The air in the Justice Mountain kitchen carried a comforting aroma of simmering tomato sauce and melted cheese, mingled with the faint scent of fresh bread rising from the makeshift oven. The room, now more habitable after recent maintenance that had efficiently reorganized the spaces, served as a meeting point for the group. Polished metal countertops reflected the diffused light filtering through the ventilation grilles, and the central table—a robust structure assembled from reinforced panels—accommodated steaming dishes that M'gann had prepared with a touch of her telekinesis to expedite the process. It was an attempt at normalcy after the brutal morning of training, but tension hung like an invisible fog, clinging to the sparse conversations and the glances that avoided meeting for long. Each of us carried the marks of humiliation on the tatami, but in different ways, as if the defeats had been distributed according to our inner weaknesses.
I, Erick Smith, sat at the corner of the table, the plate of lasagna in front of me almost untouched, the fork swirling distractedly in the thick sauce. My body still registered the echoes of the beating I'd taken from Dinah Lance—impacts that the Cloak had largely absorbed, leaving only a residual throbbing in my torso and arms, nothing that the fire elemental in my chest wasn't repairing with its subtle regeneration. The suit, now retracted into rest mode, with the helmet disassembled and attached to the jacket like a reinforced cyberpunk-style collar, allowed me to move without the full weight of the armor. At 15, with my compact 5'4" frame, I felt like the outsider in this group of prodigies—not just because of my lack of experience, but because I was aware that my victories were still theoretical, built in the isolation of my basement. I expected this , I thought, poking at a piece of melted cheese that stretched like a sticky web. Without real missions, without battles against real villains, I'm the rookie. The weak link. But the others? Those who rely on brute force? They thought they were invincible. That was a slap in the face for them, not for me. My elemental pulsed weakly, a spark of comforting warmth that reminded me that progress would come—slowly, but it would come.
Conner Kent, Superboy, sat beside M'gann, his imposing body hunched over the plate as if the food were an irritating distraction. He chewed mechanically, his square jaw moving with robotic precision, but his blue eyes were distant, fixed on an invisible point on the opposite wall. At 16 years old (or the equivalent, since he was an accelerated clone), his 6'3" of Kryptonian muscles seemed like a living suit of armor, invulnerable to bullets and explosions, but clearly cracked inside after the defeat. She used the scream , Conner thought, his fists clenched under the table until his knuckles turned white. Without that, I would have crushed her like an empty can. But... what if it was a villain with something worse? A gas that ignores my skin? An illusion that makes me attack my own? The humiliation consumed him like acid—he, who could lift trucks, and had been brought down by a "weak human." His silence was oppressive, a dark cloud hanging over the table, and he nudged M'gann with his elbow, a gesture almost protective, but laden with shared anger. We are the strong ones here. Why do we feel so... exposed?
M'gann M'orzz floated lightly above the chair, her Martian form adopted for the comfort of lunch: soft green skin gleaming with a faint inner glow, wavy red hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, large, expressive eyes filled with an empathy that seeped in like subtle ripples to the group. She ate slowly, using a touch of telekinesis to levitate her fork to her mouth, but her mind was in turmoil. I could have thrown her against the wall with a thought , she reflected, a subtle tremor running down her spine as she cut a piece of lasagna. Or read her mind, anticipated her every move before she blinked. But… what if I lost control? Hurt her, or worse, someone on the team? Defeat weighed on her like an invisible weight on her shoulders—she, with telepathy capable of rewriting entire memories, telekinesis to move objects the size of cars, intangibility to pass through solid matter, had been reduced to a hesitant and ineffective fighter. The fear of hurting Dinah had paralyzed her, turning her vast power into a self-imposed prison. Now, the group saw her vulnerability, and it gnawed at her from the inside. She squeezed Conner's hand under the table, feeling waves of his frustration echo in her mind like a distant echo. We are the most powerful here , she thought, trying to convince herself. But what if that makes us the most dangerous to ourselves? What if I am the weakness that breaks the team?
Wally West, the Kid Flash, was across the table, attacking his second bite with the voracity of someone whose metabolism burned calories like a wildfire. His yellow and red uniform seemed to vibrate with his restless energy, his disheveled red hair falling over his sweaty forehead as he swallowed whole mouthfuls. He tried to laugh between bites, forcing a joke here and there to mask his discomfort, but his green eyes betrayed deep irritation. I'm fast , he thought, his fork hitting the plate harder than necessary, echoing like a muffled drum. He could have circled her a hundred times, created vacuums that would have knocked her down, disarmed her before she blinked. But she read me like a children's book. Every spell, every run... too predictable. Defeat had hit him like a slap in the face—he, capable of running at speeds that blurred the line between movement and teleportation, had been reduced to a clown tripping over his own feet, unable to touch Dinah even once. The worst part? Robin and Artemis, those "normal humans" with no powers beyond technique and determination, had lasted longer, made Dinah sweat and bleed. It gnawed at him like an incessant itch: I have the gift of speed. Why do they seem better? Why do I seem... useless? He stared at his empty plate, feeling his stomach rumble again, and thought about how his speed always saved him on missions with the Flash—but here, among equals, it felt like a curse that isolated him.
Robin — Dick Grayson — sat beside Wally, eating with the meticulous efficiency of someone trained to optimize every calorie consumed, as if lunch were just another tool in his arsenal. At 13, his agile and acrobatic body still bore the visible marks of the fight: a cut on his lower lip that had already coagulated into a thin scab, his left shoulder slightly swollen under the red shirt of his tucked-in uniform. He smiled openly, the domino mask tucked into his belt, revealing blue eyes full of genuine excitement that contrasted with the frustration of others. "She made me sweat, but I made her bleed ," he thought, cutting a generous piece of lasagna and chewing slowly to savor it. "Batman always says, 'Technique beats brute force.' I proved it today — I lasted almost five minutes, I exchanged real blows. " The "humiliation" didn't affect him as it did the others; for him, it was a victory in disguise, a valuable lesson to further refine his mastery. He leaned toward Wally, giving his friend a light punch on the arm. "Hey, KF, relax. It was just training. Next time, you use that speed for something other than running in circles." His tone was playful, but laden with an empathy forged over years of partnership—he understood the pressure on the metas, but for him, powerless, each fight was an opportunity to prove that humans could rival gods.
Artemis Crock stood to my right, her presence a mixture of sharp acidity and a subtle warmth that made my elemental instincts pulse as if recognizing a sister flame. She ate slowly, the emerald uniform I had created fitting her athletic body perfectly: the tight top highlighting the firm curves of her breasts and the defined line of her waist, the trousers molding her long, muscular legs that stretched across the table. The cut on her face, a thin line of dried blood on her cheek, was already coagulating without leaving a mark, but she ignored it as if it were an insignificant scratch. Her sarcastic smile remained intact, but beneath it, a subtle doubt gnawed at her. I made her work for real , she thought, her fork tracing distracted patterns in the lasagna sauce. Not like those meta-idiots who think they're gods and fall like fools because they trust their tricks too much. Her humiliation was minimal—she had lasted longer than Robin, traded blood for blood, made Dinah gasp and recoil. But deep down, a shadow lingered: My training came from villains. From a father who taught me to kill before I could walk. What if they find out? What if that makes me the team's weakness? She glanced at me sideways, her almond-shaped eyes gleaming with something indecipherable—gratitude for the uniform that had absorbed some of the fight's impact? Or something more, an echo of the near-kiss on the rooftop, of that accidental touch that had ignited the air between us? "Hey, newbie," she murmured softly, nudging my arm with her elbow. "Aren't you going to eat? You'll need energy to avoid falling face-first onto the mat again." Her tone was acidic, as always, but her eyes softened for a moment—a subtle invitation, a bridge over the abyss of our humiliations.
Kaldur'ahm — Aqualad — ate silently at the other end of the table, his Atlantean armor retracted into a simple t-shirt that revealed the aquatic tattoos faintly pulsing on his arms. He had been the last to fall that morning, lasting almost as long as Artemis and Robin, but defeat pressed against him like an underwater current: I control the oceans, but here, on dry land, my water is limited to humid air and sweat. I am vulnerable without the sea. He nodded at the sparse conversations, but his mind coldly calculated: I need to adapt. Use the environment — humidity in the air, fluids in the human body. Turn weakness into a weapon. His calmness was an anchor for the group, but inside, the pressure propelled him to evolve.
Lunch continued in fragments of conversation: Wally complaining about the "injustice" of being knocked down without powers, trying to turn the humiliation into a joke ("Hey, if I'd been slower, maybe I would have seen the blows coming!"); M'gann trying to cheer with light telepathic touches, projecting funny mental images of puppies to ease the tension; Robin telling lighthearted Gotham anecdotes to keep morale high ("Once, Batman made me train in the dark for a week. I learned to 'see' with my ears"). Artemis nudged Wally back ("Maybe if you used your brain instead of just your legs, you wouldn't fall so much, ginger"), and Conner grunted monosyllabic responses, his frustration palpable like a vibration in the air. I observed everything, my fork still spinning on my plate, analyzing the dynamics: The metas feel pressured because their powers have betrayed them—they relied on brute force, pure speed, an invincible mind. But Dinah showed that technique conquers all. Me? I expected the outcome. I'm the inexperienced one, the human with a fire trick. But that's temporary. With Sensei dilating time, the Cloak evolving, the elemental maturing... I'll turn the tables. Lunch was a breath of fresh air, but also a mirror: Robin and Artemis, the "normal" ones, left less shaken, their confidence rooted in earned skill, not given skill. The metas? A reality check that forced them to question everything.
After lunch, the group dispersed for a few minutes—Wally disappearing in a blur to "burn off the extra calories," Conner vanishing into the shadows of the lower corridors to ruminate alone, M'gann cleaning the kitchen with telekinesis, dishes floating like leaves in a breeze. I isolated myself in a corner of the main platform, leaning against a newly reinforced pillar, mentally reviewing the morning's lessons: Redirect, don't block. Predict neuromuscular patterns based on micro-expressions. Use the elemental as a subtle extension, not a brute weapon. The metas' frustration was palpable—they had gifts that could move mountains, but lacked the finesse that Robin and Artemis displayed, forged in sweat and failure. I, the "weak link," saw this as an opportunity: They rely on brute force. I build layers—technology, improvised magic, learned technique. I will overcome them, layer by layer.
We returned to the training field—a vast, expansive hall, the size of a football field and a half, with a ceiling as high as that of an underground cathedral, now immaculate after maintenance that had eliminated cobwebs and accumulated debris. The walls, reinforced with metal plates that echoed footsteps like a distant drum, surrounded the expanded tatami mats and the holographic simulators flashing in standby mode, ready for activation. Black Canary waited in the center, next to Red Tornado—the red and gold android, arms behind his back in an impeccable posture, his cape billowing slightly in the circulating air.
"Good afternoon again," Dinah began, her voice echoing in the vast space like an inevitable command. "Lunch was for recharging and reflecting on the morning's lessons. Now, we move on to team training. You can fight alone—some more successfully than others—but real missions demand absolute synchronization. An individual mistake can bring down the entire team. Let's build that here."
Kid Flash raised his hand, his impatience overflowing as always—he was already restless in his chair, his feet tapping the floor in an accelerated rhythm that betrayed his anxiety. "Team? Like, real missions at last? It's been a while since I've been out in the field with the Flash. The sidekicks were dumped here at this base—when are we getting back to the real game?"
Dinah smiled coldly, crossing her arms over her chest, the leather of her jacket creaking slightly. "Patience, Wally. You will only be allowed on missions after you pass all the necessary tests. Not before. We need to ensure you function as a unit, not as a bunch of individualists."
Red Tornado nodded, his mechanical, impassive voice echoing like a calibrated synthesizer. "Correct. We've put together a training circuit designed to test coordination, adaptation, and collective resilience. Master it, and you'll prove you're ready for the field."
My stomach churned with a mixture of frustration and suppressed anger. They're leveling the entire team down because of me , I thought, my fists clenching involuntarily under the table. I'm the least experienced, the rookie with no real missions on my resume. If they threw me into an operation now, I could die—and drag the others down with me. But to treat a genius like me, who built AIs, armor, and rituals from scratch, like a babysitter? That infuriates me. My elemental pulsed hot in my chest, a spark of irritation that I forced down—it wasn't the time to explode. Instead, I used the anger as fuel: I'll prove I'm the link that strengthens, not the one that breaks.
Dinah activated the central computer with a gesture on the nearby console, her voice cutting through the air. "System, initiate training protocol 1."
The hall trembled as if awakening from a deep sleep. The flat floor, once a uniform surface of tatami and metal, began to deform with a hydraulic roar: massive blocks emerging from the subsoil—some 8 meters high, others 4, varying in irregular widths like broken pillars of an ancient ruin. The terrain transformed into a chaotic labyrinth, with elevated platforms, deep valleys, and treacherous slopes that made the space seem like a destroyed urban battlefield. Fine dust rose into the air, settling slowly as the mechanism stopped with a final click.
"First training exercise: rescue," Dinah explained, pointing to the elevated center, now an isolated platform like an unstable plateau. Automatons emerged from the sides—simple humanoid robots with gray metallic structures and sensors flashing red all over their bodies, simulating civilian victims. "Each automaton has sensory detectors at vital points. The goal is to rescue them from 'danger' without causing serious injuries—no impacts that break simulated bones or damage internal organs. Work as a team: plan, coordinate, execute."
The automatons marched mechanically to the elevated center, positioning themselves in a vulnerable formation, like hostages in a crisis scenario.
Kid Flash laughed, crossing his arms with overconfidence. "This is a piece of cake. The terrain's messy, but I'll catch them in seconds and bring them back. Game over."
Artemis and I exchanged quick glances—a mixture of disbelief and contempt. Idiot , I thought, seeing the same expression in her almond-shaped eyes. Does he think he can just run and grab it? Doesn't he see the obvious traps?
Red Tornado floated upward, his crimson cape billowing like a flag in an invisible wind, positioning himself beside the automatons with the impassivity of a machine. "Not so fast, young friend," he said, his metallic voice echoing through the warped hall. "I will be the villain of this training."
The air froze at the implication—the android, with flight, superhuman strength, and wind manipulation, would turn the rescue into a coordinated hell. The circuit was ready, and we were the rats in the maze.
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