In Batman's assessment, only Thea could have built something this bizarre. She had the broadest toolkit—science, magic, Lantern ring energy, and every other oddity imaginable. Only she could integrate them into a single package.
A man who demanded total understanding of everything in his possession, Batman ran the armor through a full inspection. Once he'd confirmed there were no oversights, he began the first test.
Pain. Bone-deep, marrow-burning pain. His willpower was inhuman, and he'd braced himself thoroughly, but it still nearly overwhelmed him.
In a place he couldn't perceive, a deep reservoir of energy flowed from the distant void into his body, sharing the burden. Batman attributed it to his own adaptation and noticed nothing unusual.
Two steadying breaths, and he finally grasped the armor's full power.
Every one of the Batcave's dozen-plus diagnostic instruments had redlined—not because the readings happened to peak, but because the armor's output exceeded their measurement limits.
Strength enough to shatter a mountain. Speed that felt like it could reach the moon. Stamina and reflexes at levels that could only be described as terrifying.
"Intoxicating power." The searing pain drove him to end the test quickly. He stared at the armor—dangerous, lethal—and felt the pull of its promise: the illusion of controlling everything, destroying everything. It was mesmerizing. But he crushed the temptation with willpower alone.
Damian, unaware of his father's blissful dilemma, left the Batcave and sought out his best friend, Jonathan Kent.
"I don't think he liked it very much..." Damian said uncertainly when Jon asked about the birthday present.
"No way! Last year I gave my dad a pen, and he was so happy he jumped—wait, no, he flew into the air."
Jon wore the confident look of a seasoned expert, then suddenly caught himself. "What did you give him, exactly?"
Damian's eyes went wide, his small face falling. A pen? That counted as a gift? His present's raw materials alone were worth a billion dollars, and the craftsmanship was literally priceless.
Your dad was so happy he jumped? Mine nearly jumped too—except it was from the pain!
The two boys puzzled over it for a while, scratched their heads, and ultimately concluded that the adult world remained beyond their comprehension.
Just as they were about to head home, a cargo truck roared past them and vanished from sight.
"After it!" Damian grabbed Jon and broke into a run.
"Since when does Robin handle traffic violations?"
"Idiot—that truck has a magical signature!"
Damian dissolved into a streak of dark smoke and gave chase. Jon's powers still flickered in and out, though the encounter with the Blood Brothers in the Sahara seemed to have stabilized things. He could now maintain a reasonably graceful flying posture.
As children of two famous heroes, they'd picked up solid fieldcraft through osmosis. Their tail kept the truck in sight without getting close enough to be noticed.
The truck soon left the city and turned onto a rural road, complicating the pursuit. By the time they crept up on foot, the truck had been parked outside an auto repair shop for quite some time.
"Stop." Damian held Jon back. "There's a powerful mage inside. Aside from Thea, I've never sensed a mage this strong."
The two boys froze. Jon wanted to use his super-vision to scout, but Damian stopped him.
"Can't do this, can't do that—do you even have a plan?" Jon was getting frustrated.
"Stay calm. We need more intel."
"Why should I listen to you?"
"I'm older! So you follow my lead."
"I'm taller! You should follow mine!"
Voices hushed to whispers, baring their teeth at each other like a pair of small wolves, they bickered at lightning speed.
Damian ultimately decided: no superpowers. Technology only.
Shrinking tech—Thea's methods had long since been surpassed by the Atom, but Damian had acquired plenty of nanobots from her. Running a recon sweep was well within their capabilities.
The feed came through quickly. A man built like a lion sat half-reclined against one wall, clearly injured, barely managing to stay upright. Across from him stood a woman dripping with seductive charm.
Seven or eight physically imposing men—some in suits, some covered in tattoos, clearly ordinary humans—lay scattered across the floor in pools of blood, every one of them decapitated. The murder weapon was the serrated sword still gripped in the lion-like man's hand.
"They actually killed people!" Jon's voice shook with outrage. Since returning to his parents' side, he'd learned a great deal about this world. Unlike the wasteland, here, people who killed without cause were the villains. That was the worldview Superman and Lois had instilled in him.
"Easy. They're already dead. Let's see what these two are up to." Damian's moral compass was more nuanced. Born into the League of Assassins, raised around Thea and Raven—neither of whom qualified as saints—he respected his father, but he didn't consider killing the ultimate sin.
"How long until your injuries heal?" the woman asked impatiently.
"At this level—ordinary humans—I'd need over ten million lives to fully restore my divine power." The lion-like man sounded exhausted, his words sluggish, completely at odds with his massive frame.
The woman laughed, mocking. "Kalibak, you can't seriously expect those two goddesses to sit idle while you slaughter ten million people on their doorstep?"
She hadn't named names, but the lion-like man still felt a stab of dread. "Don't try to fish for information. They're not here—one's on New Genesis, the other just returned to the Underworld. I have my sources."
"And drop your little enchantment tricks, Circe. If you still want to join the New Gods, you must keep finding me sacrifices. My injuries can only heal through mass slaughter."
Circe shook her head with an amused sneer. "Anyone listening would think you're the God of Slaughter. But you're actually the God of Torture. How very impressive..."
"If you'd rather not crawl back to the Underworld begging for scraps, then either find me a great many lives to slaughter, or bring me an Old God. That's your assignment. Now go—I need to sleep."
Kalibak cut the connection without another word. The image in the repair shop shattered into fragments and dissolved into the air.
"Impressive, my foot! You're only somebody because of your daddy!" Circe's face went white with fury. She flung several bolts of flame, reducing the corpses on the ground to charred husks, then stepped forward and vanished from the scene.
Only after silence had settled for a long while did the two young heroes emerge from hiding.
They didn't recognize Kalibak or Circe, but they combed the scene meticulously.