Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He’s late again. Then again, he did cross halfway around the world, which was fair.

The air here is heavier than what he remembers. It feels like the city exhales smoke instead of wind, each gust crawling down his collar and leaving a film of grime on his neck. He can’t see the stars tonight. He doubts anyone in this city ever can. Still, it’s a strange comfort—knowing that even hidden behind a ceiling of smog, they’re still there. Constant. Watching. Silent witnesses to every gunshot, scream, and whisper that bleeds out of Gotham’s veins. Some nights, when he was far away, he imagined the stars leaning closer just to see this place, curious how a single city could hold so much life and death without collapsing. Now he’s here, standing in its shadow, and realizing that no imagination could have captured it.

It’s loud here, and he’s fine with that. Silence unsettles him. Silence isn’t peace—it’s waiting. He learned that long ago, in the kind of places where even your own breath sounded wrong. His old hole was deathly silent but not quiet. He could still hear the faint rhythm of his heartbeat echoing off concrete, the stutter in his breathing when the cold crept close. The way silence seemed to lean in, listening. He hated that. The noise here is chaos, yes—but chaos is honest. Cars cough smoke, sirens slice the air, someone laughs too loud, someone else screams for help no one gives. Life and decay breathe in the same rhythm. Gotham has no balance; it just survives its own weight. That’s something he understands.

He’s always wondered how a city could live on the knife’s edge of death and still refuse to die. Now he knows. It’s the people. The city devours them, but they crawl back out of its teeth again and again, patched and limping, somehow still standing. They curse it, but they never leave. They adapt. They wear their fear like second skin. Gotham makes survivors, not citizens. He can respect that. He’s met soldiers, assassins, vigilantes, monks—none with the same kind of endurance as the people who wake up here every morning knowing that the night will probably try to kill them again. Maybe that’s why he stays here, too—the one they call the Bat.

The Batman.

He doesn’t kill. That still surprises him. He’s seen men who claimed to be saviors before. None of them refused the easy way. Death was always their solution, their justification, their faith. But not this one. Gotham’s Dark Knight keeps saving people who don’t even want to be saved. It’s ridiculous. It’s admirable. It’s something that shouldn’t work, yet somehow does. On rare and daring nights—when distance made him brave—he’d come within a few kilometers of the city outskirts just to see it. The lights, faint and dirty through the fog, spread like a heartbeat. Every time he looked, he could almost feel the pulse beneath his feet, that strange rhythm of a city that should’ve died a hundred times but never does. He used to think that was courage. Now, standing closer than ever, he realizes it’s more like obsession.

He isn’t supposed to be here. They’ll notice soon. She’ll notice soon.

Even now, staying hidden takes effort. The eyed one is always searching. They don’t rest. They never do. He feels it like static in the air, faint but persistent, that prickling on the back of his neck when someone is watching. He glances up. There’s a camera fixed on the corner of a flickering streetlight. Its lens tilts, subtle but deliberate. Someone’s behind the feed. Someone trained. Gotham doesn’t just use cameras to watch traffic—it uses them to hunt.

They must’ve found the bike. That’s what this is. Scanning sectors, searching for him. He moves when the lens jerks the other way, steps soundless across wet pavement. He waits until the camera’s whirring slows, then darts under it, hugging the brick shadow of a decaying wall. The building beside him is an old textile factory, the kind of structure Gotham forgets but never demolishes. He grips the rusted ladder of a fire escape and climbs, careful to test each rung for noise. Rust crumbles under his gloves. He doesn’t look down. He’s done this too many times in too many cities to bother with fear.

The rooftop greets him with puddles of rainwater and the faint hum of city electricity, that constant Gotham noise that never dies down. He pauses by an old water tank, its metal belly reflecting a slice of sky. The hatch is sealed by corroded bolts. He works them loose with quiet precision, snapping the bindings one by one, each metallic click drowned by the wind. He pushes the lid open just enough to slip through, lowering himself inside with a soundless crouch.

Inside, it’s colder. The metal smells like old rain and dust. He draws his gauntlet across the inner wall, scraping just enough to make two punctures—small, clean holes he can see through. They’ll act as eyes. He leans close, the faint chill of the steel pressing against his brow as he peers through.

Outside, the sky is shifting—from dark blue to the familiar Gotham black, thick and endless. It’s beautiful, in a heavy way. He’s seen skies clearer than crystal, oceans that mirrored suns, worlds where the air shimmered gold at dawn. None of them looked like this. Gotham’s sky is always bruised, always holding light hostage. But beneath that darkness, the city glows. Not bright, not clean—just alive. Maybe that’s why it feels sacred to him, in some strange way.

He thinks about staying a little longer. Just a few hours. Just to breathe this city’s pulse. But no. He knows better. They’ll be looking for him now. If he doesn’t move soon, they will come looking for him—and he can’t let them cross paths with the Bats. Not yet. Not until he understands the gameboard. So far, he’s kept them hidden. A quarrel this early would ruin everything. Gotham doesn’t forgive chaos it doesn’t cause itself.

He waits. Silent. Breath slow, steady. Eyes fixed on the holes he carved, watching the roofline and the faint glow of the skyline beyond. From here, he can see where the mainland ends and the island begins—the city proper, Gotham’s heart, its crown of towers and crime. The skyline is a jagged crown, uneven but proud, like it’s daring the world to challenge it. He’s seen many cities try to mimic it, none succeed. There’s a weight here that can’t be built, only lived in.

He adjusts his position, moving carefully so the tank doesn’t creak. He’s still, perfectly still, but his mind wanders. Decades of training taught him control, discipline, stillness. But it never silenced his curiosity. He wonders what it’s like to live down there. To wake up to that noise and call it normal. To see the Bat’s shadow pass over your window and just shrug. The people here treat miracles and monsters like weather. They talk about them, then move on. Maybe that’s the only way to survive here—by pretending nothing surprises you.

He blinks slowly, eyes refocusing through the small punctures. A police drone hums past, light scanning the rooftop. GCPD issue, mid-range. He recognizes the model. The signal frequency hums faintly in the air—standard surveillance rotation, not a personal hunt yet. But the fact it’s here means they’re tightening the grid. He memorizes the timing of its pass before lowering his gaze.

Below, the street slumbers under the halo of amber streetlights. A figure passes, coat pulled tight against the cold. A cat darts between trash bins. Somewhere far off, a siren wails—a tired, lonely sound that never seems to stop. He closes his eyes for a second. Tries to hear beyond the city. There’s nothing. Gotham fills every silence.

Maybe that’s why it draws people like him. The broken, the displaced, the ones with too much past and too little peace. They all end up here eventually. Gotham doesn’t offer sanctuary, but it offers purpose—twisted, violent, fleeting purpose. He feels it already, that slow pull, the gravity of this place. Maybe it’s why the Bat never leaves. Maybe it’s why no one ever truly does.

He stays still, counting breaths. The metal of the tank cools against his skin. The scent of rust mixes with the faint ozone drift of the city’s power grid. Somewhere below, water drips through cracked pipes. Time folds itself in the quiet. He lets it.

He’s always been good at waiting. Years taught him patience the way storms teach ships endurance—through damage, through loss. But Gotham tests patience differently. It doesn’t threaten. It tempts. Every sound, every movement whispers look closer, step out, interfere. It’s a city that dares you to care. And caring here gets you seen.

He can’t afford that yet.

The sky deepens, and the air grows thicker with the scent of rain. Gotham rain isn’t clean. It carries soot, oil, memory. When it falls, it paints everything the same dull gray. He likes it that way. It hides things. It hides him.

The first drop hits the lid of the tank with a soft plink. Then another. Soon it’s a rhythm, irregular but steady, a percussive heartbeat above his head. He tilts his face upward, eyes half-closed, listening. Rain always sounds different depending on where you are. In Gotham, it sounds heavy. Like the clouds are tired of holding secrets.

He thinks about Batman again. About the rumors. The children of the Bat—each with their own shadows, each trained to move through this city like ghosts. He’s heard of them, of course. Everyone has. Some call them myths, others call them soldiers. He’s not sure what to call them yet. But he knows they’re watching. He wonders what it's like to be watched by them, just at the edge of perception—movements too smooth to be civilians, silences too intentional. He respects that kind of discipline. He wonders if they’d respect his.

Maybe one day he’ll find out. But not today.

He shifts again, slow enough that the tank doesn’t complain. His fingers trace idle lines in the condensation on the wall. Each droplet catches faint glimmers of light from outside, tiny stars trapped in metal. He smiles faintly at that. Even here, the stars find a way back to him.

He remembers being told once that Gotham was cursed. That it was built on bones and blood, and every building carried the weight of something buried beneath it. He believes it. But curses can be beautiful, too. They give shape to things that shouldn’t exist. Maybe that’s what Gotham is—a beautiful curse that keeps everyone trapped just long enough to become part of it.

He looks again through the holes. The rain has blurred the skyline, softened it. The towers look less like teeth now and more like candles, their lights flickering in the mist. For a moment, it almost feels peaceful. Almost.

He breathes in, deep. The air tastes like metal and burnt air filters. It reminds him of home—not the place he was born, but the place he made when the world had no name for what he was. A place like this, built from survival, not design. Maybe that’s why Gotham feels familiar.

He hears something below—a door slamming, then footsteps, quick and heavy. He tenses, instinctively clenching his hand tight, looking just about ready to punch a hole through the rusted metal, but stops himself. He listens. The steps fade. Just someone running to catch a bus or escape a mugging. In this city, it’s hard to tell which.

He relaxes again. Watches the street until it empties. The light flickers once, then steadies.

He thinks of leaving now. He should. But his body stays still. Maybe part of him doesn’t want to go yet. Maybe part of him wants to see the sunrise over this place, if Gotham ever allows such a thing. He’s heard that when dawn hits the Narrows, the fog glows red like embers. That the light fights to exist, even if only for a minute. He wants to see that. Just once.

But he knows better. The longer he stays, the closer they’ll get. And if they find him here, if she finds him here—everything changes. The Bats would see. They always do. And he’s not ready to meet their eyes yet.

So he waits a few more breaths. Counts the seconds. Listens to the rain. Then, when the moment feels right, he’ll move.

He’s only ever seen the central island portion of Gotham on old records. Never in person. He’s studied it enough times to remember the shape of every street like old scars, memorized from maps, media feeds, and satellite composites stitched together by hands that shouldn’t have had access. On paper, Gotham’s central island looks small, almost fragile—a cluster of veins feeding into the mainland—but anyone who’s walked the real thing knows it feels endless. The island doesn’t expand outward. It expands downward, into layers. Every district folds beneath another, like a city built from its own ghosts.

He’s never actually set foot in Gotham proper. He tells himself it’s better that way. Even now, standing in what counts as the city’s outer territory, he can feel the city’s heartbeat pushing against the edges. The mainland is quieter, yes, but the silence is deceptive. It’s the breath before a scream, the low hum before the city wakes. The mainland’s shadow stretches long, but the true Gotham lives and dies on that island, in its towers and tunnels, where every window hides a story and every shadow hides a name. The rest of the world thinks Gotham is one city. It isn’t. It’s two. The one people see, and the one people survive.

He thinks of the old records—grainy surveillance footage from the GCPD archives, thermal readings of power surges that mapped the city like pulse lines. Even with all the data he’s gathered, the city never fits together neatly. It’s too alive, too unpredictable. Even the Bat’s patterns, though precise, bend around Gotham’s will like a river around rock.

The most detailed map of the city isn’t from any official channel, but from War Plan: Black. Sunshine’s work. he had walked the alleys himself, mapped sewer lines the GCPD didn’t even know existed, and charted rooftops that only bats and pigeons ever touched. He remembers the admiration he felt when he first read her notes—handwritten, smudged with graphite and rain. Sunshine had survived in Gotham for nearly two years before extraction, slipping through the cracks that even the Bat couldn’t seal. No one hides in Gotham that long. Not from the Bats. Not from her. Yet Sunshine did.

He doesn’t know how he managed it. Maybe he had help. Maybe he actually read the protocol manual for once, maybe he observed something the Bats looked at but didn’t see. He respects that. He respects anyone who can outsmart shadows.

The sky above is black now, not from the hour but from Gotham itself. He can feel the lights preparing to flicker on in the distance, a slow ripple of electricity crawling across the skyline. That’s his signal to leave. Once the lights reach this district, he’ll be outlined, a figure against the glow, and Gotham’s eyes never stay shut for long.

He watches the gradual bloom of light through the haze—first the waterfront, then the bridges, then the mainland’s edge. The city’s power grid always fascinated him. It doesn’t surge on all at once. It floods, like water spilling through pipes, one district at a time. The closest to the shore are illuminated first, then the middle blocks, and finally the outskirts. It takes roughly three minutes, sometimes more depending on grid load. He’s timed it before. The pattern never changes. The delay keeps him safe, just long enough to move unseen.

He wonders why it’s still like that, why Gotham’s power grid hasn’t been modernized, at least not fully. The plant crutched on new Wayne-supported equipment and tech, but the overall foundation of the plant's power production was decades obsolete. Then he remembers. The power plant. Always the same story. Every few months, another attack, another fire, another blackout that drags half the city into chaos. The engineers rebuild, the Bat helps contain, and then someone else tears it apart again. It’s almost ritual by now.

The Sinners love targeting it. They always have. The city calls them an organized syndicate, but they’re closer to a contagion—criminals who adapt faster than they’re eradicated. Each group claims a piece of the city like it’s inheritance. When they break loose from the island prisons, they go for the plant first. Control the current, control the pulse.

And then there’s the Smiling Man. He always returns to the plant, like a moth drawn to burnt light. He doesn’t destroy it outright, never does. He plays with it. Leaves it limping. Breaks the timing so that one district loses light, another loses heat, another loses communication. A mess just big enough to matter, just small enough to amuse him. Every time the city begins to heal, he reopens the wound.

The Bat stops him, of course. Always does. But stopping isn’t fixing. Bitter as it is, Gotham doesn’t fix things—it endures them.

The outskirts take the last of it. Always the last to be repaired, always the first to be forgotten. The technicians prioritize the island, the banks, the towers. By the time the current crawls its way back to the edges, the damage is already done. People adapt. They light fires in cans, power old generators, share whatever’s left. No one complains loud enough for the city to care.

He knows this because he listens. His kits tell him. His crows watch.

Many of them live in Gotham. Twice as many nest in the outskirts, just beyond the main current of chaos. That was his order. None of them cross the river. None of them step foot in the island unless commanded. The Bat’s eyes are everywhere there, and he doesn’t want his kin mistaken for prey. The outskirts, though harsh, are manageable. They can survive here. The Bats rarely patrol this far. Too quiet. Too dead.

He discourages comparison among them—who has it worse, who endures more. In Gotham, suffering is not competition; it’s culture. Still, Sunshine always insists that Crime Alley is the worst of it. He doesn’t argue. he’s earned his opinion since he'd lived here for the better part of two years for the mapping part. But if he had to choose, if he had to name the city’s truest graveyard, it wouldn’t be the Narrows or the Alley. It would be here. The edge. The forgotten skin that holds the city together.

He glances out from his hiding place and watches the streets below. Cracked asphalt. Rusted light poles. Old cars that no longer belong to anyone. The kind of district where the city’s sound fades into an echo. He can see the faint glimmer of neon in the distance, from shops that never close and windows that never open. Here, everything was in limbo or coma

These outskirts were built decades ago, before the earthquake, before No Man’s Land, back when Gotham believed it could expand. But when the ground broke and the bridges fell, the city shrank inward. The mainland was abandoned, half-repaired, half-remembered. People stayed anyway, because Gotham people always stay. Some out of stubbornness. Others because they couldn’t afford to leave. The rest because they didn’t know how.

The government called it “reclamation territory.” The people called it “the Edge.” Most people don't even consider this as part of Gotham at all. His crows call it "The outskirts." He likes that name better. Simple. Honest. It fits.

The buildings here aren’t old enough to be historic, not new enough to be livable. Brickwork flaked by rain. Windows taped with cardboard. Street signs that lean at tired angles. Even crime avoids this place. There’s nothing worth stealing, no one left to intimidate. Only ghosts and wanderers.

When violence happens here, it isn’t organized. It’s desperate. Fires break out, and no one asks why. People disappear, and no one looks. The police don’t bother. Even the gangs skip these blocks, preferring the richer dirt closer to the city’s heart. The GCPD’s patrol lines end several streets before this district. Anything beyond that might as well not exist.

He doesn’t mind. That’s why he came here. The city’s silence isn’t pure, but it’s enough to hide in. His presence leaves ripples, and this is one of the few places where ripples vanish before they reach anyone’s eyes.

He adjusts his position inside the water tank, careful not to disturb the metal. The air inside is damp, almost metallic on his tongue. He can smell the ghost of rain that passed an hour ago, the kind that only Gotham makes—half smoke, half ocean. He keeps his eyes on the punctures in the wall, watching as the city’s slow glow begins to creep across the rooftops.

He wonders if the Bat has ever stood here, in the outskirts. Probably not. Too quiet. No one to save. No signal lights reach this far. The city doesn’t call for help from its edges. It simply waits for them to crumble.

He imagines, briefly, what the Bat would think if he saw this. The real outlands of the city, not the glamor that was Bristol, not the one the news shows. The Gotham without motion. Maybe he already knows. Maybe he’s seen it too many times to care. Or maybe he carries this knowledge quietly, the way the city carries its ghosts—never speaking, never forgetting.

The lights are almost here now, the faint shimmer crawling up through the skyline like dawn that doesn’t belong to the sun. He times it in his head. One minute before it reaches this block. Two before it floods the street below. He’ll need to move soon.

He runs through the plan again in his mind, tracing the paths he memorized. There’s an abandoned tram line two streets north, a relic from before the Arkham rebuild. If he cuts through the rooftops, he can reach it before the power completes its cycle. From there, the tunnels connect to the old monorail route, now overgrown and sealed off. He can follow it west until it drops him near the river, far from the Bats’ usual satellite grids.

He pauses, breathing slow, letting the thought settle. He’s not afraid of the Bats. He just doesn’t want to interfere. There’s a difference.

A faint noise breaks the rhythm—the sound of a door creaking open below. He tenses instinctively, eyes narrowing to slits. A figure steps out, small, shrouded in a coat too large for their frame. Just a civilian. A woman, maybe, judging by the way she moves. She walks slowly, head down, carrying a paper bag. No fear, no hurry. Just the kind of movement that comes from knowing you’re too unimportant for anyone to notice.

He watches her cross the street, disappear into the next alley. The bag rips slightly as she turns, spilling something that rolls into the gutter. She doesn’t notice. The streetlight above flickers, then steadies.

He exhales. That’s Gotham—always small moments between catastrophes. He's just happy to have seen some form of living in this quiet place.

He shifts again, silently. The city hums louder now, the power nearly reaching his block. He can hear transformers buzzing awake, one after another, like a sequence being solved. Soon his hiding place will be bathed in light. Time to go.

Still, he lingers a moment longer. Watching. Listening. He can feel the city breathing through its steel and stone. There’s something almost sacred about that sound. Like prayer disguised as electricity.

He thinks of Sunshine again, how he, one of many times, described Gotham as a living thing—hungry, stubborn, impossible to kill. he wasn’t wrong, but then again, Sunshine always mixes up his stories of Gotham; you might've heard three of its iterations by the end of this. He wonders where he is now. Probably somewhere warm, far from this city, maybe a metropolis? No, that wouldn't be viable with the Last Son there. Or maybe he on his way here right now to pick him up. People who leave Gotham rarely stay gone. 

The first light hits the rooftop across from him, a soft pale glow that turns puddles into mirrors. He rises from his crouch, quiet as breath, and places his hands on the tank’s rim. The metal is cold. He pulls himself up, movements practiced and deliberate, then crouches on top of the tank, scanning the horizon one last time.

From here, he can see the city’s full outline, the towers piercing the smog like bones through skin. It’s not beautiful, not in the way people think beauty should be. But it’s real. And that’s better.

It must be very odd to even mention the "outskirts" to any person outside of Gotham when many locals themselves don't even acknowledge the outskirts as part of the city's territorial borders. At least that's what his younger kits say but on rare curious occasion some metropolitan reporter would get curious and do ask opinions or an introspective on the kind of daily living the outskirt has to offer. Short answer: nothing

But if they were talking about a specific place on the outskirts, then he could provide you with a more detailed answer, but overall, the answer remained the same.

It was this place specifically that really defined the norm of Outskirt life within Gotham City. Just silence and emptiness. A perfect place to establish at least a secluded foothold in the black city. This place had nothing to offer but empty buildings and some residents that never really bothered to turn on their lights anymore, a perfect place for his kits and crows.

That perhaps is why the Eyed One is looking in this place now, when before they seldom did unless an outside force was meddling, and he was an outside force. It was meant to be a monitoring mission, to check on his kits and crows, and of course to see the distant city line. It was foolish but a delight, nonetheless; call him mothering, but two of his newest kits were assigned in the outskirt sector. Given the situation and the alerts they’ve received, Sunshine thought it best for him to withdraw from the North American continent, his withdrawal was almost complete with every city sector across the fifty states being evacuated and all important data, intel, and equipment silently smuggled to their port in Halifax, all he had to do now was withdraw the Gotham sector, specifically the outskirts.

But all of that was nearly compromised the moment he left his bike out in the open; it was no motorbike but a literal bicycle. It wasn’t really suspicious, but it seemed the Bats didn’t take it that way. Now he’s hiding in a rooftop water tank, watching through two small peep holes as the Gotham night settles in and the familiar Gotham chaos starts reigning in. This is likely a bad time to mention, he’s never been to Gotham personally at night, usually leaving before 5 PM. He needs to leave, but despite the limited cams in the outskirts, they’ll likely send a Bat to check for blind spots. They’re extra cautious and prowling tonight. If Sunshine was to be believed, then it seemed the Smiling Man was out again, and they hadn’t found him yet.

The water tank was cold. Iron walls sweating condensation that made the inside smell faintly of rust and stagnant rain. He sat in the corner with his knees drawn up, head tilted slightly, listening to the faint hum of the city’s veins. Even this far from the island, Gotham sounded alive, not with peace but with unrest. Police sirens passed like migrating birds, one after another, each growing faint until swallowed by the thick air. Somewhere far off, a man was shouting, and no one answered him. It reminded him of what Sunshine once said about Gotham: The city doesn’t sleep, it just closes its eyes and listens for footsteps. He didn’t know what that meant until now.

He adjusted his mask, a simple black cloth that fogged slightly each time he exhaled. His gloves were wet from the condensation dripping down the curved wall, but he didn’t mind. He’d spent worse nights in worse cities. The tank gave him enough height to watch without being seen, the rust holes at the edge letting him peer through without breaking silhouette. Below, the street was thin and cracked, asphalt scarred like burnt skin. The power had returned—just faintly—somewhere further down the block, and a few streetlights flickered to life like exhausted eyes. He counted four of them. Each buzzed, then dimmed again as if the city was too tired to keep them awake.

He remembered the last time he’d seen the Gotham skyline from afar. It looked peaceful then, like the island was sleeping under its own storm. Now that he was here, it didn’t feel like a city at all. A Maze of cameras and eyes, too many to count, too few to see. He had no problem traversing places like these but it's his troupe that worried him. While he'd simulated situations like this, he always knew if it were to involve him, all of that precaution was going to be thrown into the wind. Perhaps it was foolish to be too close or sentimental with his troupe, but how could he not?

His kits were out there somewhere, maybe watching the same skyline from a safer place. They were good kids—sharp, disciplined, and braver than they had the right to be. He’d trained them to move unseen, to think before fighting, to live first before dying for anyone’s cause. They called him their commander, but he didn’t like that word. Commander sounded cold. He preferred "Mother", even if none of them said it aloud. It was better that way. Affection made soldiers reckless, and Gotham didn’t forgive recklessness. Not from the Bats, not from the rogues, and certainly not from anyone like him.

He shifted slightly, letting his boots rest flat against the tank floor. Through the small holes, he could see the faint glow of the Bat-Signal cutting through low clouds, projected from the island’s police roof. It wasn’t as bright from this distance, but its shape still bled through the haze, distorted by wind and smog. Every time it appeared, Gotham seemed to hold its breath. Even the sirens paused, if only for a second. He’d never seen the signal lit in real life until now. In files and reports, it was just an icon, a warning that was meant to stay hidden. But from here, it almost looked beautiful, like a scar across the sky that refused to heal. He wondered if the one wearing that symbol ever got tired of carrying it.

At the mere mention of the bats, his mind unconsciously drifted back to them. He’d read all their files—each of the Bats, their codenames, methods, patterns, even their preferred rooftops. Sunshine had once joked that Gotham was the best place to study human obsession. He didn’t disagree. The Bats were a kind of ritual in motion, like the city needed them to keep repeating their own suffering so no one else had to. There were nights he admired them, even envied them. Other nights, he pitied them. He had seen their work from afar, the quiet aftermaths where they patched bleeding men on rooftops or left zip-tied criminals hanging like ornaments from broken lampposts. There was something honest in their relentlessness, even when it bordered on madness.

He blinked, feeling a drop of condensation fall from the ceiling and hit his cheek. It rolled down, cold and steady, disappearing beneath the collar of his coat. He waited, listening again. The wind was picking up. Somewhere close, a camera turned, the faint mechanical whirring almost drowned by the city hum. He recognized the model by sound—WayneTech MK-VII, newer, more reactive. That meant The Eyed one had just come online in this sector. He stayed still. She wouldn’t see him yet, not unless he moved or the light shifted. It wouldn’t matter anyway; the tank wasn’t tagged in any of the older municipal maps. Probably condemned years ago and ignored by the drones.

Time passed slowly in Gotham. It stretched between the noise, between the sirens and the wind, between one breath and the next. He liked that. The world outside Gotham moved too fast, too clean. Here, every second carried weight, like the city wanted to make sure you earned it. He pulled his hood up and closed his eyes for a moment, not to sleep but to rest his sight. When he opened them again, the skyline had shifted colors—amber near the island, steel gray near Bristol, and pitch black where he was. The Bat-Signal still lingered, faint and uneven now, swallowed by clouds. Maybe they found something. Maybe not. In Gotham, you never knew which was worse.

A dog barked in the alley below, followed by the sound of glass shattering. He leaned forward, careful not to disturb the metal under him. A man stumbled into the street, yelling something incoherent, then vanished into another building. It didn’t matter. he could save them, but it was pretty useless to even go through the effort; people disappeared all the time. The GCPD rarely came this far unless it was for a body pickup or a major bust. Even then, they came late. The city’s rules were different here. You didn’t scream for help because everyone assumed you deserved what you found. The only constant law was survival, and Gotham made sure it stayed that way.

He remembered once hearing Sunshine talk about his home among the stars, how their cities used to gleam with light even at night, powered by suns they built themselves. He couldn’t imagine that. From old glimpses, his old town was less of a town but more of a shrine with 5 neighboring clumps of tight housing. It was an old time then, but it was simple, and unlike this city, the Stars held domain over the night. He admired that place, despite its numerous bad memories. He’d fought in places where people pretended to be civilized, where decay hid behind glass, uniforms, and armor. He didn't need to pretend; he knew what he was and is, but to the eyes of a stranger, which could include the bats and Her, he was a dangerous rogue. He isn't, but let the notion stick, after all, to the rest of the world, and including the bats, he doesn't exist. Hopefully, if tonight goes as planned, it will stay that way. Assuming she didn't inform the Bat of his existence already.

He adjusted his position again, letting his legs stretch out. His muscles ached faintly from the climb. The water in the tank rippled softly whenever he moved, carrying his reflection across its surface like a shadow. He didn’t recognize the face that looked back at him sometimes. Maybe that was a good thing. In Gotham, it was safer not to know yourself too well. The city had a way of reshaping people into something else entirely—monsters, heroes, ghosts. Sometimes all three.

He thought about leaving. Just climbing down, taking his bike, and heading north toward the bridge. The thought didn’t last long. The bridge was being watched. The Bats didn’t allow anyone unusual to cross after dark, especially not tonight. He’d have to wait. He always hated waiting. It reminded him of the years before the Triarchy was formed, when waiting meant losing people you loved one by one because moving too early got them killed. He breathed out slowly, the tank’s damp air brushing against his face like fog. Patience. Gotham taught patience better than any battlefield ever could.

He glanced down again at the street. A pair of red and blue lights flickered at the far end of the block—GCPD cruisers. He watched them stop beside a burned-out storefront, the officers stepping out cautiously, hands on holsters. Probably a noise complaint or another overdose. They spoke briefly, then one of them kicked open the door. A few seconds later, the lights dimmed and the car drove off without sirens. No arrests, no cleanup. Just another forgotten mess. Gotham ate quietly when it could.

He let the night stretch again, unhurried. The air smelled faintly of salt; the harbor wasn’t far. If the wind changed, he could even hear the foghorns. Somewhere across the river, the city pulsed with more energy—traffic, laughter, chaos. The island lived while the outskirts waited. It was like watching two different worlds share the same sky. He wondered if the Bats ever noticed that divide. Probably. They noticed everything, but they couldn’t fix it. Not really. Gotham didn’t need saving; it needed someone to listen.

He sat back and let his thoughts fade for a moment, listening to the hum of the city again. Somewhere beyond his sight, a drone buzzed, small and sharp, sweeping over rooftops in a neat grid. Another WayneTech. He stayed still. The drone passed. He exhaled quietly. The lights in the distance flickered again, some buildings losing power while others regained it. The cycle repeated every few minutes. He understood why the people here stopped turning their lights on. Going through the effort took too much energy.

The night stretched on, heavier but calmer. The signal faded, the sirens slowed, the hum softened. He could almost call it peace, in a Gotham kind of way. He leaned back against the water tank's supporting leg, closing his eyes for a moment. The metal hummed faintly under his weight, resonating with the distant rumble of trains below the city. He thought about his kits again, about the ones who learned to survive here without losing their kindness. That was rare in Gotham. Maybe that was why he loved them like his own. Because they still believed there was a way to live here without becoming another story whispered to scare children. Or perhaps they were like this because he loved them.

He needs to leave. The rest of the crows and his kits were waiting and converging toward the rendezvous point. That kind of increased traffic and movement in an empty district like this was bound to draw attention, even with all the training he’d given them. Gotham might be deaf in the outskirts, but its silence was deceptive. It was the kind that listened back, patient and suspicious. Every door left ajar, every street with the wrong set of footprints—it all meant something here. If the Bats didn’t notice, the GCPD drones would. If they didn’t, the locals might. And in Gotham, information traveled faster than mercy.

Under protocol, if he was late to the rendezvous, they were to leave without hesitation. It was practical, meant to prevent chain losses. But he knew his troupe too well. They were disciplined, yes, but discipline bends when affection grows. Some of them would wait, maybe even circle back. And the worst of them—the loyal ones—would start searching for him. He didn’t blame them. It was how he’d trained them, to care before killing. To be human first and soldiers later. It was his fault for giving them that softness. Sunshine always said it would get him killed one day, and maybe tonight would prove him right.

Under the same protocol, if he was missing for more than five hours, the troupe could contact Sunshine and Tall for discreet recovery operations. But “discrete” was a flexible term with those two. Sunshine’s definition of stealth usually involved starting a riot three boroughs over, preferably with explosions bright enough to confuse orbiting satellites. Tall’s definition was more… direct. He’d sweep an entire city block bare, methodical and unstoppable, until he found a single footprint or hair strand. If both of them came to Gotham, it would no longer be a search—but a search and extract operation, to locals it'd would seem like a first strike. The Bats would notice within the first fifteen minutes, and the last thing he needed was Gotham’s favorite family investigating why two ghosts from his world were wandering their city.

Now that he thought about it, maybe he shouldn’t have written that particular protocol. It was designed for global cities—Tokyo, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Paris, and Metropolis. Not Gotham. Gotham required a different rule of engagement, one that needed to match the city's unique demographic. Too much noise here, and they weren't the only outside force that had been keeping an eye here. Too much light and you painted a target on your back. He’d studied enough of the Bat’s operations to know their patterns: The Eyed controlled every street cam within a twenty-mile radius of the island, which was only half her strength after the recent power outages. Young bird, the red one, oversaw most digital surveillance sweeps in tandem with her, and the others rotated across zones in unpredictable patrol cycles, although Red, the hood one, did stick predictably closer to ports and the alley. Gotham wasn’t a city you could outmuscle.  He sighed. Maybe next time he’d write better contingencies.

He lifted the lid of the water tank slowly, careful not to let the metal creak. Cold air brushed against his face the moment it opened, sharp and clean compared to the damp iron smell inside. For the first time in hours, he unlatched his mask and shifted back his hood. The night air felt good, stinging faintly against his skin, carrying that unmistakable Gotham scent—rust, oil, rain that hadn’t yet fallen. His breath turned pale in the air, drifting upward like smoke before dissolving into the dark. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands still carrying the faint scent of lemon and cinnamon from the wash Tall had given him before departure. It was a small thing, but it grounded him, a reminder that not everything in his world smelled like ash or gunmetal, that and Tall got tired of his hair smelling like charcoal and ash.

He checked his watch, the faint digital glow painting his wrist in cold light. He’d already burned more time than planned. If he left now, he could still make it to the rendezvous before the city’s main grid reset near midnight. That was when the Outskirts lit up again—when the old streetlights buzzed awake, cameras rebooted, and the Eye’s net expanded like a waking spider. If he wasn’t clear by then, every step would leave a trace. He glanced one last time through the holes in the tank. The Bat-Signal still faintly pulsed against the smog, dim now but persistent, its glow rippling across the clouds. Somewhere in the city’s core, the Bats were already moving. He could somewhat rest easier now that the bats are focused elsewhere, but that still left the Eye's surveillance, however.

He exhaled softly and climbed out. The roof tiles beneath his boots were slick with condensation, dark and uneven. He crouched low, scanning the street below. No movement except a single cat weaving between garbage bins. Perfect. He descended the fire escape quietly, testing each rung before placing his weight on it. The rust whispered under his touch, flaking away like old paper. At the bottom, he dropped the last few feet, landing in a puddle that rippled under the dim light. The alley smelled faintly of rain, copper, and rotting wood. Familiar, in a strange way. Gotham’s air was heavy but honest—it didn’t try to hide its decay.

He adjusted his coat, pulling the hood back up, and started walking. His boots barely made a sound, years of habit making each step calculated and quiet. The street stretched ahead, broken by scattered lamp posts that flickered weakly, as if reluctant to stay awake. Far in the distance, the faint wail of sirens echoed, too steady to be random. Probably a chase near Burnley or Coventry. The Outskirts rarely earned that kind of attention unless something big was happening closer to the island. He wondered briefly if Sunshine had already decided to “help.” Hopefully not. Gotham didn’t take kindly to outside interference, and Sunshine’s definition of subtlety often involved bending steel with his bare hands.

The rendezvous point wasn’t far—an abandoned guard post near the city’s boundary line, where the old commuter tracks used to connect to the central Gothamite subway system before the bridge collapse years ago. The post itself had been forgotten after the reconstruction, fenced off and half-buried under ivy and graffiti. Perfect for hiding something you didn’t want anyone to find. His troupe had used it as a checkpoint for months, ever since Sunshine’s last map update showed it as a dead zone in the city’s surveillance grid. It wasn’t truly dead, of course. The Eyed One's eyes reached everywhere. But sometimes dead zones weren’t about technology—they were about neglect. Gotham had plenty of that.

He moved quickly, slipping between the narrow streets that twisted like veins. Every so often, he paused to listen. The City had a certain melody to it, most places do, not that anybody else but him would understand: the groan of metal pipes under the pavement, the steady hiss of leaking steam, the faraway rumble of trains beneath the island. To anyone else, it would sound chaotic. To him, it was an order. A song of patterns and pulses that told him when to move, when to hide. He hummed softly along with it, a habit he’d picked up from years of quiet missions. The tune was simple and familiar, something his oldest kit once recalled the melody being “Clair De Lune.” He never asked where the name came from nor who made it as he's heard many songs and melodies in his times that memories have started to mix up, but it felt fitting.

He slipped through a narrow passage between two tenements, careful not to brush against the rusted pipes. A faint light flickered in a window above him—someone still awake. He could hear muffled laughter, a man and a woman, maybe watching a show. Gotham’s residents had a way of pretending the world outside didn’t exist. He respected that. Surviving here meant learning what to ignore. He kept walking, counting the intersections in his head. Two more streets, then the old rail line, then the guard post.

Call it foolishness or hypocrisy, but a small part of him hoped he’d catch a glimpse of her tonight. He wouldn’t say her name aloud—not here, not anywhere—but he knew she was out there. She always was when the signal lit the sky. He wondered what she’d think of him, hiding in her city like a trespasser. He admired her restraint, the quiet mercy she carried even when the world gave her none in return. He didn’t worship the Bats like some did, but he respected her. Out of all of them, she was the one who reminded him most of the people he fought for—broken, stubborn, unwilling to give up on a world that didn’t love them back. Maybe that’s why he stayed a few minutes longer than he should have.

The air shifted again, colder now. A faint drizzle started falling, drops scattering across the rooftops and streets like quiet footsteps. The Rain felt like acid; it didn't sting but left a slight itch on your skin. Perhaps it was due to the mass-contaminated air. He pulled his hood tighter and kept walking. The alley opened up to a narrow road lined with decaying street signs and abandoned shops. An old convenience store sat at the corner, its windows boarded and door hanging crooked. Across from it stood a rusted gate that marked the beginning of the old rail yard. Beyond that lay the rendezvous.

He crouched near the gate, scanning for movement. Nothing. Only the faint hum of distant electricity and the soft buzz of insects circling the lamps. He reached for the small transmitter on his wrist, then stopped himself. Protocol. Comms offline. Even encrypted signals could be triangulated in Gotham. He had to rely on instinct now. He slipped through a gap in the fence, the metal edges brushing his sleeve, and landed quietly on the gravel beyond. The yard stretched wide, the tracks long dead and covered in weeds. A single building stood near the far end—brick, windowless, half-collapsed. That was it. The guard post.

He moved slowly, cautiously. The closer he got, the more the city’s noise faded. The silence here wasn’t peaceful—it was deliberate. Gotham had pockets like this, where even the wind seemed to hold its breath. He reached the post’s side door, its lock broken long ago. Inside, the air was thick with dust and rain-soaked decay. He stepped carefully, testing each patch of floor before moving forward. The faint glow of a chemical lantern flickered from the corner. Good. They’d made it. They weren't here, then they must've missed them, likely already en route to the extraction point. That is, if they didn't compromise the plan and went out looking for him, but judging by the lack of bats around or increased drone activity, then it's safe to say nobody went back, good.

He paused, closing his eyes briefly. He could almost imagine hearing them—the soft chatter of his kits, the careful rhythm of their movements, the faint static of their comms before he’d ordered radio silence. They were close, on the road, in vehicles. He could faintly see their convoy's taillights down the road, a good distance away. He didn't have a vehicle, but then again, it has been a while since he's had a good run. He smiled faintly beneath his mask before remembering he’d taken it off. It didn’t matter. They’d wait another ten minutes, maybe fifteen, then leave as protocol demanded. He’d catch up before then. He always did. 

Outside, the rain thickened, tapping against the roof like a steady drumbeat. He tilted his head slightly, listening. The sound wasn’t just rain—there was movement. A soft whir above him, too mechanical to be natural. He looked up. A small drone hovered briefly in the distance, its red sensor light blinking once before fading behind a building. WayneTech again. The Eyed was tightening her net. He exhaled quietly. Time was running short. Maybe that ping wasn't such a good idea, maybe he was getting rusty after all.

He slipped through the post’s back exit and began moving toward the outer wall of the city. The gravel crunched under his boots, almost drowned by the rain. Ahead, the faint outline of the boundary fence shimmered under the dim lights—a relic from the city’s old industrial zoning days. Once his troupe crossed that line, they’d be beyond Gotham jurisdiction. Technically. He doubted the Bats cared much about borders when something caught their interest. He moved faster, skipping across puddles, staying low to avoid the flickering lamps. The rain masked his steps now, softening each sound into nothing.

For a moment, he stopped and turned back. The skyline loomed behind him, half-shrouded in fog and light. Gotham looked different from this angle—less like a beast and more like a dream. The Bat-Signal still faintly marked the clouds, stubborn and defiant. He couldn’t help but smile. Despite everything, part of him admired this city for never pretending to be something it wasn’t. It was flawed, cruel, tired—and honest about it. Maybe that’s why people stayed. Maybe that’s why she stayed. He understood that now.

He adjusted his hood again and kept walking. Dawn wasn’t far. If he moved fast enough, he’d reach the outskirts by first light, long before Sunshine decided to make Gotham “interesting.” The thought made him sigh, amused and weary at once. Sunshine always meant well, but his version of subtlety usually ended with headlines. He could already imagine it: Hostile Metahuman spotted above Gothamite airspace. In all honesty, while sunshine was formidable, all it would take is one kryptonite-induced tranq dart to make him think twice, it wouldn't affect him much, thanks to years of exposure, but it could still harm him. He shook his head and smiled again. Best to get there first, before Gotham was left burning by morning. He was already late for his departure after all.

Chapter Text

The hum of the engines filled the cargo bay in a way that pressed against the skull—steady, rhythmic, more felt than heard. The aircraft was built for stealth and endurance, but its bulk carried a certain heaviness, a deep vibration that lived inside the ribs once you sat long enough. Oloi didn’t mind it. It was a kind of order—predictable, mechanical, honest. Machines didn’t lie or hesitate, not like people. Especially not like the one sitting beside him now.

“Four and a half platoons' worth of troops, extracting from the most crime-filled city in the world. I’d comment on a job well done if it weren’t for you being late to the extraction point.”

He spoke with that clipped, deliberate tone of his—neither harsh nor indulgent. Just a statement of fact. But the figure beside him, swathed in black armor and shadow, gave him nothing back. Ni-Ni didn’t move, didn’t glance his way, didn’t even breathe loud enough to catch over the drone of the engines. The posture was almost childish, chin tucked low, shoulders slightly hunched, the kind of sulking silence that was half-defiance, half-shame.

Hard to imagine that this same man—if one could even call him that, given what he truly was—had commanded half the field operations across four continents. But here he was, pouting like a scolded cadet. Oloi sighed quietly through his nose, adjusting his gloves. “Really,” he muttered, “we’re doing this? In front of your troops?”

He didn’t need to look around to know they were listening. The crows—Ni-Ni’s self-titled troupe—were disciplined, well-trained, and loyal to a fault. But they were still human, and humans gossiped. He could feel their eyes flicking over every few seconds, the quick stolen glances of people trying to hide amusement behind their helmets. Crows were noisy creatures by nature, even when they tried not to be.

“You can’t give me that childish effort of a silent treatment, Scruff,” Oloi continued evenly, his voice carrying just enough volume to cut through the engine’s hum. The nickname made Ni-Ni stiffen. The armored figure scoffed audibly and crossed his arms, looking away with theatrical precision. The exaggerated “Hmph!” that followed only deepened the small ripples of muffled laughter from the seated soldiers.

Oloi tilted his head slightly, catching the hint of amusement that fluttered through the air like static. The discipline held, but barely. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know we care about you, right?”

That did it. The armored shoulders slumped, just slightly, as though the words themselves carried weight. Ni-Ni’s posture softened in guilt—the same pattern every time. Oloi didn’t like using the guilt voice; it felt manipulative, too parental. But sometimes, with Ni-Ni, that was the only way to make the words land.

“Good,” Oloi said, more quietly now, his tone less formal. “I have your attention back. I must remind you again… as much as I love seeing you being your—” he paused, searching for the right phrasing, “your bubbly, curious self tonight, what you did was risky. And it contradicts almost every protocol and code of conduct you wrote yourself.”

Ni-Ni twitched, as if the words had landed a direct strike. Oloi pressed on, his tone unyielding but not cruel. “What kind of example are you setting for your troupe—”

The armored elbow hit his ribs mid-sentence. It wasn’t hard, but it was pointed.

“Apologies,” Oloi corrected smoothly, ignoring the smirks from across the bay. “Your crows and kits. What kind of example are you setting if you keep disregarding your own rules?”

A low grumble came from beneath the mask. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the engines and the faint hiss of recycled air. Then Ni-Ni sighed, shifting closer, leaning his helmet against Oloi’s shoulder in wordless apology.

“Sorry,” came the barely audible murmur.

Oloi’s expression softened. He had never been one for overt displays of affection. The world had trained that out of him long ago—or maybe Olympus had. But Ni-Ni was different. There was something unbreakably human about him, despite all the things that had made him more than human. He reminded Oloi that gentleness, while impractical, still had purpose.

He exhaled slowly, letting the sound vanish into the engine noise. “You’re forgiven,” he said under his breath, almost to himself.

The Kryptonian—their third—would probably have laughed at the sight of them now. The “Mother” and the “Iron Wolf” of the Triarchy, reduced to this domestic display of pouting and patience inside a cramped, humming metal bird. He could already hear the teasing echo of that accented voice in his head.

“So,” Oloi began, glancing sideways. “Are you open to sharing about her?”

That made Ni-Ni snap upright as if electrocuted. The black helm turned, then whipped away, hands coming up to cover the front in a nervous, guilty motion.

“Oh yes,” Oloi said mildly, leaning back against the vibrating wall of the transport. “Don’t bother hiding. I doubt you risked breaking past the safety perimeter into Gotham’s surveillance net just to admire city lights. Even you aren’t that sentimental.”

Ni-Ni fidgeted, thumbs twitching, gloved fingers tapping against one another. Oloi knew that tell. It was the same one from years ago, in Hong Kong—before everything had gone wrong.

“I assume this isn’t about sightseeing,” Oloi continued. “Your armor was an obvious giveaway. You only wear those colors, that mask, when you’re nostalgic. And the last time you wore them was Hong Kong.”

The reaction was immediate. A subtle but unmistakable flinch. Oloi had struck the target cleanly.

“And we both know who you met in Hong Kong,” he added softly.

A hush spread through the cargo bay. Even the crows looked away now, their discipline tightening as if instinctively understanding this was not gossip. It was private, delicate—something much more personal than any of them.

“I promise I won’t judge,” Oloi said, his tone sincere now, stripped of its earlier authority. “I’m only curious. It’s not every day you start wandering into a city like a love-struck teenager, Ni-Ni.”

That earned him a nervous pout. Ni-Ni shifted awkwardly in his seat, the mask tilting slightly downward. For someone who had once walked through warzones with unflinching poise, the man had an uncanny ability to look like a scolded child when emotions got involved.

Finally, Ni-Ni leaned closer, whispering something brief near Oloi’s ear—too quiet for even enhanced hearing to catch through the hum of the engines. Oloi’s brows rose slightly, and he gave a single, solemn nod.

“Alright,” he said after a moment, tapping Ni-Ni’s shoulder lightly. “I’ll let it go for now.”

The black-armored figure straightened and began to move toward the rear of the cargo hold. His gait was light despite the weight of the armor, careful not to disturb the young crows resting or dozing near the cargo crates. Two of them were new recruits—the newest of Ni-Ni’s “kits.” Oloi had read their profiles before the mission: both orphans from the Narrows that somehow drifted off to the outskirts, likely from a trafficking deal gone wrong, hardened by Gotham’s indifference, saved by Ni-Ni’s quiet compassion. He’d taken them in without hesitation. That was the kind of commander he was, not exactly in a traditional sense but a nurturing figure nonetheless.

“Ni-Ni,” Oloi called softly.

The man turned, tilting his head in that familiar way—a small, wordless gesture of attention.

“One last thing.” Oloi’s tone softened but held that weight of command. “Be careful this time. She seems different, but so were they. Keep a double watch. Especially when it comes to her family.”

They stared at each other across the short distance, the tension of unspoken history thick between them. It lasted longer than it should have—two minutes, maybe more. Then Ni-Ni stepped forward, closed the distance, and pressed a gloved hand to the center of Oloi’s helmet before leaning in and whispering a quiet “Thank you.”

The gesture was old, almost ritualistic between them. A show of trust, of affection, of loyalty that no words could improve. And then he was gone, slipping through the narrow aisle toward the rear of the bay.

Oloi exhaled, the faintest of smiles ghosting his lips beneath the visor.

The engines droned on. Outside, the C-130 cut silently through the cloud layer, skimming the cold stratosphere that separated Gotham’s heavy smog from the thin light of the stars above. Down below, the city still burned faintly—patches of sodium orange, violent reds, flickers of blue from emergency sirens dancing along the island core. The Bat-signal flared once in the distance, a pale white insignia cutting through the black sky. Oloi watched it through the narrow window slit beside him, expression unreadable.

He didn’t know much about the Bats. Only what filtered through rumor and half-classified reports. The Bat was a symbol, a deterrent, a whisper that kept certain kinds of men from sleeping at night. But in truth, the Gotham vigilante was still a mystery even to those who prided themselves on knowing everything that moved in the dark. The League spoke of him like a phantom. Waller’s reports spoke of him like a hazard. Ra’s al Ghul spoke of him like an heir that refused the throne.

Oloi wasn’t sure which version to believe.

He’d never met the man. Never set foot in Gotham proper, save for tonight’s operation—and even then, only on the outskirts. But now, watching the faint glow of the signal fade through the window’s frost, he felt something unfamiliar coil in his chest. A city that birthed such a creature could not be simple. And anyone who caught Ni-Ni’s attention there… they were dangerous.

He sat back, the leather of his harness creaking softly as he shifted. The flight would last another hour before they reached open water. From there, it would be a quiet transfer—Halifax, then across to the old continent. Europe had its share of ghosts, but Gotham’s shadows were of a different breed.

His gaze drifted toward the back of the cargo bay again, where Ni-Ni crouched among his kits, murmuring quiet instructions through his mask’s vocoder. The two young ones nodded quickly, hanging on every word. The sight was oddly tender. The “Mother” of the Triarchy, nurturing his strange little flock even after escaping the jaws of Gotham.

Oloi thought about Sunshine—about the inevitable storm that would come when the Kryptonian found out Ni-Ni had gone back. Sunshine was unpredictable when it came to sentiment, especially where Ni-Ni was involved. He’d never say it aloud, but Oloi had long suspected that beneath the alien logic and the cold precision, there was something deeply protective there. Something human, even if Sunshine pretended otherwise.

He shook his head slightly, banishing the thought. He would not gossip. Not even internally. He had enough to manage without speculating about the complicated web of bonds that tied their Triarchy together.

The hum of the aircraft deepened as the pilot adjusted altitude. Outside, thunder rolled faintly below the clouds—distant, harmless, but constant. Gotham’s storms were said to never fully end. Even when the skies cleared, the smell of rain and metal never truly left the air. Oloi had read that somewhere, in one of the older League archives.

He watched as Ni-Ni gave one of his kits a small trinket—a dull coin or tag of some kind, gleaming faintly under the red cargo light. Probably a keepsake. He was always giving them little things. It was his way of teaching loyalty—through memory, not command. Oloi respected that, even if it was unorthodox.

For a while, he said nothing more. The steady pulse of the engines filled the silence, joined by the faint mechanical hiss of pressure regulators. The soldiers began to settle into their routine—some checking gear, others quietly dozing in their harnesses. Order reasserted itself, and Oloi found comfort in that.

He closed his eyes briefly, leaning back. The metallic scent of the cabin mixed with traces of oil, leather, and cold air leaking through micro-cracks in the hull. Familiar smells. Safe ones. The kind of environment he understood—clean, structured, absolute.

But even through all that, his mind lingered on Gotham. On Ni-Ni’s words, whispered too softly to catch. On the faint echo of warmth that still lingered where the man’s head had rested against his shoulder.

He didn’t know what she had done to make Ni-Ni risk so much. Maybe it wasn’t about her at all. Maybe it was the city—the promise of something human, fleeting, imperfect. Or maybe it was simply hope, disguised as recklessness. Too much like Ni-Ni's old city, perhaps it did not have the same amount of crime and gothic architecture, but it did have that same sense of cruel reality.

Whatever it was, it had drawn Ni-Ni into the heart of Gotham’s shadow. And that, more than anything, unsettled him. 

Hours passed by with no issue so far; they were now miles away from Gotham, just passing the neighboring New York airspace. Still, Oloi kept a close eye on the men, it was not that he mistrusted Ni-Ni's troupe, but one can never have too much caution, and experience has shown that.

besides keeping an eye on their cargo, there was little he could do besides listening to the low hum of the C-130 filled the cargo bay like a heartbeat— still as steady, rhythmic, with occasionally breaking under the weight of metal stress and shifting turbulence. The warm white service light washed over rows of strapped soldiers, painting their armor in dull crimson streaks. Oloi stood near the bulkhead, half-turned toward the stacked crates and mounted comm arrays. His posture was exact—back straight, one hand resting on his belt, the other idly tracing along the reinforced panel beside him. Every movement was measured, unhurried, the kind of discipline bred from centuries of structured command.

“McKenzie.” His voice cut cleanly through the drone of the engines.

The young woman straightened almost instantly, her gloved hand brushing the insignia on her shoulder as she stood. She wore Ni-Ni’s colors—muted charcoal with white accents—and the faintly reflective mask that most of his “kits” favored. She was small but confident, a soldier raised in precision. “Yes, sir?”

Oloi’s gaze slid toward her without needing to turn his head. “How much was salvaged?”

McKenzie reached into one of her thigh compartments and retrieved a reinforced data phone, cracked at the edges but still blinking with faint blue light. “We managed to extract most of the mission data and intel caches, sir. We had to liquidate about seventy percent of our miscellaneous files before exfil—risk of trace was too high. But Raven carried two encrypted archives through relay—delivered to Third Commander’s base near Halifax.”

Oloi gave a short nod. “And the safe houses?”

“All scrubbed clean, sir.” She hesitated. “Not a trace left of us.”

He exhaled quietly through his nose, gaze flicking up toward the ceiling lights that pulsed with each vibration of the plane. “Good. ETA to Halifax?”

“Assuming no further air disruption and maintaining off-grid flight away from Metropolis and Boston’s controlled airspace…” McKenzie scrolled through her wrist monitor, eyes reflecting the data’s pale glow. “We should touch down by 0700 hours, local.”

Oloi stiffened, glancing at the direction of their rear.

Then the ever-present steady rhythm of the engines faltered—once, twice—then the lights above them flickered violently, red swallowing white in a strobing pulse. The alert siren hadn’t even begun to sound before the entire troop reacted like muscle memory snapping into place. Harnesses locked, boots slammed against the deck, cargo restraints doubled down in seconds. The precision of trained chaos and combat protocol.

Before Oloi could brace, the aircraft pitched sharply right, gravity jerking his weight toward the hull. McKenzie lost footing, sliding across the metal floor—he caught her by the strap of her vest before she collided with the crates. Her breath hitched; his hand steadied her midair like a vice.

“T-thank you, Commander Oloi!”

He eased her upright, strapping her to the seat beside his. “No names,” he said quietly, fastening the buckle until it clicked. “And your gratitude is appreciated.”

He turned before she could answer, boots thudding across the narrow deck as the aircraft tilted again, metal groaning. He gripped the rail and steadied his pace through the shifting weight of the cabin, stepping over a loose canister that rolled across the floor.

“Has anyone seen Second Commander!?” His voice carried over the engines, clipped and authoritative.

“Negative!” an engineer shouted. Another voice followed—“Saw him heading cockpit-way, sir!”

Oloi nodded once and pressed on. A sudden jolt threw him forward; his shoulder brushed past a medic strapping herself down. “Apologies, ma’am.”

The medic startled, clutching her kit. “No—no, sir, you’re fine!”

He didn’t linger. The cockpit ladder rattled beneath his grip as the aircraft banked again, the floor vibrating with low, violent tremors.

When he pushed through the hatch, the scene struck him like a punch: bullet holes spider-webbed across the cockpit glass; smoke leaked from the control panel; and the pilot’s flight suit was slick with blood. The co-pilot lay slumped against the side hatch, half-conscious. And there—Ni-Ni, seated in the main pilot chair, his black armor faintly cracked near the shoulder, one gloved hand steady on the throttle. His body language sharp, restrained—but his helmet’s faint expressive plates betrayed focus and quiet fury.

“Pilot, report!” Oloi barked, crouching beside the wounded man.

The pilot tried to straighten. “F—fu… pardon my—two bandits—on radar—” He coughed, a wet sound that brought blood to his lips.

Oloi pressed a palm over the man’s wound, feeling the sticky warmth seep through his glove. “Breathe. Just a little longer. Any more targets?”

The pilot’s fingers clutched at Oloi’s wrist. “T-two… so far. Brief third blip—jets—F-16s…” His grip weakened.

Oloi’s jaw tightened. “Bite your tongue.”

He unbuckled the pilot, lifting him from the seat in one swift motion. The scream that followed bit through the confined space, but Oloi ignored it, lowering him beside the unconscious co-pilot. A quick punch shattered the lock on the med compartment, the first aid kit clattering into his hand.

“Give me a sitrep, Ni!” he shouted, ripping open gauze and pressing it down on the wound.

Ni-Ni’s auto-generated voice came, low but firm through his comm link, the faint synthesized quality of his external mic carrying the weight of effort. “Four missiles. Three missed. One too close—shrapnel damage, port side.”

Another sharp tilt of the aircraft—Ni-Ni jerked the controls, the horizon spinning beyond the cracked window. Oloi braced a shoulder against the frame to keep balance.

“Hydraulics nearly clipped,” Ni-Ni added, curt.

Another missile passed within meters of their left wing, so close that the explosion flash seared across the cockpit glass.

Once the pilot was stabilized, Oloi tapped Ni-Ni’s shoulder, trading places. He slid into the co-pilot seat, fingers flying over toggles, rerouting auxiliary power while Ni-Ni focused on maneuvering.

“We can’t flare them forever—” Oloi's sentence cut off as a missile streaked past the wing, the vapor trail grazing close enough to rock the hull.

“Unguided missiles,” Oloi muttered, scanning radar. “They’re targeting our engines.”

“Or herd us,” Ni-Ni signed, flipping a row of toggles overhead, then forcing the aircraft into a sharp dive through cloud cover.

Ni-Ni’s hand shifted, spinning the yoke hard left. The entire cabin tilted. Crates slammed against safety straps. Soldiers grunted behind them. A chorus of metallic rattles and half-muffled swears filled the bay.

“Wants us alive,” Ni-Ni signed one-handed, fingers flicking sharp Japanese sign motions near his chest. His mask’s digital eyes narrowed. “Or want cargo intact.”

Oloi caught the message, nodding once. “Agreed.”

Ni-Ni dove the plane beneath the cloud layer, the gray world above vanishing into black and scattered city lights below. The red glow from the instruments painted both their armor in faint hellish tones.

“Who’s shooting at us, sir!?” The wounded pilot’s voice cracked behind them as he struggled to stay upright, half-supported by the medic who’d crawled into the cockpit.

“Too advanced for rogue mercs,” Oloi said, scanning radar data streaming across the cracked screen. “Not USAF either. Rules of engagement don’t authorize immediate kill-on-sight for unregistered aircraft, even in restricted corridors. And…” His eyes darted to the weapon readouts. “Modern USAF don’t field unguided warheads anymore.”

Ni-Ni exhaled sharply through his helmet. “In a dead civilian lane.”

Ni-Ni’s fingers stilled on the yoke. He tilted his head, silent thought flickering through his posture. Then he signed again—quick, precise: “Intentional. Knows we’re here. Wants us visible.”

Oloi’s brow furrowed. “In open air, the risk of exposing not only us but themselves in this attack. There's only so much they could do to cover up an attack on a C-130.”

“Then who the hell would be stupid enough to attack an unknown aircraft in open airspace like this?” the pilot muttered weakly.

Ni-Ni didn’t answer at first, only gave a brief glance toward the pilot—a silent, heavy pause. The kind of silence that knew the answer already.

His eyes flicked toward Oloi's briefly. That rare silence of his wasn’t confusion—it was calculation.

He already knew.

Only a handful of people knew about Triarchy’s flight paths. Even fewer had the access to intercept one. The JSA wouldn’t dare. The League—no, their methods were surgical, not loud. Not like this.

A faint tremor ran through Ni-Ni’s fingers as he shifted one hand off the yoke long enough to sign in his lap. “One person.”

Oloi met his gaze. Their eyes—his silver, Ni-Ni’s masked digital gleam—locked for a moment.

Both of them said it, near-simultaneously.

“"Waller.”"

Oloi’s pulse remained steady, but his jaw set in quiet anger. “She knew we were in Gotham.”

Ni-Ni didn’t need to answer. His silence said it all.

Another missile warning screamed across the console; Oloi reached over, flicking on the decoy systems. Flares burst from the tail in streaks of blinding white, each explosion lighting the sky behind them like false stars.

“Evasive pattern Malta-Nine,” he ordered before going to transmit the order to the cargo hold.

Ni-Ni complied without hesitation, diving through low cloud layers, the terrain radar screaming proximity alerts as Gotham’s outskirts flickered faintly beneath. The plane roared between veils of mist, storm lights casting reflections across the glass.

In the back, the soldiers remained silent—no panic, only the clatter of gear and muffled commands echoing through the cabin. They were used to this. To being hunted, part of the job, really, only that they were quite unused to Ni-Ni's artistic way of flying.

Oloi’s voice came through the comms inside the cabin, smooth and cold despite the chaos.

“Brace for evasive pattern Malta. Keep all non-essential channels silent until my mark. Mckenzie, eyes on our rear, Rader's has sustained some minor damage.”

“Copy,” McKenzie breathed, voice trembling just enough that she was glad no one could see her face. Her eyes scanning the window next to her just in time to see the two jets circling back around.

McKenzie’s voice cracked through the intercom, her tone sharp but respectful. “Sir! visual contact! Two bandits circling! We’re being herded!”

“Confirmed,” Oloi replied. His gaze locked on Ni-Ni’s gloved hands as they moved with frightening steadiness across the controls.

Ni-Ni’s gloved fingers tightened around the yoke. “They’ll expect us to dip east,” he motioned.

Oloi’s eyes narrowed. “Then we go west.”

The plane tilted hard, pressing both men against their seats as it banked low through the cloud sea, engines screaming from the strain.

Outside, one of the F-16s streaked past overhead—too fast to read, its markings stripped of insignia. Whoever they were, they weren’t flying under any flag.

Oloi switched the comms to internal frequency. “McKenzie, tell the Raven link to prep counter-transmissions. If we lose altitude, you drop the data caches before we hit three thousand meters. Attach green timed flares for third commander to pick up”

“Yes, sir!”

Ni-Ni signed again, this time smaller, closer to his chest. “They won’t risk killing us.”

Oloi’s lip quirked faintly. “Flattering, truly, but I'm well past civility and mercy”

To which Ni-ni merely responded with a light-hearted jab to his shoulder

The C-130 tilted again, breaking low beneath the radar horizon. The engines howled; the steel bones of the craft vibrated under the sudden pressure shift. Through the fractured glass, the first edge of dawn began to bleed across the horizon—a thin orange scar cutting into the black sky.

Ni-Ni leaned forward, his movements deliberate, almost gentle despite the jerking grip on the yoke. Oloi recognized that focus. That silent ferocity that made Ni-Ni both terrifying and beloved by the troops who called him Mother.

Somewhere behind them, McKenzie shouted for a damage report; someone else yelled confirmation of stabilizers holding. Oloi didn’t turn. His eyes stayed fixed on the forward glass, the smear of light, and the faint contrails of jets circling above the clouds—predators waiting for command.

The comms blinked once, static crackling through the encrypted band. No words, just a brief pulse—an identifier. Government frequency.

Oloi’s throat tightened. He recognized the signature encryption immediately.

Ni-Ni looked at him again, one gloved hand twitching a question in sign: “She wants contact?”

Oloi didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence stretched, broken only by the endless hum of engines, the rhythmic beeping of radar, and the faint hiss of burning air against the hull.

Then Ni-Ni’s mask plates shifted—his version of a smile, faint and knowing. He signed once more, “She’s testing us.”

Oloi exhaled through his nose, a sharp sound almost like a laugh, but without warmth. “I've seen better examinations than this”

The cockpit lights flickered again. The plane dipped lower, shadows swallowing it whole. Behind them, dawn spread slowly across the world—blind, distant, and cold.

And for a long stretch of sky, nothing followed them but the echo of the name they both whispered like a curse.

“Raptors” 

(A/N: By "Raptor" I mean the code, not the Lockheed Martin F-22A Raptor. Raptor is a triarchy designation for a confirmed threat; Bandit is for an unconfirmed target.)

Oloi scanned the damaged radar, "This machine is on its last legs, if we do not find a way to lose these birds, then we have a risk of flying blind."

The hum of the engines was uneven now—more of a struggling grind than a roar. Oloi felt the vibration through the metal floor, in his boots, in his jaw. The AC-130 was holding together, but barely. Each time the fuselage creaked, the sound reached him like a whisper of warning. One wing already smoked like an overworked forge, leaving streaks of black across the clouds. The smell of burning insulation bled into the recycled air.

He didn’t bother looking at the medic anymore. The woman’s knuckles were white where she clung to the seat. She was trembling—barely holding it together—but she hadn’t screamed yet, and that was admirable enough for now.

Ni-Ni was a steady constant beside him, one hand gripping the steering yoke and the other flicking through switches and dials like he was rearranging piano keys as he adjusted the throttle, keeping the lumbering aircraft level against the pull of the wind. Calm. Focused. Almost bored, even, if not for the way his brow furrowed under his mask.

“Hydraulics are bleeding,” Oloi murmured, eyes flicking across the dim green glow of the instrument panels. “If they hit us again, we’ll lose the left wing.”

“don’t let them,” Ni-Ni replied, as if it were that simple. His tone wasn’t cold, just calm—infuriatingly calm, as always, at least whenever he deigns to orally communicate. The man could make a mid-air disintegration sound like a mild inconvenience with or without the tone of a voice.

Oloi exhaled, slow and controlled. “Noted.”

The next missile streaked past the cockpit, a silver dart splitting the cloud cover, close enough that the shockwave slammed the craft sideways. The medic yelped. Oloi’s hand shot out, gripping the console to steady himself. His pulse spiked—not from fear, but from the raw instinct that came with recognizing proximity to the projectile, one too many.

It was too much like that day over the Black Sea. The same gut-pull of gravity misbehaving, the same hollow sound of the airframe groaning. He shoved it down.

Ni-Ni kicked the metal panel beside the pilot’s seat, the sharp clang echoing through the cockpit. The plate bent inward like foil, and he ripped it off its hinges. The medic winced but eyed her commander curiously as he reached inside the panel, fishing out a small object before shoving it into his vest.

“Might I suggest glass panels instead, if we were going to smash them open anyway, Second Commander?” she managed, trying for humor but landing closer to panic.

“Your concern is duly noted and shall be addressed once we make it out in one piece, ma’am,” Oloi said evenly, tossing the piece of metal out the shattered cockpit window so it wouldn’t ricochet during evasive maneuvers.

He turned to Ni-Ni, intending to ask about the emergency payloads, when the man fished something from his vest. Not a flare, not a beacon—no, a flip phone.

Oloi stared at it for a long second. “You can’t be serious.”

Ni-Ni gave a one-shouldered shrug, still guiding the aircraft through the screaming wind. “Call him.”

“Ni-Ni—”

“Call him. Will come faster. Likes showing off to you.”

Oloi’s face flattened into a look that could only be described as academic despair. “He will never let this go, you are aware, correct?”

Ni-Ni nodded once.

“He will pester me for weeks.”

Another nod.

“Are you certain he’s our last option? I’m confident enough I can handle these pests myself.”

Ni-Ni shook his head. “You might kill them,” he signed one-handed.

Oloi let out a low sound—half sigh, half growl. He hated when Ni-Ni was right. He always was, damn him. “Fine,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “But when he refuses to stop bragging about this in the next briefing, I’ll be blaming you personally.”

“Swallow pride. Promise to lessen his teasing.”

“Why I put up with you mortal beings remains a miracle,” Oloi muttered, snatching the flip phone.

When the flip phone buzzed faintly in Oloi’s hand, he wondered—not for the first time—why the universe enjoyed forcing him into these humiliating situations.

Silence.

Only the hum of the wounded engine and the whisper of static from the radio filled the space. Oloi could hear his own breathing, slow and shallow, the way it always got when he was waiting for something he didn’t want.

It rang once. Then twice. Then kept ringing.

He could hear the missiles outside, the sharp whines and the distant flak of counterfire as Ni-Ni rolled the aircraft to avoid another hit. The horizon tipped sideways, their altitude dropping a little too fast before the engines clawed them back up.

“He’s doing this deliberately,” Oloi muttered, half to himself, half to the cockpit air that was too thin and too hot.

Ni-Ni hummed in quiet agreement. The medic blinked between them, clearly lost as to why two men on the verge of being shot out of the sky were arguing about a phone call.

Then, finally, a voice came through—crackling, unhurried, infuriatingly casual. “Hello~ This is your ever dauntless—”

“Hi, Sunshine,” Ni-Ni cut in, his tone all light and sing-song.

“Oh, morning, munchkin,” came the reply, the faint sound of something digital beeping in the background. “How’s Gotham? No bat trouble, I hope? Heard the big guy’s been extra moody with the jokes out”

Ni-Ni almost smiled. “We—”

“Spare me the commentary,” Oloi interrupted. “We require assistance immediately. Coordinates attached to this transmission.”

There was a pause. Then: “Yeah, yeah, I see you. Just lemme finish this game first.”

Oloi blinked. Once. Slowly. The kind of blink that meant I will murder if this continues.

“A game?” The medic flinched when his voice hit a higher octave than he’d have liked. “A GAME!? We are at risk of plummeting from the sky under unguided missile fire and you are playing—”

“Relax, professor,” the voice drawled. “You sound like my third-grade teacher, the 40s one, the bad bitch. You’ll wrinkle faster that way.”

The medic startled when Oloi slammed the heel of his palm against the console, a sharp metallic clank.

Ni-Ni, still steering, glanced sidelong at him, smiling faintly beneath the mask. “See? He answers faster.”

“Do not encourage him,” Oloi hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And you—” He turned the phone slightly as if Sunshine could see the glare through sheer psychic force. Letting out an undignified series of noises somewhere between an exasperated growl and a strangled laugh. He counted a slow inhale, let it out through his nose. “Did you at least finish your preparations before indulging in whatever childish distractions you currently entertain?”

“Mhmm,” Sunshine answered, sounding suspiciously amused. “All done. Totally prepped. Anyway, when are you guys landing again? Because, uh—runway’s kinda snowed in-”

“-Which you should have cleared by now,” Oloi snapped.

“Which I will. Eventually, thank you very much. What kind of grunt do you take me for?”

Oloi inhaled through his nose, slow, controlled. “That was one time, An. I have since made amends.”

The plane lurched then—a violent shudder that threw the medic to her knees. Ni-Ni grunted, rolling the aircraft hard to starboard as tracer fire lit up the window like red fireworks.

“What was that?” came Sunshine’s voice, too casual for Oloi’s liking.

“One of our engines has been hit,” Oloi said, voice suddenly clinical again. He leaned forward, peering through the cracked windshield. Smoke and flame trailed behind them, flickering like a dying star. “We’ll discuss your negligence later. For now—air escort. Immediate.”

“Aye aye, Commander Cranky,” came Sunshine’s drawl, followed by the crunch of something being eaten on the other end. “Mind telling me what I’m up against?”

Oloi, feeling quite fed up by this point, held the phone out the shattered cockpit window just as a missile whizzed past, so close that the air warped with heat. A jet streaked by right after, its markings lost in the blur. He pulled the phone back in, glaring.

“satisfied?”

A laugh echoed through the speaker. “Unguided missiles and F-16s? crude Fancy. So, you want it well-done or rare?”

Oloi glanced at Ni-Ni, who returned the look with that same unbothered, maternal deadpan that said don’t you start.

“Scruff wants it clean,” Oloi said at last. “No deaths.”

Sunshine groaned loudly. “Fiiiiine~ any idea who they are before I accidentally cause another secret war?”

“That was one time,” Oloi said. “This is an unprovoked attack on our transport craft. I wouldn’t lose sleep over jets with Waller’s stamp of approval.”

“Ohhh, they’re hers, aren’t they? You sure you want ’em alive?”

“I don’t,” Oloi said, voice sharp with restrained honesty. “But for our dear Scruff’s peace of mind, I’m afraid we’ll have to acquiesce.”

A groan crackled over the speaker.

“Boring, You people and your rules. Fine, fine, I’ll play nice. Just don’t complain if they get a little rattled.” Sunshine muttered. Then, more cheerfully, “You owe me, though. M’kay?”

Ni-Ni leaned closer, voice soft and lilting. Even over the chaos around them. “Thanks. Love you.”

“Ugh,” Oloi muttered, rolling his eyes. “We are not alone, in case you forgot.”

Ni-Ni just flicked his mask open enough to stick his tongue out at him.

“Alright, alright, settle down, you two,” Sunshine teased. “You’re both smoking hot when you argue. I’ll be there in a sec. Try not to die, okay? See you soon, lovies,” he quipped, followed by the sound of a blown kiss followed by what sounds like a sonic boom on his end.

Then the line cut with an obnoxious click.

Silence filled the cockpit for a moment—save for the wind howling through the cracked panels and the distant whine of the surviving engines.

Ni-Ni sighed. “See? He care.”

“He is an irresponsible child in a grown man’s body,” Oloi replied, but there was no venom in it. Just exhaustion. “One of these days, I will strangle him. Gently.”

Oloi stared at the phone for a long beat. Then he folded it shut, handed it back to Ni-Ni like one might return a cursed artifact. “I despise him,” he muttered.

“You don’t,” Ni-Ni said softly.

The medic finally spoke up, voice shaky. “Who... who is that?”

Ni-Ni just smiled faintly, eyes on the console. “friend”

Oloi almost snorted, but the next rattle of the fuselage made him swallow the sound. He turned back to the instrument panel—half of it flickering from the damage—and caught the faintest tremor in his reflection on the cracked glass. The distorted image of his face looked older. Eyes hollow. Shadows under them like bruises.

For a split second, the reflection wasn’t the cockpit at all. It was the hangar—that hangar—smoke rolling in, alarms screaming, fire licking up metal walls. The echo of a body falling. The sound of his own breath, sharp and too loud in the helmet.

He blinked, and it was gone.

The medic said something, but he didn’t hear it. Ni-Ni was steady beside him again, voice even. “We lose altitude. Need five minutes.”

“You have three,” Oloi said automatically.

He glanced out the window. The clouds were thick, rolling gray swells with sunlight bleeding through in thin ribbons. Somewhere beneath them, there was land—or ocean—or both. Hard to tell. The altimeter was losing its mind.  The sound of anti-air fire rattled the fuselage. One of the instrument lights flickered red, then dead. The pilot swore again from the back.

“How long, do you think?” Ni-Ni gestured, his free hand's grip steady.

“Two minutes, give or take. Assuming his sense of time still functions within normal parameters—which it rarely does.”

A shadow crossed his face, fleeting but visible. A memory surfaced uninvited: the flash of burning wreckage across an endless white sky, the split-second where weight vanished, replaced only by the sound of screaming metal. He blinked it away.

He checked the altimeter. Still dropping too fast.

The medic leaned forward, shouting over the roar of the engines, “Are we going to crash?”

“No,” Oloi said without hesitation. “not yet”

Ni-Ni smirked faintly behind his mask. “stop scaring”

“Comfort breeds complacency,” Oloi replied automatically.

The radio crackled suddenly with static, then cleared just enough for Sunshine’s voice to hum back in.

“Hey, so—funny story.”

Oloi froze. “If the next words out of your mouth are ‘I’m lost,’ I swear I will—”

“Relax, relax. I found you. You’re very... explode-y from up here, by the way.”

There was a sound—a faint sonic ripple—and then a streak of light tore across the sky outside the cockpit, so fast the human eye could barely track it. One of the jets chasing them suddenly jerked, its wings folding in on themselves like crushed paper before it spiraled away in a bloom of smoke.

Ni-Ni whooped under his breath. The medic gasped.

Oloi allowed himself a small exhale. “Finally.”

“Did you see that?” Sunshine’s voice was smug. “That’s what we call finesse.”

“Finesse would be subtlety,” Oloi muttered.

“Oh, don’t start defining words at me again, dictionary boy.”

The second jet tried to flank them from below, its missiles streaking toward their belly. Ni-Ni twisted the yoke, hard—gravity slammed Oloi sideways, his shoulder cracking against the bulkhead.

“Hydraulics failing,” Ni-Ni said.

“Of course they are,” Oloi replied tightly. His vision flickered white at the edges for a heartbeat—the smell of burning insulation twisted again into that other scent, acrid, metallic, human—blood and ozone.

He clenched his jaw. Focus.

Sunshine’s voice broke through again, tone lighter. “Okay, okay, I got this one. Close your eyes.”

“I swear, if you—”

“Too late!”

Outside, the world lit up—blinding gold, a line of fire cutting clean across the sky. The second jet disintegrated without an explosion, just... disappeared, its parts vaporized into glittering fragments that drifted like embers before fading.

The cockpit went silent again. Even the medic forgot to breathe.

“See?” Sunshine said smugly. “Clean. No deaths. You’re welcome.”

Oloi massaged his temple, exhaling. “You burned half the ozone in that maneuver.”

“Details, details.”

“Do you ever consider restraint?”

“Every morning,” Sunshine said cheerfully. “Then I forget.”

Ni-Ni snorted quietly, the kind of sound that made it clear he was amused but didn’t want to show it. “He did good. You thank him later.”

“I’ll thank him when we’re not on fire.”

“Speaking of,” Sunshine said, “you’ve got a fuel leak on your right wing. Might wanna, uh, stop that before you—oh wait, never mind, you’ve got a third guest incoming.”

“What?” Oloi straightened, leaning toward the radar screen. The static cleared just long enough for a new blip to appear—smaller, slower, holding position at a distance but slowly closing in. 

Not one of the jets. Not a civilian airliner, either.

Ni-Ni’s hands paused over the controls, his voice low now. “Third aircraft. No signal code.”

Oloi didn’t answer at first. He stared at the screen, the slow pulse of the unidentified dot, steady and patient, like an eye watching from the dark. For a moment, the hum of the engines, the chatter, even Sunshine’s faint breathing over the line—all of it blurred into the background.

There it was again, that same cold coil in his gut. Even the F-16s that attacked them had signal codes. 

He blinked once, slowly. Then:

“Sunshine.”

“Yeah, boss?”

Oloi’s voice was quiet, even. “Hold your position. Something’s approaching.”

Static answered him. Then a faint laugh. “Oh... yeah. I see it.”

The radar beeped once more, louder this time.

It was getting closer; the possibilities of another engagement were high, but so far, no missiles or projectiles were launched, at least not detected on radar. It was still quite far based on their damaged yet still operational radar, but it was getting dangerously close at concerning speed.

“Open the cargo bay. Sunshine, you got our two prisoners?”

Oloi’s voice cut through the comms, low and even despite the turbulence that rattled the fuselage. His eyes flicked between the instrument cluster and the radar, measuring distances, probabilities. They’d shot down two interceptors already. That was two too many. The wrecks would be burning somewhere in the North Atlantic by now, but they couldn’t afford to leave survivors for Waller’s retrieval teams. Not this time.

“They’re kinda fussy right now,” Sunshine replied, his tone light and sing-song under the static. There were background noises — muffled shouting, metal groaning, a sharp pop that sounded a lot like small-arms fire.

“Fussy?” Oloi repeated, deadpan.

“Yeah, you know, human. Loud, panicky, full of complaints.” Sunshine’s chuckle came through, distorted by the wind. “You sure we can’t just drop them?”

“Negative,” Oloi said. “Ni-Ni wants them alive. I need them for questioning.”

Behind him, Ni-Ni tapped his shoulder with two fingers — calm, practiced. He pointed toward the scope. The radar pinged again. The third contact had closed the distance by another kilometer.

“That’s not a USAF model,” Oloi muttered, narrowing his eyes. “And not alien tech either. Great.”

“Too clean,” Ni-Ni murmured, his tone quiet but certain. “No heat signature mismatch.”

“Sunshine,” Oloi said, already working the switches overhead, “cargo bay’s opening. Get inside, I’ll meet you there. Try not to mess up the cargo. No barrel rolling.”

A low groan came over the comm. “You’re no fun, Marble. Hey, Munchkin, tell the tall demigod he’s no fun.”

Ni-Ni just gave the faintest shrug, lips twitching. He was already rerouting hydraulics, stabilizing the wounded aircraft, coaxing life from what the engineers back in the base had called “retired but functional.” The engines growled unevenly beneath them, two still strong, one coughing smoke.

They were still hours out from Halifax. And now, another unknown in pursuit.

The C-130 wasn’t built for prolonged dogfights, not with its weight and old plating. Even upgraded, the armor was still decades old, same with their countermeasure pods. They had double the standard flare capacity — a gift from Sunshine’s earlier “modifications” — but the wiring was ancient. Some circuits dated back to the Cold War.

“Keep her steady,” Oloi ordered. “Sunshine, bank close to the ramp. Wait until we’re under cloud cover. Do. Not. Be. Seen.”

He unstrapped, standing, muscles protesting the shift in gravity. His boots thudded against the grated floor as he moved down the narrow corridor toward the hatch. The sound of the engines grew louder, filling the space with that deep, vibrating hum that lived in his ribs.

Ni-Ni kept the plane level, his hand steady on the yoke. “Careful down there,” he called.

Oloi didn’t answer. He ducked through the bulkhead, descending toward the cargo hold. The air grew colder, sharper — metallic tang mixed with fuel and sweat. One of the medics was halfway through patching the co-pilot’s shoulder wound. Oloi stopped long enough to help lift the man onto a stretcher and guide it to the safer side of the bay.

The interior looked worse than he expected. Dents lined the walls and ceiling, some panels peeled inward where rounds had struck. No penetrations, though. The armor had held — just barely. From one of the portholes, he caught sight of the smoke pouring from their wounded engine. The reroute had worked; the flames were out. The wing was peppered with holes, nothing catastrophic. The plane still lived.

Passengers — a mix of his own owls and Ni-Ni's Crows — were strapped in, eyes wide, hands white-knuckled on their restraints. Some of the cargo crates had come loose, sliding a few inches from their locks. None had hit anyone. Small mercies.

He moved toward the rear console, the one controlling the ramp hydraulics. The old lever was scratched, paint worn off from decades of use. He leaned over a seated soldier and gestured for their radio.

“Sunshine,” Oloi said into the handset, his tone flat. “I’m at the panel. Are those pilots still breathing?”

“Yep~,” came the reply, dragged into a playful note. “Finally passed out after I spun through too many clouds. One of them puked, though. Stained my boots. Custom leather, too.”

Oloi rolled his eyes, more out of reflex than emotion. “Make sure the cargo is secured — and yourselves. I’m not dealing with anyone skydiving today.”

A few of the men snickered. He ignored it. Humor was not a tool he consciously used. His focus narrowed on the ramp, on the hiss of pressurized air through the thin seam of the door, on the trembling metal beneath his hand.

The aircraft vibrated as Ni-Ni adjusted their altitude, bringing them beneath the thick cover of low clouds. Static crackled faintly in Oloi’s earpiece. Somewhere outside, Sunshine’s voice hummed faintly — a line of Kryptonian verse he didn’t recognize, carried by the wind.

Oloi exhaled slowly, his pulse steady, mind calculating the exact timing, the pressure differential, the risk variables of depressurization versus altitude. The hum of the engines mixed with the faint groans of the airframe — alive, struggling, enduring.

He reached for the lever.

The bay lights flickered once. The sound of the wind clawed faintly at the steel seams. A heartbeat of stillness, as if the entire aircraft held its breath.

Oloi’s fingers brushed the handle—

And pulled. It took a solid few seconds for the ramp to go down, but as soon as the small opening was made, the air sucked out like a vacuum. Clutching onto anything they could hold onto.

Oloi stood firm, his tall frame steady against the rush of wind that howled through the open cargo ramp. The biting air tugged at his coat and sent loose papers fluttering from unsecured crates, but he didn’t flinch. He kept his posture straight, unmoved, eyes narrowing at the shifting wall of clouds beyond.

Somewhere within that grey expanse, he knew, Sunshine was cutting through the air like a silver blur.

“Uh, Commander—” one of the younger soldiers began, voice half-raised over the roar of the wind.

“At ease,” Oloi replied calmly, his tone almost bored. “I see him.”

He didn’t blink as the figure broke from the haze — a faint streak of white contrail, a sonic bloom cracking faintly behind it. The shape was fast, deliberate, almost lazy in how it slowed mid-descent. The blur resolved into the outline of a man.

Sunshine.

His attire was, as always, a mockery of protocol — baggy military cargo pants, a half-zipped gray jacket singed at the edges and streaked with soot. The fabric looked ripped in places, blackened from heat or debris. He floated toward them as though he had all the time in the world, feet barely brushing the air until he reached the ramp and stepped onto the aircraft like it was a red carpet waiting for him.

“Home sweet home,” Sunshine said brightly, his grin sharp and unbothered. In each hand, he carried a limp, unconscious pilot — their flight suits military-grade but outdated, models Oloi hadn’t seen in years. The HGU-55/P helmets looked scratched and burnt.

Sunshine casually dropped both bodies onto the ramp like sacks of sand. They hit the steel with a dull thud and skidded an inch before Oloi flipped the control switch, initiating the ramp’s closing sequence.

“I’d prefer you not drop our prisoners out of a smoking transport craft,” Oloi said without looking up. “Await further instructions at the cockpit.”

Sunshine leaned back on his heels, mock-offended. “Jeez, someone woke up on the wrong side of the coffin this morning. Not even a thank you for my valiant rescue?”

Oloi exhaled softly — the closest he ever came to a sigh. “I’d hardly call your one-sided decimation valiant. But… you have my gratitude nonetheless.”

The words sounded stiff even to him. Still, he placed a hand — somewhat awkwardly — on Sunshine’s shoulder. The gesture was mechanical, formal, the kind Ni-Ni would have executed with warmth and ease. Oloi was not Ni-Ni. Physical reassurance was not his language.

He withdrew his hand just as quickly. “While I’d prefer to question your questionable sense of uniform later, we have a third unknown approaching at closing speed. And before you offer—no, we cannot blast it out of the sky until we determine its purpose. The jets you destroyed were an exception, acted in self-defense—despite your rather… creative interpretation of the term.”

Sunshine blinked at him, brows raised. “Um… thanks? I think?” He paused, grinning. “We’re definitely talking about your alphabet later. Anyway—off to the cockpit!”

He gave a mock salute before striding off toward the front of the aircraft, humming as he went. The younger recruits stared after him, unsure whether to salute, avert their gaze, or laugh. The older veterans just exchanged looks of quiet amusement — half-admiration, half resignation.

Oloi remained where he was, staring after the Kryptonian with an expression that hovered between exhaustion and disbelief. Children, he thought dryly, his eyes lifting toward the ceiling as if appealing to some unseen deity. I work with grown, nigh godlike children.

A light tug on his sleeve broke his thought.

“Uh, s-sir?” a young recruit stammered. His eyes were wide, nervous, as if he’d just realized what he’d done.

Oloi’s gaze snapped downward — calm but sharp enough to make the boy stiffen. “On a normal occasion,” he said evenly, “I would admonish you for breaching conduct by grabbing your commanding officer. It matters not if Troupe Commander Ni-Ni indulges in such childish displays; I do not.”

The recruit looked ready to sink through the floor.

“However,” Oloi continued after a pause, “I will tolerate it for now.”

He folded his arms. “And to answer your question: yes. That is indeed the third Triarch, and one of your commanders. You needn’t worry—he doesn’t personally oversee your troupe. But,” he added, tone flattening, “try not to indulge in any of his absurd ‘training’ exercises.”

The young man swallowed hard, muttering a nervous, “Yes, sir.”

Oloi gave him a brief pat on the head — a small, almost mechanical gesture that carried more reassurance than he probably intended. The boy blinked in surprise, then nodded quickly and returned to his seat.

Oloi’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. The recruit couldn’t have been older than twenty, maybe nineteen. Gothamite, by the look of him — pale from lack of sunlight, tense around the eyes, and the familiar look of unease and slight mistrust despite the overall two months within the troupe. Yes, He keeps track of all people within the triarchy, not only his own owls; one cannot be too careful. Most of Ni-Ni’s North American troupe came from that city. Strays, orphans, desperate souls who had clawed their way out of crime-ridden alleys for the promise of something steadier. Ni-Ni had a talent for finding them, for turning despair into discipline. Most importantly, giving them a family, to which Ni-Ni is a suitable foster. To him, they were always his children first before anything else.

After all, despite Batman's odd adoption obsession, not all children are lucky enough to fall into the hands of the crusader. Not every parent that adopts them keeps them, not every orphanage keeps them, and not all of them wish to stay or go back to the way things were. There's always a choice; before bringing them in, they always have a choice. They could go home and be free, or they could come stay. Most do stay, but not all join the Triarchy; that's why they have the civilian and domestic department. They weren't soldiers, just overly armed service club members.

On paper, the expeditionary department of the triarchy was not a heavily militant-based group. To those few markets that were aware of their existence, like the Japanese government, they were an international search and rescue group with specializations of espionage and monitoring mercenary groups with extremely high requirements for hiring and double the amount of pay any government could really afford. Even the United States, but that was purely out of a moral standpoint, would rot and die in a grave before ever working in the same room as Waller.

It's times like this where he understands Ni-Ni's overprotective and nurturing instincts, personal relations don't do well in operations but sometimes it can prove a deciding factor. The Majority of the people on this plane was his men, his troupe, all of that focus and sense of command is put to ensuring all his kits returns home.

Oloi respected that, even if he didn’t always understand it. His own criteria for selection were stricter, more precise — based on necessity, not sentiment. Yet, so far, Ni-Ni’s methods hadn’t failed them. Not once.

As for Sunshine… Oloi preferred not to think about what kind of people the Kryptonian might consider recruits. His standards, if they existed, were inscrutable.

He made his way back toward the cockpit, the hum of the engines deepening underfoot. The corridor was narrow, lined with exposed wires and patched metal plates. Every step echoed faintly through the old fuselage.

When he entered, the air felt heavier. Ni-Ni sat in the pilot’s chair, his posture upright, hands steady on the yoke. The flickering glow of the radar display painted his face in shifting green. Beside him, Sunshine lounged comfortably against the wall, boots up on the console like he belonged there.

“Stop pestering Ni-Ni,” Oloi said, his tone clipped. “We still have that third unknown on the radar. What’s the status?”

Sunshine dropped his feet to the floor with exaggerated compliance. “Non-responsive. I thought it looked like a standard military craft, but the design’s… off. I don’t recognize the model.”

Ni-Ni’s hand moved over the controls, fine-tuning the scope. The green blip remained steady, closing in slowly but without hostility.

Sunshine continued, “Seems heavily modified. I don’t think they realize we’ve got an extended radar array. On a normal C-130, they’d be out of range by now. If your injured pilot’s story checks out, they probably pinged onto our position right as those jets started harassing you.”

Oloi frowned, his mind already running through the possibilities. “You think it’s Waller’s?”

Sunshine shook his head immediately. “Not her style. You know how she handles us — proxies, it's likely the jets that dogged on you were just mercs that were given what bottom barrel means to attack. I mean, why waste perfectly good F-16s with unguided missiles? Clearly, they weren't her men; otherwise, they'd be using stealth jets, not old models, their pilots? pfft amateurs. This? Too quiet, the bandit's engines are clearly supersonic, bordering hypersonic.” 

He leaned closer to the display, squinting. “And when I got a personal visual… it looked too dark, I nearly missed it. Definitely not standard military issue, in fact's blipping all over the radar right now.”

The hum of the engines deepened again as Ni-Ni adjusted their trajectory, guiding them deeper into cloud cover.

Oloi’s gaze lingered on the radar. The single blip pulsed again — closer now, deliberate. Not a random flight path.

“dark, you said,” he murmured, more to himself than to either of them. His mind cataloged the description — speed, altitude, flight pattern, silence. Not Waller. Not League. Not one of theirs.

He straightened slowly, eyes narrowing at the glowing dot.

“Whoever they are, it's clear they've been following us for a while” Oloi said quietly, “however, It's unlikely they're in line with the previous raptors”

Ni-Ni had been quiet for most of the conversation, his attention fixed on the controls, face unreadable under the dim light of the cockpit. He's been pondering something given that he's been flicking the same hydraulic switches and countermeasure checks for the past minutes or so. Despite already stabilizing their leaking fuel, altitude, and hydraulics. It was only after several long minutes that he finally spoke, his voice low but carrying the sharpness of someone who never needed to raise it to be heard.

“What’s in our cargo?”

Both Oloi and Sunshine looked up immediately. That was an odd question, not that he never asked any but it was surprising to hear her verbally ask. Sunshine, who had been lazily duck-taping the bullet hole on the cockpit glass, turned slightly in his seat, his trademark grin tugging at the edge of his face.

“Shouldn’t you know about that?” Sunshine said, voice bright with teasing curiosity. “I mean, they are your men after all.”

The tape hissed as it peeled as Sunshine stuck duct tape on the bullet holes on their windows, breaking the silence that followed. Oloi caught the faint flicker of Ni-Ni’s reflection on the cockpit glass—his expression unreadable, as usual. When Ni-Ni finally spoke again, it was quiet but edged, deliberate.

“Yes. Not everything.”

He didn’t elaborate further. Instead, he made a small gesture toward Oloi.

“Before visit,” Ni-Ni said, voice faintly accented, “he oversaw Gotham sector.”

Oloi gave a short nod, standing straight even within the cramped space. It was true. While Ni-Ni officially commanded the Gotham sector, operational autonomy was common—especially for units operating beyond direct communication range. Gotham’s sector was volatile by nature despite the secluded location, and when Ni-Ni was away—which was almost always—Oloi had been the one to ensure things didn’t collapse under their own chaos.

While he never personally set foot within the city borders, he did remember what the city proper was described as—the heavy, damp stench of metal and oil that hung over the city even in its quietest hours. Their troops in that sector were all locals and obviously all very young. Many of which were sent to Halifax for standard training with him before being given back to Ni-Ni for indoctrination and specific specialized training. Given how many of those roughened agents were once orphans or were just stranded in Gotham at a young age due to some trafficking ring, they stuck to Ni-Ni like concrete.

The only problem with having the majority of your covert sector platoon aging from as young as seventeen to as old as twenty-five, there were bound to be some cases of reckless behavior and instances of insubordination. And Ni-Ni, for all his charm and grace, was no fool. He’d known that keeping a stable foothold in Gotham required someone pragmatic, especially when much of their personnel were teens and young adults who were in over their heads—someone like Oloi. 

While Oloi handled Gotham’s operations when Ni-Ni was abroad, his permanent assignment had long been Europe—Italy, Greece, London, and the surrounding corridors that connected the Triarchy’s European grid. His command structure was clean, efficient, and largely silent. Ni-Ni’s style was flexible and adaptive, blending martial discipline with a nurturing sense of loyalty and discipline; Sunshine’s, by contrast, was bombastic and impossible to predict.

Sunshine held the North American sectors: Bismarck, Chicago, Halifax, and Alaska. His safehouses, if one could even call them that, were more like public secrets—hidden in plain sight, built within collapsed warehouses or beneath outdated infrastructure. Oloi had visited Halifax once; this was his 6th time visiting for official business, years ago. He’d found it chaotic, loud, and disorganized. Yet, somehow, everything worked, much like their old Vietnam safe house, before the fall of Saigon, that is. The younger recruits adored Sunshine. To them, he was a symbol—half superman at home, half broke uncle, entirely unorthodox.

Ni-Ni’s domain was the Eurasian front—sprawling but fragile. Japan, Shanghai, Busan—three strongholds and countless temporary ones scattered along the cold spine of Siberia and down through the dust of Syria and Iraq. He had the smallest manpower of the three Triarchs, but his network was flexible, always shifting, always alive. And perhaps that suited him best.

Ni-Ni thrived on movement. He was always traveling, never fixed to a single place for long. Even now, Oloi couldn’t imagine him living quietly anywhere. Sunshine had Halifax. Oloi had his quiet little port town in Italy, where the sea wind carried the smell of salt and rusted iron. But Ni-Ni? He was air and motion—an actor, a leader, and in Japan, practically royalty in all but name. The longest time he spent on record was in Vladivostok, 4 months, twenty days, three hours, and 34 minutes. Off the record, however, without a sliver of a doubt, Hong Kong. A whole year, he was gone for so long without contact, Sunshine thought he'd offed himself or gotten killed, again.

The dumbass nearly abandoned his duties to scour Asia, he just barely managed to restrain himself when he saw Ni-Ni on Japanese television, in an interview about some show he acted in or somewhere along those lines. The Kryptonian has been making hourly texts to the retired assassin since.

Oloi still found it absurd sometimes—how one of their Triarchs could appear on national television in a tuxedo and then command a black-ops strike team the very next day without a wrinkle out of place, not that Ni-Ni would ever call it a "black-op strike team". But that was Ni-Ni, enough expertise, combat, and non-combatant skills to fit about four autobiographies. And still as young, joyful, and passionate as then, truly an odd paradox of the people they truly were.

Oloi’s gaze flicked back to the radar as he spoke. “According to reports, most of our cargo is equipment. Data logs, caches, miscellaneous support materials. Standard transfer inventory.”

He paused, the memory of the earlier conversation with the ground crew returning to him—hesitant faces, the vague deflection when he’d asked about the sealed containers near the rear of the bay. This was right before he contemplated initiating the return protocol. At the time, Ni-Ni was already an hour late to the extraction.

“Although,” Oloi continued carefully, “there was one additional package that the troupe refused to disclose.”

That made Ni-Ni’s head turn. His eyes, sharp and dark, locked with Oloi’s. There was no anger in the look—just that quiet, measuring stillness that always made Oloi feel as though Ni-Ni were dissecting more than his words.

He held the gaze for a moment longer before Ni-Ni’s expression flattened. Without a word, Ni-Ni released his grip on the steering column and rose from his seat, coat settling neatly against his sides. He turned toward the hatch.

Sunshine, of course, noticed immediately. “Uh oh,” he said, spinning his chair lazily to face Oloi. “He looks cranky. You should probably go after him before someone’s ear gets pulled again.”

Oloi didn’t even want to ask what that was supposed to mean. He let out a quiet sigh, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a prayer for patience.

He really didn’t want to deal with Ni-Ni’s particular brand of discipline right now. It wasn’t harsh—not in the physical sense. But it was something worse. Ni-Ni could scold without raising his voice, could lecture without saying more than three words. It was that calm, disappointed tone that always made the younger officers wilt, and the veterans suddenly remember they had somewhere else to be.

Oloi adjusted his gloves, squared his shoulders, and followed Ni-Ni.

He could still hear the rattling of some loose panels behind all the rivets. The air beyond was cooler, carrying the faint tang of oil and burnt circuitry. He could still hear Sunshine behind him, humming to himself, probably doing something unproductive like decorating the radar with sticky notes.

Oloi moved through the narrow passage connecting the cockpit to the main body of the aircraft. The lights flickered once, then steadied. His mind drifting back to the origins of the aircraft, the craft itself was an old model—one of Sunshine’s personal favorites, refurbished and reinforced for aerial transport. It looked like any ordinary C-130 at first glance, but its internals were anything but standard. Sunshine and Baikal had stripped it apart, modified it with the help of Seaglass, and reassembled it with an unholy mix of alien alloy, military tech, and—according to him—“creative improvisation.”

Oloi suspected at least half of that meant “stolen Kryptonian scrap.”

He passed a group of younger recruits kneeling down, rewiring some panel under their seats. Some were murmuring quietly to each other; others sat stiffly, eyes wide as they watched Ni-Ni walk past. The moment Ni-Ni entered the bay, the conversation died like someone had cut the power. Every crow sat straighter, boots together, hands tight, even some of the few Oloi's Owls mimicked as if sensing the miffed off parent that just entered the room.

Ni-Ni had that effect. He didn’t command attention; he extracted it.

Oloi lingered a few steps behind him, observing as Ni-Ni moved toward the center of the bay. The cargo hold stretched long and cold, lined with crates stacked in tight rows, each marked with coded insignias. The air smelled faintly of metal and old fuel. A few of the containers had been recently loaded—he could tell from the fresh scuff marks and the still-wet chalk stencils on their sides.

Ni-Ni’s eyes swept the room once, taking everything in. He didn’t ask questions immediately. He simply walked—slow, deliberate steps, coat whispering against the floor. His presence pulled the room taut, like a wire stretched to its limit.

Oloi knew that silence well. It wasn’t hesitation. It was judgment—Ni-Ni’s way of weighing the truth before speaking.

Sunshine might have called it his “Mother glare.” Oloi just referred to it as his scolding look

The troupe followed Ni-Ni’s gaze, shifting nervously in place. One of them—the same young recruit from earlier, barely twenty—seemed on the verge of speaking, but a single glance from Ni-Ni shut him down immediately.

Oloi folded his arms, waiting for Ni-Ni to stop in front of the sealed container. It was large—taller than a man, reinforced with metal plating. The edges were welded shut, a red tag pinned to the lock, marked with a series of authorization codes that Oloi didn’t recognize. How they managed to even conceal this during transport was a logistical nightmare.

He’d asked about it before takeoff. The Gotham troupe had been evasive, citing “confidential clearance.” He hadn’t pressed the issue then, assuming Ni-Ni had been informed, everyone had their secrets after all. Apparently not.

Ni-Ni knelt slightly, examining the lock, his fingers brushing lightly against the surface as though feeling for imperfections. His face gave nothing away. Oloi could almost hear the gears turning behind those calm eyes. His hands resting on the container's metal wall, occasionally knocking on some spots.

It was the same look Ni-Ni had worn years ago, when they’d uncovered a weapons cache in Thessaloniki, amusing to think he looked around fourteen years old at the time, still fresh from his period. Back then, Ni-Ni had knelt just like this—quiet, collected—and when he finally spoke, his tone had been deadly even though the words were measured: “moved ahead of schedule.” Within hours, they had dismantled an entire network of illegal suppliers that had gone unnoticed for years; it was also how they acquired this craft in the first place. Amusing how things go around comes around in these odd times.

That was Ni-Ni. He didn’t speak unless he was certain.

Behind them, some lights flickered from the loose wiring. The metallic echo of footsteps and distant chatter filled the cargo bay, soft but steady.

Oloi waited. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask. He simply watched as Ni-Ni’s gaze lingered on the tag, tracing the insignia carved faintly at its corner—a mark Oloi didn’t recognize.

For a moment, Ni-Ni stood perfectly still. Then, slowly, he exhaled.

He turned slightly, enough for Oloi to see his profile. His expression hadn’t changed, but there was a faint shift in his eyes—something between irritation and calculation.

Oloi knew that look too.

He didn’t need to ask what Ni-Ni had seen. He didn’t need to say anything at all. The answer was already clear enough in the quiet tension hanging between them.

Ni-Ni’s gloved hand rested briefly on the container’s surface, fingers splayed, as though testing its temperature. Then he stepped back.

“Code seal it,” he said quietly to one of the soldiers. “No one open it, touche it, stay near it.”

The recruit nodded sharply, moving to follow the order. Ni-Ni’s tone had the kind of weight that didn’t invite questions.

Oloi straightened, eyes narrowing slightly. “You recognize it, then.”

Ni-Ni didn’t answer immediately. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, gaze distant, thinking. When he finally looked back at Oloi, his eyes were calm again—too calm.

“Later,” he said.

That was all he needed to know.

Oloi inclined his head slightly, understanding that meant end of discussion.

Ni-Ni turned toward the hatch again, his footsteps echoing faintly as he made his way back toward the cockpit. The young soldiers relaxed only once he was out of sight, like a collective breath had been released. Oloi lingered for a moment, glancing back at the sealed crate one last time before following.

Whatever was inside that container, it wasn’t standard cargo. And judging by Ni-Ni’s expression, it was something they hadn’t been meant to find. Ni-Ni was right to let him babysit his crows if they could so easily sneak extra cargo; if it had been sunshine who knows what sort of things they would've found and taken. Perhaps he should've pulled a tighter leash on the  Gotham sector's operations, and error he'll take into account the next time either of the two ever deigns to let him babysit again. Which is highly unlikely for Ni-Ni's troupe given how he just let unknown cargo slipped past under his watch, Oloi would rather not deal with whatever renegade company sunshine's been forming.

He did not like scolding his troupe. It always felt unnecessary, even when it was warranted. He understood their eagerness—the rush that came from purpose—and the recklessness that came with it. They were young, most of them. Too young, perhaps, for the kind of burden they carried.

He reminded himself of that every time he felt the instinct to raise his voice. They learned by trying. They failed by living. And he… had done both long enough to know better than to kill curiosity before it matured into discipline.

Still, when something was amiss, it tugged at him like an old ache.

He didn’t use his real name anymore. Not in years. There was no need for it. A name could be traced, misused, held against him or against those he swore to protect. The one he used now—Ni-Ni—was simple. Childish, almost. It had no history, no weight. Just sound. It suited him.

His troupe had inherited his curiosity. That was not the problem. It was, in fact, one of their strengths. The problem lay in how they acted on it. He could see traces of himself in their disobedience. The kind that used to get him into trouble long before he learned what consequences truly meant. He almost smiled at that thought. Almost.

But disobedience in the field was not a harmless thing.

He’d already suspected something was off before Oloi even confirmed it. A gap in the cargo logs. A faint discrepancy in weight compared to the manifest. It was small, almost negligible, but the kind of detail his mind never let pass without question.

And now, standing in the dim red light of the hold, he knew.

They had hidden something from him.

He could excuse it—maybe they were afraid of Sunshine’s methods, or of Oloi’s rules—but not telling him… that stung a little. They trusted him with their lives. Yet not with this.

The cargo they smuggled aboard was wrong in ways he could not yet name. Familiar somehow. It carried a kind of silence, a deliberate one, as if meant to suppress attention rather than draw it.

Sunshine and Tall—Oloi—knew Waller better than he did. They had crossed paths before, traded blows and information. He, on the other hand, preferred not to deal with that woman if he could help it. She was the kind of person who thought she understood control. And men like that were always dangerous.

Even so, the earlier attack made no sense. It was rushed. Clumsy. Lacking the kind of precision Waller’s operatives were known for. That meant one of two things: either it wasn’t her, or she wanted them to think it wasn’t.

But the motivation was clear enough. They had something she wanted. Something retrieved, maybe even by accident. Whether his men picked it up during the evacuation or stumbled on it during a sweep didn’t matter. They had it now, and that was enough to paint a target on their backs.

He’d find out which of them brought it aboard. Later.

For now, he examined the container. It was tall, rectangular, unmarked. The kind of thing that would be overlooked in a warehouse or a dock—ordinary by design. But the closer he looked, the less ordinary it felt.

It wasn’t digital. No standard seals or automated locks. All mechanical, all analog—an intentional choice. Whoever built it knew that the greatest threat to secrecy wasn’t brute force, but code. Digital systems could be cracked, tracked, overwritten. But analog seals? Those obeyed only touch and time.

He knelt down beside it, running his gloved fingers across the cold surface. No markings. No serials. Just metal—dense, matte, and clean. He’d seen containers like this before, though not for decades. The 1980s, maybe. A time when paranoia was policy and every scientist was a potential spy.

“Old tech,” he murmured to himself. “Smart tech.”

The alloy was a giveaway. Thin, hollow plating, deliberately layered. Lead. That caught his attention. Lead wasn’t cheap to use in construction, not for something of this scale, unless there was a very specific reason for it.

This modified type of Lead blocked more than radiation—it blocked sight.

Sunshine would never see through it. Kryptonians couldn’t. That alone made the design… recent. Someone had prepared this with that knowledge in mind. Someone who either worked with or against beings like Sunshine. And as far as told history goes, the 'first' kryptonian on earth was the man named superman, or Clark kent, Ni-Ni never bothered to search for his kryptonian given name nor did he care to go through the effort. He had his two most important ones, he had no need for one from a dead world.

Still, that thought didn’t sit right with him.

He tapped the edge of the container with the micro-dosimeter module embedded in his palm. The readings spiked immediately. Ten Sieverts. Consistent. Stable, but high enough to make any sane man uneasy.

He didn’t need to open it to understand what that meant.

“Not good,” he whispered, his voice quiet enough that only he could hear it over the drone of the engines.

He stepped back, the faint hum of radiation prickling through his skin even from a meter away. The last time he felt that sensation was… long ago, under a different sun, when he’d been hired to clean up some former KGB safehouses after the aftermath of a reactor breach in Kazakhstan. He remembered the smell. The familiar prickling of the air, most dreadfully the sting of it.

He’d seen things like it before—decades ago, back when he still wore uniforms that changed color every few months depending on which organization claimed him. This one was different, though. It was too clean, too precisely patched, too carefully disguised as ordinary cargo. Someone had gone through the trouble of making danger look dull. That bothered him more than the radiation.

If what he suspected was true, they were carrying the equivalent of a low-yield warhead. A living, potentially ticking hazard tucked inside a cargo plane barely holding itself together after a firefight.

He exhaled, steady and slow.

His men didn’t know. Of course they didn’t. He doubted any of them could even read a dosimeter, much less recognize what this was. They had probably thought it was some kind of secure data container, or a classified relic meant for relocation. Afterall he never trained any of them towards nuclear disposal, perhaps he should've.

He would deal with that misunderstanding later. Preferably when they weren’t thousands of feet in the air with a potentially radioactive payload under their feet.

Oloi had mentioned that the manifest changed hours before departure. That timing mattered. It meant the container wasn’t part of the original inventory. Which, in turn, meant it was added in Gotham—his own sector.

A last-minute inclusion. Either smuggled in by his men or deliberately planted for them to retrieve. Neither option pleased him.

He rubbed his temple lightly. The plane’s hum filled the silence around him.

They couldn’t keep it. That much was certain. It was too dangerous, too unstable, and too obvious. Even without active sensors, the container’s weight alone could draw attention if someone knew what to look for. And if it was nuclear, it had trackers. That was just standard procedure.

He crouched again, this time pressing his palm flat against the metal. Cold. Smooth. Deceptively quiet. He focused for a moment, letting the embedded sensor hum faintly beneath his skin. No ticking. No vibration. That meant it wasn’t armed—not yet.

Small mercy.

He straightened and took a slow breath through his nose. The air smelled faintly of oil and ozone. The kind of smell that reminded him how fragile all this really was.

They would need to dispose of it. Safely. Quietly. Before anyone else decided to claim it or before another strike force comes. And they still had that third bandit to deal with.

They couldn't dissect it in flight, too many things could go wrong. Ni-Ni wasn't sure what laid inside, it is radioactive, perhaps he could've opened it with the help of Tall and Baikal but Baikal wasn't here, and the plane is full of his troupe coming back to Halifax after 2 years operating in complete blackout status in gotham.



It was likely laced with countermeasures should anybody try to open it by fire, It could be remote activated with the trigger holder being somewhere else. It wasn't here on purpose, whomever is holding the trigger could press it at any moment and Ni-Ni was utterly powerless to prevent anything. And if it was not a bomb, it could still be very sensitive to and tinkering. 


What was certain was it had trackers, how else would the previous raptors found them. That's likely the only digital trace this container has, they couldn't just dump it mid-flight, it was still a potential warhead. Dropping a nuclear yielding container in the wild faced too many variable the worse being if it detonated or someone with bad intentions got their hand on it.



A Nuclear bomb going off in the wild was sure to catch attention, particularly the Justice League and The Man in the office. So no dumping it mid-flight, he was not worried too much for any tracker, the base in Halifax will jam the signal well enough to lose whatever is tracing it. That won't matter if they don't lose the third bandit.

He placed his palm against the metal one last time, feeling that faint, invisible hum beneath his skin.

“Three stalkers” he murmured under his breath. “One Cargo”

They were getting closer and closer to Halifax now, Ni-Ni needed to act fast if he wanted to keep their base hidden and not lead their third stalker right to it. Still, there was one other issue he was not yet addressing, something that was supposed to require his full attention.

He stood still for a long while, just letting the faint hum of the cargo bay breathe around him, a form of calm and focus. Engine sounds mixed with the softer rhythms of his men—boots shuffling, quiet chatter, the occasional cough of someone shaking off the adrenaline of earlier. His gaze lingered on the container again, every now and then. Even now, it radiated a kind of tension that settled deep into his bones. No point in going around in circles about it, he will deal with it later. His hand twitched once before he lowered it to his side.

Oloi would notice it soon too. Sunshine might already know, though he would act like he didn’t until it mattered. That was how their trio worked. They knew each other’s rhythms without needing words, and right now, his rhythm was off. He could feel it—an ache in the chest that had nothing to do with the Geiger pulse brushing the edge of his nerves. Something was wrong with his unit.

He turned slowly, scanning the rows of crows strapped to the benches. Helmets rested on laps, rifles slung low. They were young—too young, still soft in the eyes despite everything. He didn’t like scolding them, not even when they deserved it. They meant well. They always did. They just didn’t always understand what “well” cost. He could see bits of his younger self scattered among them—curious, restless, too clever for their own good.

His mind circled back to M9. Maintenance, recon, small but sharp. They were good at crawling through the city veins, tapping cameras, bending radio chatter. One of them had caught his attention lately—quiet boy, the kind who looked like he thought too much and spoke too little. Fin. That was his call name. He didn’t talk much, just worked. Efficient. Focused. Almost mechanical in the way he’d move. Then, two days ago, that focus cracked.

It started with the reports—small notes from Mara, nothing dramatic. “He’s distracted,” she’d said. “Jumpy. Forgetting simple orders.” That wasn’t normal for Fin. Ni-Ni brushed it aside at first. Everyone was exhausted, worn from Gotham’s strange energy. The city did that to people. It made them nervous, paranoid, always waiting for something to happen. But then he’d passed Fin in the corridor before the attack.

He remembered that moment too clearly. Just a passing glance—no words, just eyes meeting for four seconds. Four seconds was all it took. Something about the boy’s stare had been off. It wasn’t fear. Fear he could read easily. This was… emptiness, like the boy was listening to a sound no one else could hear. Ni-Ni didn’t have time to ask before the alarms started, before everything turned noise and fire.

Now, standing here in the dull hum of post-flight silence, that memory hit harder.

He took one step back, his heel scraping faintly on the floor. The metallic tone cut through the hum, pulling some of the men’s attention. A few glanced his way before quickly looking back down. They all knew that look on his face. It meant something wasn’t right.

Oloi’s voice drifted faintly through the comms above, steady, formal, already moving to calculations and checklists. Ni-Ni tuned it out. There was no checklist for the kind of wrongness he felt now.

His fingers brushed against his sleeve, the faint crackle of the dosimeter still blinking faintly under the skin. Ten Sieverts. Constant. Stable. Still too much. He shouldn’t stay too close for long. But he couldn’t walk away, not yet. There was more to see. More to feel.

He turned from the container, ignoring the faint sting crawling up his arm. His boots echoed softly against the floor as he moved toward the seated rows of crows. A few straightened instinctively when they saw him approach, hands moving to straighten their straps, postures shifting upright. He waved them off with a faint motion of his fingers. “Relax,” he said quietly. They obeyed.

He stopped when he reached the familiar cluster of uniforms with M9’s insignia stamped faintly on their arms. Mara was there, as she always was—tall, steady, tanned skin marked by old burns half-hidden under her collar. Her eyes caught his before she even spoke.

“Sir?” she said, the word clipped but respectful. Then she corrected herself, almost under her breath. “Sorry—Ma.”

He smiled faintly, just enough to crease the edge of his mouth. “Don’t worry.”

They’d been calling him that for years—Ma, Mother, Mama. It had started as a joke from Sunshine, something to tease him with when he nagged them too much. The name stuck. He never asked them to stop.

He leaned slightly closer. “The young one?”

Mara nodded toward one of the crates at the far side. A small figure was crouched there, half-hidden by shadow, hands working at something unseen. Ni-Ni followed the gesture, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the movement—small, quick motions, the kind of nervous fiddling he’d seen before from engineers deep in thought. But there was something… uneven about it.

“He’s been quiet since we boarded,” Mara murmured. “Didn’t even eat.”

Ni-Ni gave a slow nod, more to himself than to her. Then he started walking.

He didn’t hurry. His steps were slow, measured, careful not to make too much sound. The cargo bay wasn’t silent—engines still thrummed somewhere far below, vents exhaled softly—but in this pocket of space it felt heavy, like air that had been waiting too long to move. He could almost hear Fin’s breathing before he reached him. Short. Uneven. Mechanical in rhythm but trembling under it.

The boy didn’t turn when Ni-Ni stopped behind him. Whatever he was working on held his full attention. From this angle, Ni-Ni could just make out the edge of the object—small metal casing, bits of wire, old screen glass. Some kind of drone repair. Or a distraction.

Ni-Ni crouched slightly, enough that his shadow crossed the boy’s hands. Still no reaction. He waited a second longer, then reached out and tapped his shoulder gently.

“Fin?”

The boy jumped so sharply he almost dropped the thing in his hands. A quiet squeak escaped his throat before he snapped his head up, eyes wide. “O–oh! H–hi, sir.”

That wasn’t right. Fin never stuttered. He never even called him “sir.” Usually just nodded or saluted. That single word, sir, carried too much tension.

Ni-Ni blinked once, then twice, studying his face. Pale. Eyes darting too fast. Sweat along the temples despite the cool air. The boy was afraid of something, but not him.

“Come with me,” Ni-Ni said softly.

No questions. No hesitation. Just his voice, calm but firm. He straightened and gently took hold of Fin’s arm, not tightly, just enough pressure to guide. The boy flinched once but didn’t resist.

He led him a few steps away, weaving between the crates. The noise of the others faded behind them, replaced by the steady hum of the engines and the faint metallic ring of their boots. They reached a darker corner, where two tall storage containers formed a narrow gap—just enough space for two people to stand unseen.

Ni-Ni stopped there and turned, letting go of the boy’s arm. The air here smelled faintly of ozone and oil. He could hear Fin’s shallow breathing echoing between the metal walls.

He studied him quietly for a few seconds before speaking again. “What were you working on?”

The boy hesitated, clutching the device close to his chest. “Just—maintenance, sir. One of the drones. It’s been… acting weird.”

Ni-Ni’s gaze flicked down to the object. The casing was scratched, a little too new compared to the rest of the unit’s gear. “That one of ours?”

Fin’s throat bobbed. “Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Ni-Ni repeated, voice even. “What’s the rest?”

The silence stretched. The boy’s fingers twitched, as if debating whether to hide the drone behind him. Ni-Ni didn’t press, not yet. He could see the fear building, not guilt—something else.

His mind shifted back to the container, to the radiation, to the way Fin’s eyes had looked earlier. Too empty. Too far away.

Something had followed them out of Gotham. Not just cargo.

He exhaled slowly, grounding himself before he spoke again. His voice softened, almost to a whisper. “You're hiding something”

Fin’s lips parted, but no sound came. His gaze flickered away, down to the floor.

Ni-Ni didn’t need him to answer. He could see it—the tremor in the hands, the way the boy kept glancing toward the walls like he expected them to move. Whatever it was, it wasn’t just fear. It was recognition.

He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice further. “Fin,” he said again, calm, careful, “look at me.”

The boy did, slow and hesitant, eyes glistening faintly under the harsh light.

Ni-Ni met his gaze and held it. Just like before. Four seconds. Long enough to see that same hollowness, but deeper now.

Yes. Something was wrong.

He didn’t speak again. Not yet. There were questions, but timing mattered more than answers. He’d learned that much over the years. Sometimes, silence did more than interrogation.

He waited, watching the boy breathe, until the shaking eased slightly. Then, with a steady hand, he reached out again and gently guided Fin by the shoulder—back, behind the nearest crate, out of sight from the others.

Whatever this was, it didn’t belong out in the open.

“Leave us,” he said softly.

The surrounding crows hesitated. They always did when his tone dropped to that quiet register — not because they feared him, but because they knew it meant something delicate was unfolding. A few exchanged uncertain glances before shuffling away, boots dragging faintly against the metal floor. Within seconds, the soft shuffle of movement faded into the low thrum of the engines. The hum swallowed everything else.

Silence.

He stood still for a heartbeat longer, listening — not to sound, but to the shape of quiet. When it finally felt right, he turned back to the boy standing before him.

“No one here now,” Ni-Ni murmured, eyes steady, voice calm but carrying weight. “Talk.”

The boy wearing Fin’s uniform stiffened. His hands twitched near his chest, and for a second, Ni-Ni thought he might run. He didn’t — he just stood there, trembling, eyes darting in small, nervous motions that spoke louder than any answer.

“U-um… w-what? S-sir, I don’t understand—”

That word again. Sir.

Ni-Ni felt the faintest sting at the back of his mind. He hated that word. It built walls, drew distance where there shouldn’t be any. His crows never called him that. Not even when they were afraid.

He tilted his head slightly, studying the boy with quiet patience. “Don’t hide,” he said softly. “You’re safe. Where is Fin?”

The effect was immediate. The moment the name left his lips, the boy froze — eyes wide, chest shuddering once, twice — and then his legs nearly buckled. Ni-Ni moved without thinking, catching him before he could hit the floor.

For a moment, all he felt was the weight in his arms — not heavy, not even close. The boy felt almost hollow, like he could fold in on himself if held too tightly. Thin, yes, but not the kind of thin born of hunger. This was a different kind — the kind that came from neglect, from forgetting how to care for yourself.

Ni-Ni tightened his hold instinctively. There was no recognition in the boy’s eyes, no sense of familiarity. And yet, he clung — desperate, unguarded, like someone who hadn’t been touched kindly in a long, long time.

His uniform was loose, far too large for his frame. The sleeves sagged, the vest strap hung unevenly across his shoulder, and his gloves were at least a size too big. The mask on his face was crooked, the hood pulled so far forward that it nearly blinded him. Every detail was wrong. The real Fin was meticulous, neat to a fault, A man in the making. This… this was Boy. A fragile one.

Ni-Ni’s instincts stirred — that quiet, buried warmth that never really left him, no matter how many years or continents he’d crossed. The same feeling that made him build a family out of strays and ghosts.

He wanted to hold on. Just for a moment.

But he couldn’t.

This boy wasn’t his. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He drew a slow breath and forced his thoughts back to the present. He had a missing crow to find, a craft full of frightened recruits to keep alive, and somewhere behind sealed metal walls, a low-yield nuclear payload humming softly like a caged storm.

He couldn’t afford to lose focus.

Still, he looked down at the stranger again. The boy’s breathing came in shallow, uneven bursts against his chest. He lifted a hand and pulled the hood back gently, careful not to startle him.

Not black. Auburn.

Ni-Ni blinked once. The strands that fell free were soft, fine — cleaner than expected, washed, conditioned, carrying the faint scent of expensive oil. He brushed a gloved finger through a few locks, feeling the texture. It was the kind of hair that belonged to someone who’d never spent a night on the streets, never rationed water or soap.

But the condition told another story. The curls were tangled, uneven, pulled at strange angles as if someone had gripped too hard, too often. Clean, but messy. Groomed, but hurt.

Ni-Ni exhaled quietly. “You’re not mine,” he murmured under his breath, almost to himself.

The boy flinched, but didn’t move away.

Ni-Ni sighed again, this time softer, almost weary. He wanted to ask a hundred questions — about Fin, about how this boy ended up wearing his clothes, about who exactly he was. But he had to choose the right one first. The most important.

“Where’s Fin?” he asked again, voice calm but threaded with an edge of concern.

The boy shook his head quickly, hugging tighter to Ni-Ni’s vest. “W-who’s F-Fin?” he stammered, voice cracking. “Please—don’t t-take me back. I-I can d-do anything, j-just don’t bring me back.”

Then he looked up.

Ni-Ni froze.

The boy’s eyes — pale blue, raw with fear and exhaustion — caught the dim light just enough to show the faint tremor beneath them. That face. He knew that face.

It had been everywhere. Screens, papers, broadcasts that he only half-listened to during layovers. He didn’t care much for Gotham’s noise, but even he couldn’t escape it. The city’s beloved tragedy — the youngest Wayne, the ghost that refused to stay out of headlines.

Ni-Ni’s expression didn’t change much, but something behind his gaze softened. He brushed away a tear from the boy’s cheek with the side of his thumb, a gentle, practiced motion, and pulled the hood back up to cover his hair.

“Shh,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Safe now, Young Wayne.”

The boy’s breathing hitched again, still trembling. Ni-Ni steadied him with one hand on his shoulder — firm but kind, grounding him without trapping him. “Don’t stoop,” he said quietly. “Too out of place.”

He reached down and straightened the boy’s utility vest, tightening the loose strap and brushing off a patch of dust. He moved with the absentminded care of someone used to tending to others, each motion efficient but gentle.

Then he tapped the emblem stitched on the boy’s shoulder — the Triarchy’s mark. The faint gold and black threads glinted under the cargo light.

“Where is Fin?” he asked again, this time tapping the patch once more. “Original bearer of these colors?”

The boy hesitated, gaze flickering to the side. His lips parted, closed, then parted again before words stumbled out. “H-he… saved my life,” he said finally, each word uneven. “He said there was a place I could hide. Be better. Maybe… do better.”

He paused, voice trembling. “My family thinks I'm in Metropolis; they won't bother. And your g-guy, Fin? I think he, um… went with the scenic route, he said.”

Ni-Ni snorted softly despite himself. Of course he did.

The scenic route. Old Triarchy slang. A half-joking code for the back-channel path between Gotham and Halifax — the kind they used before they had proper aircraft or safe transport channels. Long, winding, full of risk. A path that used old backroads, trails, and tunnels instead of Highways and main roads.

He could almost picture it now. Fin walking those roads, head down, carrying nothing but a small pack with too many circuits and utility tools. He would’ve liked the quiet.

Ni-Ni let his shoulders ease a little.

“He’s safe?” he asked, though he already knew the answer he wanted to hear. “Got out of Gotham?”

The boy nodded quickly, then hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

Ni-Ni watched the motion carefully. He didn’t speak. He wanted the boy to fill the silence on his own. That was usually when truth surfaced — in the gaps.

The boy’s hands tightened on his vest straps. “I… I think so,” he whispered finally. “He told me not to look back. Said he’d follow later.”

That tracked. Fin was protective to a fault. Always had been. The kind to sacrifice comfort for others’ safety. It made him valuable — and reckless.

Ni-Ni’s mind turned. Fin was out there, alone, somewhere between Gotham and the cold stretch of the northern states. If the bats didn’t find him first, someone else might. Waller’s remnants. The scav teams. Even worse, Superman, he'll have to pass through Metropolis to reach New York, and New York to reach Boston.

He rubbed at the corner of his temple with a gloved finger, feeling the beginning of a headache bloom. There were too many unknowns. Too many moving parts.

The boy’s breathing steadied a little now, soothed by the stillness of Ni-Ni’s presence. The old soldier in him noticed the shift — the subtle way panic eased when someone felt seen. It always worked better than interrogation.

He crouched slightly again to meet the boy’s gaze, lowering his voice. “You’re hurt?”

The boy shook his head too fast. “N-no, sir—”

Ni-Ni frowned faintly. “Don’t call me that.”

“S-sorry.”

He exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to smile at the apology. “It’s fine.”

He reached out again, brushing a loose strand of hair from the boy’s forehead. “You hungry?”

A blink. “A little.”

Ni-Ni nodded once. “Eat after this.”

Another small pause. The hum of the engines filled the space again, wrapping around them both like the echo of a heartbeat.

He looked at him again, really looked this time. The fragility wasn’t just physical. It was in the way the boy held himself — like every muscle was braced for impact, like kindness was something he didn’t know how to receive.

Ni-Ni knew that kind of fear too well.

He didn’t ask anything else yet. Instead, he adjusted the boy’s hood again, straightened his collar, and gently patted his shoulder once more — a silent reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he murmured, “You know, he wouldn’t have left you unless he thought you’d be safe.”

The boy blinked at him, confusion flickering before something softer replaced it — a small, trembling nod.

Ni-Ni’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, then he finally stood, the motion smooth, almost soundless. His body moved like someone who had been carrying too many people for too many years.

He looked down at the boy again — the youngest Wayne, hidden in plain sight under borrowed colors, trembling but alive.

He’d need to tell Oloi eventually. And Sunshine. But not yet.

For now, he’d protect this one the same way he always had — quietly, from the edges, until he knew what kind of storm was coming.

Ni-Ni adjusted the strap of his glove, straightened the line of his jacket, and exhaled once.

“Stay close,” he said finally, voice calm again. “And don’t speak unless I ask you to.”

The boy nodded, quick and obedient.

Ni-Ni gave a final glance toward the far end of the cargo bay, where the container still hummed faintly under its sealed clamps. There was too much weight in this ship — metal, secrets, and things that burned if held too long.

He turned back toward the boy one last time, eyes steady, soft.

“Fin will be fine,” he said quietly. “He’s clever. He’ll come home.”

Then, without another word, Ni-Ni guided him out from behind the crates — slow, careful steps, his hand still resting on the boy’s shoulder, steadying him against the tremor of the plane.

Ni-Ni then heard a small sound,a miniscule otherwise inaudible 

The sound started small — a click, then a deeper, metallic crank that felt wrong in the belly of the plane. It came from where the sealed container sat, tinny and mechanical against the constant hum of engines. Ni-Ni heard it before he understood it. The noise itself carried a wrongness he did not like; gears did not sound like that when they were healthy.

He moved on the sound without thinking. His legs carried him faster than the rest. He barked one motion — a palm, a turn of the head — and several of the crows slid away from the rear toward the front. Move. Now. No faces. No questions. Their bodies obeyed before his voice did the work. That small, practiced obedience always steadied him.

Something else hit him then. A smell. Not fuel, not burnt metal. Softer, chemical. Sharp. The faint metallic tang that crawled under the tongue. He stopped still. Every other sensor in his body aligned to it like a compass. The container. It was wrong.

“Who opened?” He did not shout. He did not need to. His voice rose a fraction — tight, low — and the room shifted. When Ni-Ni altered tone, they listened in a different way. Excuses fell silent.

“No one, commander —” The soldier’s reply smelled of genuine confusion, words fast, a hand raised in helplessness. “It just started opening. Like a slow jack-in-a-box. First commander is already trying to deal —”

Ni-Ni moved past him, boots thudding, breath even. Oloi’s hands were on the container, fingers working over analog fittings with a precision that made sense to the old mechanics in Ni-Ni’s chest. The container had unfolded like a flower. Not soft petals. Sharp, engineered petals made from layered metal, seams that weren’t meant to be seams. An inside that glowed, not warm but clinical, blue and white and angry.

It smelled stronger now. The air pinched at the back of his throat. He knew that scent; he did not want to know it again. He could taste metal where there should have been nothing more than recycled cabin air.

“Oloi.” His voice was a rope pulling taut. “Sitrep.”

The tall man did not look up. He kept his jaw working the way a man works a stubborn machine. “It popped open. Countdown. I didn’t see an arm before it did. I am… unsure if it’s armed. The circuit is—” His fingers danced, pressing, testing, isolating. “There’s a sequence. It’s counting down. Radiation is present. It’s… leaking.”

Ni-Ni’s chest went flat for a second. Not a panic. A cold, simple calculation. He felt the dosimeter under his skin pulse, a tiny, resistant hum. Ten Sieverts at the outer layer. The number lodged in him like a stone. The math did the rest. The way numbers always did.

The device inside glowed. Wireframes. A domed egg of metal and circuitry. Thin ribs of exposed wiring braided into thicker harnesses. It was ugly and intricate in the same motion. Ni-Ni recognized the shape. He had catalogued such things with other hands, in other lives that burned and hardened him. Warheads were not graceful. They were functional and cruel. This one was both.

“We can’t stay with it,” Oloi said, voice urgent now, fingers finally finding a junction that made a different light stutter. “Radiation will—”

Ni-Ni cut him with a look. Two words, slow. “No drop.”

Oloi blinked. “It's a CBRN Ni-Ni, a compromised one”

“Civilian airspace,” Ni-Ni said. He pointed with a flat palm at the display Oloi kept flipped on the bulkhead — small green dots, a grid, names. “Below. A few kilometers from Metropolis. EMP in atmosphere equals cascade.”

Oloi’s hands stilled. He clenched the loose wire, then moved again. “So If it goes off in-air—EMP will shut systems on nearby flights. Jets. Civilians. Tracked systems. The third pursuer will also lose sensors. We could kill many. Or worse—if it detonates low, ground impact radiation and shockwave multiply the dead. The blast radius—”

Ni-Ni didn’t let him finish. He did not like long sentences. He liked facts. Sharp. Clear. Short.

“Two options.” He said it like a cut. “Drop. Or disarm.”

Oloi’s mouth was a thin line. He touched the casing with gloved fingertips then recoiled like the metal had burnt him. “We cannot disarm blindly. Leaks mean wrong wiring. Someone didn’t finish properly. It’s remote-activated.” He tapped at a panel. The readout showed signal strength. Remote. Somewhere else. “Planted?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be ours.” Ni-Ni’s half-sentence hung. The truth sat heavy and flat on his tongue. They had not planned for this. It had come to them like an accident, an afterthought lodged into manifest paperwork at the last minute. Someone had slipped it among crates in Gotham. They had carried it away without knowing. That made it worse.

He looked at his people. Faces were pale. Hands gripped straps like men strangling themselves. No one moved except in short, practiced motions. Mara had her jaw tight; the medic’s gloved fingers trembled. The young recruit who’d tugged his sleeve earlier — the one who looked at Ni-Ni like a question — had his hands pressed flat over his mouth.

Ni-Ni took a breath and let it out. He moved closer. He crouched, level with Oloi, because being high didn’t help when the math was small and precise. He placed both hands flat on the cold rim of the opened container. He did not touch the inner dome. He felt its heat through the metal, not warmth like a living thing, but heat that meant reaction.

“No tick,” Ni-Ni said. He didn’t like to rely on words for things he could see or feel. He listened. The countdown pulsed like a second heartbeat. The numbers glared red on a small display: 06:00.

Six minutes.

He let the number line up with the map in his head. Altitude. Distance to known civilian air lanes. Flight velocity. The third pursuer — still a blip on radar — was clever enough to run interference. Whoever had sent that missile swarm early had been sloppy in pattern, but competent enough to plant ciphers. The thought that someone competent had wanted this thing moving now sat heavy.

“We can’t explode in the sky,” he said. “EMP kills them all. Too many variables.”

Oloi’s fingers worked faster. “If we disarm—radiation exposure. High. Shields will degrade, ventilation sucks contaminated air. We have dosimeters but not a Faraday cage inside this bay. The container should never have leaked. It would not leak if the arming sequence was properly constructed. Whoever packed it screwed up.”

Ni-Ni’s voice was a flat line. “We did not get this on purpose.” He didn’t need to add they had been carrying equipment, data logs, caches. The manifest had been altered last minute. It had been found in Gotham and added. By whom? By his own? By obscure hands? Questions cost time. Time was the currency they did not have.

The countdown crawled. Five minutes. Four.

He looked at the young recruit nearest to the container. Mara had stepped forward. She’d sealed the nearest rows, placed bodies between the crate and the open air as if a human shield could alter physics. It would not. It was a measure of comfort more than action.

“Shut all vents,” Ni-Ni ordered. One short phrase. They did. Ducts clapped closed with a metal sigh. “Seal cabin.” A row of hands moved to panels and fastened them. The hum compressed slightly, as obliged air systems adjusted. “Mask on. Filter set two.” He pointed at medics’ packs. “Dosimeter count. Report.” He did not wait for answers; they came, clipped and quick.

Oloi worked, lips pressed thin. He unscrewed and rewired and tested, watching gauge needles flutter. He spoke to the panel in clinical mutterings — a language that sounded like prayers to a different god.

Ni-Ni looked back at the glowing dome. “Remote activation. Someone triggered it after it left ground. Whoever did that… wanted it taken to a place.” He paused and closed his fists. “We didn’t.”

A soldier stepped forward with a small table of tools. The youngest looked to Mara for permission. Mara’s face was steady but tired. Her hand nodded almost imperceptibly. The boy set his kit down and worked with hands made for detail. He did not hesitate.

Ni-Ni knelt once more. His glove brushed the dosimeter under the boy’s rib. The readout quivered. Slow rise. Not yet critical, but climbing. It told the true story: radiation did not roar into the air like a flood. It seeped, it crawled. It kissed bone and left it singing.

“Time,” he said. The word was not panic. It was ledger. It measured the space they had left. “Four.”

Oloi’s fingers found a loose relay and cut power to a circuit. A small light went dark and then flared back dim. He swallowed and said, “Signal is still present. We can jam, but jamming needs power. It will also trigger failsafe if we engage incorrectly.” He looked at Ni-Ni. “If this is Waller—”

“Waller wouldn't send fire. Not this.” Sunshine’s answer was immediate. “She wouldn't want bodies to see the statement. She is covert, private, and quiet. This was meant to be public and loud. Someone else—someone who knows her rhythm but not our methods.”

Sunshine drifted in then, leaning on the frame like the sky was a garment he had not yet shed. He was supposed to be flying but just assumed he put the plane on autopilot. The sight of him should have steadied them all. It sometimes did. Not this time. He saw the egg dome and his smile fell into a square line. He did not waste words.

“Don’t touch that,” he said, short and clear. He stepped close, the tips of his hair singed from when they’d fallen through the cloud earlier. He scanned the dome with an eye that had nothing to do with radios or gauges. “It shouldn’t leak.”

“No,” Oloi said. “It shouldn’t.”

Sunshine’s face tightened in the way only he could make tight. “Someone rushed it. Slapdash. Whoever left it where we found it, didn’t have time for finish. That implies—”

“Intent,” Ni-Ni finished for him.

Sunshine’s head tilted, curious. “Who would want a live device moved in that state?” He rubbed his chin. “Someone confident. Or someone who wanted a messy surprise.”

Ni-Ni’s jaw flexed. “We need options.”

“We have three,” Oloi said, voice dry with a calm that had been earned. “Drop. Disarm. Or reroute and hope it detonates somewhere unpopulated.” He threw his head back and looked at the ceiling of the plane. “None are good.”

Ni-Ni didn’t like indecision. He didn’t like maths that added more death to the list. He liked order. He liked the cleanliness of choices even when the choices were terrible. He gathered the information into a tight package, then spoke in the smallest possible pieces.

“Jammer,” he said. “Try jammer. Short burst. Cut signal.” He tapped his wrist lightly where a small comm module winked. Not from him. From the kit. “If failsafe triggers—pull us wide. Maximum drag.”

Oloi nodded. He began configuring the older analog jammer Sunshine kept chained in a maintenance locker. It was a clumsy, archaic device, heavy as guilt, but that was part of its charm. Old hardware refused the modern tricks. That was why someone had used analog seals in the first place.

“Jammer will need power,” Oloi said. “We need to redirect main->aux. That will reduce engines by… twenty percent. We’ll lose speed. The pursuer will close faster.”

Ni-Ni’s face sharpened. He thought about all the things speed kept at bay — time, enemy reach, the long hands of Waller. He did not like giving speed away. But every second bought by a cut signal could save lives.

“Do it,” he said.

Hands moved. Panels were loose and heavy. Mara lent her weight. The technicians cursed and laughed and bled a little grease on their gloves. It was the sound of people doing work with metal and life hanging between their fingers. Ni-Ni watched them, chest tight, counting seconds in his head as if they were beads he could snip.

Three minutes.

The readouts climbed. Radiation numbers crept toward territory where the air tasted wrong.

“Signal jam,” Oloi called after a stretch of frantic wiring and a prayer thrown like a spare fuse. “Engaging.”

A thin note of interference rose on the board like a mosquito. The dome’s lights stuttered.

Then a counterstrike. The device’s small screen refreshed and the numbers dropped a notch then flickered red. It was as if something had seen the jammer and responded with a small, precise kick. You could hear the air inside the container shift — not audible, but felt — a pressure microburp that made someone in the back gasp.

“Failsafe,” Ni-Ni said flatly. “They built for jammers.”

“No,” Oloi corrected, eyes wide. “They built a handshake. Someone pings. If authentication fails, it begins a localized countdown and enters a thermal stabilizing sequence. That sequence does two things — it equalizes internal temperature to avoid a misfire, and it attempts a remote dispersal if integrity fails. If that disperses mid-air—”

He swallowed. The silence got heavy.

“Three minutes,” Ni-Ni said.

Sunshine’s jaw moved. He looked like he wanted to flay the world included in his hands. “We need manual intervention. Cut initiation. Hardwire.”

Oloi’s fingers moved again, nimble and precise. He found a junction that smelled wrong and isolated it. “We have one chance to strip the remote receiver. But it is tied into the thermal regulator. Cut wrong, it triggers. Cut right, maybe we stop the sequence. Maybe.”

Ni-Ni crouched, breath even. He thought about choices again. Time. Numbers. The boy tucked against his side. The youngest Wayne’s small form was quiet; the child inside Ni-Ni wanted to scoop him into his coat and run. He did not. He moved to where he could help without ruining the hands that were already trying.

He handed a small tool to the young tech. “Hold here,” he said, two words. The kid’s fingers shook but his hands were steady enough for a moment. He steadied the tool like a soldier steadies a frightened recruit.

“Now.” Ni-Ni kept his voice level. The kid’s hand did not tremble when he pushed the metal into the right seam. Oloi guided the touch with a glare that said do not swerve. The board spit back static.

A click. A sound like a tiny thing giving up.

The dome’s lights dimmed a fraction. The display on the tiny panel went from red to a softer orange. A small vent closed. Pressure settled.

Relief uncoiled in the bay like someone opening a window. It was small. It was not victory. But it was a thing that could be measured.

Back to three minutes.

They didn't disarm it, but the reset the timer. Ni-Ni knew it was only a matter of time before it restarted. Solutions like this are supposed to permanently disarm the bomb but given it only restarted and froze the timer, it was just a temporary fix, but it gave them time.

Ni-Ni exhaled. He let it go long and steady. He did not allow himself to taste triumph. He knew how quickly luck turned rotten in their work.

“We cannot remove it,” Oloi said finally. He had sweat on his brow, hair damp under the cap. “The casing is composite. If we breach it we release what’s inside directly. The seals are analog—meant to resist digital tampering—but the innards are chemical and reactive. We can make it inert with a field, but that needs shielding we lack.”

Ni-Ni’s mind ran through choices again. The words were short, clipped; he liked the economy of them.

“Contain. Shield. Move.” He pointed to crates, to tarps, to anything they could use to build a Faraday of sorts. The crew reacted — heavy bodies hauling tarps, straps, lead plates scavenged from equipment. They worked with a speed that scraped years of practice from bone.

“Sunshine. Get back to the cockpit.”

Ni-Ni’s voice cut through the chaos like a steady line through fog. No shouting, just command. Sunshine paused mid-motion, the orange light of the cargo bay reflecting faintly off his half-shadowed features, and gave a single, sharp nod before vanishing toward the forward hatch. The air was thick with tension and the faint, metallic stench of radiation — it crawled under the skin, sank in the lungs. Ni-Ni stayed still for a breath, watching the blur of his crows move like dark feathers across the bay, pulling tools, sealing crates, dragging lead sheets, resealing the CBRN around the warhead. They worked quick. Trained hands. Scared eyes.

They weren’t supposed to have this. None of them were.

The warhead shouldn’t even be here. It was meant to rot in some forgotten basement under Gotham, not end up in their cargo hold like a cursed relic dragged home by accident.

Ni-Ni breathed through the mask. Cool air. Recycled. Not enough.

He glanced toward the warhead — the casing already scuffed from handling, edges glinting faintly, its shape wrong in every way. There was no pride in carrying such a weapon. Only shame. Only danger. It hummed faintly like a dying heart.

“Sunshine.” Ni-Ni tapped his comm twice.

“Yeah, I heard you,” came Sunshine’s voice, bright, rough, casual — too casual for what they were standing on. “Tell me what to do.”

Ni-Ni almost smiled. Sometimes, it was good to have a Kryptonian around. No need to run, no need to send signals or words across half the ship. Saves time. Kills gossip. Keeps him alive.

“Increase altitude,” Ni-Ni signed and spoke at once, his voice low. “Stratosphere.”

A low grunt filled the comm. Then a slight hum as the aircraft pitched upward. The floor shifted beneath them, crates rattling, a few bolts skipping across the metal. The air thinned slightly, trembling against the hull. Ni-Ni could almost feel the craft straining, its old engines coughing in rhythm.

Sunshine spoke again, somewhere between focus and frustration. “You do know we’re gonna leave cloud cover soon. That third pursuer ain’t gonna stop just because we’ve got a nuke. And this thing—” The comm fizzed with static. “—can’t hit troposphere edge with three engines, Ni. We’ll break a wing before that.”

Ni-Ni’s eyes went to Oloi. The tall man was silent but steady, standing near the ramp with his broad shoulders squared, his hands on the sides of the bomb like he could will it not to tick. Ni-Ni signed toward him — steady, careful, no hurry. Together they began the slow push. The warhead moved inch by inch across the bay’s floor, every scrape of metal against metal sharp and too loud.

“Just get high enough,” Ni-Ni said softly into the mic. “Good time to test modifications.”

It was almost five in the morning now. The horizon was softening — the black folding into deep blue, the first color of dawn brushing against the curved glass of the cockpit. A quiet time, if not for the bomb beneath their boots.

Three minutes.

The bomb’s timer restarting, blinking red, steady, calm.

Ni-Ni stood by the ramp. Still. Ready.

Oloi behind him, hands firm on the payload, muscles tight enough to tremble. The crows were all at the front now, clustered like shadows behind the reinforced door. He could hear their breathing over the low growl of the engines.

“Munchkin,” Sunshine’s voice again, thinner now — wind and static brushing through the comm. “Engines won’t last an hour longer. If I don’t drop speed and altitude now, we’re not making Halifax. We’re lucky we’re not falling already.”

Ni-Ni stared at the bomb. At the light.

“How high?”

“Twenty-six kilometers.” Sunshine exhaled, and it came through the comm like steam.

That was enough.

Ni-Ni reached for the ramp sequence. The switches clicked in a slow, deliberate rhythm, metal groaning as the rear gate began to unfold. Wind tore through the cargo bay, cold and screaming. A roar swallowed all other sound. The air ripped through Ni-Ni’s suit, biting.

“MASK UP!” Oloi’s voice boomed — one of the few times he ever raised it. “HOLD ONTO SOMETHING!”

Ni-Ni gripped a railing, steadying himself as air rushed out of the bay like a soul leaving a body. One minute and forty seconds. The timer blinked faster now. The warhead hummed, then clicked — faint, mechanical, like a clock dying.

“Sunshine.” Ni-Ni could barely hear his own voice. “Ready?”

Static, then:

“Guys,” Sunshine said, tone different now. No humor. No calm. Just quiet dread. “Once we drop that thing, every flight from Halifax down to Gotham gets hit by the EMP. Civilian, military, doesn’t matter. I've sent out a warning ping across all channels. That’s all I can do. You sure we’re going through with this?”

The cargo bay went silent. Even the wind sounded thinner.

Oloi looked at Ni-Ni. Not fear — just hesitation. Doubt.

Ni-Ni felt it too. The quiet between seconds. The pulse of guilt between thoughts. He wanted to curse. Not because of fear, but because he had seen this coming in pieces — every decision, every misstep — and done nothing. He’d let his guard slip. Trusted luck, faith, instinct. Too soft. Too careless.

Now they were flying with a ticking bomb. And it was his to answer for.

This never should've happened, clearly, they still have much to learn.

He exhaled once through the mask. The air was cold and metallic.

“Pray,” Ni-Ni said into the comm.

A long pause.

“Pray they’re ready,” he finished.

The sun broke the horizon. The first rays flooded through the cracked windows, slicing gold across Oloi’s visor. Ni-Ni blinked against it. The light didn’t feel warm — just heavy.

Then Oloi moved. One hard shove. The warhead rolled once, twice, then slid down the ramp into the blue below.

“Hang on tight!” Sunshine’s voice thundered through the comm.

Ni-Ni felt the aircraft lurch — a sharp, stomach-turning dive as Sunshine pulled it down and away. The force slammed him against a crate. His grip burned against the strap.

Twenty seconds.

The bomb fell through open air — a glinting drop against the widening dawn. Then—

A light.

A pulse.

No sound at first. Just brightness, blooming like a false sun. Then the shockwave hit.

The aircraft bucked violently. Crates tore loose, straps snapping. One crow screamed somewhere near the front. The metal ribs of the plane groaned, a wounded beast trying not to tear itself apart.

“Sunshine!” Oloi roared.

“I’m working on it!” The Kryptonian’s voice strained through static.

The next seconds were chaos. Gravity twisted. Ni-Ni’s world became motion — tumbling, rattling, slamming. His shoulder hit a crate. Pain flared down his arm. He forced himself upright, braced against the tilt.

The glow from outside still burned, a pillar of smoke and light curling far below. The EMP had hit — every gauge on the wall flickered out, dead. For a heartbeat, the world was silent. No engines. No comms. Just wind.

Then the power kicked back, partial and sputtering. Sunshine’s flight instincts did the rest — the aircraft tilted, leveled, shuddered. Not perfect, but alive.

Ni-Ni exhaled. His head rang.

“Help—”

A voice.

Not over the comms. From behind him.

Ni-Ni turned, blinking through the haze, and saw him — the young Wayne, still in Fin’s uniform, crouched near a pile of unsecured crates, one arm clinging to the frame. His eyes were wide, terrified. Too young for this. Too alive for this.

Ni-Ni didn’t think. He reached for the ramp lever. It was still half-open, hissing, the metal whining under the air pressure. He pulled — hard. The lever stuck. The mechanism was half-fried from the EMP. The ramp was closing, but slow. Too slow.

He had a second to choose.

He knew, perhaps the scenic route might not be so bad after all. 

“Oloi!”

Ni-Ni’s throat hurt when he shouted. Not used to it. The word scraped raw. “I meet you back home.”

Oloi’s eyes widened. A single nod. No hesitation, no argument.

That was enough.

Ni-Ni turned, pushed off the crate, and ran. The ramp screamed open wider, wind roaring like a beast. The boy slipped, one foot losing grip on the smooth metal floor. Ni-Ni caught him — arms around him, tight, pulling him close against his chest.

“Close your eyes,” Ni-Ni said softly. “Hold tight.”

Then they were gone — ripped out into open sky, into the deafening rush of air and light and gravity.

The world tilted sideways. The noise tore his ears. The pressure crushed the breath out of his chest.

He wrapped his right arm and both legs around the boy, locking them together. The young Wayne trembled, face buried against Ni-Ni’s chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his vest like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

The fall steadied. Wind whistled instead of screamed. Ni-Ni angled his body — instinct from years of training — shoulders down, legs bent slightly, cutting through the air like a blade. Controlled descent.

His fingers brushed the cord.

Altitude dropped.

Then — he pulled.

The chute burst open above them, jerking them upward, the straps digging into his shoulders like knives. His arms tightened around the boy, anchoring him against the jolt. The canopy bloomed wide, catching the light of dawn.

The air slowed. The noise softened. Below them, the Earth stretched endless — faint green and gray patches of land, curling rivers, a distant plume of smoke where the bomb had gone off in the upper atmosphere.

Ni-Ni looked down. Then up.

They were falling, yes — but slower now. Safe enough, for now.

He breathed. Once. Deep. Calm.

The boy was shaking, still clutching his vest.

Ni-Ni looked at him, a faint smile ghosting his lips beneath the mask. “Still with me?”

A small nod.

Good.

He looked at the distant horizon — a streak of orange breaking through the clouds. Seeing the Aircraft containing his crows and kits still intact alongside his two brothers, fly by above them, somewhere ahead was Halifax. Home.

Somewhere behind — the mess they’d left.

He exhaled again.



He's going to be late again.