Desert. Makeshift Team Hideout. Night.
The desert is dead quiet.
No Bialyan soldiers. No gunfire. No Psimon.
But the Team doesn't feel victorious.
The ruins of the Bialyan bunker offer only the illusion of safety. Its walls are half-collapsed, jagged concrete and twisted metal barely shielding them from the endless stretch of moonlit sand.
Miss Martian kneels in the dirt, pale and trembling. Her eyes are distant, still haunted by the psychic war she waged minutes ago. Connor crouches beside her, one arm braced protectively around her shoulders, his other hand balled into a fist that hasn't unclenched since the fight ended.
Artemis sits propped against a broken wall, her breathing shallow, an improvised bandage wrapped tight around her arm. Blood still seeps through the fabric. She doesn't complain, but every shift makes her wince.
Aqualad works methodically, tying off the last knot on Artemis's bandage, but his face is unreadable — calm on the surface, his eyes betraying the weight pressing down on him.
Robin paces.
He can't stand still. Not after what he's seen. His boots crunch in the sand and rubble as he runs a hand through his sweat-matted hair, muttering under his breath before finally turning on the others.
Robin: "We can't stop him. You all saw what he did back there. He's not… he's not Phantom right now."
Artemis lets out a bitter laugh that turns into a hiss of pain.
Artemis: "Not right now? He almost slit my throat. If I hadn't—"She stops herself, jaw tightening, and stares at the floor.
Aqualad's voice is low, even — but it carries a heavy finality.
Aqualad: "Contacting Batman violates mission parameters. We were ordered—"
Robin spins on him, his voice sharper than he intends.
Robin: "We're past parameters, Kaldur. This isn't about the mission anymore. This is survival."
The words hang in the air, heavier than the heat of the desert night.
Even Aqualad doesn't answer right away.
Miss Martian finally speaks, her voice small, strained.
Miss Martian: "I… I tried reaching him. In the link. He didn't even hear me. It's like he's not… There's no more."
Connor growls, low and simmering.
Connor: "Then we get him back."
Robin shakes his head, bitter.
Robin: "We can't. Not us. Not like this."
There's a silence. The kind of silence that only happens when everyone knows the truth but no one wants to say it.
Robin pulls out his comm. His hand trembles — whether from exhaustion or adrenaline, he doesn't know. But his voice stays firm:
Robin: "Batman. We need backup. Now."
The line crackles. For a second, nothing. Then:
Batman: "Report."
Robin doesn't sugarcoat it. He lays it out, every detail: Psimon's defeat. The Team's injuries. Phantom reverting — worse than they've ever seen him.
When he's done, there's only silence. Long enough that Robin wonders if Batman is weighing how much of this is their failure.
Then the Dark Knight's voice cuts through:
Batman: "Fall back. I'm sending a team."
The comm clicks off.
No questions. No hesitation.
Batman already knows how bad this is.
---
Desert. Later that night.
The desert doesn't sleep, and neither do they.
The Team moves in a tight formation, following Aqualad's lead. The dunes stretch endlessly, each one identical to the last. Every shift of the sand feels like a whisper underfoot. Every shadow feels wrong.
Miss Martian keeps to the air, barely above them, her glowing eyes scanning the horizon for a threat she can't sense anymore. Her telepathic link is quiet. It's safer that way.
Wally hunches low, trying to minimize his silhouette, though his restless energy betrays him. His voice cuts through the silence, trembling despite the forced humor in it:
Wally: "Why isn't he just… I don't know… coming for us? Isn't this the part where the monster attacks?"
Robin doesn't answer immediately. His eyes sweep the dunes, tracing patterns, looking for a rhythm in the noise. He spots it — faint, deliberate. He exhales.
Robin: "He's not chasing us."
Wally frowns. "Then what is he—"
Robin's voice is flat, almost clinical:
Robin: "He's herding us."
The words hang in the cold night air like a death sentence.
Aqualad slows his pace. He doesn't argue. He doesn't need to. He's seen battlefield tactics like this before — from generals. From predators.
Artemis hisses through her teeth, hugging her bow close despite the bandage on her arm. "You're saying he's directing us? Like we're cattle?"
Robin: "No." He adjusts his goggles, voice sharp. "Like we're targets."
Miss Martian drops lower, fear sharpening her tone. "We're not going to outrun him. You all know that, right?"
No one answers.
Connor does. Not out loud, but in his head.
He can feel it — that Cadmus familiarity. Phantom isn't just another opponent. He's a reflection. Another product of the same hellhole. He knows how Phantom moves because he knows how he would move if the leash snapped.
He clenches his fists, every muscle in his body screaming for rest. He's exhausted, but it doesn't matter.
If Phantom attacks, Connor knows he'll have to hold him off. Alone, if it comes to that. Because no one else on this Team can survive that fight.
The wind shifts. The dunes groan.
A faint clang of steel echoes somewhere beyond the next ridge. Then the crunch of sand — deliberate, unhurried.
Robin freezes. "He wants us to hear him."
Aqualad draws his water-bearers. Artemis raises her bow. Connor rolls his shoulders, setting his stance, breathing deep through his nose. Preparing himself for the inevitable collision.
Somewhere in the darkness, Phantom moves.
Not chasing.
Not confused.
Hunting.
The predator wants them to know they're prey.
---
The sound comes first — a faint hum, like steel singing against steel. Then the sand ahead of them shifts, rising unnaturally.
They stop.
Robin's goggles snap toward the movement. "He's here."
Wally's voice spikes. "No, no, no, I thought we were—"
Shadows erupt from the dunes.
They slice the air like whips, lashing at their feet, driving the Team back in a disorienting storm. Miss Martian yelps as one clips her leg, and Artemis nearly loses her footing on the loose sand.
Connor doesn't hesitate.
Connor: "Behind me. Now."
His voice is a growl, primal, commanding. He plants himself between Phantom and the Team, planting his boots deep in the shifting dune.
Robin tries to object. "Connor—"
Connor: "Do it!"
The others obey, scrambling behind him as more shadows writhe upward, forming clawed silhouettes in the dark.
Then Phantom emerges.
Silent. Mask glinting in the moonlight. Blade in hand. He doesn't pause. He doesn't posture. He just charges.
Connor meets him head-on.
The impact is brutal. Phantom's blade slams into Connor's forearm, the Kryptonian clone grunting as the edge bites deeper than it should. Phantom pivots low, using his shadows to sweep Connor's legs from under him.
Connor rolls, sand spraying, barely dodging the next strike — a downward slash that would have split his chest. He surges up with a roar, tackling Phantom, but the Ghost moves like smoke, twisting out of the grapple and driving an elbow into Connor's jaw.
Connor spits blood, vision blurring, but stays up.
Connor (snarling): "You want me? Here I am."
Phantom doesn't answer.
He doesn't need to.
He's faster. More precise. Every hit lands where it hurts — ribs, knees, throat. It's clinical. Cadmus patterns.
Connor fights back with raw power, swinging wide, trying to break Phantom's rhythm. But Phantom doesn't give him an opening.
Within seconds, Connor is bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts, every breath labored.
The others can only watch, paralyzed.
Robin whispers, "He's going to kill him."
Artemis raises her bow with her good arm, but Robin grabs her wrist. "Don't. You'll only get him killed faster."
Another blow drives Connor to one knee. Phantom's blade rises for the finishing strike—
And then the sky erupts in green.
---
Desert. Seconds Later.
Connor staggers, blood dripping into the sand. His breath comes in ragged bursts. Phantom looms over him, blade poised for the final strike, shadows rising like spears ready to impale.
And then—
The night erupts.
A blinding green flare slams into the ground between them, kicking up a wave of sand that knocks them both back. Phantom's blade slashes the air instead of Connor's throat, and the clone crashes onto his back, gasping.
An emerald dome spreads across the dunes, humming with Lantern energy.
Green Lantern — John Stewart — drops from the sky like a meteor, landing in a defensive stance between the Team and Phantom. His ring glows, constructs already forming into chains.
John: "You kids look like you've had a night."
Phantom doesn't flinch. He's already back on his feet.
A shadow cuts across the moonlight. Wonder Woman lands with a bone-rattling impact, shield raised, sword drawn, every inch of her ready for war.
Behind her, J'onn J'onzz phases into reality, his presence sending a ripple of psychic calm over the Team.
And then — like he'd been there all along — Batman steps out of the dark, cape trailing like a shadow of his own.
Batman: "Stay behind us."
The order leaves no room for argument.
Phantom tilts his head, unreadable behind his mask. Then he charges.
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't analyze. Just killspeed straight at Wonder Woman.
Her shield intercepts his first strike with a clang that rings like a war bell. Phantom slides around her, blade lashing for her flank — but she's faster, sword flashing, steel meeting steel as sparks shower the sand.
Wonder Woman: "Such skill. Such waste."
John fires hard-light chains, wrapping Phantom's arms and legs — but the shadows writhe up his constructs, splintering them like glass. Phantom jerks free and hurls himself at John, shadows forming a spear that slams against the Lantern's barrier with bone-shaking force.
John: "Yeah, that's not creepy at all."
J'onn closes his eyes, reaching into Phantom's mind — and recoils as if burned.
J'onn: "His thoughts… fragmented. Layered. This is not him."
Phantom whirls, his shadows lashing toward the Martian with lethal precision. J'onn phases, the strike passing harmlessly through him, but Phantom adjusts mid-swing, blade slicing where J'onn will reappear.
Batman's voice cuts through the comms, steady as ever:
Batman: "John. Pin him. Diana. Drive him down. J'onn — break his focus."
The League moves as one.
John's ring glows brighter, constructs forming into massive clamps that seize Phantom's limbs. Wonder Woman surges forward, shield-bashing him off his feet and slamming him hard into the sand.
Phantom thrashes, shadows exploding outward like a living storm, black tendrils wrapping around Wonder Woman's arms, dragging at her shield. John's constructs creak under the strain as Phantom pushes his powers to their limit.
J'onn dives deeper into his mind, pressing past the jagged walls of programming.
J'onn: "You are more than this."
Phantom snarls — not words, just a guttural, inhuman sound.
Wonder Woman grits her teeth, pressing her shield against his chest, forcing him deeper into the sand.
Wonder Woman: "Yield!"
Phantom doesn't.
Not until John tightens his constructs, J'onn's telepathy dulls his senses, and Wonder Woman slams him one last time, denting the earth beneath them.
At last, the shadows falter. Phantom collapses to his knees, restrained, still thrashing weakly as the fight leaves him.
Batman steps forward. The others part for him.
He looks down at Phantom. His voice is low. Final.
Batman: "Stand down. It's over."
Phantom doesn't answer.
He just goes still.
---
Desert. Moments Later.
The League forms a loose circle around Phantom, John's glowing chains wrapped tight around his limbs. Wonder Woman kneels over him, shield pressed into his chest like a pin, sword poised just above his throat. J'onn hovers nearby, eyes glowing faintly as he keeps a fragile hold on Phantom's mind.
Batman steps forward.
Calm. Controlled. Like this is just another night.
Robin swallows hard from the sidelines, his voice barely above a whisper.
Robin: "He's just… walking up to him? After all that?"
Wally shakes his head, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene.
Wally: "That's Batman. He doesn't do scared."
Artemis huffs out a shaky laugh that dies in her throat.
Artemis: "Yeah, well, I do."
Batman stops just out of Phantom's reach.
Batman: "Stand down. It's over."
For a moment, it seems like Phantom listens. His breathing slows. His head tilts, shadows falling limp around him.
Then they strike.
The darkness erupts — tendrils shooting out from Phantom's body, faster than lightning, lashing straight for Batman's throat.
Robin shouts, "Batman!"
But the Dark Knight doesn't flinch.
He sidesteps with surgical precision, the shadows whipping past his cowl, missing him by inches. His hand dips into his belt, a flash of movement — and suddenly explosives burst along the tendrils, severing them in sprays of dark mist.
Batman doesn't raise his voice.
Batman: "John. Tighter."
John: "On it."
Green Lantern's constructs clamp down, glowing brighter, the pressure crushing Phantom's limbs into the sand.
Wonder Woman glances up at John, grunting as she wrestles against the writhing shadows.
Wonder Woman: "You feel that? He's pushing past your constructs."
John: "Yeah, I feel it. I've held back alien warlords with less fight than this guy."
Wonder Woman: "Then don't hold back."
John nods, ring blazing as the chains double in thickness, anchoring Phantom to the earth like iron stakes.
J'onn steps in, his voice like a low hum.
J'onn: "Enough."
His psychic presence presses deeper into Phantom's fractured mind, soothing the storm just long enough for his body to sag against the binds.
Phantom finally stills.
Batman kneels, just enough to bring his masked face level with Phantom's. His voice drops to a near-whisper, meant only for him.
Batman: "You're done."
The shadows fall completely limp.
On the ridge, the Team watches in stunned silence.
Wally exhales, "Did… did we just watch the League fight our teammate like he was Superman's evil cousin?"
Robin doesn't answer. He can't.
Because deep down, he's not sure Phantom counts as their teammate anymore.
---
Desert. Extraction.
The fight is over.
Phantom hangs limp in Green Lantern's constructs, his arms and legs shackled in glowing emerald cuffs that hum with restrained power. John Stewart has even crafted a containment pod around him, a thick shell of hard-light that pulses with layered locks, leaving only Phantom's bowed head visible through the translucent green.
Even unconscious, his shadows writhe weakly, scraping against the construct's surface like caged animals. But the bonds hold.
The League stands in a loose circle around him — Wonder Woman with her sword still drawn, John keeping his ring at full power, J'onn quiet and watchful.
Batman says nothing.
The Team does.
They watch from a distance, silent and shaken.
Robin's hands twitch at his sides, as if he can't decide whether to clench them into fists or hide them in his cape. Artemis hugs her good arm against her ribs, bow slung uselessly at her shoulder. Wally paces, rubbing his hands over his face, stopping only to whisper:
Wally: "What… what happens to him now?"
Batman answers without turning. His voice is low but carries across the sand like a judgment:
Batman: "We get him help."
No one argues. No one even knows what that means.
The Team stays frozen as the League escorts Phantom toward the transport ship waiting on the horizon. Lantern's construct glows brighter with every step, as if the pod itself is straining to hold him.
Robin breaks the silence first, his voice barely audible.
Robin: "We couldn't stop him. Not even close."
Aqualad closes his eyes. "No. But we survived."
Connor hasn't moved. He's standing a few paces away from the others, staring at Phantom's pod as it floats toward the ship. His jaw is tight, his hands balled into fists.
Batman notices.
He walks to Connor, his cape trailing behind him, boots sinking into the sand. The Team watches, unsure of what's coming.
When he reaches him, Batman stops — not close enough to tower, not far enough to seem distant. Just enough.
Batman: "Good job."
Connor blinks, caught off guard. "What?"
Batman: "You stood your ground. You protected the others. You did the right thing."
Connor looks away, uncomfortable, but something in his posture loosens.
High above them, the faintest glint reflects off the clouds. Superman. Hovering miles up, arms crossed, watching.
His voice crackles faintly over the comms, distant but clear:
Superman: "He's right. You did the right thing."
Connor freezes, staring upward at the distant figure in the sky. Superman doesn't descend. He doesn't smile. But he doesn't leave, either.
It's the closest thing to approval Connor's ever heard.
Batman turns back to the Team. His voice hardens.
Batman: "This isn't your fault. And it isn't his."
The words land heavily.
Batman: "Cadmus made him a weapon. We'll make sure he remembers he's more than that."
No one replies. They just watch in silence as the League loads Phantom into the transport.
Hours Later:
Phantom in the containment cell aboard the Watchtower transport. Lantern energy wraps him in a cocoon of green light. His mask is still on. His head bowed. Completely still.
The hum of the engines is the only sound.