Chapter Text
Watchtower Observation Deck – 22:00 Standard Time
The Watchtower was quiet, save for the hum of distant machinery and the occasional murmur of voices over comms. It was late—well, “late” was relative in space—but most of the Justice League members not on active duty were either in their quarters or out on missions.
Superman, however, was very much awake.
He sat in one of the smaller common areas, a thick report open in his lap as he leaned back in a chair that was entirely too small for him. The table in front of him was littered with datapads and a half-empty mug of coffee. His pink hair (a holdover from one of Jason’s earlier escapades) had finally faded back to normal, much to his relief, but the phantom itch of paranoia hadn’t left him.
Clark’s superhearing had been dialed down all day, a precaution he’d taken after the disappearing heartbeats debacle, but he still couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was off.
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. You’re overthinking it, Kent. It’s just a quiet night.
And then the lights flickered.
Clark froze, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room. He set the report down slowly, his senses kicking into high gear. Nothing moved. Nothing changed. The hum of the Watchtower’s systems continued uninterrupted.
Just a glitch, he told himself. But he still didn’t relax.
He glanced back at the table—and frowned.
The mug of coffee he’d been drinking from was no longer there.
Clark blinked. He was sure he’d set it down right in front of him. He looked around the room, his gaze darting to the corners and the shadows that didn’t quite seem deep enough.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s... weird.”
He stood slowly, his cape brushing the floor as he took a careful step toward the table. The report was still there. The datapads were untouched. But the coffee mug was nowhere to be seen.
And then he heard it.
A soft clink.
Clark turned sharply, his eyes zeroing in on the source of the sound: the corner of the room, where a small maintenance hatch was slightly ajar.
His brow furrowed as he approached, his hand brushing against his comm unit out of instinct. “Batman, are you online?” he asked, his voice low.
There was a moment of static before Bruce’s familiar growl came through. “I’m busy. What do you need?”
Clark hesitated, glancing at the hatch again. “I think there’s someone in the Watchtower.”
“I’ll send an alert to the system,” Bruce replied, his tone clipped. “Stay where you are and—”
Another sound cut through the line.
Whoosh.
It was faint, like a rush of wind, but it was enough to make Clark’s head snap around. He turned just in time to see his coffee mug sitting neatly on the table again, steam still rising from it.
Clark stared at it, his confusion deepening.
“Clark,” Bruce’s voice came through the comms again, a hint of irritation creeping in. “What’s going on?”
Clark opened his mouth to respond, but the lights flickered again—this time, more deliberately.
And then the monitors along the wall lit up.
A single image appeared on every screen: a stylized red bird in flight, its sharp lines unmistakable.
“Red Robin,” Clark muttered, his hands balling into fists.
There was no response, but the room filled with a low, rhythmic sound—almost like a heartbeat, but too slow and deliberate to be real. It echoed softly, bouncing off the walls in a way that made Clark’s skin crawl.
“Red Robin, I know it’s you,” Clark said, his voice steady but edged with irritation.
The sound stopped.
For a moment, there was silence.
And then the coffee mug slid an inch to the left.
Clark stared at it, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Very funny,” he said, his tone flat.
A soft chuckle echoed through the room, low and almost mocking. It was impossible to pinpoint the source, but Clark knew exactly who it belonged to.
“Tim,” Clark said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re going to be in if Batman finds out you’re messing with League equipment?”
Another chuckle.
This time, it was followed by the sound of footsteps—light and deliberate—circling the room. Clark turned in a slow circle, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner, but there was nothing.
“Are you seriously doing this just to mess with me?” Clark asked, his voice rising slightly.
A voice crackled over the room’s speakers, calm and slightly amused.
“Maybe.”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”
The voice responded with a laugh. “You’re just now figuring that out?”
Before Clark could respond, the lights flickered one last time, plunging the room into momentary darkness. When they came back on, the bird emblem was gone, and the room was silent once more.
Clark stood in the middle of the room, shoulders tense, his superhearing straining to catch any sign of movement. But there was nothing. No sound, no heat signatures, no indication that anyone had been there at all.
Except for the sticky note now stuck to his coffee mug, which read in neat, blocky handwriting:
Nice hair, Supes.
Clark let out a long-suffering sigh, his grip tightening on the mug as he muttered, “I’m going to lose my mind.”
In the shadows of the Watchtower’s ventilation system, Tim grinned as he adjusted his lead-lined suit and slipped through the maintenance tunnels.
“Operation Coffee Break: complete,” he murmured into his comms.
Back in the Batcave, Jason’s voice crackled through the line. “Please tell me you got a picture.”
“Already sent it,” Tim replied, his grin widening.
“Good work,” Damian’s voice cut in, though it was grudging. “But don’t get cocky.”
“Too late for that,” Tim said cheerfully.
In the Watchtower, Clark sank back into his chair, staring at his coffee mug with a resigned expression. He took a sip and immediately regretted it—it was cold.
Bruce, listening in from the Batcave, fought the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips. “Focus, Clark,” he said over the comms, his voice completely deadpan. “We have a meeting in ten minutes.”