Mark walked through the Watchtower's corridors, his boots clacking on the metal floor, his hands shoved in his pockets as panic and fear twisted his gut—he knew if the worst happened, if no one could fix this, he'd have to go with the Viltrumites to save his child, how could he not when it was his kid on the line, he couldn't just stand there and watch them die, and he knew Kara would do the same without blinking. He turned a corner, his mind racing as he thought about taking Kara and Raven with him if he left, picturing them following him into that mess, but he stopped himself—he couldn't drag them into something that dangerous, especially not Waylon, not his son, not after everything they'd been through to get back together. He slowed his steps, staring at the floor, not knowing what to do—he'd just gotten his family back, pieced them together after all the fighting and running, and now it felt like it could all slip away again.
He tapped his earpiece, speaking low, "Eve, can you try to locate Harley Quinn and Killer Frost?" He left out Cassandra, not sure of her last name—if Harley and Killer Frost turned up nothing, he'd dig harder for her later.
[Understood, searching now,] Eve's voice came through clear and calm in his head. [Both are skilled at covering their tracks—it may take time.]
"That's fine," Mark said, nodding to himself as he kept walking, turning another corner past a row of glowing panels.
His thoughts looped back to whether he should tell Kara and Raven about the baby's DNA—Kara would lose it, she'd want to jump in, start chasing solutions, but that was the last thing she needed now, she had to rest, Kryptonian or not, the birth could come any day, and running off after leads that might not pan out would wreck her. He thanked whatever tech Batman rigged up to block super hearing in key spots—without it, Kara would've already heard him in the lab, and he'd be facing one pissed-off Kryptonian right now. Raven would handle it better, she'd stay level-headed, but she wouldn't lie to Kara—they'd gotten tight, which Mark liked, but it meant telling Raven risked Kara finding out anyway. He stopped, leaning against a wall, rubbing his face—another part of him wondered if the fix wasn't science but magic, if Raven knew, she could hunt for a spell or something, it might be worth the chance of Kara overhearing.
He pushed off the wall, walking up to the door of the room he shared with them, pausing with his hand on the panel, taking a breath before pressing it open. Inside, Kara sat on the sofa, watching TV, her pregnant belly resting under her hands, while Raven perched on an armchair, reading a book, Waylon nursing at her breast, his tiny hands gripping her shirt. Kara smiled when she saw him, floating off the sofa, drifting over, and said, "I saw you fly up to the Watchtower—did something happen? What did you need Kal for?"
"Nothing serious," Mark said, pulling her into a hug, kissing her lips soft and quick. "Just a little run-in with one of the Viltrumites, but I'm fine."
Raven set her book down, standing up, and Mark pulled her close, kissing her too, her lips warm against his. "Will you not go back on vacation?" she asked, stepping back.
"I don't think so," Mark replied, loosening his grip.
"You should," Kara said, floating back a bit, her hands on his shoulders. "You've been working so hard—you need to unwind, I'm a little worried."
Mark smiled at her, pulling them both in tighter. "I'm fine, don't worry—besides, I was getting bored there without you guys."
Kara pouted, crossing her arms over her belly. "I wish I could've gone, but the stupid doctor wants me stuck here."
"I still think you should've gone, Raven," Kara said, looking at her with a smile. "Could've been your first family holiday."
Raven shook her head, adjusting Waylon in her arms. "It would not be a family holiday without you."
Kara's eyes watered, and she floated over, hugging Raven tight, pressing her face into her shoulder. Raven squirmed, saying, "Let me go," but Kara held on, laughing through her tears.
Mark stepped in, picking up Waylon from Raven—Kara pushed Raven down onto the sofa, pinning her there as she protested. Mark sat on the other end, cradling his son, rocking him gently—Waylon laughed, his tiny mouth opening wide, his hands reaching for Mark's face, smacking his cheeks. Mark smiled back, bouncing him on his knee, but his chest tightened—it hit him hard, how much he wanted to protect this family, how it felt like he was failing, like everything could collapse again. He hugged Waylon closer, pressing his forehead to the baby's, rocking him until his eyes drooped and he fell asleep, his breathing soft against Mark's chest.
Raven slid over, free from Kara's grip, and said, "He never falls asleep that quick for me," brushing Waylon's hair back.
Mark chuckled, handing him to her, standing up. "I'll be gone a few days—call me if there's any emergencies," he said, heading toward the bedroom.
"Wait," Raven and Kara said together, stepping after him—they tried to warn him Kori was inside, staying with them, but Mark didn't catch it, opening the door to see Kori naked, stretching her arms over her head, her orange skin glowing under the lights.
She grinned, shouting, "Honored Mark!" and flew at him, tackling him into a hug, her body pressing tight against his—he felt her hips shift, grinding slightly. "I am most pleased to see you—our last coupling left me wanting more, as I am not pregnant yet," she said, planting kisses up his neck.
Mark sighed, her lips warm on his skin, as Raven and Kara peeked in with sheepish smiles. "Kori came last night and asked to stay for a bit," Kara said, leaning on the doorframe.
Kori lifted her head, still clinging to him. "I have been very lonely lately, but then I remembered how much fun it is here, so I asked to stay—I hope that does not displease you."
Mark patted her back. "It's fine, don't worry—you're always welcome."
She cheered, pressing her lips to his, her tongue slipping inside, tasting him as she ground her hips harder, her hands sliding down his chest, grabbing his dick through his pants, squeezing. Mark grunted, his communicator buzzing—Barbara's voice crackled through as he pulled back, saying, "Hold on a sec," and stepped away, answering, "Hey, Barb, everything okay?"
"I know you're on vacation, but we could really use your help—I've contacted the League, but they're stretched thin," she said, her voice tense.
"It's fine," Mark said, nodding, though inside he gritted his teeth—he needed to find Harley, not deal with this.
"Oh shit," Kara said, floating back to the sofa, staring at the TV.
"Language," Raven said, following her.
Mark looked over, seeing the news—multiple muscular, red-skinned figures tearing through Gotham, smashing cars, ripping up streets. "I'll be right there," he said, ending the call, kissing Raven quick on the lips, then Kara, turning to leave—Kori stepped up, already in her Starfire outfit, saying, "I will help."
Mark didn't argue, and they bolted out, heading for the closest air lock.
___________________________
Gotham's streets shuddered as dozens of red-skinned muscle monsters rampaged through the city, their massive bodies smashing cars into flattened heaps with single blows, tearing streetlights from the ground, swinging them like clubs, and hurling concrete slabs through shop windows while people screamed and fled. Red Robin dropped from a fire escape, landing on a flipped van, swinging his staff to jab a monster in the eye—it roared, swatting the staff away, snapping it in half, and Tim jumped back, rolling across the pavement to dodge its fist slamming down, cratering the asphalt. Robin swung in on a grapple line, landing on another monster's shoulders, jamming two explosive charges into its neck, flipping off, throwing batarangs—they hit, detonating with a boom, shredding red flesh, but the creature spun, clapping its hands, the shockwave blasting Robin into a parked car, denting the door as he slumped to the ground. Superboy locked hands with one in the street, pushing against its grip, his boots cracking the pavement, while Wonder Girl lassoed another, yanking it off its feet, slamming it into a wall—she charged, driving her shoulder into its chest, sending it through the bricks.
Superboy grunted, twisting his monster's arm, and shouted, "What the hell are these things?" ducking a punch, grabbing its wrist, slamming it into a lamppost—Tim slid under a swinging arm, only for the monster to snatch his cape, hurling him off a building's edge—he flailed, dropping fast, until Donna dove in, catching him mid-air, landing him on a rooftop.
"I know not, but they are strong—I believe only you could match them," Donna said, spinning her lasso, rushing back down, wrapping it around another monster's legs, pulling hard—it tripped, crashing into a hydrant, water spraying, and she leaped, stomping its head into the ground.
Robin pulled himself up, wiping blood from his lip, and said, "They don't seem so tough to me," swinging his grapple again, landing on a ledge—he threw batarangs at another monster's face, aiming for its eyes, but it picked up a motorbike and threw it at him knocking him off, sending him tumbling into a pile of trash cans below.
Tim pulled out his taser, jamming it into a monster's thigh, sparking electricity—it growled, barely flinching, grabbing his arm, throwing him into a storefront, glass shattering as he hit the floor. "These guys are like if Bane took steroids, then Venom, then turned Kryptonian," he said, crawling out, tossing shock pellets—they exploded on its chest, but it charged, forcing him to dodge, sliding under a car.
"Focus," Superboy said, shoving his monster back, his eyes flaring red—he blasted heat vision into its face, melting skin, then headbutted it, cracking its skull, punching it into a truck, crumpling the frame. Another rushed him—he swung, landing a solid hit, sending it into a wall, but two more tackled him, slamming him into the pavement—he kicked one off, rolling up, only for them to grab his arms, holding him as a third punched his gut, making him gasp.
Donna darted in, lasso whipping out, wrapping around one of the monsters on Superboy—she yanked it off, swinging it into the air, slamming it down onto the other, knocking them flat—she ran forward, jumping, kneeing one in the chest, then spinning, kicking the second's legs out—it fell, and she stomped its head, keeping it down.
Tim threw a grapple line, swinging onto a streetlight, tossing smoke bombs—a monster charged through the haze, ripping the pole free, swinging it—he jumped, gliding away, but another grabbed his leg mid-air, hurling him into a wall, bricks cracking as he slid down, blood trickling from his nose. Robin flipped up from the trash, throwing explosive pellets—they detonated on a monster's back, staggering it, but it turned, grabbing his arm, twisting hard—a snap echoed as his wrist broke, and it slammed him face-first into the pavement, dragging him across, tearing his cape, leaving a smear of blood.
Donna fought two, dodging a punch, wrapping her lasso around one's arm—she pulled, flipping it over her shoulder, smashing it into the ground, but the other grabbed her from behind, lifting her off her feet, squeezing her ribs—she gasped, kicking back, hitting its knee, but it held tight, slamming her into a car hood, denting it, blood dripping from her mouth as she struggled.
Superboy roared, shoving a monster off, blasting heat vision at another—it stumbled, but three more piled on—one punched his jaw, snapping his head back, another kicked his legs out, dropping him, and a third stomped his chest, cracking ribs—he swung at them, landing a hit, knocking one back, but they swarmed, fists slamming into his face, blood spraying as his nose broke, boots stomping his stomach, pinning him down, beating him bloody.
Tim crawled from the wall, clutching his arm, throwing a flashbang—it exploded, blinding a monster, but it swung wildly, catching his shoulder, sending him spinning into a hydrant—metal bent, water gushed, and it grabbed his body, smashing it into the pavement, blood pooling under him as he groaned. Robin tried to stand, clutching his broken wrist, tossing a smoke bomb—one monster charged through, grabbing his legs, swinging him into a storefront.
Donna pulled free, swinging her lasso, catching one monster's neck—she yanked, choking it, but another grabbed her arms from behind, pinning them, lifting her up—a second gripped her legs, pulling hard, her body stretching, joints popping as she screamed, her ribs cracking under the strain, blood trickling from her nose—they yanked harder, about to rip her apart.
A streak of white flew in, punching one monster in the face—its head snapped back, teeth flying, and it crashed into a building, rubble falling. He swung an uppercut at the other, fist connecting under its jaw, lifting it off the ground, sending it tumbling into a truck, metal crumpling—he grabbed Donna, pulling her free as she gasped, blood dripping from her lips, and flew up, hovering above the street, holding her steady.
Donna hung limp in the air, blood dripping from her lips, her body trembling as the grip of the red-skinned monsters loosened—Mark held her steady, hovering above the shattered street, her head lolling against his chest. She opened her eyes, blinking through the haze, squinting at the white domino mask covering his face, and rasped, "Mark... I know it's you," her voice slurring, delirious from the pain. She coughed, blood flecking her chin, and grabbed his arm weakly, saying, "Be careful... they're all really strong."
Mark shifted her weight, keeping her upright, and said, "Don't worry, I'll deal with them." He looked up, spotting Starfire streaking toward him in her orange glow—he handed Donna over, sliding her into Starfire's arms, and said, "Be careful, don't let yourself get grabbed."
Starfire nodded, cradling Donna close, and said, "I won't," before flying off, banking toward a nearby building, landing on its rooftop, setting Donna down against a vent to rest.
Mark turned his gaze downward, scanning the street—Superboy struggled below, pinned under four monsters, their fists slamming into his back, blood pooling beneath him as he tried to push up. Mark dove, accelerating hard, slamming his leg into one monster's head—its skull cracked, blood spraying as it tumbled into a car, crumpling the hood. He ducked under another's swinging fist, grabbing its waist, hurling it across the street—it smashed through a storefront, glass shattering, shelves collapsing. He spun, throwing his full body into a punch, connecting with a third monster's chest—ribs snapped, blood spurted from its mouth, and it flew back, crashing through two buildings, bricks exploding outward, leaving a trail of debris.
He dropped to one knee beside Superboy, grabbing his shoulder, and asked, "You okay?"
Superboy coughed, spitting blood onto the pavement, pushing himself up, and said, "I'm fine—what about the others?"
"Starfire's handling it," Mark said, standing, wiping blood off his knuckles.
"Good," Superboy said, cracking his neck. "Now I can get revenge." He launched forward, tackling a monster through a row of parked cars, metal screeching as they plowed through, disappearing into the dust.
Mark straightened, turning as four monsters closed in, their red fists clenched, blood dripping from earlier wounds—he stepped forward, swinging a fist into the first one's jaw, bone crunching, teeth flying, but it swung back, catching his ribs, sending him skidding across the street, blood trickling from his lip. He wiped his mouth, surprised at the force, muttering, "Shit, they're strong," and charged again, ducking under a punch, slamming his shoulder into its gut—it grunted, stumbling, but another grabbed his arm, twisting hard—he gritted his teeth, inverting gravity under it, flipping it upward, then snapped his fingers, forming a red repulse sphere—it exploded in the monster's face, shredding skin, blood gushing as it crashed into a wall.
The third lunged, swinging both fists—Mark raised his arms, blocking, the impact jarring his bones, knocking him back—he planted his feet, making himself heavier, rooting in place, then swung an uppercut, splitting its chin, blood spraying upward. It roared, grabbing his throat, squeezing—he choked, hands glowing blue, forming a blue sphere behind it. The monsters head was yanked back and Mark pushed himself up and elbowed down on its throat before kicking it into another one of the monsters.
Mark stumbled away, catching his breath, but the first monster charged again, tackling him into a truck—metal bent, glass shattered, and it punched his face, splitting his eyebrow, blood streaming down his eye. He growled, grabbing its arm, twisting it back—bone snapped, it howled, and he kicked its knee, breaking it, dropping it to the pavement—he stomped its chest, ribs caving in, blood spurting from its mouth. The second monster rushed him, swinging a fist—he dodged, grabbing its wrist, hurling it over his shoulder—it landed hard, cracking the street, and he jumped, driving his knee into its face, smashing its nose, blood and teeth scattering.
The third pulled itself up, blood dripping from its torn face, and swung at him—Mark sidestepped, making gravity heavier around it—it staggered, sinking into the asphalt, and he punched its gut, doubling it over, then grabbed its head, slamming it down—skull met pavement, splitting open, blood and brains oozing out. The fourth roared, charging—he ducked its punch, forming a blue attract sphere in its path—it lurched forward, off-balance, and he swung a powerful punch, cracking its jaw, blood flying, then inverted gravity, sending it soaring upward—he flew after it, grabbing its leg mid-air, spinning, hurling it down—it smashed into a rooftop, concrete buckling, blood pooling under its broken body.
Mark stood on the cracked pavement, wiping blood from his split eyebrow, his chest heaving as he watched Superboy and Starfire tackle the last of the red-skinned monsters tearing through Gotham's streets. Superboy grappled with one near a row of smashed cars, grabbing its arms, twisting them back until bones snapped—it roared, swinging wildly, but he ducked, slamming his fist into its gut, doubling it over, then grabbed its head, smashing it into the asphalt, blood and teeth scattering as it was knocked out. Starfire hovered above another, her hands glowing green—she fired a barrage of energy blasts, searing its chest, melting flesh—it staggered, swatting at her, but she darted higher, diving down, kicking its face, cracking its jaw, sending it crashing into a storefront, glass shattering around its crumpled body.
Mark tapped his communicator, pressing it to his ear, and said, "Barbara, what the hell are these things?"
Her voice crackled through, sharp and tense. "I have no idea—I've gone through CCTV records, cross-checked every feed I could pull, and it's random civilians, no connection to each other, just spontaneously turning into those monsters and wrecking everything."
He shifted his weight, glancing at Superboy as he stomped his monster's chest, caving it in, blood pooling under the wreckage. "Is there no link?" Mark asked, stepping over a chunk of broken concrete.
"I'm digging through data now—medical records, locations, anything—but there's nothing tying them together yet, no pattern, no trigger I can see," Barbara said, her fingers audible as they tapped keys in the background.
"Let me know when you figure it out," Mark said, ending the call, pocketing the communicator—he took a step, then launched forward, jumping into the fray to finish off the stragglers.
Superboy wrestled with a final monster near a flipped truck, pinning its arms—it thrashed, snapping its jaws, and Mark flew in, slamming his fist into its temple, cracking its skull, blood spurting as it slumped. Starfire blasted another trying to climb a building, green energy searing its back—it fell, hitting the street hard, and Mark landed beside it, grabbing its leg, swinging it into a wall—bricks crumbled, blood smeared, and it stopped moving. He turned, spotting one more charging Superboy—he darted forward, ducking its swing, grabbing its waist, hurling it upward—Superboy jumped, meeting it mid-air, punching it down, cratering the pavement as blood sprayed from its broken face.
Mark stepped back, breathing hard, wiping more blood from his lip, scanning the street—bodies of monsters lay scattered, cars smashed, buildings gouged, but the fight was done. Superboy landed beside him, spitting blood onto the ground, and Starfire floated down, her glow fading as she touched down, brushing hair from her face. "Honoured Mark I believe we should get Donna and the Robins to the Batcave to receive medical care," she said.
"I could use a bit of that too," Connor said as he held his side.
"Let's grab them and go before the police get here," Mark said to the others who nodded.
High above, hidden in the dark sky, Galatea floated, her blonde hair drifting in the wind, her eyes locked on the scene unfolding—she'd watched the whole fight, Mark slamming into the monsters, blood spraying as he broke bones and tore flesh, her breath quickening with every hit he landed. She licked her lips, her tongue sliding slow over them, her hand slipping down her body, fingers brushing between her legs, pressing against the tight fabric as she stared at him, her chest rising faster. "Finally found you," she muttered, her voice low, a smirk tugging at her mouth—she pushed off, flying silently after him.
___________________________
Mark and the others disappeared over the rooftops, their forms shrinking as sirens wailed closer, red and blue lights bouncing off the shattered streets below—a large man stood motionless in the shadows of an alleyway, his bulk filling the narrow space, his hoodie pulled low over his face, hands stuffed in his pockets as he watched the entire fight unfold, Mark slamming monsters into buildings, Superboy tackling them through cars, Starfire blasting them apart. He shifted his weight, pulling a phone from his pocket, pressing it to his ear, waiting as it rang once, twice, then clicked—someone picked up, and he spoke wuitely, "They failed—just turned into mindless brutes, serum didn't work."
A voice came through, calm and clipped, "That is a disappointment," pausing for a beat before continuing, "since it worked on you, I thought a spliced version woth your genetic code would be more than enough to keep them in control."
The man snorted, kicking a piece of broken glass across the alley, watching it skitter into a puddle, and said, "Not everyone can be as wonderful as me."
"Quite," the voice replied, sharp and dry, "collect samples—blood, tissue, whatever's intact—and get them back to the lab before STAR Labs sweeps in and takes the bodies."
"Aye aye, Dr. Juice," the man said, ending the call, shoving the phone back into his pocket—he stepped out of the alley, his boots crunching on gravel, moving toward the nearest monster corpse sprawled across the street, its chest caved in, blood pooling under its head. He crouched, pulling a knife from his belt, slicing into its arm, cutting away a chunk of red flesh, blood dripping onto his hands as he worked—he yanked a plastic bag from his hoodie, stuffing the sample inside, sealing it, then stood, wiping the blade on his pants, scanning for another body.
He walked to the next one, crumpled against a wrecked car, its jaw hanging loose, teeth scattered around it—kneeling, he carved into its thigh, sawing through muscle, blood soaking the pavement, splattering his sleeves as he hacked off a piece, bagging it quick, shoving it into his pocket with the first.
He turned, hearing tires screech nearby, cops shouting as they spilled out of their cars—he ducked back into the alley, slipping into the dark, disappearing down a side street, weaving through trash cans and broken crates, heading for the lab before anyone could catch up.
___________________________
Mark stepped into one of the Batcave's bathrooms, shutting the door behind him, he turned on the faucet, splashing cold water over his hands, scrubbing the red stains from his knuckles, watching it swirl down the drain. He straightened, looking into the mirror, seeing the cut on his eyebrow still oozing, bruises blooming across his ribs—he sighed, running a wet hand through his hair, muttering to himself, "A hero's work really is never done," thinking back to what Superman told him once, about the job never ending, always another fight waiting.
"Eve," he said, leaning on the sink.
[Yes, Mark,] she replied, her voice clear in his head.
"How many people died in that rampage today?"
[133 confirmed dead, 200 injured, 27 unaccounted for,] Eve said.
Mark gripped the sink harder, staring at his reflection, feeling his stomach twist—he hated this part of being a hero, hated how people still died no matter how fast he flew or how hard he hit, hated wondering what the point was when he couldn't save everyone, why he even bothered when others, stronger, smarter, better trained, could do it instead. He shook his head, pushing it down, and said, "Eve."
[Yes, Mark.]
"Did I make a difference today?"
[You did, Mark,] she said.
He smiled faintly, grabbing a towel, drying his face, then walked out, stepping into the Batcave's main chamber—stalactites hung from the ceiling, dripping water into shallow pools, the air cool and damp, computers humming along the walls, their screens casting blue light over the stone. Tim lay on an automated medical bed, Alfred stitching a gash on his forehead, his arm in a sling, while Damien rested on another, his wrist wrapped, blood crusted on his cheek, Alfred adjusting a drip feeding into his arm. Barbara sat at the Batcomputer, typing fast, Conner leaning on the console beside her, Starfire standing nearby, arms crossed, watching the screens.
Mark walked over, rubbing his neck, and said, "Eve, any progress on the search?"
[No public or official records of Harley Quinn outside New York—anything she owns isn't in her name, I'm scanning CCTV footage, but she's clever. Killer Frost never returned to the United States, trickier to track,] Eve replied.
Mark cursed under his breath, stopping near the group—he'd have to go back to New York, start digging for Harley there once he sorted out whatever was happening in Gotham. Starfire turned, spotting him, and jumped forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his bare chest, kissing his cheek hard—she pulled back, beaming, "You were very heroic today," making Barbara stiffen in her chair, her fingers pausing on the keys, though she kept her face blank.
Conner shifted, crossing his arms, and said, "I fought too, you know."
Mark smirked, glancing at him. "I thought you were very heroic too."
"Fuck off," Conner said, rolling his eyes, turning back to the screen.
"If we can get back on topic," Barbara said, glaring at them, her hands resuming their typing.
Mark stepped closer, resting his hand on the back of her chair—his bare arm brushed her shoulder, making her cheeks flush slightly as she focused on the screen—and asked, "Did you find anything linking those who turned into monsters?"
Barbara took a breath, composing herself, and said, "I've gone over footage of all incidents—the only link I've found is this." She tapped a key, pulling up a dozen images—people in streets, stores, parks, moments before they writhed and transformed into monsters—she pointed at the screen, explaining, "In each image, one thing's consistent," zooming in on a large man in a hoodie, his face shadowed, standing near every victim.
"Did he do anything to them?" Conner asked, leaning closer, squinting at the footage.
Barbara shook her head, replaying a clip—they watched the man walk past a woman on a sidewalk, hands in his pockets, not touching her, not even looking at her—she kept walking, then stopped, clutching her chest, collapsing, her body bulging, turning red as she screamed into a monster. "He doesn't do anything—just walks by," Barbara said.
"Can't be a coincidence," Mark said, crossing his arms.
"Indeed—across one or two, believable, but all of them?" Starfire said, stepping up beside him.
"Run a Face ID on him," Mark said.
Barbara nodded, typing fast, pulling up a file—she clicked it open, saying, "Let me introduce you to David Armstrong," showing a photo of a massive man lifting a barbell, sweat dripping down his face. "2005-2010's world's strongest man—holds records for deadlift, bench press, a bunch of other weightlifting feats."
"Seems a bit redundant," Mark said, glancing at the stats.
"I could beat that with my index finger," Conner said, smirking.
"Most of us can't lift cars or fly across states," Barbara said, rolling her eyes. "By human standards, David Armstrong's the strongest to ever live—outpaces former record holders by miles."
"So what happened?" Mark asked. "Why's he gone from that to number one suspect?"
"Five years ago, he tried to beat his own record," Barbara said, pulling up an old video—David stood under a massive weight, grunting as he lifted, then his leg buckled, the bar dropping, pinning him, his knee twisting backward, bone snapping through skin, blood pouring as he screamed, medics rushing in. "Gruesome injury—ended his career. After that, he dropped off the map."
"What a sad story," Starfire said, her face falling. "To lose one's purpose, to be adrift."
"Seems he's got a new purpose now," Conner said, tapping the screen.
"We don't know for sure," Barbara said, biting her thumb. "Need more investigation before throwing accusations."
"We?" Mark said, raising an eyebrow. "Where's Batman? He deals with this crap."
Barbara looked down, her hands stilling, and said, "He doesn't do it anymore."
"Bring him out of retirement—Gotham's going to shit, the world too—tell me where he is, I'll drag him back," Mark said, stepping closer.
Barbara stayed silent, staring at the keyboard, then said, "I'm not sure."
"Not sure?" Conner said, brow lifting.
She nodded, folding her hands. "Bruce disappeared one night—said he had work to do, not to look for him, then left."
"How long?" Mark asked.
"Months ago," Barbara said, her voice quiet.
Mark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and said, "I'm heading to my mom's place to rest—had enough hero work today." He turned to Starfire. "Stay here in case those creatures show up again."
She saluted, grinning. "Aye, sir," she said, watching as he flew off, shooting out of the Batcave's entrance, cutting through Gotham's smoky sky.
He landed outside his mom's apartment, climbing in through the window, stepping into the dark living room—lights off, curtains drawn, silence pressing in. "Guess Mom's on a night shift," he said, walking to the fridge, pulling it open, grabbing a carton of juice, pouring it into a glass. He took a sip, pausing as a creak echoed from the hall—he set the glass down, saying, "Hello," loud enough to carry, then stepped around the kitchen island, peering down the corridor.
He moved slow, checking the living room—empty couch, TV off—then the hall, glancing at photos on the wall, a shadow flickering in the corner of his eye, gone when he turned. He checked the bathroom—door ajar, sink dry—then the guest room, bed made, no one there, but a shadow shifted behind him, vanishing as he spun. He kept walking, noticing someone was there, keeping his steps even, not reacting—reaching his bedroom, he pushed the door open, stepped inside, flopping onto the bed face-down, faking a stretch, then rolled fast, grabbing a figure by the throat, slamming her into the wall.
His eyes widened, letting go, stepping back. "Kara?!"
The woman smiled, dangerous and slow, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, her eyes glinting as she breathed out, "I've wanted to meet you for a long time, Mark," pressing closer, her voice low, her hands twitching like she might reach for him.
(AN: so it seems Dr Juice is back with his shenanigans. Just kidding he's mostly a plot device to link people together and continue the story without ruining the flow. He's a B list villain that isn't that important. Anyway now we have Mark meeting Kara, or is it Kara. Maybe it's someone else. Maybe it's Galatea. Or maybe it's Kara. Anyway hope you enjoyed it.)
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