Hello, guys!
Because of the holiday season, I want to celebrate with you in two ways.
The first is that, starting today, Monday the 22nd until Sunday, January 4th, I will publish daily chapters so you have plenty to read during these holidays.
After that date, I will return to my usual schedule.
The second surprise is that, starting December 24th, I will activate a 50% discount on all tiers of my Patreon.
The promotion will be active for 2 weeks, ending on January 6th.
If you wanted to read the advanced chapters, this is your chance.
Merry Christmas!
Mike.
Patreon / iLikeeMikee
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Chapter 31: The Unstable Draft
The sound was not human.
It wasn't a scream of pain, nor a groan of effort.
It was a hum.
A high-pitched, electrical, discordant tone, like a radio transmission that has lost its frequency and screams static into the void.
It came from the bio-stasis pod in the center of the Watchtower Medical Bay.
The air in the room was freezing, artificially kept at a temperature that slowed metabolism, but the smell of burnt ozone and chemical antiseptic was suffocating.
The sterile white light from the ceiling panels reflected off the chrome steel of surgical instruments that no one had been able to use, because the patient's skin was harder than diamond, even as it was coming undone.
Inside the pod, floating in amber-colored nutrient gel, lay the subject.
Project Kr.
Superboy.
He didn't look like a weapon.
He looked like a child.
A teenager with jet-black hair, with a physical build that was a perfect, almost painful replica of the Man of Steel's.
But something was fundamentally wrong.
His body flickered.
It wasn't a trick of the light.
His skin, normally tan and solid, suddenly turned translucent, revealing a network of veins glowing with furious, uncontrolled solar light.
His bones appeared as dark shadows beneath the flesh, vibrating.
And then, in an instant, he was solid again, only to start dissolving again at the edges, like an old photograph burning in a fire.
Clark Kent, Superman, stood by the glass of the pod.
His arms were crossed over his chest, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were white.
His red cape hung motionless, heavy, like a flag on a windless day.
His blue eyes, usually beacons of unwavering hope, were fixed on the boy's face.
He saw his own nose.
His own jaw.
He saw the curl of hair falling over the boy's forehead.
It was like looking into a distorted mirror, a mirror showing him a past he never had and a son he never asked for, dying in front of him.
"It's accelerating," said Clark, his voice a low, hoarse murmur that barely managed to hide the tremor of absolute helplessness.
"The rate of cellular degradation has increased by 15% in the last hour. I can... I can hear his cells breaking. It's like the sound of glass shattering, over and over again."
On the other side of the pod, J'onn J'onzz, the Martian Manhunter, had a long green hand pressed against the surface of the glass.
His eyes glowed with an intense orange shine.
His face, usually stoic, was contorted in a grimace of empathetic pain.
He wasn't examining the body.
He was trying to hold the mind.
"His psyche is... a storm, Kal-El," said J'onn, his voice resonating telepathically in his teammates' minds, heavy with overwhelming psychic fatigue.
"It isn't just physical pain. It is an existential conflict at a genetic level. There are two imperatives fighting for control of his consciousness. One is solar, expansive, divine... yours. The other is... human. Earthly. Calculating. And angry. Very angry."
J'onn pulled his hand back sharply, as if the glass had burned him.
"They aren't blending. They are declaring war on each other. The mind cannot sustain a body that refuses to decide what it is."
At the main control console, surrounded by holographic screens spewing torrents of biological data in alert red, was Batman.
He wasn't wearing the cowl; he had left it on a nearby table, a gesture indicating the gravity of the situation.
Bruce Wayne was in absolute crisis mode.
His eyes moved at breakneck speed through the DNA sequences, looking for a pattern, a solution, an error he could correct.
But there were no errors.
There was a catastrophe.
"Cadmus technology forced the fusion," said Batman, his voice cold, clinical, the voice of a coroner dictating an autopsy in real time.
"They used forbidden genome-tech to bind the strands. Genetic glue. It worked while he was in stasis, while he was asleep and growing rapidly. But now that he is awake... now that his consciousness has taken command... the cohesion has broken."
Bruce typed a command, and a three-dimensional simulation of Superboy's DNA double helix appeared in the air.
It was a nightmare.
The blue strands (Kryptonian) and the red ones (human) were not intertwined harmoniously.
They were crashing, breaking, attacking each other like antibodies attacking a virus.
"It's not standard biological rejection," continued Bruce, pointing to the fractures in the hologram.
"It is mutual annihilation. His Kryptonian half is trying to absorb solar radiation to become indestructible, but his human half lacks the capacity to process it, so it burns out. And his human half is trying to stabilize the structure, but the Kryptonian half sees it as a weakness and tries to purge it."
Batman turned to Clark.
"He is dissolving, Clark. Literally. His genetic pattern is erasing itself because it cannot solve the equation of its own existence."
Clark closed his eyes.
The hum of the pod increased in pitch.
The boy inside arched, his back lifting off the stretcher, his mouth opening in a silent scream that made the amber gel bubble.
His chest flickered, becoming invisible for a second, showing the heart beating frantically and lungs struggling for air they didn't need.
"Do something!" shouted Clark, slamming the open palm of his hand against the metal edge of the pod, leaving a dent in the reinforced steel.
"Bruce! J'onn! We are the Justice League! We have technology from twelve different galaxies! Do something!"
"We have tried everything, Kal," said J'onn gently.
And it was true.
They had spent the last six hours in a desperate frenzy of science and power.
Superman had brought Sun Crystals from the Fortress of Solitude.
They had placed them around the boy, hoping Kryptonian science could stabilize his own flesh.
The crystals had glowed, had sung with the wisdom of Rao, but the boy's human DNA had rejected them violently, causing an allergic reaction that almost killed him.
Wonder Woman had brought Gaia's Balm from Themyscira, a magical substance capable of healing mortal wounds.
But this wasn't a wound.
There was nothing to "heal."
The balm had simply slid off his skin, unable to find damaged tissue because the tissue itself was changing nature every microsecond.
They had used the most advanced medical technology from S.T.A.R. Labs.
They had used nano-bots from Wayne Enterprises to try to suture the DNA strands.
The nano-bots had been vaporized by the boy's solar aura.
Conventional science had failed.
Alien science had failed.
Magic had failed.
Batman looked at the screen.
The estimated timeline blinked in red.
TIME UNTIL TOTAL CELLULAR CASCADE: 03:00:00.
Three hours.
Three hours before the boy in the pod turned into a soup of protoplasm and solar energy, and then, simply, ceased to exist.
Bruce Wayne hated losing.
He hated not having an answer.
He hated feeling helpless more than anything else in the world.
But he was also a man of absolute logic.
And logic screamed a truth at him that tasted bitter in his mouth.
He stepped away from the console.
The silence in the Medical Bay was heavy, broken only by the hum of the machine and Superman's ragged breathing.
"It's not a medical failure," said Batman, breaking the silence.
Clark looked up, his eyes full of a desperation that hurt to see. "What?"
"We aren't dealing with a disease," said Bruce, crossing his arms. "We aren't dealing with an injury. We are dealing with a design flaw. A structural error in the very foundation of his being."
He looked at the boy, who was now quiet again, floating in limbo.
"It's like a building constructed with blueprints from two different architects who hate each other, using materials that aren't compatible. We can't 'fix' him with medicine, because medicine assumes the body wants to live. This body... this body doesn't know how to be a body."
"Then what?" asked Clark. "We let him die? Is that what you're telling me?"
"No," said Batman. "I'm telling you our tools are useless. We need a different tool."
J'onn nodded slowly, understanding where Bruce was going. "We need someone who understands biology not as a series of chemical reactions, but as... something more fundamental."
"We need someone who can rewrite a structure that violates the laws of physics," continued Batman. "Someone who doesn't see a patient, but a broken system that needs editing."
Batman turned to Superman.
His gaze was intense, charged with deep reluctance.
He hated asking for outside help.
He hated admitting the League wasn't enough.
And, above all, he hated who he had to turn to.
But a life was at stake.
And Batman never, ever, sacrificed a life for pride.
"Clark," he said, his voice grave. "Who are you thinking of?"
Clark already knew.
He had known for an hour, but had been afraid to suggest it.
Afraid of what it would mean to bring that man into the heart of the League.
Afraid of admitting that Krypton's science wasn't enough.
But looking at the boy's face, the face that was his own, he knew he had no choice.
"The Consultant," whispered Clark.
"Call Kara," ordered Batman, returning to the console to prepare security protocols, though he knew they would be useless. "Tell her to bring her friend. Tell her to bring the shopkeeper."
"And tell her," added J'onn, watching the heart monitor start to race again, "to hurry. The draft is fading."
Clark nodded, activated his communicator, and, with a sense of hope mixed with deep dread, dialed his cousin's frequency.
The Justice League had reached its limit.
It was time to call the universe's tech support.
Light years away from the sterile desperation of the Watchtower, in a pocket dimension anchored to a Kyoto alley, the atmosphere couldn't be more different.
The garden's artificial sun shone with a lazy mid-afternoon light.
The air smelled of green tea and the sweet fragrance of freshly made mochi.
Urahara Kisuke sat on the tatami floor of his living room, legs crossed, holding a fan of poker cards with a seriousness he normally reserved for quantum physics.
Across from him, sitting on his hindquarters and hovering a few inches off the floor thanks to his own instinctive weightlessness, was Krypto.
The Superdog wore a green dealer's visor (which Urahara had made for him out of construction paper) and stared at his own cards, which were scattered on the floor in front of him, with canine intensity.
"Alright, Krypto-san," said Urahara, adjusting his hat. "The situation is tense. I have raised the bet with three rice crackers. You have responded with... a very slobbery rubber bone. A bold move. Respectable."
Krypto barked softly, wagging his tail, and nudged the bone a little closer to the center with his nose.
"But I'm afraid your bluff isn't going to work this time," continued Urahara, laying down his cards with a dramatic snap. "Royal flush. Sorry, my friend. The house always wins."
Krypto looked at Urahara's cards.
Then he looked at his own.
And then, with a pragmatic solution Urahara had to admire, Krypto simply opened his mouth, inhaled Urahara's cards with his super-breath, and ate them in one bite.
Munch. Munch. Gulp.
Then he barked triumphantly.
Urahara blinked. "That... is a fascinating interpretation of the rules. 'If there is no evidence of defeat, there is no defeat'. I'll have to write that down for my next negotiation with hell."
He was about to shuffle (or what was left of the deck) when Kara's communicator, which was charging on the low table, began to emit an urgent alarm sound.
It wasn't the "social call" tone.
It was the "Level Alpha Emergency" tone.
The bathroom door slammed open. Kara shot out, toothbrush still in her mouth and toothpaste foam on her chin.
Her eyes were wide.
"It's the League!" she said, spitting the foam into a handkerchief Urahara kindly offered her.
She grabbed the communicator. "Supergirl here. What's wrong?"
Batman's voice resonated in the small living room, cold, metallic, and stripped of all courtesy.
"We need you. And him. Now."
Kara frowned, worry clouding her face. "Kisuke? Why? Is it... is it magical? Is it another invasion from the Dreaming?"
"It is biological," replied Batman, and Kara could hear the underlying tension in his voice, the sound of a man who has exhausted all his options. "We have a patient. Unstable Genetic Code. He is dissolving. Conventional science has failed. Kryptonian science has failed."
There was a pause.
"We need someone who can edit the reality of a body, not heal it. Bring him to the Watchtower. Medical Bay. You have five minutes before the cellular structure collapses."
The communication cut off.
Kara turned to Urahara. Her blue eyes were full of pleading. She didn't have to say anything.
Urahara was already on his feet.
The playful poker expression had vanished, replaced by that look of sharp curiosity that always preceded his interventions.
"Unstable genetic code?" he muttered, picking up his sword-cane. "And Kryptonian science failed. Hmm."
His eyes gleamed.
"An artificial homunculus," he deduced instantly, his mind connecting the invisible dots. "Someone has tried to play god with stolen clay. They've tried to mix oil and water at an atomic level and are now surprised the mixture is separating. Ambitious. Stupid. And probably... very painful for the creation."
He adjusted his hat.
"Let's go, Kara-san. We don't want the poor experiment turning into soup before I can take a look at it."
"Thanks, Kisuke," she said, already floating toward the exit. "Do we use the zeta tubes?"
Urahara made a face of disgust.
"I hate those things. They scramble my atoms. And the catering service is terrible. No, we'll take my car."
He raised Benihime.
And cut the air.
The Justice League Watchtower orbited Earth in majestic silence, a pinnacle of technology and surveillance.
The Command Bridge was the brain of the operation.
White metal walls, consoles glowing with status lights, and a panoramic window showing the blue curvature of the planet below.
Flash (Wally West) was leaning back in a swivel chair, tapping his fingers at super speed against the armrest. "Five minutes, Bats said. It's been three. Are they taking the elevator?"
Green Lantern (John Stewart) stood with arms crossed, his ring glowing with a steady emerald light. "If Batman trusts him, I guess it's okay. But I still don't understand who this guy is. A wizard? A scientist?"
"He is... complicated," said Wonder Woman (Diana), who was checking a tactical monitor. Her tone was cautious. She remembered the concert. She remembered the man's strange logic. "Don't try to classify him, John. It will only give you a headache."
"Great," muttered Flash. "I love headaches."
That was when it happened.
There was no familiar hum of zeta tubes teleporting matter.
There was no proximity alarm of a ship.
In the very center of the Command Bridge, the air screamed.
It was a sound like tough fabric being ripped by giant claws, a screech that made Flash cover his ears.
A black, vertical, jagged line appeared in empty air.
"Intrusion alert!" shouted Stewart, his ring lighting up, creating a green shield around the group.
The black line widened.
Pale, skeletal hands of energy, or perhaps simple darkness, grabbed the edges of the tear and pulled.
Space-time opened like a yawning mouth.
Inside the tear, there were no stars.
There was a swirling vortex of crimson energy and eyes blinking in the darkness, a vision of a non-place that froze the heroes' blood.
And from that personal hell, a man stepped out.
He wore wooden sandals that went clack-clack as he stepped onto the metal floor of the most advanced space station in the universe.
He wore a green kimono and a striped bucket hat.
He was fanning his face as if it were a bit warm.
Behind him, Kara Zor-El flew out, looking embarrassed by the dramatic entrance.
The tear, the Garganta, closed behind them with a wet snap, disappearing without a trace.
The silence on the bridge was absolute.
Flash lowered his hands from his ears. "That... that's the guy? The one in the hat? I expected someone more... I don't know... in robes? Space Gandalf type?"
John Stewart didn't speak.
He raised his power ring. The most powerful weapon in the universe, capable of scanning and analyzing anything in sector 2814.
The beam of green light swept Urahara from head to toe.
The ring buzzed.
And then, it spoke with its metallic, emotionless voice.
SCAN OBJECT: UNKNOWN.
BIOLOGICAL COMPOSITION: NOT APPLICABLE.
ORIGIN: DATA NOT AVAILABLE. SYNTAX ERROR. ENTITY DOES NOT EXIST IN OA DATABASE.
John lowered the ring, looking at the man with deep, newfound suspicion.
"I don't like it," he muttered to Diana. "My ring says he doesn't exist. And he's standing right there."
"He exists," said Diana, stepping forward, her hand resting instinctively near her lasso. "Trust me."
Urahara completely ignored the tension, the energy shields, and the suspicious looks.
He walked calmly toward the huge panoramic window, his sandals echoing on the metal.
He looked at the blue Earth spinning below.
"Wow," he said, his voice echoing slightly on the silent bridge. "Nice view. Very... blue."
He turned to Earth's mightiest heroes, with a lazy smile.
"Though the decor here is a bit... sterile, don't you think? Too gray. You're missing a plant. A ficus would do wonders for the feng shui. Or a cat. Cats always improve the space ambiance."
"Kisuke, please!" hissed Kara, landing beside him. "We're not sightseeing."
"We are always sightseeing, Kara-san," he replied.
Before Green Lantern could demand identification, or Flash could crack a joke, the turbo-lift doors opened.
Batman stepped out.
He wasn't wearing a cape, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing gauntlets stained with chemical fluids. He looked like a surgeon who had just lost a patient.
He walked straight toward Urahara, ignoring the rest of the League.
He stopped half a meter from the shopkeeper, towering with all his height and darkness.
Urahara didn't back down. He simply looked up, smiling from under the brim of his hat.
"Batman-san. You look terrible. You should sleep more. Dark circles don't look good on anyone, not even dark vigilantes."
"You're late," growled Batman.
"I arrive precisely when I intend to arrive," replied Urahara. "Now. No games. Kara-san says you have a biological puzzle that is melting."
Batman's demeanor didn't change, but there was a flash of relief in his eyes.
"The patient is critical. Cellular structure is cascading. Follow me."
Batman turned and began walking quickly toward the medical corridor.
Urahara followed him, his sword-cane resting on his shoulder like a hobo stick.
As he passed John Stewart, he winked at him.
"Nice ring. A bit loud, but the color is charming."
And so, the shopkeeper and the bat disappeared down the hallway, leaving the Justice League looking at each other, wondering what had just happened.
"That guy..." said Flash finally.
"Is dangerous," finished John.
"Is our only hope," corrected Diana, looking at the empty hallway. "Let's go."
The Watchtower Medical Bay was a temple to sterility.
White walls, stainless steel, and the constant hum of machinery costing more than the GDP of entire nations.
But despite all the technology, despite the scanners that could map atoms and stasis fields that could stop biological time, the air smelled of fear.
Superman stood by the pod, a statue of stoic grief.
J'onn J'onzz stood beside him, eyes shining with silent empathy.
When the doors opened and Batman entered, followed by the strange man in the hat and Kara, the tension in the room skyrocketed.
Clark looked at Urahara.
He saw the sandals. He saw the fan. He saw the lazy smile.
For a second, doubt flickered in the Man of Steel's eyes. This was the expert? This was the man who had challenged his understanding of the universe in a small tea shop?
"Kisuke," said Clark, his voice tight. "Thanks for coming."
Urahara didn't answer immediately.
He walked into the room with casual curiosity, as if walking into an interesting but poorly organized museum.
His gray eyes scanned the monitors, the energy readings, the worried faces of the world's greatest heroes.
And finally, they landed on the pod.
"My, my," he murmured, approaching the reinforced glass cylinder. "What a... noisy place. So many machines screaming numbers. It's a miracle the patient can sleep."
He stopped in front of Superboy.
The boy floated in the amber gel, his body flickering between solid existence and ghostly light.
His face was contorted in a grimace of unconscious pain.
Kara approached the other side of the pod, placing a hand on the cold glass. "He's fading, Kisuke. His DNA pattern is... coming loose."
"That's what the machines say," said Urahara, gently tapping the glass with the tip of his cane.
He ignored the control panels Batman offered him.
He ignored the holograms of genetic sequences.
Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment.
And shifted his vision.
He stopped seeing flesh, bones, and atoms.
He opened his spiritual senses, tuning his perception to Reiatsu, to the signature of the soul, to the conceptual essence holding matter together.
What he saw made his eyes snap open, a spark of genuine surprise and dark amusement crossing his face.
'Oh... oh, my. What a botch job.'
He didn't see a broken double helix.
He saw a civil war.
He saw two massive spiritual patterns, forced to occupy the same finite space.
One was blinding. A blue and golden sun, radiant, full of almost divine power, an innate nobility, and an overwhelming need to protect, to serve, to be.
It was Kal-El's signature. It was Krypton.
But the other...
The other was a stain of oily, shiny darkness.
It was red and black.
It was human, yes, but not just any human.
It was a spiritual signature screaming arrogance. Intellect. An ambition that wanted to devour the world and reshape it in its image. It was an ego so massive it rivaled the power of the Kryptonian sun.
Urahara knew that signature. Or, at least, he knew the "taste" of that kind of men. Men who believed they were gods because they were smart enough to kill one.
'They've taken the pattern of a solar god and duct-taped it to the soul of a megalomaniac,' thought Urahara, suppressing an incredulous laugh.
He looked at the shape of the boy's skull, the line of the jaw.
And then, in his mind, he superimposed the image of a certain bald billionaire he had seen on the Metropolis news.
'Lex Luthor. Of course. What a volatile combination. What a delicious irony. Superman's greatest enemy, living literally inside his skin. No wonder the boy is coming undone. His own blood hates itself.'
Urahara decided to keep that little nugget of information to himself. For now. It would be too... traumatic for poor Kent-san.
He turned to the League.
Batman watched him like a hawk. "Diagnosis?"
Urahara leaned on his cane, sighing.
"The problem isn't his body, Batman-san. It isn't biological. It is... literary."
Flash, who had been watching from the door, blinked. "Literary? The kid is a book?"
"He is a draft," corrected Urahara. "A very bad draft."
He began to walk around the pod, gesturing with his free hand.
"You see, your scientists at Cadmus were very clever with the flesh. They spliced the genes. Created the chemical bonds. Bravo for them. But they forgot the most important thing. They forgot the narrative."
He pointed at the boy.
"This body is trying to tell two different stories at the same time. And they are incompatible genres."
"The Kryptonian half," he said, pointing to the blue glow emanating from the boy's chest, "wants to be a god. It wants to absorb light, be indestructible, fly, protect. It is a heroic epic."
"But the human half..." Urahara smiled slightly, "the human half is a political thriller. It wants to dominate. It wants to be cunning. It wants to use the weakness of others. And, above all, it viscerally hates the idea of serving anyone."
Clark paled. "Are you saying... he has two personalities?"
"No. That would be simple," said Urahara. "I am saying he has none. There is no unified 'soul'. There is no editor saying: 'This is the story'. There are two authors writing on the same page, at the same time, with different inks. The result is an illegible smudge. The body is committing suicide because it doesn't know what it is. Is it a shield? Or is it a sword? Unable to decide, it chooses to be... nothing."
J'onn J'onzz nodded slowly, eyes glowing. "It makes sense. His mind is a chaos of contradictory instincts. There is no center."
"Can you fix him?" asked Superman. His voice was a plea. He didn't care about metaphysics. He just wanted the boy to live.
Urahara looked at him.
"I cannot 'cure' him, Kent-san. Because he isn't sick. He is incomplete."
He raised a finger.
"I can edit him. I can stabilize the conflict. I can weave the two halves, create a conceptual bridge between the god and the man so they stop screaming at each other and start talking. I can give him a unified soul."
The relief in the room was palpable. Kara let out a shaky breath.
"But..." added Urahara, and the word dropped like a stone.
"But what," growled Batman.
"But I can't do it here," said Urahara, tapping the sterile metal of the medical table disdainfully. "This place is too clean. Too disconnected. And I don't have the materials."
He leaned over the pod, looking directly at Superboy's closed eyes.
"To rewrite a story so fundamentally broken, I need to see the original manuscript. I need the source code. I need the creation matrix where they forced this unnatural union in the first place."
He straightened and looked at Batman.
"I need the raw data from Cadmus. Not the digital copies you stole. I need the physical primordial soup he came from."
Batman gritted his teeth.
"Project Cadmus is a government black ops facility," he said. "It is miles underground, protected by technology rivaling ours and containment magic. If we break in, it will be an act of war against the United States."
Urahara smiled. It was a sharp, toothy smile, the smile of a man about to do something he found very entertaining.
"Then, I suppose we are going on a field trip," he said cheerfully. "I've always wanted to see how humans try to play god in secret basements. It's usually very educational... and very funny when it blows up in their faces."
Suddenly, an alarm shrieked.
The red light on the pod began to flash furiously.
Superboy arched violently, his back slamming against the glass with a dull thud. His skin began to glow with blinding white light, and cracks of energy started appearing on his chest, as if he were about to explode.
"He's cascading!" shouted J'onn. "His morphogenetic field is collapsing!"
"We're losing him!" shouted Clark, eyes frantically searching for something to do, someone to punch or save.
Urahara didn't move with haste. He moved with precision.
"How impatient," he muttered.
He raised his right hand. Index and middle fingers extended, glowing with intense golden light.
He didn't use medicine. He used Kidō.
With a fluid movement, he drew a glowing symbol in the air, right over the pod's glass, level with the boy's forehead.
"Bakudō #30: Shitotsu Sansen." (Beak of Three Flashes).
But he modified the spell. He didn't launch three spikes of light to impale.
The three triangles of golden light formed and then fused, creating a glowing triangular seal that pressed against the glass and passed through matter, sinking into Superboy's forehead.
The effect was instant.
Superboy's body went rigid. The furious white glow turned into a soft amber radiance. The cracks in his skin stopped spreading. He stood frozen, trapped not in ice, but in spiritual time.
The pod's alarm went silent.
"He is stable," said Urahara, lowering his hand. The golden seal continued to glow softly on the boy's forehead. "I have frozen his internal narrative. I have put a bookmark in his story, just before the page burned."
He turned to the stunned heroes.
"But it is temporal. The seal will hold the pressure of his existence for exactly twenty-four hours. Not a minute more."
Urahara adjusted his hat, gray eyes shining with cold determination.
"We have one day to break into the most secure facility on the planet, steal its darkest secrets, and rewrite the life of a demigod."
He looked at Batman, then Superman, and finally Kara.
"I suggest we get moving. I hate leaving stories half-finished."
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Also, does anyone know how Power Stones work?
I think they are weekly or something like that.
If you have stones, please don't hesitate to use them on the story.
Thanks.
Mike.