# GREEN LANTERN FORMATION - UNDER ATTACK
You know how in those old sci-fi movies, space is always this peaceful, majestic void where heroic music plays and everything goes according to plan? Yeah, well, whoever wrote those scripts never met the Psi-Guard. These guys showed up like uninvited party crashers with really expensive toys and absolutely zero chill.
Their interceptors materialized out of stealth mode with all the subtlety of a surprise math test on a Monday morning. Sleek, angular, and radiating the kind of smugness usually reserved for luxury sports cars, they immediately started firing weapons that looked like someone had crossed a laser pointer with a migraine headache.
Kilowog—six-foot-eight of pure Bolovaxian muscle wrapped in a Green Lantern uniform—planted himself at the front of their formation like a living shield wall. His voice rumbled with the authority of someone who'd been barking orders since before most planets had invented the wheel.
"Alright, rookies, standard defensive posture!" he bellowed, conjuring a shield that could've doubled as a small moon. The emerald construct blazed with the kind of willpower that had stopped planetary invasions without breaking a sweat. "These jokers wanna dance? Let's show 'em how the Corps tangos!"
Then the first neural disruptor beam hit, and everything went sideways faster than you could say "What could go wrong?"
The shield flickered like a candle in a tornado. Kilowog's eyes went wide—which, for someone who'd stared down Sinestro without flinching, was saying something.
"What the hell—" His gravelly voice caught as he poured more willpower into the construct, but it was unraveling like a cheap sweater. "Something's wrong with my ring. Constructs are losing cohesion, and I can't—"
The second neural beam tagged him dead center.
Kilowog's massive frame shuddered like someone had just scrambled his brain with a cosmic egg beater. His thoughts scattered in twelve different directions, and none of them were particularly helpful.
"Can't... concentrate," he gasped, his usual drill-sergeant confidence cracking. "Ring's not responding. Like trying to... think through a blender full of angry bees..."
That's when Guy Gardner decided to charge in, because Guy Gardner's solution to literally every problem was "hit it harder and see what happens." He had that trademark grin plastered across his face—the one that usually meant someone was about to have a very bad day, and Guy was pretty sure it wasn't going to be him.
"Don't sweat it, Poozer!" he shouted, his ring blazing like a green disco ball having an identity crisis. "I got this! Watch the master work!"
Guy conjured a battering ram that would've made medieval siege engineers weep with joy and hurled it at the nearest interceptor. The construct started out looking appropriately destructive and ended up resembling a confused green cloud having an existential crisis.
Guy blinked. "Okay, that was... not what I ordered. Ring, did you switch to diet mode without telling me?"
The neural scramblers hit him next, turning his brain into a jukebox where all the songs were playing at once and none of them were in the same key. His emergency shield appeared as what looked like a wobbly green bowl of Jell-O in the middle of a nervous breakdown.
"Ring's fine, but my head feels like a remix nobody asked for!" Guy snarled, tumbling through space like a one-man carnival ride gone wrong.
Meanwhile, Tomar-Re was having what could only be described as the world's most articulate mental breakdown. The scholarly Xudarian was already analyzing the attack patterns, because of course he was—even while his brain was being turned into alphabet soup, he couldn't help being a walking encyclopedia.
"Fascinating," he muttered, his usual refined accent making everything sound like a BBC documentary, even as his energy sword flickered like a bad hologram. "The disruptors don't target the power source directly. They're interfering with the cognitive pathways—the neural bridges between conscious thought and ring interface. It's rather like... oh, brilliant analogy... like dyslexia of the soul!"
A disruptor beam tagged him across the chest, and suddenly his mind became a library where all the books had decided to read themselves out loud at the same time. Constructs burst from his ring like a garage sale of random knowledge—historical treatises shooting energy blasts at nothing, floating equations trying to solve each other with laser fire, and yes, a glowing green replica of his childhood pet that looked utterly baffled to find itself in a space battle.
"Terribly sorry, old chap," Tomar told the construct bird with genuine politeness. "Wrong context entirely. Perhaps file this under 'Childhood Memories: Combat Applications.'"
Laira, being the warrior princess she was, kept her cool longer than the others. Her twin energy blades manifested, though they looked more like green spaghetti having a panic attack than anything resembling weapons.
"Neural warfare," she spat, her Scottish accent getting thicker the angrier she got. "They're not trying to kill us—they're trying to break us. Turn our own minds against us. Clever bastards."
Then the sonic scramblers hit her, and suddenly her brain was convinced that up was sideways, purple was a direction, and gravity worked on a subscription service she'd forgotten to renew. Her defensive barrier twisted into something M.C. Escher might've designed during a particularly stressful fever dream.
"Bloody hell," she muttered, trying to swing a sword that kept insisting it was actually a question mark. "Fighting's hard enough without having to argue with physics!"
Boodikka, on the other hand, was holding it together through sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. Her constructs sputtered and sparked, but she still managed to punch two interceptors into scrap metal, sending them spinning into the void like cosmic pinwheels.
"Target their weapon arrays!" she barked, her voice cutting through the chaos like a sword through butter. "Keep it simple—shields, blasts, basic constructs! Don't overthink it!"
"Oh, wonderful advice," Tomar wheezed as his ring produced what appeared to be a glowing green library card that immediately exploded into confetti. "Because overthinking is absolutely not an option at the moment!"
"Speak for yourself, bird-brain!" Guy hollered, currently upside down and trying to punch an interceptor with his bare fists while his ring produced what looked like a neon green question mark wearing a tiny hat. "Simple's my middle name!"
"I thought your middle name was Eugene," Laira called out, carving through an interceptor despite her spaghetti swords.
"It is! But you get the point!"
Kilowog was still wrestling with his scrambled thoughts, his voice booming through the comm system like thunder rolling uphill. "Pull it together, Lanterns! These Psi-freaks think they can outwit the Corps? Think again!"
Another wave of interceptors shimmered into existence, perfectly coordinated, weapons humming with malicious efficiency. They moved like they'd rehearsed this whole performance, which—considering how well it was going for them—they probably had.
"Well," Guy announced to the universe in general, "this is officially not going according to plan."
"What plan?" Boodikka demanded, blasting another interceptor while her constructs flickered like dying lightbulbs.
"The plan where we win!" Guy shot back. "It's a good plan! Classic! Time-tested!"
"That's not a plan, that's wishful thinking!"
"Hey, wishful thinking's gotten me this far!"
"Yeah, and look how well that's working out!" Laira snapped, her barrier now resembling a green pretzel that had lost an argument with geometry.
Tomar-Re, meanwhile, was still trying to maintain some semblance of scientific observation despite his brain feeling like a jigsaw puzzle someone had shaken in a blender.
"If I may interject," he said with admirable politeness, "while our current tactical situation is... suboptimal... I believe I'm beginning to understand their methodology. They're not simply disrupting our constructs—they're disrupting our ability to form coherent thought patterns. The ring responds to will, but will requires focus, and focus requires—"
"A brain that works!" Guy interrupted. "Yeah, we got that part, Professor!"
The Psi-Guard ships moved in closer, their formation tightening like a noose. Whatever they were planning, this was clearly just the opening act.
And right now, the Green Lantern Corps was bombing harder than a stand-up comedian at a funeral.
---
## THE RAVAGER - COMMAND BRIDGE
Governor Komand'r lounged on her command throne like she'd been born for it—which, technically, she had been. Being born into galactic royalty came with certain expectations, like knowing how to sit ominously while watching your enemies get their cosmic butts kicked. The tactical displays bathed her violet eyes in soft light, and she watched the Green Lanterns' increasingly desperate situation with the kind of satisfaction usually reserved for finding the last piece of your favorite puzzle.
"Beautiful," she murmured, her voice carrying that sing-song quality that made everyone else nervous. It was like listening to someone describe a sunset while they planned your destruction. "Absolutely magnificent. Look at them struggle. It's like watching toddlers try to solve calculus with crayons."
On the screens, the Lanterns were having what could generously be called "a rough time." Guy Gardner was performing some kind of interpretive space dance while his ring produced what appeared to be a confused rubber duck with trust issues. The duck quacked once, looked around in bewilderment, and then imploded.
Admiral Hokum stood beside her throne, his posture perfect, his tone as measured as a Swiss watchmaker having a really good day. Everything about him radiated calm competence, like he was the universe's most polite chess master.
"The neural disruptors are performing beyond initial projections," he reported with the kind of satisfaction that came from a plan working exactly as intended. "Ring construct cohesion has decreased by seventy-three percent. Stability matrices are degraded to the point of complete incoherence. Observe Lantern Gardner's latest... creation."
The camera zoomed in on the rubber duck, which had apparently decided existence was overrated and committed conceptual suicide.
Komand'r clapped her hands together in delight. "Quack, quack," she said with mock gravity, then broke into a smile that was somehow charming and terrifying at the same time. "How utterly adorable. I do love a good comedy show."
General Kragg, who looked like what would happen if a mountain decided to take up military strategy, leaned forward with a grunt that sounded like boulders having a conversation.
"So... we just keep hitting 'em with the brain-zappers until they fall apart?" he asked, his voice carrying the intellectual subtlety of a landslide. "Seems straightforward enough."
Hokum turned to him with the patience of someone explaining quantum physics to a particularly slow houseplant. "Not quite, General. Our weapons systems are not designed to inflict permanent neurological damage. They induce temporary cognitive disruption—controlled confusion rather than actual harm. We want them functional, not vegetables."
Kragg squinted at the tactical display like it might start making more sense if he glared hard enough. "Yeah, but... confused Lanterns punch about as hard as kittens. Seems like mission accomplished to me."
Commander Vorth, who appeared to be part cyborg, part walking tank, and all attitude, crossed his massive arms with a mechanical hiss that sounded like a steam engine having anger management issues.
"Bah!" he announced, his accent thick enough to cut with a laser sword. "Too complicated, all zis psychology nonsense. Vhy not just kill zem? Much more efficient. Pew pew, done!" He actually made finger guns at the display, which would've been adorable if he wasn't discussing mass murder.
Komand'r's laugh was like silver bells that had been dipped in poison and taught to sing lullabies. It made everyone else in the room suddenly very interested in checking their boots for scuff marks.
"Because, my dear Vorth," she said, violet energy crackling lazily between her fingers like she was playing with cosmic silly putty, "dead heroes become legends. Legends inspire rebellions, and rebellions are so tedious to crush. But humiliated heroes?" Her smile widened. "They inspire despair. And despair is so much more useful."
The main display showed Kilowog's massive construct shield dissolving like green cotton candy in acid rain. Komand'r pointed at it with the precision of an art critic indicating a particularly well-executed brushstroke.
"Look at that magnificent creature," she purred. "Strong enough to bench-press battleships, reduced to helplessness by a little static in his head. It's positively poetic."
Hokum adjusted the tactical display with the air of a grandmaster moving pieces on a chessboard. "Additionally, every remaining Green Lantern in the Corps will soon receive detailed reports of this engagement. They will learn that their vaunted willpower, their supposedly unbreakable constructs, can be unraveled with the correct application of applied psychology. Fear is a powerful weapon, Governor."
Vorth scowled, which on his face looked like a landslide having second thoughts. "Bah. Still say vould be faster to just break zem in half. More satisfying too."
Kragg rumbled agreement, though his thought process appeared to be running several steps behind the conversation. "Y'know, he's got a point there. Smashing stuff is pretty straightforward. But... I guess making 'em look stupid works too. Probably hurts their feelings more."
"Exactly!" Komand'r exclaimed, clapping her hands like she'd just received the perfect birthday present. "This isn't merely a battle, gentlemen. This is theater! Performance art! And every actor on that stage doesn't even realize they're following our script."
Right on cue, Tomar-Re's ring produced a glowing green textbook that immediately tried to strangle its creator with its own bookmark.
Komand'r practically bounced in her seat. "See? Educational AND entertaining! I do so love it when a plan comes together with such... style."
The bridge fell quiet for a moment, save for the gentle hum of the ship's systems and the distant sounds of Green Lanterns having the worst day of their collective careers.
"Phase two?" Hokum asked, already knowing the answer.
Komand'r's smile turned sharp enough to cut diamonds. "Oh yes. Let's see how Earth's mightiest heroes handle being the opening act for something truly spectacular."
---
## SPACE - THE FAILING DEFENSE
The Green Lantern Corps was not supposed to look like a cosmic blooper reel, but here they were, starring in what future Academy training videos would probably classify as "How Not to Engage Unknown Hostiles: A Comprehensive Guide to Everything Going Wrong."
Above Earth, five of the most powerful beings in the known universe were currently getting schooled by an enemy that had figured out how to turn their greatest strength—their ability to think—into their biggest weakness. It was like watching Superman get defeated by really aggressive kryptonite-flavored brain freeze.
Kilowog, normally the kind of guy who could stare down a supernova and ask it to keep the noise down, was struggling to maintain even the most basic construct. What should've been an impenetrable barrier looked more like green smoke having an identity crisis.
"Poozers!" he growled into the comm, his voice dragging through static like it was being filtered through cosmic molasses. "We need to... regroup... not a power failure... ring constructs are... wrong somehow..."
For someone who usually barked orders with the authority of divine thunder, Kilowog sounded like he was trying to give a speech while someone played bagpipes directly into his brain.
Tomar-Re, bless his scholarly heart, was attempting to analyze their situation even while his own mind was being scrambled like breakfast eggs in a blender. His energy sword flickered in and out of existence like a dying fluorescent light.
"Neural interference patterns," he managed, his refined accent making everything sound like a BBC documentary narrated by someone having a stroke. "They're disrupting the synaptic pathways—the connection between conscious will and ring interface. It's rather like... oh, brilliant analogy coming through... like dyslexia of the soul!"
"Can you counteract it?" Laira demanded, her Scottish brogue getting thicker with frustration. She was still swinging her energy blades around, though they currently resembled glowing green pool noodles having an existential crisis.
Tomar blinked hard, fighting through the static in his head like he was trying to tune in a radio station during a thunderstorm. "Theoretically, yes... if I could maintain a coherent thought pattern for more than—" He paused, swayed slightly, and muttered, "Blast it all. Every book in my mental library is trying to read itself simultaneously. It's terribly rude."
Meanwhile, Guy Gardner had decided that the solution to psychic warfare was—and this probably won't surprise anyone—hitting things harder and with more enthusiasm. He bellowed a war cry that would've made Viking berserkers proud and charged the nearest interceptor with a construct fist the size of a small building.
What actually appeared was... well, imagine if Picasso had designed a hand during his cubist period, then that hand had gotten into an argument with itself about geometry, and then the whole thing had been translated through a broken Google Translate. That's what Guy got.
"This is complete—" he started, before the sonic scramblers hit him like a freight train made of confused mathematics. Suddenly his brain decided that momentum was a type of sandwich, flying worked better in the key of blue, and gravity was more of a suggestion than a law. The result: Guy tumbling through space like the universe's angriest pinball.
"Gardner!" Kilowog's voice boomed. "You're making us look like amateurs!"
"I always make us look professional!" Guy barked back, even as his ring produced what appeared to be green confetti shaped like tiny question marks. "You just don't recognize tactical excellence when you see it!"
"That's not tactics, that's barely controlled falling!" Laira shot back, her barrier construct currently resembling a green pretzel that had lost an argument with quantum physics.
"Hey, controlled falling is a legitimate combat technique!" Guy protested. "Ask any paratrooper!"
"Paratroopers use parachutes, you muppet!"
"Details!"
Boodikka, demonstrating the kind of stubborn competence that made her a favorite among combat instructors, was holding herself together through pure bloody-minded determination. Her constructs wobbled like they were drunk, but she still managed to blast two interceptors into expensive scrap metal.
"Fall back to Earth's atmosphere!" she commanded, her voice cutting through the chaos like a sword through butter. "We can't fight like this! We need distance, time to figure out countermeasures!"
"Retreat?" Guy's voice cracked like a teenager hitting puberty. "We don't retreat! We're Green Lanterns! The whole point is 'no fear, no retreat, no surrender!' Haven't you people memorized the oath?"
"We're Green Lanterns with scrambled brains flying into a trap!" Boodikka snapped back. "That's not courage, that's stupidity!"
"Hey, I've won plenty of fights by being creatively stupid!" Guy protested.
"Yeah, and we've lost plenty of battles cleaning up after your creativity!" Laira added, managing to slice an interceptor in half despite her sword looking like it was made of luminescent spaghetti.
"That's not fair! My creativity is a tactical asset!"
"Your creativity is a tactical nightmare!" three voices chorused.
Even as the Lanterns continued their argument—because apparently there's never a wrong time for a good team disagreement—the Psi-Guard revealed the next phase of their plan. More interceptors materialized from stealth, surrounding them in a perfect formation that suggested military precision and way too much practice.
Their weapons hummed with the frequency of impending doom, perfectly tuned to the exact wavelength of "let's make superheroes look like the universe's most expensive comedy troupe."
Kilowog tried to rally them into some kind of defensive formation, but his ring kept insisting that his shield was actually a salad bar and he should probably add some dressing. Tomar-Re accidentally manifested a glowing green chalkboard covered in equations that immediately started arguing with each other about who was more mathematically sound. Guy's construct fist had evolved into something that resembled a green chicken doing interpretive dance about the meaning of violence.
And just like that, five of the greatest warriors in the universe had been reduced to confused, bickering space cadets whose greatest enemy was apparently their own ability to think straight.
The Psi-Guard hadn't just out-gunned them or out-maneuvered them. They'd out-thought them. Which, as Boodikka realized with growing dread, was infinitely worse than any physical defeat.
Because if the Green Lantern Corps could be neutralized this easily, what did that mean for the rest of the universe?
---
## EARTH'S UPPER ATMOSPHERE - THE RETREAT
If you've ever tried to parallel park while someone played death metal directly into your brain, you might have some idea of what the Green Lantern Corps was experiencing as they "strategically withdrew" toward Earth. Except instead of a parking space, they were trying to navigate three-dimensional space, and instead of death metal, their brains were being scrambled by weapons specifically designed to turn superheroes into cosmic pinballs.
The retreat looked less like a tactical maneuver and more like five very powerful people trying not to crash into each other while their inner GPS systems had been replaced with Magic 8-Balls programmed by caffeinated toddlers.
Kilowog—six feet eight inches of pure Bolovaxian determination wrapped in a Green Lantern uniform—was tumbling end over end like the galaxy's angriest bowling ball. He tried to conjure a stabilizing construct, but what appeared looked more like green smoke having a philosophical debate with itself about the nature of existence.
"Poozers," he rumbled, his voice carrying the gravelly authority of someone who'd trained recruits on worlds where 'basic training' meant 'try not to die before lunch.' "I've fought in wars that ate solar systems for breakfast. I've stared down armadas that used planets for target practice. But this... this feels like trying to paint the Sistine Chapel with crayons I pulled out of a house fire."
Guy Gardner, because Guy Gardner's response to literally any crisis was to find the bright side and then punch it, decided this was the perfect time to maintain his trademark swagger. His flight path looked like a drunk bee at a rave, but he still managed to sound cocky.
"Speak for yourself, big guy!" he called out, grinning like he was having the time of his life instead of narrowly missing a collision with a communications satellite. "I'm flying just fine! This is called improvisation! Controlled chaos! The brass would be taking notes if they could see this!"
"Controlled chaos?" Laira's Scottish accent could've cut steel as she fought to steady her own erratic flight path. Her red hair whipped around her like a comet's tail as she spun. "You just nearly head-butted a chunk of space debris the size of a bloody house!"
"That was a tactical feint!" Guy shot back with the confidence of someone who'd never met a situation he couldn't bullshit his way through. "Classic misdirection! Confuse the enemy by confusing yourself first! Works every time!"
"Aye, and next you'll tell us that slamming face-first into a space station is part of your master plan too?" Laira's voice dripped with sarcasm thick enough to stop bullets.
Boodikka, who somehow managed to look composed even while fighting the same neural static as everyone else, fixed Guy with the kind of look that could freeze lava. "Let me guess—crashing into Earth's atmosphere is also 'tactical improvisation'?"
"Hey now," Guy protested, "I never crash. I make dynamic atmospheric entries with style."
"There's nothing stylish about creating a crater!" Boodikka snapped back.
Meanwhile, Tomar-Re was conducting what appeared to be the universe's most intellectual nervous breakdown. Even while his brain was being turned into scrambled eggs, he couldn't help trying to understand what was happening to them.
"Focus... attempting to focus..." he muttered, his refined accent making even confusion sound scholarly. "The Psi-Guard aren't pressing their assault. They're herding us. This isn't pursuit—it's shepherding. We're being guided along a very specific trajectory."
Kilowog snorted, nearly spinning into Laira's flight path. "Shepherding? We're Green Lanterns, not sheep, feather-brain!"
"Correction," Tomar-Re replied with admirable academic precision, "we are five cognitively compromised Green Lanterns being directed along a predetermined vector by hostile forces who have clearly studied our psychological profiles and tactical responses in considerable detail."
"In English, Doc!" Guy hollered, currently flying sideways and apparently trying to high-five a piece of orbital debris.
"They're driving us toward Earth!" Boodikka translated, her voice tight with growing realization. "Forcing us planetside where we'll have less maneuvering room and more..."
"Leverage," Laira finished, her eyes widening as the full implications hit her. "Eight billion civilians. We'll be flying targets they can use against us. Bloody hell."
For once in his life, Guy Gardner actually shut up. His trademark grin faltered, and for just a moment, the cocky facade cracked to reveal something that might have been actual concern.
"Well," he said quietly, "that's... that's significantly less fun than I was hoping for."
The truth hit them harder than any disruptor blast: they weren't just being defeated. They were being weaponized. Turned into unwilling participants in a cosmic game of chicken where Earth's population was the stakes.
Kilowog's massive fists clenched, his ring's light flickering like a candle in a hurricane. "This ain't a fight," he growled, his voice carrying the kind of anger that could reshape continents. "This is a setup. And I don't like being anybody's puppet."
"Join the club," Boodikka said, her usual composure cracking to reveal steel underneath. "Except this puppet show's got real consequences."
"Yeah," Guy muttered, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "And I really, really don't like the idea of being Earth's unwilling opening act for whatever these bastards have planned."
"Then perhaps," Laira said, her voice carrying the kind of quiet fury that preceded very bad things happening to very deserving people, "we fight smarter instead of harder."
"Fight smarter?" Guy's laugh was bitter. "Sweetheart, right now I'm fighting just to remember which way is up. And I'm losing that battle too."
"We all are," Tomar-Re admitted, his scholarly pride taking a beating. "But knowledge remains power, even compromised knowledge. And we now understand their strategy."
Kilowog's jaw tightened like a steel trap. "Understanding don't make crashing into Earth any less likely, Professor."
"No," Boodikka said grimly, "but it might help us figure out how to crash productively."
The five Lanterns exchanged glances, each seeing the same horrible realization reflected in their teammates' eyes: this wasn't about winning anymore. This was about survival. And right now, survival looked about as likely as Guy Gardner admitting he'd made a mistake.
Which was to say: technically possible, but don't hold your breath.
---
## THE WATCHTOWER - EMERGENCY SESSION
The Watchtower had always been humanity's ultimate clubhouse in space—a place where Earth's mightiest heroes could gather, plan, and occasionally argue about whose turn it was to bring snacks. Right now, it looked more like the world's most high-tech panic room, with everyone trying to solve a cosmic-level crisis while the clock ticked down to what could generously be called "the apocalypse."
The main briefing room hummed with tension so thick you could've cut it with Wonder Woman's sword. Batman stood at the central command console, his cape arranged around him like he'd stepped out of a shadow-themed fashion show designed by someone with serious commitment to dramatic flair. His white lenses scanned streams of tactical data faster than most people could blink, processing information like a computer that ran on caffeine and controlled rage.
"The Lanterns are in full retreat," he announced, his voice carrying that gravelly authority that made everyone else stand up straighter without thinking about it. "Neural disruption weapons. Technology we haven't encountered before." His tone suggested this was very bad news that was about to get significantly worse.
Scarlett moved to the communications array with the fluid grace of someone who'd been born to multitask in crisis situations. Her crimson and gold armor caught the harsh lighting as she worked the mystical interfaces like a concert pianist who'd been triple-dosed with espresso and given a deadline.
"Magical defenses are holding—for now," she reported, her voice carrying that rapid-fire delivery that made everyone lean forward to catch every word. "But we're essentially patching holes in a dam with cosmic duct tape and a lot of wishful thinking. Giovanni and the mystic community can maintain the planetary wards, but none of our protections are designed to counter neural static."
Translation: their magic umbrella worked great for meteors and alien invasions, but was about as useful as a chocolate teapot against weapons that attacked your ability to think.
Superman's jaw tightened in that particular way that meant he wanted to punch a problem but the problem was annoyingly intangible. His blue eyes tracked the incoming data with the kind of grim focus usually reserved for tax audits and root canal procedures.
"How long before they reach populated areas?" he asked. He already knew the answer—Superman's hearing could probably pick up the ships' engine signatures from here—but sometimes you had to hear bad news out loud to make it real.
"Seventeen minutes," Batman replied, his fingers dancing across the holographic displays with mechanical precision. City after city lit up like targets in a cosmic shooting gallery: Metropolis, Gotham, Coast City, Central City, Gateway City. "Classic divide-and-conquer strategy. They're forcing us to split our resources."
Wonder Woman was already adjusting her bracers and checking her sword, because Diana Prince didn't do 'sitting around waiting for bad things to happen.' "Five cities means five different fronts. They're stretching us thin."
"Or forcing the Lanterns to make impossible choices," Flash added, his words tumbling out at normal human speed, which for him was like speaking in slow motion. He'd been quiet for almost fifteen seconds, which was roughly equivalent to a normal person taking a vow of silence. "They'll instinctively move to protect civilians even while their brains are scrambled. Classic hostage scenario, but scaled up to galactic proportions."
Arthur crossed his arms—his signature move that somehow managed to convey authority, frustration, and the promise of underwater violence all at once. His expression could've soured seawater.
"I can mobilize every Atlantean vessel we've got for coastal evacuations," he said, his voice carrying the weight of someone doing mental calculations he didn't like the results of. "But we're talking about millions of people, and even with every ship, every submarine..."
"Not enough time," Batman finished, because Batman never let anyone cling to false hope when reality was so much more useful.
Hal Jordan materialized in a flash of emerald light, looking like someone had just put his brain through a cosmic paper shredder and then tried to tape it back together with wishful thinking. His ring flickered like a neon sign outside a dive bar that'd given up on life.
"You think you guys are stressed?" he said, his voice carrying that particular brand of exhausted sarcasm that came from having a really, really bad day. "Try dodging ships designed specifically to turn your willpower into cosmic mush. It's like fighting while someone's constantly asking you to solve calculus problems in your head."
"Intel?" Batman asked, not missing a beat. Because Batman didn't ask 'Are they okay?' or 'Do they need medical attention?' He asked 'What tactical information did they gather before they collapsed?'
"Interceptors. Small, fast, stealthy until they decide to ruin your day," Hal reported, rubbing his temples like he was trying to massage his brain back into working order. "Not drones—someone's driving these things. And the technology?" He gave a bitter laugh. "Purpose-built for wrecking Lanterns. Like they've been studying us for years. Probably have detailed files on our psychological profiles and favorite colors."
Scarlett turned from her mystical interfaces, her expression grim enough to stop a charging rhino. "Reports from other sectors confirm it. This isn't just about Earth. The Citadel Empire is systematically dismantling Green Lantern resistance across multiple star systems. They've turned anti-Lantern warfare into a science."
That statement hung in the air like a lead balloon filled with existential dread and cosmic implications.
Superman straightened, his voice carrying that calm determination that usually made people want to believe in truth, justice, and the possibility that good guys could win even when everything looked hopeless.
"Then we adapt," he said. "They've found our weaknesses. We find theirs."
"With what resources?" Hal shot back, his frustration bleeding through. "We're down five of our best Lanterns, I barely made it back with my sanity intact, and if they can scramble the entire Green Lantern Corps on command, we're basically glow sticks waiting to be snapped."
Batman's cowled head lifted just enough to make everyone in the room suddenly very aware that the Dark Knight was about to share one of his patented Terrible Ideas That Might Just Work.
"Then we don't fight them on their terms," he said, his voice carrying that calm, measured tone that usually preceded plans involving impossible odds and at least three different ways to die horribly.
The room went quiet. Even Flash stopped vibrating.
"We fight asymmetrically," Batman continued, stepping into full tactical genius mode. "They expect fleet engagements, traditional space combat. We give them something they haven't planned for. We strike before they can leverage Earth's civilian population."
"Translation?" Arthur asked, because someone had to translate Batman-speak into human.
Scarlett arched an eyebrow, her expression mixing admiration with the kind of concern usually reserved for people about to do something spectacularly stupid. "Translation: Batman wants to fight smarter instead of harder. Which historically involves insane levels of risk and approximately three miracles minimum."
"Sounds about right," Flash muttered under his breath.
Everyone processed the Bat-speak. It wasn't a pep talk. It was a declaration that the impossible was now Plan A.
Beyond the Watchtower's walls, Earth spun serenely, blissfully unaware that it was about to be ground zero in the Citadel Empire's crash course on galactic warfare. Lesson One: "So You're Harboring Enemies of the State."
And, naturally, the League had seventeen minutes to rewrite the syllabus.
---
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