Pokolistan – Shadows Behind Stone Walls
The rotors of the transport cut through the thin mountain air as Pokolistan came into view—jagged peaks, ancient stone, and a palace that looked more like a fortress than a home. From above, it radiated power, history, and paranoia in equal measure.
General Rick Flag Sr. stood near the open ramp, arms folded, expression carved from stone. Years of command had burned any illusions out of him. This wasn't his first black-ops escort mission, and it wouldn't be his last—but something about this one had teeth.
Behind him, the Creature Commandos checked weapons and restraints.
Doctor Phosphorus glowed faintly, skeletal grin etched in radioactive green, humming to himself as if this were a vacation. The Bride adjusted her blade. Weasel twitched nervously. Nina swam in her portable containment tank, eyes alert. G.I. Robot stood perfectly still, optics dim, waiting for a war that might justify his existence once again.
Amanda Waller was not with them.
Officially, she was providing "remote operational oversight" from U.S. soil. Unofficially, she had been benched.
After Project OVERCLOCK imploded and a soldier died under circumstances that reeked of manufactured haste, the Secretary of Defense had made sure Waller didn't get anywhere near another experimental leash. She still had influence—but not freedom.
The President's order had been clear:
Protect Princess Ilana Rostovic. Capture Circe alive. Neutralize the Sons of Themyscira.
And just as important—keep Amanda Waller busy, far from Washington's real levers of power.
Arrival
The transport touched down within the palace's inner courtyard. Armed guards—Pokolistani royal sentinels—moved with precision, rifles raised but not threatening. Their uniforms were pristine, their eyes wary.
General Flag stepped forward, credentials in hand.
"I'm General Rick Flag, United States Army. These are my operatives. We're here under direct authorization from your government and mine."
After a tense exchange, the guards lowered their weapons.
They were escorted through towering gates into marble halls lined with gold inlay and centuries-old tapestries depicting conquest, divine right, and blood-soaked lineage. Every step reinforced what Flag already knew.
Royal families never survive this long by being kind.
A senior royal advisor—slick, sweating, and eager—explained the situation.
Circe had declared Princess Ilana Rostovic a "false heir."
The Sons of Themyscira, a cult-like militant faction devoted to Circe's warped interpretation of Amazonian supremacy, had begun launching attacks across Pokolistan's borders.
Their goal: destabilization, fear, and ultimately, regicide.
Flag listened, impassive.
"Our orders," he said flatly, "are to protect the princess and capture Circe alive. The Sons of Themyscira are considered hostile combatants."
The advisor nodded quickly. Too quickly.
Legal formalities followed—status of forces agreements, jurisdiction clauses, immunity provisions. Flag signed nothing without reading twice. He'd been burned before.
Finally, they were granted an audience.
Princess Ilana Rostovic
Princess Ilana was exactly what Flag expected—and worse.
Beautiful. Poised. Dangerous.
She greeted him with a smile that could have launched a war or ended one.
"General Flag," she said warmly, taking his hand. "Pokolistan is honored by your presence."
Her fingers lingered just a second too long.
Flag didn't flinch.
"I'm here to do a job, Your Highness."
Her eyes sharpened—just slightly.
"I do hope you'll find time to enjoy our hospitality."
Flag withdrew his hand.
"My men will remain inside the castle. We'll handle perimeter breaches and internal threats."
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face before the smile returned.
"Of course."
Flag saw it then—clearly.
She's not afraid of Circe. She's afraid of losing control.
He had no illusions about Pokolistan's royal family. Power built on exploitation always rotted from the inside. Whatever game Ilana was playing, he wasn't a piece on her board.
Two Weeks of Silence
For fourteen days, nothing happened inside the palace.
Outside, however, the Sons of Themyscira struck repeatedly—ambushes, bombings, raids. Pokolistan's military crushed them with brutal efficiency. Too efficient.
Flag reviewed every report personally.
Too clean. Too easy.
Inside the castle, security remained airtight. Flag personally inspected patrol routes, surveillance blind spots, and guard rotations.
No weaknesses.
No intrusions.
Which made what happened next impossible.
The Night of Fire
The alarm didn't sound.
That was the first problem.
The second was screaming.
Flag was on his feet instantly, rifle in hand.
"Commandos—move!"
Stone corridors erupted in chaos as palace guards were slaughtered by warriors clad in black and gold—Sons of Themyscira, already inside the walls.
"How the hell did they breach?" Flag barked.
No answer.
They fought through halls slick with blood. Doctor Phosphorus unleashed nuclear fire, burning attackers to ash. The Bride cut through enemies with surgical fury. Weasel was… Weasel.
Then G.I. Robot stepped forward.
Enemy fire hammered against his chassis.
"General Flag," the robot said calmly. "Hostile entities identified."
"What are they?"
The robot paused.
"…Nazis."
Flag blinked. "They're not—"
Too late.
G.I. Robot's eyes flared bright red.
"NAZI ELIMINATION PROTOCOL ENGAGED."
He unleashed hell.
The Sons of Themyscira fell in droves as the robot tore through them, laughing—laughing—as if history itself had finally given him permission to exist.
For a moment, victory seemed possible.
Then reality twisted.
Circe
Magic split the air like glass.
Circe appeared above the courtyard, eyes glowing with ancient malice.
"Enough," she said.
With a gesture, she unraveled G.I. Robot.
The explosion was blinding.
Metal rained from the sky.
When the smoke cleared, the robot's body lay in ruins—torn apart, but not annihilated. His core processor remained intact, buried beneath debris.
Flag clenched his jaw.
"Focus!" he shouted. "Bring her down!"
Circe turned the palace guards into dust. Stone walls cracked. Reality screamed.
Doctor Phosphorus charged, radiation flaring, while Nina and the Bride coordinated strikes. Pokolistan's elite guards—metahuman-trained—joined the fray.
It took everything they had.
Pain finally slowed Circe.
Binding spells snapped shut around her limbs, ancient runes suppressing her magic.
She collapsed.
Unconscious.
Captured.
Silence followed.
Aftermath
The palace was half-destroyed.
Bodies lined the courtyard.
One casualty from the Creature Commandos.
G.I. Robot.
Flag knelt beside the remains, lifting the intact CPU with care.
"You got your war," he muttered. "Rest easy."
As long as the core survived, the robot could be rebuilt. That was something.
Circe was secured, bound in reinforced arcane restraints, ready for transport to the United States.
The mission was, officially, a success.
But Flag couldn't shake the feeling crawling up his spine.
The Question That Wouldn't Die
Later that night, while the castle licked its wounds and the princess accepted condolences with dry eyes, Flag stood alone on a balcony.
The wind was cold.
His thoughts were colder.
How did they get inside?
Two weeks. No breaches. No alarms. No signs.
The Sons of Themyscira hadn't forced their way in.
They'd been let in.
Flag looked back toward the palace—toward Princess Ilana's chambers.
Her smile replayed in his mind.
"Hospitality," she'd said.
Flag's grip tightened on the railing.
"This isn't over," he murmured.
Far away, unseen and unacknowledged, darker forces watched.
Demons remembered.
And in the team Titans Tower in the personal room of Robin and raven a young Robin slept beside a half-demon girl—unaware that the world was quietly, inexorably, sliding toward fire.