The night in Gotham was dense as always, a blanket of cold dampness clinging to his skin even through the layers of his suit. Erick Smith walked through the backstreets of the abandoned industrial district, the muffled sound of his footsteps echoing against the cracked asphalt and the ghostly buildings that once housed factories and warehouses. He didn't feel cold; the Project Cloak suit—or simply "Cloak," as he had begun to call it internally—was a near-perfect thermal barrier. The black tactical jacket over the base uniform absorbed the damp wind without letting a drop of moisture through. The sealed helmet kept the air filtered, recycled, with a slight mechanical hum that was more comforting than irritating.
The internal visor projected a discreet HUD: a navigation map in phosphorescent green, distance markers, and thermal analysis of the environment (no one around, just rats and a stray cat that ran away at the sight of him). The entire suit was matte black, with dark gray details on the joints, elbow and knee reinforcements, and subtle lines outlining the reinforced chest plate. There was no logo, no cape, nothing that screamed "hero." If someone caught a glimpse of him, they could swear he was a mercenary, a high-level henchman, or even a new villain on the block. Erick liked that. The absence of ostentation was his first layer of protection.
Green Arrow had sent the coordinates two hours earlier, via an encrypted message that self-destructed after being read: a specific point in the old public telephone booth area, those square relics of frosted glass and rusty metal that still dotted some forgotten corners of Gotham. "Wait there. Someone will pick you up. Password: Target. Response: Bullseye. Don't be late."
He arrived twenty minutes early—a habit of someone who learned early on that punctuality was essential for survival. He chose the most isolated booth, nestled against a wall covered in faded graffiti and dried ivy. The structure was tall enough to partially conceal him, its opaque glass sides preventing anyone from seeing inside. Erick positioned himself behind it, leaning against the cold wall, arms crossed over his armored chest. The visor scanned the perimeter every five seconds. Silence. Only the distant dripping of a broken pipe and the occasional rumble of a truck on the main avenue, three blocks away.
He waited.
Minutes dragged on. Ten. Fifteen.
Then came the sound: light, precise footsteps, worn in something that wasn't exactly ordinary sneakers—a stiffer sole, perhaps tactical boots. Erick tilted his head, the directional microphone in his helmet amplifying the noise. A steady, but cautious rhythm. Someone well-trained.
He took a tiny step to the side, just enough to peek around the corner of the booth without exposing his entire body.
And there she was.
A girl, perhaps the same age as him—fifteen, sixteen at most. Skin a pale beige tone, a little darker than the common beige, with that warm, subtle coloring reminiscent of mixed Southeast Asian or Latin American origins—perhaps Vietnamese, perhaps Filipino, perhaps a mixture that didn't need explaining. Blonde hair (clearly dyed, but well-styled) tied in a high, practical ponytail, delicate features with an evident Asian touch in her almond-shaped eyes and facial structure. Beautiful. Very beautiful, even with the hard expression she carried like armor. She wore a functional dark green uniform: reinforced cargo pants, a tight top with shoulder pads, high boots. On her back, a high-tech compound bow and a quiver full of arrows with varying tips. A black mask covering the upper half of her face, leaving visible only her firm mouth and determined chin.
Erick felt an electric shock run down his spine.
He recognized her instantly.
Artemis Crock. The archer from Justice League Unlimited, later Young Justice—the girl who joined the team with suspicion, heavy secrets, and deadly aim. Sportsmaster's daughter. Cheshire's sister. The one who carried the weight of a family of villains on her shoulders while trying to be a hero. He had followed the entire seasons, read the comics, watched the fanfiction and debates. And now she was there, real, breathing the same humid Gotham air as him.
His heart raced within his armored chest. Fifteen years old, teenage hormones raging, and a memory from another existence screaming "it's her." He took a deep breath, forcing control. This wasn't the time for fanboyism. It was time for professionalism.
He stepped out from behind the cabin slowly, hands visible, posture neutral.
"Hello," he said, his voice modulated by the helmet's processor—deep, neutral, with no identifiable accent. "I think you're the one Green Arrow asked me to find."
Artemis stopped immediately. Her eyes narrowed behind the mask. Her right hand instinctively went to the quiver, fingers brushing against an arrow.
"Password," she demanded, her tone dry and professional.
"Target."
"Spot on."
The two relaxed—just a little. The tension didn't disappear; it merely changed form.
Erick pointed with his chin towards the cabin.
"Did he explain to you how we get in?"
Artemis sized him up and down. Her gaze was assessing, almost clinical.
"Follow me."
She turned and walked straight to the phone booth. Erick followed her, feeling the weight of the moment. The door creaked as it opened—old rust, but the internal mechanism still worked. They both went inside.
It was cramped. Very cramped.
The space barely accommodated one person. With two teenagers fully equipped, it was like a sardine can. Erick's armored shoulder brushed against her arm. Her tactical jacket grazed her quiver. He felt the warmth of her body through the layers of fabric. Her scent was subtle: clean leather, a hint of gunpowder from fresh arrows, and something floral that didn't quite fit the image of a tough archer.
Erick felt his face burning. Thanks to the helmet, no one would see his red cheeks. He kept his gaze fixed on the wall ahead, trying to ignore how close it was.
Artemis, on the other hand, seemed completely indifferent. She picked up the old telephone—that rotary dial one that nobody used anymore—and began dialing a long code with surgical precision.
"Pay attention," she murmured, without looking at him.
Erick nodded, even though she couldn't see it.
The last digit clicked.
A blinding white flash exploded inside the cabin.
There was no teleportation sound, nor the hum of a classic zeta-tube. Just pure, intense light, and the sensation of the world folding back on itself.
When their vision returned, they were in another place.
The air was colder, drier. It smelled of ancient stone, metal, and a faint ozone from old electrical systems. Erick blinked several times, the display automatically adjusting its brightness. They were on an elevated, circular platform of polished metal, with years of dust accumulating on its edges. Around them, a vast underground chamber: extinguished control panels, broken monitors, exposed pipes running through the walls like veins of a dead organism. Dim, red emergency lighting. On the ceiling, an ancient symbol of the Justice League—the circle with the lightning bolt, the shield, the trident—still visible, but faded.
Natasha spoke directly into the helmet's internal communicator, her voice calm and crystal clear despite the absurd distance.
"Location confirmed: Mount Justice. Original base of the Justice League, deactivated eight years ago after a classified security incident. Structure still operational at 17% capacity. We are inside the planet, underground coordinates, east coast of the United States. Communication maintained via encrypted quantum network. Good luck, Erick."
He almost smiled. Even after teleporting who-knows-how-many kilometers, his AIs could still reach him. That was reassuring.
Artemis was already several steps ahead, climbing a short metal staircase that led to a larger, more open upper platform. Erick followed her, his boots silent on the metal.
And then he saw them.
A group of young people — and some adults — waiting in the center of the platform.
First, the tall boy: white skin, about 1.85 m, piercing blue eyes, black hair combed back. Tight black t-shirt with the red and yellow Superman symbol printed on the chest, ordinary jeans. Confident posture, arms crossed, a calm smile on his face. Superboy. Kon-El. Or just Conner Kent, depending on the moment.
Beside him, a boy with dark skin, short, wavy blond hair, wearing a classic Atlantean uniform: green and gold scales, the trident symbol on his chest, high boots. Aqualad. Kaldur'ahm.
A girl with green skin, long, wavy red hair, dressed casually—an oversized gray sweatshirt and black leggings—as if she were at home watching TV. Miss Martian. M'gann M'orzz.
A red-haired boy, shorter than the others, wearing a uniform inspired by the Flash: predominantly yellow, with red details on the boots and gloves, but with his head uncovered, his messy red hair visible. Kid Flash. Wally West.
A younger boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, wearing a simple black mask that only covered his eyes, a brown leather jacket, a gray t-shirt, jeans, and worn-out sneakers. Robin. The first Robin, Dick Grayson, still without the full bat-wing uniform—just the urban vigilante disguise.
And, supervising everything, the adults:
Batman, imposing as always, his black cape billowing even without wind, his white eyes fixed on Erick.
Beside him, Black Canary, arms crossed, an evaluating expression.
And Red Tornado, the red and gold android, arms behind his back, military stance.
The silence was heavy.
Artemis stopped beside the group, turning to Erick.
"We've arrived," she said simply.
Erick stopped at the edge of the platform, feeling all eyes on him — curious, suspicious, assessing.
For the first time since accepting the League's invitation, he felt the true weight of what was to come.
It wasn't just the basement, the suit, and the tests anymore.
It was the team.
And he was the newcomer.
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