If the robbers had thought things were going well, that fantasy exploded—quite literally—with the front doors.
A kaleidoscope of gold and sapphire burst inward like a fireworks finale at an Olympic opening ceremony. Reinforced glass flew like it had been waiting its whole life to star in a slow-mo action movie. Dust curled into the air like it had choreography. And through it stepped two women who did not come here to play.
Wonder Woman. Armor gleaming like it had a divine Instagram filter. Eyes cool, calm, and very much over this nonsense.
And Mera. Red hair flowing like she'd just surfaced from an underwater shampoo commercial. Trident in hand. Eyes lit up like Christmas and about to deliver the receipts.
Across the lobby, two of the robbers froze. These were not your garden-variety thugs. No, these were the deluxe, testosterone-soaked special:
One had a gravity cannon strapped to his forearm, all shiny and oversized and absolutely compensating.
The other had a fusion railgun that still had a New Gods clearance sticker flapping off it like a price tag on a flex.
And instead of panicking, these two did the one thing guaranteed to make the next five minutes of their lives very, very painful:
They laughed.
"Heh. Look what we got here," said Railgun Guy, flashing the kind of grin usually seen in energy drink commercials and bad dating app profiles. "Barbie and Ariel wandered into the wrong toy aisle."
"Oh, I love it when they think they're clever," Mera murmured, twirling her trident like a baton that could decapitate you.
"Sweetheart, we're packing alien tech," Gravity Guy added, puffing up like a blowfish in a leather jacket. "What've you got? Glowsticks and glitter armor?"
Diana tilted her head. Her voice was calm, measured, and about ten seconds away from causing permanent emotional damage. "A lasso that compels truth. A sword blessed by gods older than your fashion sense. And an infinite supply of patience for men who mistake ego for strength."
Gravity Guy scoffed. "Yeah? And I've got enough firepower here to make Superman cry. You're a pretty little Amazon with a bedtime story sword. You seriously think you can take me, baby girl?"
Diana raised an eyebrow. "...I do."
Meanwhile, Mera's boots began to shimmer with rising mist. Her eyes glowed like someone had dared her to cause a natural disaster. She leaned forward, voice sugar-sweet and deadly:
"Also, I command all water on the planet. Including the 70% of your body you're not using for thinking."
Railgun Guy frowned. "The hell does that mean?"
"It means," Mera said, "I can give you a full-body enema from across the room."
That shut them up for a whole half-second.
Then, in classic villain-makes-worse-decisions fashion, Railgun Guy fired.
A bolt of plasma the size of a smart car hurtled across the lobby—only to hit Wonder Woman's crossed bracers with a CRACK so loud it made the building's WiFi reset.
And then she moved.
Like, blink-and-miss-it, Olympic-goddess-sprinter kind of moved.
"Wait, hold—!" Railgun Guy tried, but Diana was already airborne.
Her boot caught his chest with enough force to launch him back-first into a marble column. His fancy alien railgun clattered away like a sad little toy, and he slumped to the ground with all the grace of a folding chair.
Gravity Guy blinked. "Okay. Okay. One down. I got this."
He aimed his cannon at Mera, smirking like he just made his move in a high-stakes poker game. "Ever heard of Newton's Third Law, sweetheart?"
"Yes," Mera said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "And it's about to throw you through a wall."
The cannon charged, growling like a chainsaw having a bad day, and fired a concentrated burst of gravitational energy that could have lifted a tank.
Mera didn't flinch.
Instead, she blinked. And all the water vapor in the air froze mid-blast—turning his big scary pulse into a sparkling glacier that hovered inches from her nose like it was trying to get a selfie.
"Cute," she said.
And then she moved.
With a flick of her wrist, a torrent of high-pressure water surged forward like a firehose fueled by vengeance. It hit Gravity Guy square in the chest, launching him backward. He screamed something vaguely misogynistic on the way down, but it was hard to hear over the ATM exploding behind him in a shower of quarters, sparks, and poor life choices.
He landed groaning beneath a pile of shattered furniture and at least one severely dented espresso machine.
Mera sauntered over, the mist around her shimmering like fog in a movie trailer.
"Next time," she said sweetly, looking down at the groaning man, "try fighting someone your own emotional weight class."
Diana rejoined her, sheathing her sword without looking at the still-twitching Railgun Guy. "You good?"
"Peachy," Mera said, flicking a drop of water off her trident. "They're not sending their best."
Just then, a voice crackled in over the Justice League comms—smooth, commanding, and so rich with attitude it could've been its own brand of perfume.
Beta-9, the League's new tactical coordinator, chimed in. "Ladies, I know y'all didn't just steal my entrance thunder. I was lining up my hologram intro with music and everything."
Diana rolled her eyes. "We were on a timer."
"You were on fabulous, baby. Just so you know, the vault security system's about to go full Skynet in sixty seconds unless Eidolon works that magic."
Mera tapped her earpiece. "We're headed in. Tell Eidolon to leave some drama for the rest of us."
Beta-9 laughed. "Girl, I've met Eidolon. You'll get your drama. Out."
And with that, Diana and Mera turned in perfect sync, striding deeper into the vault like twin storms in heels. Behind them, two battered egos lay twitching among broken tiles and the wreckage of their delusions.
The war goddesses had entered the chat. And it wasn't over yet.
—
The hostages blinked out of existence one by one in bright pops of blue light, clutching whatever random office junk Eidolon had shoved into their hands to activate the Portkeys. A stapler. A highlighter. One lady even hugged a glittery llama-shaped paperweight like it was the last life raft on the Titanic.
"You're gonna feel like your stomach got body-slammed by a drunken troll," Eidolon warned a middle-aged guy gripping a Hello Kitty pen like a sword. "But hey, better than becoming modern art on a vault door."
The man gave a wild-eyed nod—and whoosh, gone.
Eidolon dusted his hands off and turned toward the real problem: the vault.
It loomed at the end of the marble hallway, humming with enough bad vibes to give an empath a full-blown migraine. Alien energy crawled across the steel doors in twitching purple patterns.
And guarding it, two serious problems.
First, the techie—a skinny dude with wild blond hair and the posture of someone who spent way too much time online. He was hunched over an Apokoliptian breacher, some kind of glowing Lovecraftian jackhammer, muttering to himself in what sounded suspiciously like Swedish cursing.
Second, the gunner—a walking gym advertisement with way too many muscles, way too little brain, and a gravity cannon the size of a vending machine slung over his shoulder. He paced like a man who thought subtlety was a type of protein powder.
"Thirty seconds!" the techie crowed, punching glowing glyphs. "This baby's gonna pop that vault open like a soda can at a frat party!"
"Or we blow ourselves into orbit," the gunner said, squinting suspiciously at the tech.
"Relax, Logan Paul," the techie shot back. "I know what I'm doing!"
Eidolon sighed. "Yeah, about that."
Both of them whipped around.
The gunner—who Eidolon now decided to mentally call Dumb Hulk—fired first. The gravity cannon screamed and launched a pulse that made the air look like it was having a nervous breakdown.
Eidolon was already gone, slipping sideways into a flicker of shadow.
He reappeared right behind the techie.
"Tag. You're it," he said pleasantly—and slammed a burning red sigil into the guy's back.
The breacher let out a metallic shriek like an angry robot goat—and immediately short-circuited, coughing smoke and sparks everywhere.
The techie yelped and flailed backward, yelling, "Bro! Bro! Bro! NOT COOL!"
Eidolon didn't even glance at him. He was already moving, his cloak flaring like a demon's wing.
The gunner roared something creative involving Eidolon's mother, aimed his cannon—and promptly had a crimson dagger slammed right into the weapon's energy core.
BOOM.
The cannon exploded like a Fourth of July finale. The gunner flew backward in a gloriously undignified somersault, cratering into the marble wall with a crunch that made Eidolon wince in sympathy.
Beta-9 crackled into his earpiece, her voice pure velvet sass.
"Mmm. That's what I'm talkin' about, sugar! You lightin' them boys up like Christmas."
"Remind me to put in a formal complaint about getting stuck with amateurs," Eidolon muttered, shielding his face from the raining debris.
"Baby, you are the complaint. Now quit flirtin' with the scenery and secure that vault tech. Mama wants receipts."
Eidolon chuckled, low and dangerous, as he turned to the breacher. He knelt, tracing his fingers lightly across its surface, feeling the pulsing, corrupted energy vibrating underneath.
Yeah. This was Apokolips tech, all right. Not Darkseid himself, but close enough to make his skin crawl.
He flicked his fingers and spun a quick containment rune, locking the breacher inside a shimmering red bubble before it could sneeze and level half the block.
The techie, meanwhile, was trying—and failing spectacularly—to army-crawl away across the floor.
Eidolon let him get exactly three feet before he grabbed him by the back of the hoodie and hauled him up like a soggy kitten.
"You," Eidolon said, his voice a purr wrapped around a knife, "are going to tell me exactly where you got that toy."
The techie whimpered. "Uh...you wouldn't, like, believe me, dude."
"Try me."
"I-it was online, okay? Dark Web, obviously. Some guy called 'ApokDaddy69' sold it to us—"
Eidolon blinked. "I'm sorry. 'ApokDaddy69'?"
"I didn't name him!" the techie yelped. "He had five-star reviews!"
Across the comms, Beta-9 let out a low whistle.
"Whew, chile. The way y'all Earth boys be actin', it's a miracle the planet ain't already a smolderin' potato chip."
Eidolon dragged the techie closer until they were nose-to-nose. The man smelled like fear, energy drinks, and very poor life choices.
"You're going to show me everything you bought," Eidolon said calmly. "Receipts, addresses, payment methods. Otherwise, I'm turning you into a rat."
The techie's face drained of color. "You can't do that!"
Eidolon smiled coldly. "Wanna bet?"
The gunner groaned somewhere behind them.
"You too, Muscle Milk," Eidolon called without looking. "Move an inch, and I'll put you in traction so fast you'll be dating your physical therapist by Tuesday."
A golden gleam flashed past the vault windows—and then a boom so loud it shook the floor.
"Wonder Woman just threw a city bus," Beta-9 reported sweetly. "With Mera ridin' shotgun. Boys outside are havin' a full-blown existential crisis."
"Good," Eidolon said, dragging his captive toward the vault doors. "Maybe they'll rethink life choices like these two."
Speaking of life choices—Diana and Mera chose that exact moment to crash through the outer lobby, looking like twin goddesses of very sexy doom.
Diana, glowing in her crimson and gold, landed with the force of a meteor strike. Her smile when she caught sight of Eidolon wasn't just relief—it was something warmer, hungrier.
"Miss me?" she asked, tilting her head.
Mera, dripping with sea mist and deadly intentions, smirked. "You took too long, Shadow Boy."
"I was handling the brain trust here," Eidolon said dryly. He held up the still-whimpering techie by the scruff of his hoodie. "Behold, Exhibit A in the case of Humans vs. Common Sense."
Diana laughed—a sound like a battle song—and even Mera's smirk softened.
Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the fact that they all looked like myths come to life, standing in a vault surrounded by ruins and broken alien tech.
But for one blazing second, Eidolon felt the pull—the gravity—between the three of them. Like a current snapping between live wires.
And judging by the way Diana was looking at him, like she could see through the armor and straight into his soul, and the way Mera's gaze heated like a rising tide—
Yeah.
Maybe after they saved the world, they could have that conversation.
Preferably somewhere with less alien debris.
Preferably somewhere with fewer dudes named ApokDaddy69.
—
The cavalry stormed the bank about twenty seconds after Beta-9's velvet-smooth voice crackled in their earpieces.
"All clear, sugar plums," she cooed, somehow managing to sound both sultry and sassy at the same time. "Vault secure, bad boys neutralized. You may now accept your applause. You're welcome."
Eidolon—aka Harry, aka resident king of sarcastic charm—grinned under his hood. "Appreciate you, B. Remind me to buy you another yacht."
"You know I prefer jets, baby," she sang back like this was a Grammy afterparty.
The first wave of cops barreled in, already slapping cuffs on the Techie—who looked like he'd just watched his entire anime figure collection get smashed with a sledgehammer—and the Gunner, who was blinking around like someone had replaced his brain with mashed potatoes.
Gravity Guy (because Eidolon refused to dignify him with his real name, probably something tragic like Chet or Trent) was still face-first on the marble floor, arms zip-tied behind him, muttering about how "this wasn't fair" like a third-grader after losing a dodgeball match.
Railgun Guy, who honestly could've been Gravity Guy's twin if you squinted through enough layers of cringy masculinity, was getting wrestled into cuffs by two SWAT officers and shouting, "Bro! I didn't even do anything!"
"That's a lie," Eidolon muttered just loud enough for Mera and Diana to hear. "Your existence is a crime against good taste."
Mera snorted. Diana bit her lip, her ocean-blue eyes dancing with mirth.
And then, like a walking dad-joke in uniform, Chief Roy Montgomery ducked under the police tape, looking like he wanted a nap, a vacation, and maybe a tequila shot, in that order.
"God bless it, am I glad to see you three," he rumbled, sticking out a hand toward Eidolon, who shook it firmly. Montgomery tipped his cap to Mera and Diana, who responded with easy, regal nods.
"Evening, Chief," Mera said, flipping her damp red hair over her shoulder with a smirk worthy of a queen (which she technically was).
"We aim to please," Diana added with a smile so radiant it probably should've come with an SPF warning.
Montgomery glanced around at the chaos—craters in the marble, melted tech still sparking like angry fireworks—and sighed the sigh of a man whose retirement plan had just sprinted another five years into the future.
"Yeah...about that," he said. "You do know the military's en route to scoop up all this alien junk, right?"
Eidolon blinked innocently, like a cat caught next to a broken vase. "Really? And here I thought we were still waiting on the Girl Scouts to show up."
Montgomery scrubbed a hand down his weathered face. "I ain't telling you what to do. I'm just saying... it'd be a shame if—hypothetically speaking—all that alien tech were to, I dunno... inexplicably vanish."
Mera arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Is that your official statement, Chief?"
"Off the record," Montgomery said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Way off."
Diana leaned in, her voice mock-serious. "We understand the importance of... hypotheticals."
Montgomery just nodded, muttering something about paperwork and blood pressure as he wandered off to yell at his officers.
As soon as he was gone, Eidolon cracked his knuckles theatrically.
"Time for a little stage magic," he said, crouching near the pile of Apokoliptian tech, which was still pulsing with ominous, definitely-would-kill-you energy.
He began weaving sigils into the air, scarlet lines trailing from his fingers like living neon. The tech shuddered, lifted an inch off the ground, and started orbiting him like very murdery moons.
Mera whistled. "Show-off."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Eidolon said with a grin that could have melted an iceberg.
Diana crossed her arms, studying him with amused affection. "Is there anything you can't do?"
"Well," Eidolon mused, pretending to think hard, "I can't cook without setting off the fire alarm. I also lost a dance-off to a grandmother once. Pretty sure she had enchanted hips."
Mera burst out laughing, the sound bright and free.
"Beta-9, how are we looking?" Eidolon said into his comm.
"Looking fabulous, darling," Beta-9 crooned. "Also, quick reminder? Flirting while juggling bomb-grade tech is how reality shows get made."
"Duly noted," Eidolon said, flicking his fingers. With a shimmer like heat over asphalt, the entire bundle of alien nightmares winked out of existence, safely zipped away to Justice League lockup.
He dusted off his gloves theatrically. "And that, ladies, is how you keep Uncle Sam from building a Death Star out of duct tape and poor decisions."
Mera mock-clapped. "Bravo, maestro."
Diana laughed, the sound so warm and genuine it made Eidolon's heart do a weird little thump he immediately chose to ignore.
Probably.
Maybe.
Not.
"You're lucky you're cute," Mera teased, giving him a nudge with her elbow that definitely did not linger longer than necessary.
Eidolon smirked, because if there was one thing he was terrifyingly good at, it was surviving life-threatening battles—and flirting shamelessly afterward.
"Beta-9," he said, straightening up. "New job for you."
"Hit me with it, sugar."
"Search the internet for a user named ApokDaddy69."
There was a beat of dead silence.
Then Beta-9 howled with laughter so hard it crackled static in his earpiece.
"Oh, honey. I have got to see what kind of trauma led to that username."
Mera gagged. "Please tell me it's not a fetish site."
Diana looked vaguely concerned. "Or a political blog."
Eidolon grimaced. "Honestly, I don't know which would be worse."
He shoved his hands in his belt, doing his best to pretend the past thirty seconds hadn't just made him lose faith in the entire internet.
"So," he said casually, turning to the two women who somehow made the end of the world look like a Vogue cover shoot. "Lunch?"
Mera's eyes gleamed mischievously. "You're buying."
"Obviously," Eidolon said, throwing a hand dramatically over his chest. "I just saved civilization. Again. You think Batman covers my lunch tab? He makes me invoice him."
Diana slipped her arm through his, grinning in a way that promised all sorts of delightful future problems. "And dessert?"
Eidolon winked. "Oh, princess. You can have all the dessert."
Behind them, the chaos of the city faded into background noise—the kind of normal chaos that didn't involve alien weaponry or dudes named after bad Tinder profiles.
For now, the world was safe.
Which, knowing them, meant it was about five minutes away from not being safe again.
But that was a problem for later.
Right now? It was three superheroes, a city that still had hope, and a lunch menu with their names on it.
And if Eidolon happened to order extra pie to celebrate?
Well, he'd earned it.
—
Eidolon's armor shivered again—an eerie ripple of black leather stitched with veins of crimson energy—as the black goo helmet pulled one of its favorite party tricks. It peeled back from his lower face, oozing away like it had better places to be, revealing a jawline so sharp it probably had its own kill count. His mouth curved into a smirk that could make a nun rethink her life choices.
The glowing crimson eyes under his hood didn't dim one bit. If anything, he somehow managed to look more dangerous now that you could actually see him chew.
Which he was doing. With gusto.
Because when you get seated at a prime table at The Ivy, surrounded by movie stars and influencers trying (and failing) to pretend they're not snapping photos of you under the table, you eat.
At least, that's what Eidolon figured.
Mera, decked out in full sea-queen armor, sea-green and glorious like Poseidon had a daughter who also had opinions about fashion, spun a shrimp skewer between her fingers like it was plotting something. Diana—yes, the Diana, Wonder Woman herself, looking unfairly casual in Amazonian battle armor—sliced into a Greek salad like she could take down a battalion with just the fork.
Eidolon? He was going full throttle on a bacon cheeseburger, savoring it like the fate of mankind depended on grease and cholesterol.
Across the restaurant, Justin Bieber dropped his latte in slow motion. A Kardashian gasped like she just saw the Second Coming, and somewhere nearby, Oprah whispered to her assistant, "Book them. I don't care how."
Mera tilted her head, smirking in that mischievous, sea-witch way that made nearby men forget their names.
"I think the shrimp's afraid of me," she said, inspecting it.
Eidolon wiped a smear of bacon grease from his chin with a napkin and said around a mouthful of burger, "Good. Fear makes the seasoning better."
Diana laughed softly—a low, melodic sound that made three waiters walk into a potted plant.
"You are incorrigible," she said, smiling in a way that should've been illegal without a license.
Eidolon shrugged, unbothered. "I aim to misbehave."
"Mission accomplished," Mera muttered into her wine glass.
Eidolon leaned back, tossing a fry into his mouth without looking. "What can I say? Saving the world burns a lotta calories. Gotta stay fueled for the next cosmic catastrophe."
"Speaking of catastrophes," came Beta-9's voice through their earpieces, smooth and sparkling like liquid gold, "guess who just got a name for our little alien-tech Sugar Daddy?"
Mera immediately perked up. "If it's Jeff Bezos, I'm flipping this table."
"Sadly no," Beta-9 said, a musical laugh curling through the comms. "Brace yourselves: ApokDaddy69—real name... Brentley Chadwick the Third."
Eidolon froze mid-bite. Diana blinked. Mera choked on her wine.
"Wait, wait, wait," Eidolon said, holding up a hand. "Run that back. Brentley. Chadwick. The Third. Like he's heir to the world's first Trust Fund for Douchebags?"
Beta-9's voice practically dripped with glee. "Exactly like that, boo."
Mera snorted. "No wonder he turned to crime. I'd steal alien weapons too if my parents named me Brentley."
Diana cut her salad with assassin-like grace. "Brentley Chadwick sounds like someone who gets punched in the face at yacht parties."
"Plot twist," Beta-9 added, "he's a former Silicon Valley startup bro. Burned through three family fortunes, got kicked off crypto exchanges, and now sells stolen alien tech on the dark web."
Eidolon whistled. "Man's a walking TED Talk on how to be a complete failure with a silver spoon."
Beta-9 kept going, delighted. "And two of your four besties from earlier? Meet Brody Tate and Mason Tate. Gravity Guy and Railgun Guy. Brothers. Failed self-defense course at a strip mall. Flunked community college twice. Couldn't find their way out of a paper bag without Google Maps."
Mera stabbed her shrimp dramatically. "I'm shocked. They seemed so competent lying face-down in the parking lot."
Diana raised an elegant eyebrow. "Their strategy was... memorable."
"If by 'strategy' you mean 'charging at Wonder Woman and Mera like frat boys at an open bar,' then yeah," Beta-9 said, giggling. "Memorable."
Eidolon popped a fry into his mouth. "I'm genuinely impressed. It takes serious commitment to fail that hard."
Mera leaned forward, her sea-green eyes glittering with a heat that had nothing to do with sunlight. "We should find this Brentley."
Diana nodded, casually powerful. "Before he sells more tech to idiots with internet access."
Eidolon set down his burger and wiped his hands, grinning like he already had a dozen bad ideas ready to go.
"I'm in," he said. "But I vote we finish lunch first. Punching morons on an empty stomach's how you end up on a Snickers commercial."
Mera gave him a wicked little smile that could've capsized ships. "You just want dessert."
"Maybe I want a little fun first," he said, voice dropping an octave.
The air between them practically crackled. If chemistry were electricity, The Ivy would've had a blackout.
Diana's eyes sparkled dangerously as she reached for her wine. "Just remember, Eidolon. Fun with you tends to end in explosions."
He lifted his glass in a mock toast. "And yet you both keep coming back."
Mera laughed, light and teasing. "Maybe we like the fireworks."
"Maybe you like me," he said, flashing a grin so cocky the city of Los Angeles issued a public safety alert.
At the next table, someone who looked suspiciously like Chris Evans dropped his phone. Across the street, a TMZ van mounted the curb, cameras already whirring like machine guns.
Beta-9 chuckled in their earpieces, pure sass. "You three better wrap it up, honey buns. If you keep radiating that much hotness, I'm gonna need to install firewalls on every news network in America."
Mera winked at a paparazzo openly drooling near the patio. "Let them watch."
Eidolon clinked his glass against theirs, a lazy king ruling his court.
"To us," he said, voice smooth as velvet. "And to Brentley Chadwick the Third—may his mugshot be legendary."
Glasses clinked, cameras flashed, and somewhere in the madness of LA, a new legend was being born—one burger, one badass, and one gloriously chaotic team at a time.
And for Eidolon, as always, life was about to get a whole lot more fun.
—
The last bite of chocolate lava cake hadn't even finished melting in Eidolon's mouth when his helmet decided to do its little "horror movie magic trick."
The black goo slithered up his jaw, rippling over his face like a living shadow, veins of crimson energy lighting up under the skin-tight armor.
A heartbeat later, he looked like a demon had walked out of a heavy metal album cover and decided to do some light vigilante work.
Across the table, Mera tossed her napkin onto the plate with the kind of flair that could probably start wars.
"Fair warning," she said, her sea-green armor glinting under the restaurant lights, "if you get chocolate on me, I will drown you. With style."
Diana stood, moving like an avalanche made of silk, adjusting her silver bracers as the streetlights caught in her raven hair.
"Or on me," she said, smiling sweetly—like an angel who absolutely would break your nose if you sneezed wrong.
Eidolon rolled his shoulders, the black and crimson energy flaring with a low, sexy growl of power.
"Ladies, please. I'm a professional," he said, the smirk audible even behind the mask. "I'll only get blood on you."
Mera snorted. "Charming."
Diana arched an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. "Tempting."
Right on cue, Beta-9's voice purred through the Justice League comms in their ears, sounding like she was lounging poolside with a cocktail.
"Location drop incoming, sugarplums," she crooned. "Brentley Chadwick the Third—yes, that Brentley—is currently cry-screaming into a Red Bull at an abandoned TopGolf off the 405. Probably live-streaming his breakdown to twelve followers and a bot farm."
Mera twirled a lock of red hair around her finger, deadly sweet. "Can't wait to punch a man who owns three katanas and zero brain cells."
Diana sighed, already adjusting the grip on her sword. "I hope he doesn't make me ruin my boots."
Eidolon took their hands like a gentleman at a black-tie execution—Mera's left, Diana's right—and grinned.
"Hang on," he said. "First class. No seatbelts. Crying optional."
CRACK.
The teleportation snapped through the air like someone dropkicked a thunderstorm through the restaurant. Glass rattled.
Somewhere, a tourist definitely dropped their overpriced cheesecake.
And then they were standing smack in the middle of apocalypse suburbia: A parking lot full of cratered asphalt, flickering neon that now just said "T GOL," and a breeze that smelled suspiciously like expired Monster Energy drinks.
Eidolon flourished his hands dramatically as he released theirs. "Welcome," he said. "To the saddest kingdom on Earth. Population: regret."
Mera stretched like a sleepy lioness, her armor shimmering sea-glass green under the half-dead streetlights. "Ugh. I can already smell the Axe body spray."
Diana pulled her sword free, the blade gleaming like a fallen star. "Let's be quick. I don't want this aura of mediocrity clinging to me."
Beta-9 sighed dreamily through the comms. "Mmm, nothing like the scent of failure and unpaid child support."
Eidolon turned, walking backward toward the building's battered entrance like he was giving a TED Talk about bad life choices.
"If I ever want a katana photoshoot," he said, voice carrying, "it'll be me, shirtless, standing on a dead kraken, glistening with battle scars and holding a mango smoothie. And guess what? It'll still be less cringe than whatever Brentley's doing."
Mera cackled so hard she staggered. "I would frame that."
Diana, deadpan but smiling, added, "I'd commission a statue."
Beta-9 fake-gasped. "Y'all. Stop flirting. I'm fragile."
Eidolon tossed a wink over his shoulder, his crimson eyes flashing behind the mask. "Flirt harder, ladies. Might get you a personalized photoshoot."
Mera sashayed forward with a wicked grin. "Oh, darling," she purred, "you're already on our bucket list."
Diana just hummed thoughtfully, like she was seriously considering whether she preferred Harry draped in shadows... or shirtless with the kraken.
Inside the ruins of TopGolf, things only got worse.
Graffiti everywhere. Broken simulators. A vending machine that looked like it had been mugged.
And about two dozen mercenaries armed to the teeth, trying really hard to look like extras from a "Fast & Furious" movie.
One particularly greasy goon pointed a plasma rifle at them and barked, "Hands where I can see 'em!"
Eidolon tilted his head like a predator sizing up a limp squirrel.
"Buddy," he said casually, "I don't even put my hands up for Darkseid. You think you're special?"
Before the guy could blink, Eidolon blurred forward—shadows peeling off his frame—and snapped the rifle in half over one knee like he was breaking a twig.
Cue mass panic.
Mera surged forward on a conjured wave of seawater, her trident spinning, knocking mercs into walls with gleeful brutality.
Diana moved like a divine hurricane—every step, a knockout blow; every slash, a masterpiece of efficiency.
And Eidolon? Eidolon was chaos personified.
One thug with a crowbar tried to ambush him from behind.
Without even looking, Eidolon ducked, caught the man's wrist, and twisted.
"You know," he said conversationally, "if I had a dollar for every idiot who thought 'sneak attack' meant 'be loud and clumsy,' I could buy this dump. And still have enough left for therapy sessions for all of you."
The guy squealed like a kicked hamster as Eidolon flung him through a golf simulator screen.
Across the room, a behemoth with brass knuckles charged him.
Eidolon sighed dramatically.
"Is this supposed to impress me?" he asked, sidestepping so smoothly he barely rippled the air. "You look like you collect Funko Pops of yourself."
He caught the man's arm mid-swing, cracked it at the elbow, and politely flipped him onto a pile of broken TopGolf clubs.
Somewhere behind him, Mera whooped and Diana laughed—bright and dangerous.
Beta-9's voice came through the comms, breathless with laughter. "I swear, sugar, you're a walking HR violation."
Minutes later, the only one still conscious was Brentley Chadwick the Third himself, cowering behind an overturned table like a particularly lame dragon guarding a hoard of expired protein bars.
Brentley's "alien tech" armor—aka the world's saddest Etsy cosplay—glowed faintly. He held a katana in one shaking hand and a vape pen in the other, because of course he did.
Eidolon stalked toward him, slow and predatory, shadows curling around him like smoke.
"Hey, Brentley," he called, voice dripping with fake cheer. "Big fan of your work. Especially that one video where you called yourself 'the alpha of Earth-Prime.' Real groundbreaking stuff."
Brentley whimpered, scrambling backward. "Stay back, man! I'm armed! I've got, like—tech! And, uh, weapons! And—and powers!"
Mera leaned on her trident, smirking. "Wow. The insecurity is practically radioactive."
Diana crossed her arms, regarding Brentley like a disappointing midterm project. "Do you think if we tell him 'no one's impressed,' he'll stop embarrassing himself?"
Eidolon crouched, crimson eyes burning through the black armor. "You," he said, voice silky, "named yourself... 'ApokDaddy69.'"
Brentley nodded frantically, sweat dripping down his over-gelled hair.
Eidolon tilted his head. "Honestly? I'd be more scared of a guy named 'BreadsticksAreLife.'"
Then, with infinite gentleness, Eidolon reached out and flicked Brentley on the forehead.
THUNK.
Brentley dropped like a stone, katana clattering out of his hand, vape pen rolling sadly across the floor.
Beta-9 made a sound like she was fanning herself on the comms. "Lord have mercy, sugar, you make violence look good."
Mera approached, planting the butt of her trident next to Brentley's head with a sharp thunk. Her eyes gleamed as she purred, "I really love it."
Diana knelt next to Eidolon, her voice low, intimate, like a promise whispered in the dark. "And I absolutely adore it."
Eidolon straightened up, crimson energy pulsing brighter around him, and flashed them both the kind of grin that could melt glaciers.
"Good," he said, voice dark and electric. "Because I'm just getting started."
And somewhere—very far away—a TMZ intern was about to have the most profitable night of their life.
---
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