Santa Prisca – Venom Factory Complex
High Balcony Overlooking the Processing Floor
(A.K.A. "If Willy Wonka ran a snake-themed steroid cult")
The factory hissed like it was alive — all metal, steam, and bad intentions. Massive venom distillation columns loomed over the floor, blinking with orange hazard lights and pulsing like they'd been designed by someone whose Pinterest board was just "chemical apocalypse chic."
Below, cultists in matte green armor moved like ants in a hive — all perfectly timed, eerily silent, and probably one chant away from sacrificing a goat.
Above them, standing tall on a platform that screamed "dramatic monologue incoming", was Kobra.
Robed. Masked. And more still than a statue built by someone with unresolved snake issues. The guy gave off the exact vibe of "I practice smiling in the mirror, and then kill the mirror."
Enter a second figure: a cult lieutenant in ceremonial robes and a hood lined with gold thread. He walked with all the confidence of someone who absolutely did not want to interrupt his boss and definitely knew what happened to the last guy who did.
He bowed low. Deep enough to qualify for a back injury.
"He approaches," the cultist whispered, voice like dry parchment dragged across gravel. "The buyer. He is… close."
Kobra didn't speak right away. He simply exhaled — slow, theatrical, and probably rehearsed. His voice, when it came, was a silken drawl dipped in menace and molasses.
"Then the stars align," Kobra said, fingers steepled like he was auditioning for the role of Really Smug Rasputin. "And chaos arrives wearing a tailored suit."
The cultist twitched. "Shall I dispatch the outer scouts? Perhaps double the sentries?"
Kobra turned his head just enough to suggest amusement. Or threat. Or both. With him, it was always both.
"Double the sentries?" he echoed. "My dear acolyte, if we were any more obvious, we'd be hosting a TED Talk titled 'So You Want to Be a Villain: Branding, Betrayal, and Bulk Purchasing Muscle Enhancers.'"
The cultist flinched.
Kobra sighed. Loudly. Theatrically. Then raised one clawed hand and pointed to the sky — or, more precisely, to the communication towers silhouetted on the hill beyond.
"Activate the net," he said. "No transmissions in. No surveillance out. Let the island vanish from the map — like Atlantis, but sweatier."
The cultist hesitated. "But, my lord… what of the scouts in the jungle? If they encounter resistance—"
Kobra's voice cut sharper than a snakebite dipped in sarcasm. "Then they'll die heroically and painfully. I trust you wrote their names in the monthly sacrifice spreadsheet?"
A pause. Then a nervous nod.
"Good." Kobra adjusted a single ring on his finger — one shaped like a coiled serpent, because of course it was. "Nothing must interfere. This transaction is sacred. And our gods?"
He glanced at the vat below. As if on cue, it hissed violently — a sound that was either steam releasing or the factory agreeing ominously.
"They are watching."
The cultist bowed so fast his spine cracked.
Then he turned and vanished, probably to go cry into a chalice.
Kobra stood alone on the balcony once more, his mask reflecting the flickering venom light below.
And far above, in the jungle canopy, a new presence was moving.
Unseen. Cloaked in shadow. Wrapped in fire and sarcasm.
Shadowflame was coming.
And Kobra?
He smiled.
Because whatever happened next…
It was going to burn.
—
Santa Prisca – Jungle Overlook Post-Bane Faceplant. Pre-Epic Factory Infiltration.
So there we were: a ragtag bunch of teenage superheroes, a very salty ex-villain, and me—Shadowflame, magical firebender extraordinaire, part-time strategist, and full-time chaos wrangler.
The jungle thinned out, and suddenly we had front-row seats to Kobra's grand industrial evil plan. Imagine if a snake cult took over a refinery, gave it a goth makeover, and stocked it with more Venom than Bane's gym locker. Welcome to Santa Prisca: Evil Edition.
Bane stood beside me, arms crossed like he was posing for a "World's Saddest Dictator" calendar. "See? My legacy. My infrastructure. My designs. Corrupted by zealots in robes."
"Honestly," I said, watching forklifts move crates like they were loading up for an apocalypse-themed Black Friday, "I'm just impressed by how efficiently evil runs down there."
Kara floated next to me, golden hair tousled, arms crossed. "Is it weird I'm kinda mad their shipping logistics are better than Amazon's?"
"Only slightly," I replied. "Let's never tell LexCorp."
Robin, crouched like a gargoyle with opinions, muttered, "There are at least thirty crates prepped for transport. No external labels. But they're Venom. Guaranteed."
"That much Venom could Bane-ify a small country," Wally said, peering through a broken leaf. "Like, Bane-sized mayors for every zip code."
"You say that like you wouldn't challenge one to a race," I said.
"Speed is my truth," he replied. "And truth is fast."
Megan floated down beside me, brushing a leaf off my shoulder with that soft telepathic touch that made my heart tap dance. "You're enjoying this."
"What, the cults? The mercs? The discount lair aesthetics?"
"No," she smiled. "The chaos. The flirting. The fact that Kara keeps calling you 'Hotshot' and Wally's trying to impress me by arguing with Robin like we're in a CW drama."
Robin and Wally, as if on cue, began bickering again.
"We need to intercept the buyer," Robin said. "Before the jamming net locks us out."
"Yeah," Wally shot back. "Maybe after you finish playing cyber-detective and stop monologuing like your dad."
"Oh, good," Kara said, tossing her hair. "They're back to arguing. Quick, someone cue the wedding bells."
"New rule," I said, raising a flame-gloved hand. "Every time you two fight, you owe me a protein bar. Megan's law."
"What?!" Wally said.
"That wasn't—"
"Too late. Codified by fire."
Bane, clearly deciding we were exhausting, cleared his throat. "If you're done auditioning for reality television, the tunnel's this way."
He led us behind a curtain of vines to what could only be described as an overachieving snake statue.
"You made your secret entrance a snake's mouth?"
"It's thematic," Bane replied.
"It's overcompensating," I said. "Also, mildly Freudian."
"Says the guy wearing a flaming bird helmet."
"Touché," I muttered.
Kara leaned in. "Are you two flirting or going to kill each other?"
"Yes."
With a hiss, the mouth opened, revealing stairs that screamed "bad things happen here."
"This tunnel leads beneath the central tower," Bane said. "Shielded. Secure. Forgotten by all but me."
Megan scanned it psychically, her eyes lighting up. "He's telling the truth. But there's something below. Something...hidden. I can't see it."
"Kobra's version of a surprise party," Robin said darkly.
Kaldur stepped forward. Calm. Commanding. "We move now. Quietly. Efficiently. No mistakes."
Bane turned to me. "Your team is passionate."
"They're family," I said. "And they punch above their weight class. Just like me."
"You mock everything."
"Only when conscious."
I stepped into the tunnel first. Kara fell in behind me. Megan gave my hand a quick squeeze, and Wally somehow managed to trip and catch himself in one fluid move. Robin sighed like he aged a decade.
Because if Kobra thought the night was going smoothly?
They clearly hadn't met us.
—
Santa Prisca – Underground Venom Transport Tunnel
A.K.A. Welcome to the Snake's Intestine
You ever walk into a place and instantly know you're not getting your security deposit back? That was this tunnel.
The walls were a lovely combo of reinforced steel and moist regret. There were actual torch sconces on the walls — like someone had watched too many ancient temple movies and said, "Yes. But add steroids."
Bane led the way like a man who had definitely named at least three Wi-Fi networks and one dog after himself. His boots echoed down the corridor like they were trying to win Best Dramatic Footstep at the Supervillain Oscars.
"Keep spacing tight," I whispered. "And if anything jumps out, scream artistically."
Wally muttered behind me, "Define artistically."
"Jazz hands are involved. Bonus points for interpretive dance."
Megan brushed my hand as she floated beside me — just a light touch, but my gauntlet flared like it had opinions about it. Sparks crackled. So did my spine. In a good way.
Yeah, I was definitely still coherent. Why do you ask?
Robin, naturally, had vanished. One minute he was behind Kaldur, next second — poof. Shadow clone jutsu, activated.
"Seriously?" Wally whispered. "He ghosted us again?"
"He's doing the broody ninja thing. Let him marinate."
"If he gets captured, I'm not bailing him out unless he says thank you first," Kara muttered, hovering slightly as if gravity was more of a suggestion.
Bane stopped at a fork in the tunnel and pointed to the left.
"Mainframe's under the secondary tower. Local systems, security feeds. I designed it myself. Before the robed idiots took over."
"Translation," I said, "Robin's probably in there already, hacking the security and writing edgy poetry in binary."
—
Meanwhile...
Robin crept silently across a shadowed catwalk, boots silent, cape fluttering just enough to be dramatic but not enough to be caught. Below him, green glow. One lone cultist at a terminal, typing like his life depended on it (which, spoiler, it did).
Robin waited.
Thunk.
Batarang. Back of the head. The cultist collapsed forward like a bad decision.
Robin dropped, plugged into the terminal, and started doing his tech wizard thing — because if Batman taught him anything, it was that solving crimes looked cooler in the dark.
—
Back with Team Chaos...
Megan gasped beside me. Not a little gasp. Full dramatic "I just found out my favorite K-pop group broke up" gasp.
"He's in the system," she said, eyes glowing green like someone upgraded her to Wi-Fi 6. "And... oh stars. They're only shipping one variant of Venom now. All the others have been discontinued. This new one... it's different."
Kara's head tilted. Eyes narrowing. "Incoming helicopter. Heavy. Military grade. Could carry a tank or... worse."
"A buyer," I muttered. "Or a supervillain starter kit."
Wally's voice chirped in through comms. "Found Robin. He's hacking, smirking, and doing that thing where he judges us through the screen. Also, he ID'd the formula. You ready for this?"
Pause.
"It's a hybrid. Blockbuster serum plus Venom. With psychic resistance."
My heart did a small dance called "Oh Crap."
"Psychic resistance? As in, anti-Megan-grade telepathy?"
"Yeah. Robin's calling it V-Block. Like Venom meets ad blocker."
I groaned. "They always name these things like it's an energy drink."
Megan looked shaken. "I can't read the guards above anymore. They're shielded. And... someone knows we're here."
My fists lit up like a magical barbecue. Flames curled around my arms, my armor shimmered, and my heartbeat synced with that familiar fire that lived inside me.
"Alright," I said. "Time to let them know we RSVP'd."
Bane raised an eyebrow. "Shall I open the elevator shaft?"
"No need," Kara said sweetly. Then she rocketed straight up like a blonde missile. Concrete shattered. Ceiling cried.
Wally blinked. "Did she just—?"
"Make her own door? Yup. Supergirl doesn't wait for permission."
I turned to the rest of the team, fire flickering in my palms.
"Let's go crash a snake party."
Because Kobra wanted to deal in monster juice?
We were about to bring the flame.
—
Santa Prisca – Venom Factory Exterior, North Landing Pad
(A.K.A. Where Bad Ideas Get Delivered by Helicopter)
The night smelled like ozone, oil, and doom. Which, honestly, is kind of Santa Prisca's signature cologne.
Crimson lights blinked across the landing pad as the sound of rotor blades sliced the air—fast, low, and just cocky enough to imply this helicopter had opinions about our fashion sense. The incoming transport looked like someone had asked, "What if a batmobile and a war crime had a baby?"
Hovering silently above it all, Megan—Miss Martian, Queen of Subtle Chaos, my girlfriend, and possibly the most gorgeous shapeshifter in five dimensions—blended into the clouds like camouflage was her love language.
Incoming. Sportsmaster, she whispered in my mind, her mental voice soft but sharp, like velvet wrapped around a dagger. And he's not alone.
I closed my eyes. Megan sent the image straight into my brain like a psychic Google Drive upload: Sportsmaster, smug as ever, hopping off the chopper like he'd just won Villain Bingo. Mask, tactical armor, more hidden weapons than a Gotham garage sale. The man walked with the kind of swagger usually reserved for wrestlers and guys who talk during movies.
I groaned aloud. "Oh, come on."
Wally, crouched beside me, tilted his goggles. "Is that who I think it is?"
"Yup. Escaped Blacksite prisoner #23: Sportsmaster. Supposed to be locked up and having deep conversations with his conscience. Not... this."
"Second one today," Robin muttered. "First Bane, now him. What is this, Supervillain Reboot Week?"
"I swear, if Batman's holding out on me again," I growled, "I'm changing his ringtone to the Barney theme song."
Below us, Sportsmaster and Kobra stood on the landing pad like the world's worst Tinder date. Zero small talk. Maximum menace.
"Package confirmed," Sportsmaster said, his voice rough and cocky like gravel with an ego. "Payment inbound."
Kobra, who hadn't blinked since 1993, inclined his head. "You have the resources?"
"More than enough. And if your new formula works—"
"They will become gods," Kobra finished, like he was auditioning for the next mythology-based action movie.
Megan pinged the team mentally again. Still no signal out. The jamming field is up. We're officially in blackout mode.
I tapped my comm anyway, because hope dies hard and sarcasm dies louder. League channels? Dead. Titans? Ghosted. Batfamily? Just static. I even tried Alfred.
Nada.
"Cool," I muttered. "Love being off-grid with a war criminal, a cult, and no snacks."
Kara hovered to my left, arms crossed, expression pure laser-beam frustration. "So... are we improvising?"
I cracked my neck. "Kara, we don't improvise. We jazz battle."
She grinned. And I don't mean a polite grin. I mean full Milly-Alcock-as-Supergirl chaos sparkle. "Good. I was getting bored."
Then the ground started vibrating. Not in a cute, oops-we-left-the-washing-machine-on way. More like, something huge and unpleasant was rising from underground.
Megan's voice whispered urgently into my mind again. Something's coming. Big. Heavily armored. It's moving fast.
I took a deep breath, let my flames flicker over my gauntlets. "Great. Because this party wasn't already stupid enough."
Wally, peering over the edge of the bluff, said, "Do we have a plan?"
"Of course we have a plan," I said. "Step one: confuse the enemy. Step two: punch them with fire. Step three: pray Megan still likes me after I set half the compound on fire."
Megan floated down beside me, eyes glowing faintly. "You worry too much."
Kara added, "And you talk way too much."
"Hey, I process trauma through quips."
From the depths of the compound, metal screeched. Something was rising—big, brutal, and no doubt carrying a name like "Project Something-Latin-And-Ominous."
Robin's voice crackled through the comms. "Whatever it is, it's directly tied to the V-Block formula. Sportsmaster brought more than payment. He brought insurance."
Bane stepped up behind us, arms folded. "I recognize that sound. Reinforced cage. Hydraulic systems. He's waking it up."
Kaldur's voice was calm, steady. "Team. Positions. Engage at my signal."
I looked over at Megan. She gave me a small, confident nod. Kara? Already cracking her knuckles mid-air like she was about to suplex a helicopter.
I smiled.
Because whatever was coming?
It was about to meet Shadowflame.
And I don't do subtle.
—I do fire.
—
Santa Prisca – Venom Factory Interior Balcony
(A.K.A. Why Villains Shouldn't Have Skylights)
So there we were, perched on a balcony overlooking a nightmare-factory powered by Venom, bad fashion choices, and toxic masculinity. Alarms were flickering like they were trying to drop the hottest club remix of the year, and the whole place smelled like someone tried to bottle rage and failure. Below us, Kobra and Sportsmaster were bromancing over bioweapons, the jamming net was still cooking our comms like sad microwaved leftovers, and the floor? Yeah. It was starting to vibrate. And not in the fun, theme park way.
Bane stood at the edge of the railing, fists clenched, posture tense—like he was about to launch into a TED Talk titled "How to Solve All Your Problems With Violence and Neck Veins."
"I have a plan," he rumbled in that gravel-and-brimstone voice.
Wally side-eyed him. "You saying that is how most disaster movies start."
Bane didn't reply. He just vaulted off the balcony like gravity was a polite suggestion. Straight-up superhero landing—knees of steel, cultists of mush. Two went down in a beautifully choreographed display of kinetic rage.
"That counts as a distraction," Kara muttered, floating beside me. Her golden hair flicked back in the breeze like she'd stepped off the world's most badass shampoo commercial.
I summoned fire into my fists and cracked my neck. "Too bad subtlety is allergic to this team."
KA-BOOM.
The wall exploded. Not creaked or cracked—exploded. Like Michael Bay had a budget and a grudge. Through the dust and glass came Mammoth, the lovechild of a battering ram and a very angry Viking. He roared like he had beef with physics itself.
Kara's eyes narrowed. "Mine."
"Remind me to never argue with you when you're mad," I said, grinning. "Or when you've skipped breakfast."
She winked at me. Then she flew—flew—straight into Mammoth like a blonde ballistic missile, punching him so hard he staggered backward into a support beam.
Meanwhile, three cultists tried to rush me.
Bad idea.
I spun with a snarl, fire flaring around my body like I was channeling every angry phoenix in history. One got torched mid-lunge, another got a flaming roundhouse to the ribs, and the third? I just blasted into a crate labeled "CAUTION: FLAMMABLE." Irony's fun.
Bane, ever the brooding tank, body-checked another cultist into a vat of bubbling Venom. Then—because drama runs in his veins—he vanished into the smoke like Batman's swole cousin.
"Of course," I muttered. "He starts the mosh pit and then Irish goodbyes us. Classic villain-exit energy."
More cultists were pouring in, and it was about to get messier than Wally's room post-speed nap. Then came the thunderclap—figurative, not literal—and the Team arrived.
Kaldur landed like a wave crashing through a drumline, trident spinning, face calm. Michael B. Jordan would be proud.
Wally zoomed in, vibrating with energy (and probably caffeine), disarming cultists like it was his part-time job.
Then Megan descended, glowing like an emerald goddess of cosmic judgment. She hovered beside me, psychic link sliding into place like a warm breath across my mind.
You're okay?
Better now, I sent back, just as my hand brushed hers for the briefest moment. Sparks. Literal and otherwise.
She smiled in my head. And yeah, I may have swooned a bit. Just a little. Don't judge me.
Robin's voice crackled through comms, as dry as ever. "Kobra's retreating to the inner sanctum. I'm on pursuit."
"Try not to get kidnapped by another death cult," I said.
"No promises," he replied, already disappearing into the catwalk shadows like he'd been raised by Batman or something.
Meanwhile, Kara and Mammoth were throwing hands like it was the finals of Super Smash Bros. She uppercut him into a steel beam. He roared and slammed back. She grinned.
"Need backup?" I asked over comms.
She smirked. "Please. I haven't even broken a sweat yet."
Megan was shielding Kid Flash as he darted between enemies. Kaldur called out tactical flanks like he was born with a trident in one hand and a leadership degree in the other.
And me?
I stood in the middle of it all. Fire at my fingertips. Sarcasm on my tongue. Heart on fire.
Because this factory thought it could drown the world in monsters.
But it forgot one thing.
We're the storm that burns monsters down.
—
The tunnel was damp, narrow, and smelled like regret had crawled in and died. Our boots echoed off wet stone and metal, and every breath tasted like musty air and bad decisions. Behind us, the collapsed entrance groaned like it was rethinking its life choices. Pretty sure Kara and I just invented a new architectural safety hazard.
The path twisted ahead like a drunk serpent—exactly the kind of labyrinth Bane would build during leg day. Flickering torches on the wall gave just enough light to remind us that this tunnel had all the charm of a haunted protein bar wrapper.
"We need an extraction point," Kaldur said through the mental link. Calm. Focused. Probably already composing a motivational speech in Atlantean.
Megan floated beside me, green eyes glowing faintly as she scanned the tunnel ahead. Her fingers brushed mine—totally not by accident—and I swear my heart did a drum solo.
"There's a slope ahead," she said. "Upward bend, ventilation shaft above it. Big enough for Wally if he doesn't panic halfway up."
Wally huffed. "Hey! I panic with dignity."
Kara, flying backward just to show off, smirked. "Relax, Speedy. You're like one of those fun-size candy bars. You'll squeeze through fine."
Robin caught up to us, cloak dragging dust like he was auditioning for Batman: Brooding Edition.
"Kobra's gone," he said. "Locked behind more layers than Kara's Netflix queue. But I tagged his panic door. He won't ghost us for long."
"Perfect," I muttered. "When we find him, I vote we gift-wrap him in snake-themed duct tape and drop him at the Watchtower. No return address."
BOOM.
Dust shook loose from the ceiling. Another tremor. Then another.
"They're breaking through," Megan said, voice sharpening like a psychic blade. "Mammoth's alive. And he's not happy."
Kaldur took the lead. Trident in hand. Shoulders set. Absolute power-dad energy.
"We move now. Up the slope. Quickly."
Kara floated beside me, wiping blood from her lip with a smirk that could launch ten thousand therapy bills.
"Think Big Ugly's catching up?"
"God, I hope so," I said, summoning phoenix fire into my palms. "I still owe him a flaming wedgie."
Megan gave me a psychic eyeroll, which should not have been attractive, but somehow was.
"Focus, Fireboy. Flirt later. Flee now."
We reached the slope. Ladder rungs on one side. Rusted. Useless. At the top: a ventilation grate that looked like it hadn't seen fresh air since Bane's bedtime stories.
Kara cracked her knuckles. "I got this."
She ripped the grate off like it was tinfoil. Light poured through. Jungle sunlight. Sweet, glorious daylight that smelled like freedom and badly-needed deodorant.
"Go, go, go!" Kaldur ordered.
Robin scrambled up first. Silent and efficient. Wally followed, muttering about tetanus. Megan floated up next—pausing halfway to kiss my cheek with maddening grace and zero warning.
"Don't die, Hotshot."
"Try to stop me," I whispered.
Kaldur went next. I stayed back, fire at the ready. Because that growl? Getting closer.
The wall cracked.
Mammoth exploded through the rubble like the Kool-Aid Man of nightmares. Behind him: cultists, armed and chanting, probably rehearsing for their next human sacrifice potluck.
"You guys have fun," I said, throwing a flaming wall between us. Then I leapt.
Kara caught me midair, arms around my waist like she did this every Thursday.
"You cut that one close."
"Dramatic exits are my brand."
We burst into the air, soaring above the jungle like some absurd action movie couple who forgot gravity was a thing. Below us, the factory smoldered. The tunnel collapsed. Mammoth howled like his hair gel budget just tripled.
The others regrouped in a clearing, panting, bloodied, but standing.
"Everyone alive?" I called.
Wally gave a thumbs up. "My legs hate me, but I'm still handsome!"
Megan floated to my side, her hand curling around mine like it belonged there.
"You did good, Shadowflame."
"You mean besides the psychic Venom cult, exploding walls, and snuggling Mammoth's fist? Yeah. Great day."
Kaldur turned, already scanning the jungle for threats.
"This war isn't over. We regroup. We rearm. And then—we take the fight to them."
I looked at the smoldering ruins. At my team. At the girl beside me who could read my mind and still chose to smile.
Yeah. Kobra picked the wrong week to start a war.
—
We all gathered on this ridiculous hill overlooking the smoking crater where the factory used to be. Honestly, it looked like a bad breakup playlist had been set on repeat in smoke form. Meanwhile, the local birds were chirping like nothing happened, totally unaware they'd just witnessed us blow up a snake cult's dream factory. Nature's got zero chill.
Robin was off to the side, cape flapping like it was auditioning for Gargoyle: The Musical, arms crossed, and his jaw locked so tight I could hear it grind from a mile away.
"I failed," he blurted out like a grenade tossed into the group. "First mission I led and I screwed it up. Kobra's gone. Shipment might still get off the island. Bane vanished. And I—"
"Hold up," I said, stepping beside him with my best 'emerald-eyed glare of truth.' "You didn't lead."
His eyes popped so wide, I half expected cartoon stars to shoot out. "But... you let me call the shots."
"Yeah, and that was me giving everyone a chance to step up," I said, voice firm. "Leadership isn't a participation ribbon handed out at summer camp. It's a responsibility. It's about communication, coordination, trust. You gotta let people know what the hell's going on. Spoiler alert: you didn't. You ghosted again. That's classic Batman solo act energy."
He flinched like I'd just mentally punched him in the gut. "I was being strategic."
"By going solo and leaving the rest of us scrambling? Strategic is teamwork, not Lone Wolf: The Sequel." I tapped my gauntleted fist to my chest for emphasis. "We're not the Bat-family, Robin. We're better than that."
Robin's shoulders sagged like he'd just realized the Batcave had no pizza delivery service.
I softened the tone, because hey, I'm not heartless. "Look, you've got mad skills. Maybe too many for a team still figuring out how to put on their uniforms. You're used to running with the pros. But this team? We're fresh meat. And expecting us to read your mind on the fly? That's on you."
Wally — our resident blur with a mouth — shot up, "Hey! I had some killer ideas, too!"
"You did," I grinned. "Then you ran off before we could try any of them. Patience, Wally. It's a virtue. Google it sometime. Preferably before your next lightning-fast exit."
"Ouch," Wally muttered, but I caught the playful smirk behind it.
Robin sighed and finally glanced over at Kaldur, who was standing there calm and collected — basically the human equivalent of a chill lifeguard on duty.
"He should lead," Robin said quietly. "Aqualad. He's calm, strategic. Knows when to speak and when to listen. He kept us alive."
Megan drifted closer, her eyes glowing softly, voice teasing but sincere. "I agree. He was the glue. The chill voice when everything was on fire."
Kara smirked, tucking a stray blonde lock behind her ear. "Seconded. Plus, that voice? Way more commanding than our 'improv leadership' style."
I nodded, feeling the rare warmth of team synergy that wasn't just from my flames. "I'm still the firestarter when it counts. But every team needs a second-in-command — someone who can take the reins when I'm busy lighting things up. For this mission? Kaldur, that's you."
Kaldur straightened, nodding once with that calm, no-nonsense vibe that made you want to follow him anywhere — even if it involved angry cultists and questionable ventilation shafts.
"Then our first priority is simple," he said with gravity. "Prevent the shipment from leaving this island. Intercept. Dismantle. End it."
The team nodded like a well-oiled machine — or at least a quirky one that'd just survived a hell of a first round.
Game on.
—
The helipad was a smoking mess of cracked concrete, ruined steel, and bad decision-making. The kind of place OSHA would have a heart attack just looking at.
Sportsmaster stood inside the cockpit of the matte black chopper, sweating under his armor like a linebacker trapped in a tanning bed. He jabbed the ignition button again—nothing. Not even a sad little cough.
"Start, you glorified lawnmower!" he barked, pounding the dashboard like it owed him money. The engine gave a weak grrnk and then… silence.
From the way he growled, you'd think the helicopter had insulted his mother.
Outside, a Kobra cultist—nervous, sweaty, clearly not paid enough for this—tiptoed toward his boss like a middle-schooler about to ask the scariest teacher for extra credit.
"Should we, uh… send someone to look for them?" he asked, voice cracking like a voice actor on their fifth take.
Kobra didn't answer right away.
He was lounging—yes, lounging—against a shipping crate like he was posing for a cultist recruitment poster. One leg crossed over the other. Head tilted just so. Smile like he knew something about you that you definitely didn't want him to know. If enlightenment wore snakeskin boots and had a southern drawl, it would be this guy.
"They'll come to us," Kobra said at last, voice as smooth as bourbon and just as dangerous. "That's the thing about heroes. They can't resist a good trap. Gets 'em all twitchy inside."
The cultist blinked. "So… we just wait?"
"Yup." Kobra didn't move. Didn't need to move. He tapped one finger against his temple like he was checking for signal bars. "Patience, sunshine. The storm always circles back to the eye."
The cultist had absolutely no idea what that meant, but he nodded like it was profound. Because you don't question a guy who once weaponized a python in a board meeting.
Back in the cockpit, Sportsmaster gritted his teeth and yanked at a lever like he was trying to pull Excalibur from a rock.
"Nah, I'm telling you," he growled, "some little bird's been in here. This is sabotage."
The chopper whined in response. A final insult. Then the fuel system made a pop noise—just enough to suggest that someone (hi, Robin!) had left a tamper-evident surprise inside.
Sportsmaster threw open the door and stomped out, muttering under his breath like a dad whose grill just exploded five minutes before the barbecue.
"Can't even hijack a ride without it turning into amateur hour."
From somewhere behind a stack of crates, a faint telepathic laugh flickered through the air—M'gann, clearly enjoying the show.
Kobra didn't look over. Just smiled wider.
"See? Told ya," he drawled. "The curtain's rising. All we gotta do… is wait for the main act."
Then he glanced up toward the smog-choked sky like he was expecting the clouds to part and deliver an epic entrance. Which, let's be honest, with this team? Wasn't off the table.
The trap was set. The heroes were inbound. And somewhere, a helicopter cried itself to sleep.
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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!
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