The P&B Group Boardroom—officially labeled "Executive Strategy Hall" on the gold-plated door—was really just a gladiator arena with less blood and more spreadsheets. Here, billion-dollar ideas were born, quarterly reports died screaming, and egos fought to the death over decimal points.
At the head of the table sat Hadrian "Please call me Harry" Peverell, who looked like he had just stepped out of a GQ meets Golem-slaying editorial. Charcoal three-piece suit? Check. Rolled-up sleeves that screamed "reluctant CEO by day, Champion of Death by night"? Double check. Tie made of genuine dragonhide? Obviously.
And his face?
That expression had already won three boardroom staring contests, ended two attempted coups via eyebrow raise, and currently read: "I'm listening, but only because I promised Mum I wouldn't delete another exec with sarcasm this week."
Across from him, a portly shareholder droned on about "minimizing expenditure across Q3 verticals by pivoting toward blockchain integration."
Harry mentally translated that to: "I Googled a buzzword and now I think I understand the future."
He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and said, "If by 'pivot' you mean blindly yeet money into something you don't understand, I'd recommend roulette. At least that has flashing lights and a complimentary drink."
There was a beat of silence.
James Peverell chuckled under his breath. He swirled the ice in his glass of not-bourbon (definitely bourbon) and murmured, "That's my boy."
Lily Peverell—flame-haired, emerald-eyed, and currently giving the shareholder a look sharp enough to cut through offshore tax fraud—tapped her fingers lightly against her water glass. "He's being polite, you know," she said with a smile that somehow made everyone sit straighter. "If I were chairing this meeting, we'd be discussing your early retirement package."
Meanwhile, Sirius Blackwood, who looked like someone had dared a biker to cosplay as a Wall Street menace, was attempting to jailbreak the boardroom thermostat with his smartwatch.
"These lights," he muttered, mostly to the terrified intern beside him, "are giving me undead realness. I look like a vampire who hasn't had his morning sacrificial goat."
"Do not," Harry said without looking up, "hack the Wi-Fi again, Sirius. Last time you did, the AI locked all the bathrooms and tried to marry the espresso machine."
"I was trying to install mood lighting," Sirius muttered. "We had a whole vibe planned."
At that moment, Dobson appeared like a British specter of order and caffeine. He wore a tailored suit so sharp it could open mail and had the weary gravitas of someone who'd fought in the Secret Butler Wars of '09. The man was part spy, part ninja, part butler—played in our heads by Daniel Craig, obviously.
He appeared silently at Harry's shoulder, holding a leather folio and a sense of impending narrative importance.
"Master Hadrian," Dobson said, voice low and smooth as a shaken martini, "Beta-9 is calling."
Harry's posture shifted a millimeter. To the average mortal, it meant nothing. To anyone who'd survived a boardroom with him, it meant the weather was about to change—and there might be lightning.
The room went quiet. Even the espresso machine seemed to shudder.
Harry stood, chair gliding back without a sound, and adjusted his cuffs like a man preparing for war—or worse, a press interview.
"Apologies," he said, flashing a grin so charming it should've come with a warning label. "Trouble is calling. You know how it is."
"You'll be back?" Lily asked, not looking up from her tablet.
"Hopefully before the next guy tries to convince us NFTs are the future of agriculture," Harry replied.
James gave his son a two-finger salute. "Remember, if you need backup, your mother's still licensed to disintegrate people with a pen."
"Do bring me someone fun to interrogate," Lily added sweetly.
Sirius looked up from his failed Wi-Fi rebellion. "If it is another apocalypse, can I pick the theme this time? I vote pirates."
"Noted," Harry said dryly. "Dobson?"
"Right this way, sir."
As they stepped into the corridor, Dobson leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "She says it's urgent."
"Isn't it always?" Harry muttered. "Give me the full Beta."
"She says there are survivors. From a collapsed reality. One of them may be Kryptonian. The other called Batman 'Dad.'"
Harry stopped walking.
A beat passed.
Then he blinked and said, "Well. That's either a heartfelt family reunion or the start of an incredibly awkward custody battle."
"I believe the phrase she used was: 'You're going to want your armor, your magic, and possibly a bottle of Scotch.'"
Harry rolled his shoulders, eyes darkening with anticipation.
"Tuesday," he muttered. "It's always a bloody Tuesday."
And with that, the doors hissed closed behind them, leaving a boardroom full of billionaires blinking in the aftershock of Harry Freaking Peverell.
—
Dobson kept pace with Harry as they exited the boardroom and into the private corridor lined with portraits that were probably modern art, but might also be sentient. One of them—a cubist nightmare titled Aggressive Tulip in Winter—winked at Harry as he passed. He did not wink back. The last time he acknowledged the art, it tried to sell him a time-share in a sentient volcano.
Without breaking stride, Dobson produced an earpiece from his inner jacket pocket like it was the final Horcrux or maybe a limited-edition Aston Martin key fob. Same energy.
"Sir," Dobson said, handing it over with all the solemnity of a butler presenting a dueling pistol.
Harry took the device, exhaled like a man preparing for battle or—worse—a press conference, and slid the earpiece in.
A tap to the side. The shift in his voice was immediate. Gone was the easy-going British tech mogul charm. What replaced it was pure Eidolon—low, deliberate, and so British it could declare war using only a raised eyebrow.
"Eidolon here," he said. "Go ahead, Beta."
Beta-9's voice came through smooth as silk and hotter than phoenix fire, with a cadence like a pop goddess who'd just solved quantum physics on her lunch break.
"Well, well," Beta-9 purred, like the universe was her personal red carpet. "Nice of you to pick up, darling. We have… an interesting development. Picture this: Gotham's broodiest bat just met his alt-universe daughter. Cute, right? Emotional? Also, cue the existential crisis."
Harry stopped mid-step. His expression didn't change, but Dobson—who had mastered the art of reading micro-reactions—noticed the slight twitch in his jaw.
"That's not even the good part," Beta-9 continued, clearly enjoying herself far too much. "She brought a friend. Kryptonian. Blonde. Carries a lot of emotional baggage and can bench press a moon. Says her name is Kara Zor-El."
Harry gave a slow, measured blink—the kind that in boardrooms meant someone's about to be publicly eviscerated via powerpoint.
"She's claiming to be Kal-El's cousin," Beta-9 added, voice thick with dramatic flair. "And before you ask, no—they didn't bring flowers, they brought trauma. Gift-wrapped. With matching capes."
Dobson gave a low whistle. "Sounds like family dinner with the in-laws from hell."
"She bring a warning?" Harry asked, already mentally swapping out his cufflinks for the weaponized ones. (Yes, he had weaponized cufflinks. What else was the point of being rich and magical?)
"Nope," Beta said, popping the p like it owed her money. "They brought vibes. And from what I'm seeing, this isn't just a flyby. It's the start of something big."
Harry tilted his head. "Define big."
A beat of silence. Then, in a voice so smooth it could've melted steel, Beta said, "Big as in multiversal crisis. Epic as in fate-of-everything-you-love. And tragic as in the last five minutes of every superhero movie ever."
"So… Tuesday, then."
"Exactly."
Harry let the silence stretch for dramatic effect. He was very good at that. Somewhere, a portrait coughed awkwardly.
"Dobson," Harry said finally, voice cool as the other side of the moon, "it's time to put on the suit."
"Which one, sir?"
"The one that makes Kryptonians nervous and billionaires obedient."
"Ah," Dobson said, straightening his lapel. "The You-Done-Messed-Up edition. Very good, sir."
Without another word, Harry strode forward, his coat flaring behind him like a shadow with ambition, Dobson matching his pace like the world's deadliest valet.
Behind them, the boardroom door closed with a hiss.
The multiverse, apparently, had decided to be interesting again. Lucky him.
—
Harry stalked down the hallway like a man who'd just learned that caffeine had been outlawed. His coat flared behind him with all the drama of a Victorian vampire, while Dobson glided beside him—half Hogwarts, half MI6, and one hundred percent done with everyone's nonsense.
"We are not taking the elevator," Harry muttered, shooting the nearest button panel a glare that could probably file a restraining order against itself.
"Of course not, sir," Dobson said smoothly, his British accent sharp enough to shave with. "That would imply we have time for Enya and awkward silence."
Harry snorted. "And the awkward silence would kill me faster than whatever's waiting in Gotham."
Halfway to his obsidian-coated office, he pulled out his phone—because nothing says 'superhero on a mission' like speed-dialing your girlfriend while marching like you're about to interrogate the universe.
He tapped the contact labeled: Princess Trouble #1.
The line picked up on the first ring.
Clang. Thud. What might've been a Spartan war cry.
"Harry," came Diana's voice—cool, calm, and powerful enough to make Mount Olympus rethink its life choices. "If this is about dinner, I'm going to need a rain check. A Hydra just tried to sack the Acropolis. Again."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I told you not to leave the door open for Greek monsters. They start thinking it's an Airbnb."
She chuckled—a sound that could've tamed dragons. "If you've called just to flirt while I'm decapitating mythological creatures…"
"Oh, I'd never do that," he said, grinning like a man who absolutely would. "Batman pulled the panic cord."
There was a pause, and Harry could practically hear her frown through the phone. "He has a panic cord?"
"It's metaphorical. But yes. Gotham's crawling with alt-universe drama. He's got a daughter from a parallel timeline—don't ask me how, I don't want to know—and a Kryptonian claiming to be Superman's cousin. The Batcave's basically Comic-Con now."
Diana sighed. "Do you want backup?"
"No, I want plausible deniability. Keep saving democracy, Princess. I'll holler if it goes full Crisis on Infinite Gothams."
She paused. "You do realize I'm not going to sleep until I know you're back in one piece."
Harry's voice dropped, soft but full of fire. "I'll come back. You can tie me to the bed if I don't."
Diana hummed. "Don't tempt me, wizard."
"Oh, I live to tempt," he purred, and hung up before she could retort—which, let's be honest, took the kind of courage you don't get from Galleons or grit. It was pure chaos-born confidence.
Without missing a beat, he hit the next contact: Mermissile.
Static exploded in his ear, followed by what sounded like a whale screaming in Klingon.
"Harry," Mera said, voice muffled by rushing water and probably rage. "If this is about Bruce being dramatic again, I—"
"It is absolutely about Bruce being dramatic again," Harry said, dodging an intern who wisely decided to walk into a wall rather than risk eye contact. "Also, Gotham's now got multiverse refugees. Some angsty alternate-dimension daughter, and a blonde Kryptonian who's probably allergic to subtlety."
"Did they bring cake?"
"No. Just unresolved trauma and super strength."
Mera groaned. "Ugh. Kryptonians. They're like emotional wrecking balls wrapped in solar-powered superiority complexes."
"Exactly. I just wanted you to know I'm heading into the bat-abyss. If I don't text back in an hour, assume I'm either dead or in the middle of a very long, very broody lecture."
"You better come back in one piece," she warned, her voice suddenly soft. "Or I'm flooding Wayne Manor."
"I knew there was a reason I liked you," Harry said, grinning like a lunatic. "I'll be back soon. And if not… avenge me dramatically."
She scoffed. "You wish you were that important."
"I know I am," he replied, and cut the line with the dramatic flourish of a man who wore sarcasm like armor.
They reached the massive obsidian doors to his private office—towering slabs of shadow laced with crimson runes that glowed faintly, whispering things like Unauthorized entry will result in spontaneous combustion. Have a nice day!
Dobson lifted one eyebrow and waved a gloved hand. A shimmer of protective magic flickered to life—runic wards syncing with unseen charms to block every camera, sensor, AI, and overly curious dust mote.
"Room's clean, sir," Dobson said, wand vanishing up his sleeve like a Bond villain with style.
"Excellent," Harry said, stepping into the center of the office. "Let's suit up."
He tapped the ring on his finger.
The change was instantaneous.
Black goo spilled over his skin like spilled ink moving with purpose, crawling up his limbs in a sleek, sinuous wave. It clung to him—molded, armored, alive. The black leather shimmered with subtle sheen, veins of crimson crawling out from the emblem on his chest like living fire.
The emblem itself—the Deathly Hallows—flared bright crimson, pulsing like a heartbeat on the edge of rage.
A cloak unfurled down his back, flowing like liquid shadow, lined in crimson that glowed with inner light. The air was still, but the cloak rippled anyway—as though it knew it was dramatic and demanded to be admired.
A hood formed. A helmet slid into place with a hiss—black as void, smooth as glass, and utterly unreadable. Only his eyes remained, twin crimson orbs that glowed like eldritch warning signs that whispered run.
Dobson gave him a slow once-over, like a man trying not to be impressed and failing.
"Sir," he said with the kind of reverence normally reserved for ancient relics and Aston Martins, "you look terrifying."
Harry's voice emerged modulated, deep, and echoing like thunder whispering a secret.
"Good."
He turned toward the portal embedded in the wall—a swirling well of magic, hidden behind illusion, now shimmering to life.
"Time to pay the Bat a visit."
Dobson straightened his cuffs. "Shall I prep the portal, sir?"
"Make it fast," Harry said, eyes narrowing like a predator zeroing in. "I want to be there before Bruce starts monologuing about his trauma backlog."
"Understood."
And with that, the shadows rose. The air twisted. And Eidolon, terror in a cloak, vanished into the fold—leaving nothing behind but the echo of his footsteps and a faint scent of ozone and snark.
—
The shadows belched Eidolon into the world like the universe had just coughed up something spicy, sarcastic, and vaguely British.
One moment, Gotham was peacefully drowning in its usual existential dread and morally gray rainclouds. The next, a portal—glowing with all the dramatic flair of a Hogwarts light show—spat out a figure dressed in black and crimson armor that screamed "I could beat you to death with style, and you'd thank me for the privilege."
The gravel path leading to Wayne Manor hissed under his boots, as if it, too, had learned to fear sarcasm. Lightning flashed overhead, because of course it did. Gotham didn't do subtle. It went straight from "mildly ominous" to "this place has definitely seen a vampire funeral."
Eidolon walked toward the gates without missing a beat, his cloak flaring like it had its own Netflix spin-off. The iron gates creaked open, not by tech or magic, but what could only be described as sheer presence. As in: this man walks like plot armor follows him around on a leash.
He didn't knock.
Eidolon never knocked.
He reached the manor steps just as the massive double doors swung open, revealing Alfred Pennyworth in a suit crisp enough to slice through steel, holding a silver tray with a teacup that defied both gravity and Gotham weather.
"Good evening, Master Hadrian," Alfred said, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. "I see the laws of physics and common sense are still taking the night off where you're concerned."
Harry removed his helmet with the kind of casual flair you only get from surviving ancient prophecies and dating Amazonian royalty. His black hair, soaked by the rain, stuck to his forehead, and his glowing red eyes flickered back to green like even his irises had flair.
"You wound me, Alfie," he said, handing over the helmet like a gentleman handing over his coat to a maître d'. "I've only mildly offended a Greek goddess, an Atlantean princess, and Bruce's last nerve. I'm practically U.N. material."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "And yet, you still manage to look like a high-budget supervillain from a Christopher Nolan fever dream."
"I take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't one."
"And yet, here you are—offering tea like I'm not tracking five different magical contaminants and just walked through a Hellmouth."
"I do believe you prefer chamomile."
Harry grinned. "You do love me."
"Someone has to," Alfred replied dryly. "And we've recently gone through three new butlers. The last one saw your security file and thought 'Eidolon' was a code name for a demon. He's currently vacationing somewhere in Tibet. As in, permanently."
"I told you not to hire anyone who can't handle sarcasm and black leather."
"You've just described ninety percent of Gotham's rogues' gallery. Shall we aim a bit higher?"
They walked into the manor, their footsteps echoing down polished halls lined with portraits of long-dead Waynes who looked like they wouldn't know fun if it bit them in the monocle.
Harry gave Thomas Wayne's portrait a wink.
"You know, he judged me less than Bruce does. And he's been dead for decades."
Alfred sniffed. "He also drank his bourbon with pickle juice, so perhaps let's not canonize the man."
They passed through the hall of "Wayne Brooding Aesthetics," otherwise known as the drawing room.
"Is the Bat in the Cave?" Harry asked, unbothered by the ridiculousness of that question.
"Where else?" Alfred said. "He's brooding with purpose, like a motivational poster for repressed emotional trauma."
Harry smirked. "So, the usual."
Alfred gave a sage nod. "He's been rather tense ever since Miss Lane sent that article about the girl claiming to be his daughter. There was a great deal of glaring and breaking of perfectly innocent training dummies."
Harry stopped mid-stride. "He didn't call me?"
"Oh, he did. Several times."
"And?"
"I didn't tell you."
Harry blinked. "Alfie. That's cold."
"That's strategy," Alfred corrected. "Had I informed you earlier, you'd have shown up mid-hydra-slaying, wearing that suit, while Miss Diana was dodging Olympian drama and poor Queen Mera was impaling diplomats with less-than-subtle metaphors."
Harry sighed. "You've been keeping tabs again."
Alfred gave him a look that could melt lead. "I've been keeping tabs since you were teething on cursed silverware. Do try to keep up."
They approached the grandfather clock that wasn't really a clock, but more of a Bat-elevator disguised as a family heirloom.
"Oh, and Miss Diana asked me to remind you about that dinner date you promised her."
Harry rolled his eyes fondly. "Let me guess. She wants me to cook."
"She didn't say so directly. But she did send a photo of herself holding a Hydra's head like a volleyball. I believe that qualifies as an Amazonian love letter."
"She really knows how to set the mood."
"She does. And so help me, if she ends up throwing another chair through the Batcomputer during your next 'flirt fight,' I will make you pay for it out of your multiversal emergency fund."
They reached the clock. Alfred flicked the latch. The hidden door swung open, revealing the secret elevator to the Batcave.
"You know," Alfred said, as the lift began its descent, "you're the only person Bruce allows to insult him in his own home."
Harry cracked his knuckles. "Of course I am. I insult him with style. Besides, someone's got to knock him off the 'I am vengeance' high horse before it starts quoting Nietzsche at Thanksgiving."
Alfred actually chuckled. "Try not to break anything."
"No promises."
The elevator sank into darkness with a soft hum, carrying Eidolon toward the Batcave and, inevitably, more chaos.
Because when Hadrian 'Eidolon' Peverell came calling, things didn't just get interesting.
They got epic.
—
The Batcave was not built for sass.
It tolerated it—barely—but as the elevator descended, there was a distinct shift in the air. Like the cave itself tensed, bracing for impact.
Ding.
The doors slid open with a whisper. Shadows stretched long over concrete and chrome. Rows of Batmobiles glared like moody sports cars at a family reunion. Monitors the size of small countries flickered with red alerts and Bruce Wayne's greatest hits: satellite feeds, crime heatmaps, and a screensaver that looked like a minimalist apocalypse.
At the center of it all?
Batman. Cape at maximum intimidation level. Arms crossed like he was auditioning for "Brooding Statue #1." Eyes narrowed to "Tell me your tragic backstory or get out."
On either side of him stood two very different flavors of "don't mess with me."
To his right: a girl in a sleek, matte black batsuit with sharp lines and sharper cheekbones. Her arms were folded, her expression pure "if you touch my tech, I bite." Her name was Helena Wayne, and she had the resting glare of a daughter raised on rooftop interrogations and passive-aggressive Bat-lectures.
To his left: a Kryptonian bombshell in a white-and-blue suit that practically sparkled with sunlight. Blonde hair, posture like a queen in exile, and the expression of someone one misplaced latte away from lasering a mountain. Kara Zor-El. Solar-powered apocalypse in lip gloss, if you wanted to be informal.
Then came the man the cave had been dreading.
He stepped out of the elevator like he owned the multiverse and possibly charged rent. Cloak swirling, boots echoing, eyes gleaming with trouble. His smile was equal parts charm and "I probably insulted a New God before breakfast."
"Well," he said, surveying the room like it owed him money, "someone's been dumpster diving in the multiverse clearance bin."
Helena raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"
He bowed, dramatic as a stage magician. His cloak, naturally, flared like it had read the script.
"Hadrian Peverell," he announced. "Eidolon, if you prefer the name whispered in reverence or screamed across dimensions by people who should really know better."
Kara squinted. "You're not from our Earth."
"Oh, I know. Believe me, Your version of me probably took one look at your timeline and said, 'You know what this needs? A hard pass.'" He winked. "He probably ascended to a higher plane just to avoid the plot holes."
"Convenient," Helena muttered. She glanced at Bruce. "He always like this?"
Bruce didn't answer. Bruce never answered stupid questions. Or obvious ones. Or, really, any question that could be answered with a scowl and a jaw flex.
Eidolon grinned wider. "C'mon. You have to admit, it's a little rude. You break into my universe, mess with the gravitational feng shui, and not a single mention of yours truly back home? Not even a trading card?"
"No Eidolon," Helena said. "No Hadrian Peverell. Just Batman. Superman. Wonder Woman. The usual legends."
Kara crossed her arms, and somehow the temperature rose two degrees. "And yet, you seem to know us."
"I'm cursed with excellent taste and better intelligence," Eidolon said, folding his hands behind his back like a smug headmaster. "Kara Zor-El, Last Daughter of Argo, future President of Sun-powered Glare Death. Helena Wayne, Batspawn Supreme, whose therapy bills could bankrupt LexCorp. Daughter of Bruce and—let me guess—Selina?"
Helena narrowed her eyes. "How'd you—"
He gestured vaguely. "You've got that vibe. Like you know where the knife goes and which artery bleeds fastest."
Kara raised an eyebrow. "And you're supposed to be what? Magic Batman with a thesaurus?"
"Please," Eidolon said, mock-offended. "Batman is the cautionary tale. I'm the sequel. The one with actual self-awareness and less growling. Also fire magic."
At that, Bruce finally stirred. Voice like gravel in a blender, but quieter.
"They arrived two hours ago," he said. "Zeta-flux breach, coordinates matched the Underforge. They're displaced, but stable."
Eidolon nodded. "And you called me because I'm the only one who doesn't flinch when the multiverse throws a tantrum and the Kryptonian brings heat vision to brunch."
Bruce didn't answer. Which was Bat for "yes."
Eidolon turned, pacing like a lecturer preparing to drop a thesis on the gods. "So. Let me get this straight. A Wayne and a Zor-El pop out of a hole in reality. No context. No coordinates. Like two pieces of DLC from a game no one remembers downloading."
"We're not here by choice," Kara said.
"Neither was the Titanic," Eidolon said. "Didn't stop it from making waves."
Helena stepped forward, glaring. "Are you ever serious?"
"I'm British," he said. "We invented sarcasm during the Black Plague. Helps pass the time between existential crises."
Then—just for a second—the smile dropped.
"I know something brought you here," Eidolon said, voice lower now. "And it wasn't chance. You don't throw Wayne genetics and Kryptonian blood into the mix unless someone's about to roll initiative."
Helena's jaw tightened. "So you do know."
"I've seen your world before," he said. "Or one like it. Broken. Bending under something big enough to crack time. And trust me—whatever's coming? It doesn't knock twice."
Kara stepped forward, eyes bright with solar fury. "Then help us stop it."
Eidolon met her gaze, unfazed. "I will. But first…"
He turned to Bruce.
"I want access to every bit of data you've compiled since they landed. All the files you pretend don't exist, tucked neatly behind six firewalls and an encryption protocol named after your dead parents."
Bruce stared at him. Classic Bat-glare. The one that usually melted billionaires and made street thugs rethink their life choices.
Then—reluctantly—he moved aside.
"This way."
Helena and Kara exchanged a look.
"I don't like him," Helena muttered.
"You don't have to," Kara replied, brushing past Eidolon. "But I think he's our best shot."
Behind them, Eidolon smirked.
"Oh, now it's a party."
—
The Batcomputer hummed like it knew secrets it wasn't ready to share. Bruce's fingers moved across the keyboard with surgical precision, pulling up files that didn't exist and decryptions that technically violated at least seven international treaties.
Helena and Kara stood a few steps back, their reflections dancing across the massive display screens. Surveillance footage. Biometric scans. Zeta-flux signatures that looked suspiciously like a space-time blender had had a tantrum.
Eidolon strolled into the room like he owned it—which, in a metaphysical, this-was-technically-his-backup-lair-in-another-universe kind of way, he did.
"So," he said, hands behind his back like a professor about to lay into a particularly annoying thesis. "Second Apokolips invasion. You brought souvenirs."
Helena crossed her arms. "We brought trauma and a healthy distrust of boom tubes."
"Classic Kryptonian-Batgirl starter pack," Eidolon said, nodding solemnly. "All you're missing is a tragic backstory monologue and a Spotify playlist called 'Punching Through Grief'."
Kara gave him a dry look. "I had one. It got vaporized."
"Oof. Dark. But relatable."
Bruce looked up, eyes narrowing. "The first invasion here happened three months ago. If the timeline's consistent, we have nine years and change before a second one."
"Nine and three-quarters, to be precise," Eidolon said. "But who's counting? Oh, right. Me. Because apparently, I'm the universe's unpaid cosmic intern."
"Wait," Helena said. "You know it's the same invasion?"
"Same boom tube signature. Same tech patterns. Same apocalyptic foreplay." He gestured at one of the screens, where raw energy patterns matched across universes. "Except your world cracked faster. Probably didn't have someone like me. Tragic, really."
Kara frowned. "We had a Superman. And a Batman."
"Adorable," Eidolon said, brushing imaginary dust off his coat. "But let me guess. One died nobly, the other emotionally imploded."
Neither girl answered.
He winced. "Hit a nerve. My bad. Coping mechanism. British."
Bruce finally turned away from the console. "Harry."
"Brucey."
The billionaire detective gave him the full Batman glare. "Be serious."
"Oh, I am. I'm practically oozing responsibility. In fact—" He turned to Helena with a flourish and dropped his voice half an octave. "Since you're Bruce's kid, and he's basically the older brother I never asked for, that makes me... your Godfather."
Helena blinked. "What?"
"Your spiritual guide. Your morally dubious but fabulously dressed mentor. The brooding family wizard who shows up, throws shade, and then disappears in a swirl of smoke."
"You're not serious."
"Oh, but I am." He placed a hand over his chest, mock solemn. "As your Godfather, it is my duty to ensure that no harm comes to you, that your relationships remain drama-free, and that you never—under any circumstances—start dating a guy who wears sunglasses indoors."
Helena turned to Bruce. "Tell me he's joking."
Bruce didn't even flinch. "He's always joking."
"That doesn't answer my question."
Eidolon leaned in slightly. "Also, if you ever sneak out of the Batcave past midnight, I will definitely pretend not to notice, but I will leave judgmental post-it notes."
Kara laughed, which only made Helena scowl deeper. "Do you ever stop talking?"
"I tried once. World ended. Felt rude."
Bruce cleared his throat. "Harry."
"Right, yes. Apocalypse first, godparent duties later." He turned back to the screen. "We have just under ten years to prep for a full-scale invasion from a nightmare planet powered by misery and horned fashion statements. Which, in Earth-time, is... tomorrow. Metaphorically."
Kara stepped forward. "So what do we do?"
"We train," Eidolon said. "We plan. We prepare for war. And—because this is me—we do it all while throwing quips like batarangs and occasionally setting things on fire on purpose."
Helena muttered, "I already don't like working with him."
"That's the spirit!" Eidolon said, slinging an arm—briefly—over her shoulder before she glared him off. "See, this is gonna be fun. The Justice League, the brooding Bat-daughter, and the sun-powered powerhouse. A classic buddy-comedy."
Kara gave a small smile. "As long as we don't die screaming this time, I'm good."
Eidolon nodded. "Agreed. Dying's overrated. Trust me—I've done it twice. Gets boring."
Bruce stared at the monitor, silent again.
Eidolon walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll stop it this time."
Bruce gave the faintest nod. "We have to."
And for once, Eidolon didn't make a joke. His eyes flickered red—not from heat vision, but from something older, deeper. A power that didn't come from the sun, or training, or even magic.
It came from resolve.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!