smooth as ocean stone, "or they're preparing for something much worse."
"Maybe a snake-themed rave?" Wally piped up, vibrating so hard he could've powered the ship. "Cult of Kobra goes full Burning Man?"
"If there's a rave, I'm DJing," Kara said from her corner, legs stretched out, boots up like the world owed her a throne. Her blonde hair glowed faintly, like Milly Alcock had absorbed just enough sun to ruin a satellite.
I gave her a quick glance and a not-so-innocent smirk. "Only if you promise not to punch the turntables."
"No promises," she shot back, grinning.
God help me, I love the chaos.
"This is a recon mission," I said, raising my voice just enough to pull focus. "Quiet, fast, clean. Batman wants answers. So do I. If Kobra took over Santa Prisca, we need to know how deep it goes."
I turned slowly, letting my eyes settle on each of them. I wasn't judging. I was evaluating. Reading the room like a final exam.
"I've been expanding the team," I said. "Which means more missions. And that means more people who can lead."
Kaldur nodded once, already sliding into that calm, capable energy. Megan blinked, thoughtful. Wally looked like I just gave him a pop quiz on quantum physics. Robin's smirk deepened. Kara sat up, suddenly interested.
"This mission," I continued, "is also a test. Not of strength. Not of power. Of leadership. I want to see who thinks. Who adapts. Who makes the call when it counts."
"Let me guess," Kara said, resting her chin on her fist, lashes fluttering like she didn't know exactly what she was doing. "You'll be watching."
"And stepping in if it gets out of hand."
"Define 'out of hand'," Robin muttered.
I smiled. Just enough to make the red glow on my chest flicker brighter. Just enough to make them wonder.
"You'll know."
Wally leaned in toward Dick and whispered, "Is it bad that I'm kind of into the whole ominous-fire-warlock vibe?"
"You have unresolved trauma," Robin replied.
"We all do," Megan added cheerfully, reaching over to squeeze my gauntlet with just a little more pressure than necessary.
I didn't look, but I definitely didn't not feel the heat curling around my ears.
"Alright, team," I said, stepping back as the Bio-Ship descended. Through the viewport, Santa Prisca unfurled like a bad dream in technicolor: jungle, smoke, and snake-themed architecture that screamed, this island has no chill.
"Masks on. Minds sharp. Let's find out what's slithering beneath."
—
Drop Zone Alpha – Bio-Ship Stealth Mode
Five Minutes to Contact – Or One Impulse Comment from Total Chaos
There are a few sounds I'll never get tired of: the crackle of magic catching flame, the click of a gauntlet locking into place, and the barely-there ripple of Aqualad diving off a ramp like the ocean whispered, "Welcome back, King."
"Stealth mode engaged," Kaldur said, as the Bio-Ship shimmered into near-invisibility. The guy could announce the apocalypse and still sound like your favorite meditation app.
He turned toward us in his sleek wetsuit—dark armor etched with Atlantean glyphs and enough regal menace to make Poseidon nod in approval—and gave me the nod.
Which, in our very specific bro-telepathy, translated to: "I've got the water. Don't break the land."
Then he just stepped off the ship like gravity was someone else's problem.
Plop. Barely a splash.
A moment later, his voice ghosted in through our earpieces.
"Landing complete. Scanning the cove. No patrols, no movement… area is unusually quiet. I'll mark the infiltration route and meet you at the cliff."
"Classic spooky island behavior," Robin said, cracking his neck like he was getting ready for a rooftop brawl in Gotham. The boy had more dramatic tension in one eyebrow raise than most indie films.
"Ten bucks says laser tripwires," Wally chimed in, bouncing on his heels. "Fifteen if they've got snakes guarding the snacks."
"Do snake cults even have snacks?" Kara asked, standing up from her seat like a golden goddess who moonlights as a sledgehammer.
Megan made a face. "Maybe snake jerky? Do cults cure their own meat?" She shuddered. "I hope not. Ew."
I took a step back and let the team gear up. Because apparently I'm the designated responsible adult. (Somewhere, Alfred just got heartburn.)
Megan slipped on her stealth field harness and gave me a wink.
"You're staying in the shadows this time, boss?" she asked, fingers brushing mine a little longer than necessary.
Gods help me. Her touch always felt like the first day of spring pretending to be an accident.
"Of course," I said, letting my voice drop an octave. "Someone has to make sure the rest of you don't trigger every booby trap on the island."
"Oh," she said, cocking her head and biting her lip in a way that was absolutely not field regulation, "so you'll be watching everything I do?"
Kara snorted, tossing her hair like it was a challenge. "Careful, Megan. You flirt too hard and he might actually trip a mine just to prove a point."
I raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Please. If I trip a mine, it's on purpose. For dramatic tension."
Wally pointed at me like I was a particularly confusing IKEA instruction manual.
"You're really not gonna wear stealth gear?"
I tapped my chest once. Magic surged.
My helmet formed over my face in a shimmer of obsidian, etched with golden crests that flared backward like phoenix wings. Then I vanished—just like that.
One second: Harry.
Next second: Who? Where? Oh no, where'd the warlock go?
Total silence.
Robin groaned. "Every time. Still creepy."
Megan whispered, "Still hot."
If I blushed, no one saw. Except Megan. Because I know she did that on purpose.
Kaldur's voice came in again, steady as stone.
"Team, move out. Beach is clear. Use the ridge path and maintain low profile. Shadowflame will join us at the cliff."
"Try not to get spotted," I said, reappearing briefly, my voice carrying that I-could-turn-the-sand-to-glass calm. "Or set off any mystical snake wards. Or blow something up before I do."
"That's a lot of instructions, boss," Kara said, floating into position, eyes gleaming. "And you know I'm terrible at following instructions."
"Then follow me instead," I shot back with a grin. "I burn things artistically."
Wally fake-gagged. "I swear, if one more of you flirts mid-mission—"
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, West," Megan teased, already floating next to him, her smile wicked.
"Okay!" Robin clapped once. "Let's keep this PG-13 and mission-ready, folks."
The ramp dropped with a hiss.
Santa Prisca loomed outside—dark jungle, salt air, and that heavy, pulsing silence that meant something big and angry was waiting for us out there.
I nodded once, then vanished again.
"Let's see what the snakes are hiding."
And with that, we dropped.
—
Santa Prisca – Jungle Ridge Line
Nightfall, Technically. Emotionally? Gunfire O'Clock.
We landed like pros. Or at least like seasoned chaos gremlins who'd memorized the stunt-double handbook. Megan flicked her wrist and shimmered the psionic shield around us, while Kara floated down like smug divinity incarnate. I, of course, didn't land so much as unexisted for a second and casually appeared in a swirl of shadows and low-level intimidation.
Kaldur's voice crackled over comms, smooth and calm as always.
"I've scaled the southern cliff. Factory's three clicks northeast. Two ravines, one surveillance post. I'll meet you near the cistern tower."
Translation: don't die, don't blow up, don't step on magical landmines. (Looking at you, Wally.)
"Copy that," I replied, scanning the jungle. It looked like someone had set Jumanji to Nightmare Mode. Everything gleamed wetly, suspiciously. You know how rain usually feels refreshing? This felt like being eyed by something that wanted your spleen.
We moved in formation: me invisible and moodily glowing, Megan at my shoulder with her curls bouncing like she'd just walked off a CW red carpet, Kara hovering above us like the concept of gravity didn't apply to pretty blondes, and Wally — bless him — twitching like a caffeine ad. Robin was somewhere. Emphasis on somewhere.
"Where's Dick?" Kara asked, squinting around.
"Wasn't he right behind —?" Wally paused mid-bounce. Blinked. Spun.
"He's pulled a full Batman again," I sighed.
"Ugh," Megan muttered. "I just got him to start talking during missions."
"It's like emotional regression in black and blue spandex," Kara added.
"Robin's gone dark," Wally confirmed, toggling his goggles to thermal. "Cool cool. No panic. This is fine."
Spoiler: not fine.
Then — SNAP.
A single twig. Too crisp. Too loud. Not nature.
Wally zoomed forward and squinted like he was trying to solve a murder with heat vision. "Okay, weird. I'm seeing two groups. One northeast. One south. Both armed. Both moving like they're late to murder rehearsal."
"Two factions?" Megan asked, eyes glowing faintly.
"Yeah. One squad's rocking snakes on their helmets. Total Kobra fashion week. The other's... uh... discount mercs? Military-grade gear, but no snake logos."
"Kobra and company don't usually share space," Kara said.
"They do now," I said grimly. "Either there's a turf war happening, or someone double-booked the evil lair."
I tapped comms. "Aqualad, two squads approaching each other. Looks like someone else wants a piece of Santa Prisca."
Kaldur replied instantly:
"Avoid engagement. Proceed to the factory perimeter. I will reroute."
And then Megan said the words that sent a chill straight to my spine.
"Where's Wally?"
We all turned.
Empty space. Slightly Wally-shaped.
"He did not just pull a Robin," Kara groaned.
"He pulled a Robin while looking for Robin," Megan deadpanned. "That's like inception, but with bad timing."
"Tracking him," I muttered, activating the charm in my vambrace. Just in time to hear:
CRASH-THUD-PAIN-SCREAM.
Then Wally, gasping into comms:
"So... hey. Found Robin! Yay! Also landed in a crossfire. Definitely tripped over someone's grenade. Pretty sure I headbutted a Kobra guy. Accidentally."
Gunfire erupted.
Kara's eyes narrowed. "He stepped on something, alright."
Megan already floated upward. "We need to get him."
I touched her arm. Gentle. Grounding. "Wait. Let me distract them first."
Kara raised a brow. "Gonna light a flare with your soul again?"
"It's not again if it's different colors," I said dryly.
I summoned the fire, let it build in my palm until it pulsed warm and bright, like the sun had a baby with a Molotov cocktail.
Then I snapped.
Three golden orbs shot upward.
Pop. Pop. BOOM.
Not violent. Just loud.
Shouts from the jungle. Movement. Gunfire redirected.
Megan blinked. "Okay, that was very hot."
"You say that every time I commit arson."
"It's not arson if it's tactical."
Kaldur cut in:
"Visual on Wally. I'm moving to intercept. Head west. Robin should be near the slope."
"Supergirl, Martian, on me," I said, re-cloaking.
"Try not to incinerate the jungle," Kara smirked.
"No promises," I replied. "But if I do, it'll be photogenic."
And with that, we ran.
The trees closed in. Gunfire echoed behind us. The mission twisted.
And the snakes?
The snakes were just getting started.
—
Santa Prisca – Jungle Ridge Line
Nightfall, Technically. Emotionally? Gunfire O'Clock.
We sprinted straight toward the gunfire because apparently we all failed Common Sense 101. Leaves slapped our faces. Branches whipped our arms. I was cloaked in magical invisibility, of course — because drama is a tactical advantage — while Megan floated beside me like a green-glowing goddess with a blowout Ariel Winter would personally high-five. Kara glided ahead like gravity had a crush on her and was too nervous to make a move.
Kaldur's voice cut into our earpieces like he was narrating a guided meditation:
"Wally is pinned near a collapsed ravine. Multiple hostiles. Robin is engaging but needs backup."
Translation: Speedster got smacked, Ninja Boy's holding down the fort, and someone really needs to stop hiring mercs off Craigslist.
We burst through the brush just in time to witness chaos. Two squads, one love. Except not really. Kobra cultists were throwing hissy fits on one side — all snake-emblazoned armor and hissy vibes. On the other, a group of mercs in high-end gear with the fashion sense of rejected Call of Duty DLC.
Megan went full telepath, eyes glowing like a sci-fi screensaver.
<"Wally's ten meters left. Behind that overturned truck. He's conscious. Concussed. And, shocker, still talking.">
"On it!" Kara shouted — and then launched like an angry comet in yoga pants.
She hit the mercs like the wrath of Kryptonian cardio. One guy flew. The second folded like bad laundry. The third got yeeted into next Tuesday. Kara didn't slow down. If anything, I think she was warming up.
"Well, Kara's officially mad," I muttered.
"You told her to be professional," Megan said, floating beside me like she wasn't casually tracking three different enemies and probably daydreaming about kissing me.
"Yeah. My bad."
I raised my gauntlet, whispered a charm, and dragged my hand through the air. A wall of red fire erupted across the battlefield like a magical "NOPE" sign between the two factions.
"Cover fire," I called.
Robin dropped down from a tree like a particularly angsty fruit bat, landed beside me, and gave a curt nod.
"Nice entrance," I said.
"I work with what I've got."
"Green eyes, magical fire armor, and devastating cheekbones? You jealous yet?"
"Deeply," he deadpanned.
And then — boom.
The trees parted.
Something massive stepped out, slow and heavy, like the jungle itself didn't want to touch it.
"Tell me that's a hallucination," Megan whispered.
It wasn't.
Bane.
Bigger than last time. Bulked up. Mask intact. Veins doing that pulsing glow thing that usually means "please don't touch, may explode."
"I was wondering if the fire prince would return," Bane rumbled — voice like gravel in a blender, with just a splash of Tom Hardy menace. "I like the new look. The cloak didn't suit you."
"Bold words from the man I beat unconscious last time," I replied, stepping into view. My armor shimmered, the crimson phoenix across my chest lighting up like it was ready to drop a concept album.
He grinned.
Kara didn't wait.
She hit him mid-sentence. Full speed. Mid-air tackle. They crashed into the jungle floor with a boom that probably registered on at least three satellite maps.
"Was that Bane?" Wally groaned, dragging himself toward Robin.
"Yep," I said. "Somehow bulkier. Probably switched to Kobra-brand steroids."
Megan landed next to me, face tense. "He shouldn't be here. We put him in a blacksite after..."
She trailed off. Didn't need to finish. We both remembered. Me. Fire. Sand. Screaming.
"Yeah," I said softly. "He shouldn't. But here he is."
A merc came running at us. I flicked my fingers. A crimson chain of flame snapped into existence and wrapped around him like magical duct tape. He fell flat.
Megan didn't even blink. "Still hot when you do that."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's still true."
I smirked under the helmet. "Stay close. If things go south, I'll fry everything except you."
"And Kara?"
"Eh, she's heatproof."
Another boom. Bane tossed Kara into a tree. She crashed through it, flipped midair, and landed on her feet.
"Okay, that's new," she said, rolling her shoulders. "He's stronger than last time."
"You're prettier than last time," Bane growled.
Kara grinned. "Still gonna beat the crap out of you."
She charged him again, fists glowing, eyes burning.
"We should help," Megan said, lifting off the ground.
"We will," I said. Flames coiled around my arms. My heartbeat synced with the inferno in my chest.
Because this time?
Santa Prisca wasn't ready for the burn.
—
Santa Prisca – Ruined Jungle Clearing Post-Fight, Slightly Less Gunfire. Slightly.
So. Bane faceplanted. Hard.
He hit the jungle floor like someone had just rage-quit gravity, limbs sprawled, ego slightly cracked along with his mask. Kara stood over him, breathing heavy, her blonde hair tousled like she'd just walked off the cover of Post-Apocalyptic Vogue. Her fists still smoked. Her expression said, try me again, and I'll punch you into a new tax bracket.
Honestly? I might have swooned. Just a little. Quietly. Internally. With dignity.
Beside me, Megan floated down in a graceful hover, curls bouncing like she had a wind machine hidden in her boots. Her green skin practically glowed in the jungle light, and when she gave me that soft, Are-You-Okay smile?
Yeah. My brain short-circuited.
"Is he unconscious?" Wally asked, ducking behind what used to be a tree and now looked like it had strong opinions about fire damage.
"Unfortunately," Robin muttered. He crouched next to the downed merc, analyzing Bane's twitchy hand like it was going to tweet spoilers. "Just embarrassed."
Bane groaned. "I am... fine. Merely... bruised."
Kara cracked her neck with a sound like judgment. "You want a matching bruise on the other side, big guy?"
"No, thank you," he rumbled, voice gravel and grudges. "I have enough symmetry."
Kaldur appeared out of the smoke like he'd been summoned by thunder. Blades still hummed faintly with Atlantean charge. He didn't say anything. Just gave me the "everyone alive?" look.
I dropped my cloak and let the armor retract into its sleeker base form. The fire around my gauntlets hissed out like a dramatic sigh.
"Status check. Everyone breathing?"
"Define breathing," Robin said.
"Mostly," Wally groaned. "Like, 60% oxygen, 40% regret."
"Mild concussion," Megan said gently, touching his temple. "No permanent damage. Stop using your face as a battering ram."
"That was one time!"
"And it was today," Kara said sweetly.
We circled up like the world's most dysfunctional action figures. Bane, now chained with glowing fire-rope and a telekinetic collar Megan conjured like it was her signature accessory, leaned back against a tree. He looked disturbingly chill. Like, villain-on-vacation chill.
"Batman sent us expecting smugglers," Kaldur said, still all calm steel and perfectly controlled breath. "He did not anticipate Kobra."
"The mercs were leftovers," Megan added. "Kobra kicked them out. Claimed the territory."
"And the Venom," I said. "They're stockpiling it. Which means something worse is coming."
Robin crouched beside a melted rifle, scowling like he was solving murder Sudoku. "We don't leave until we know what."
"We should report back," Wally said. "This is beyond our op level. We need backup."
Robin whirled on him. "You want to leave? Let Kobra finish whatever they're building?"
"I want to not die without a plan!"
"Guys," I said, stepping between them, voice dropping into that Dangerously Calm Zone. "Reminder that I'm observing leadership potential. So far, you're both failing like it's extra credit you never wanted."
Robin folded his arms. Wally muttered something about "bat-shaped egos."
And then Bane cleared his throat. Because of course he did.
"If I may," he said smoothly. "There is another way into the facility. My tunnel. Hidden. Secure."
We all turned.
"Why help us?" Robin asked.
"Because," Bane said with a shrug that sounded like cracked vertebrae, "Kobra betrayed me. They stole what I built. Replaced me with zealots in silly robes. I despise silly robes."
Megan's eyes glowed as she scanned his mind.
A beat.
"He's telling the truth," she said. "There's a tunnel. But he's hiding something. A room? A vault. He won't let me see what's in it."
"Naturally," Bane said. "Even allies need secrets."
"We're not allies," Kara said, crossing her arms. "We're just temporarily not punching you."
"Semantics."
"Shadowflame," Kaldur said, turning to me. "Your call."
I looked at the team. At Bane. At the jungle that stretched around us like a coiled serpent waiting to bite.
Then I smiled.
"Fine. We take the tunnel. But one wrong move from Bane, and I turn him into barbecue."
My hands lit with fire.
"Extra crispy."
Bane nodded, oddly respectful. "Understood."
And with that, we moved.
Because if Kobra thought we were done?
They clearly hadn't met the part where we kick down the front door.
And maybe steal their snacks.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!