Chapter 29
The training room lights were bright enough to wash out every shadow — harsh, clinical, almost too clean. The air smelled faintly of metal and ozone. Gwen stood at the center of the sparring floor, adjusting the wrap around her wrist, pretending her hands were steady.
They weren't.
The quiet thrum under her skin hadn't stopped since she woke up — a faint, pulsing rhythm, like something was sharing her pulse.
Might want to ground your breathing, Weaver murmured, voice low, almost concerned.
She swallowed. Trying. But my lungs aren't taking the hint.
Across the room, Robin was already waiting. Lean posture, relaxed expression — but his eyes were sharp. He noticed everything.
"You sure you're good to do this?" he asked.
She forced a smile. "If I say no, Batman benches me for a week."
Robin exhaled, half a laugh. "Fair."
He stepped forward, settling into a defensive stance. Gwen mirrored him automatically — muscle memory taking over even while her mind buzzed.
Aqualad watched from the upper platform with Miss Martian beside him, both calm but alert. Batman stood behind them, arms crossed, expression unreadable as always.
"Begin," he said.
The word snapped like a cable.
Gwen moved first — fast, smooth, confident on instinct alone. She swung into a roundhouse kick, Robin blocking and countering with practiced precision. Their movements blurred — a dance they both knew well by now.
Step. Block. Pivot. Reset.
Everything should have felt familiar.
But it didn't.
Her body was moving right — but her mind wasn't inside it. There was a half-second delay, like she was watching herself fight from somewhere else.
Robin struck low. She dodged — barely.
Weaver's voice came again, tighter this time.
> "Neural sync fluctuation. Gwen — slow down."
She didn't.
She couldn't.
Her heart beat once — and something answered.
A pulse of blue light flickered across her suit.
Robin saw it. His eyes widened.
"Gwen—"
He didn't finish.
The world lurched sideways. She staggered, air rushing out of her lungs. Static flashed across her vision — the fractal web, the infinite black space, that vast presence watching her.
Not here. Not now. Not again.
"Hey— Gwen!" Robin's voice cut in, sharp.
She was trembling. Not from fear. From interference.
THREADLINE whispered at the edge of her hearing — not words, not thoughts — impulse.
Connect.
Expand.
Merge.
She felt Weaver react instantly — walls slamming up around her mind.
> "Do not respond. Do not acknowledge. I am here. Stay with me."
Her breath came in short, uneven pulls.
Robin stepped closer, carefully. "Gwen. Look at me."
She didn't trust her voice, but her eyes lifted to meet his.
Concern.
Not suspicion.
Not fear.
Just someone seeing her.
Her knees weakened.
He moved quickly, catching her before she fell. One hand behind her shoulder, steady, firm, grounding.
"It's okay," he murmured. "You're here. Breathe."
She could hear the others moving — Aqualad approaching, M'gann's presence warm and soft brushing her thoughts—but distant. Like she was underwater.
Batman didn't move. But his voice came quiet, deliberate.
"Tell me what you're experiencing."
She swallowed.
"It isn't just inside me anymore," she whispered.
Everyone stilled.
"It's… listening. Watching. And when I move — it moves. Like it's trying to learn through me."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
M'gann knelt beside her. "I can try to help quiet the connection again—"
"No." Gwen shook her head, sharper than she meant to. "If you touch the link now, it'll see you too."
Silence. Heavy. Absolute.
Weaver's voice came again, lower than usual.
> "The network has recognized the host fully. Separation is no longer passive. Any external psychic contact risks integration."
Robin's grip on her arm tightened—just slightly.
"What does that mean?"
Gwen lifted her eyes.
"It means I'm not just connected to THREADLINE anymore."
Her voice shook, but she didn't look away.
"It's connected to me."
The lights flickered.
Just once.
But everyone noticed.
Batman's expression didn't break, but something shifted behind his eyes — calculation becoming urgency.
"We regroup," he said. "Now."
Robin helped Gwen stand.
She didn't let go of him.
Not because she needed support.
But because for the first time, she wasn't sure she could trust her own mind.