# **The Watchtower — Holding Area Alpha-7**
*(Or: How to Make Interdimensional First Contact Less Awkward When Your Tragic Backstory Involves Accidentally Creating Universe-Ending Supervillains)*
The Watchtower's holding area was significantly more comfortable than Alexander Luthor had expected from a superhero detention facility. Instead of the sterile, intimidating interrogation rooms he'd designed for LexCorp's corporate security division, this looked more like a really expensive hotel suite that happened to be surrounded by force fields and probably monitored by seventeen different varieties of surveillance equipment.
There was actual furniture—not just a metal chair bolted to the floor, but an honest-to-god leather couch that looked like it cost more than most people's cars. A coffee table with actual magazines (though he wasn't sure why heroes needed subscriptions to "Architectural Digest" and "Scientific American" in their detention areas). Even a small kitchenette with what appeared to be genuinely good coffee brewing in a machine that definitely hadn't come from the lowest bidder.
"Huh," Lex muttered, settling into the couch while his armor ran passive scans of the containment systems. "Either interdimensional heroes have really excellent prisoner accommodation standards, or they're trying to keep me comfortable while they decide whether I'm a legitimate refugee or an elaborate infiltration attempt."
The force field hummed quietly around the room's perimeter—not the angry, crackling energy barriers he was used to from Earth-3's prison systems, but something that felt almost... polite. Like it was there for everyone's safety rather than to make detention as psychologically uncomfortable as possible.
His armor's HUD was painting tactical overlays across his vision, analyzing everything from the room's structural integrity to the coffee machine's power consumption patterns. Not because he was planning an escape—honestly, where would he go?—but because systematic analysis was how he processed stress, and today had definitely maxed out his stress tolerance for interdimensional crisis management scenarios.
"Sir?" came a voice from speakers that were so well-hidden he couldn't actually locate them, which was either impressive acoustic engineering or really advanced alien technology. Possibly both. "I'm Victor Stone, but everyone calls me Cyborg. I'm monitoring your accommodation to make sure you have everything you need while Superman briefs the League about your situation."
The voice was warm, professional, and carried just enough technological modulation to suggest that whoever Victor Stone was, he had some serious cybernetic enhancements and probably access to computer systems that would make his Earth-3 tech division weep with envy.
"Cyborg," Lex replied, looking up at what he hoped was the general direction of the surveillance systems. "Thank you for the hospitality. I have to say, your detention facilities are significantly more comfortable than what I'd expected from heroes who probably deal with interdimensional visitors claiming to be fleeing from evil versions of yourselves."
"Yeah, well," Cyborg's laugh was genuine and somehow reassuring, "turns out that treating people decently while you're figuring out whether they're telling the truth gets you better information than trying to intimidate them into confessing whatever you want to hear. Batman's idea, actually. He figured out that comfortable prisoners are more likely to share useful intelligence than terrified ones."
"Batman came up with prisoner comfort protocols?" Lex asked, because that seemed like exactly the kind of counterintuitive strategic thinking that would make his Earth-3 colleagues assume they were being set up for some elaborate psychological manipulation.
"Batman comes up with protocols for everything," Cyborg confirmed, his voice carrying the kind of fond exasperation that suggested this was a well-established personality quirk rather than a concerning obsession with control systems. "Prisoner accommodation, interdimensional visitor processing, coffee preferences for beings whose physiology operates on non-human metabolic principles—if there's a situation that might require systematic approach, Batman's got a protocol for it."
"Does he have a protocol for 'interdimensional refugees whose greatest scientific achievement accidentally created the most dangerous being in multiversal history'?" Lex asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer wasn't going to be particularly comforting.
"Actually, yes," Cyborg replied cheerfully. "Protocol designation: 'Unintended Consequence Management with Cosmic-Scale Implications.' It's filed under 'Crisis Intervention Scenarios Requiring Comprehensive Strategic Planning and Really Good Coffee.'"
"He has a protocol specifically for my situation?"
"Batman has protocols for situations that haven't happened yet, probably won't happen, and definitely shouldn't happen but might anyway because the universe has a really twisted sense of humor," Cyborg explained. "According to his files, 'interdimensional visitor claiming refugee status due to accidentally enhanced cosmic-level threats' falls under Category Seven: 'Complex Strategic Situations Requiring Verification, Analysis, and Probable Heroic Intervention with Acceptable Risk Factors.'"
Lex was quiet for a moment, processing the implications of being in a dimension where heroes had systematic approaches to helping people instead of systematic approaches to exploiting them. It was genuinely disorienting—like discovering that everything you'd assumed about how power functioned was not just wrong, but completely backwards.
"Cyborg," he said finally, "can I ask you something?"
"Sure," Cyborg replied, his tone suggesting genuine interest rather than the kind of professional courtesy that came from monitoring potentially dangerous individuals for signs of hostile intent.
"In your dimension," Lex asked, "what does Lex Luthor do? I mean, I can see from the city architecture that he's obviously successful from a business perspective, but... what kind of person is he?"
The silence that followed was the kind of pause that usually preceded either really diplomatically phrased explanations or really uncomfortable truths about alternate dimensional counterparts who'd made significantly different life choices.
"That's... complicated," Cyborg said finally, his voice taking on the careful tone that suggested he was trying to figure out how to explain complex interpersonal dynamics to someone who shared a face with one of the people involved. "This dimension's Lex Luthor is brilliant—probably one of the smartest people on the planet. Incredible businessman, revolutionary inventor, strategic genius who's built corporate empires that employ hundreds of thousands of people."
"But?" Lex prompted, because there was definitely a 'but' coming.
"But he's also got some serious issues with Superman," Cyborg continued, his technological enhancements probably allowing him to access psychological profiles and incident reports in real-time while maintaining conversational flow. "Obsession might be too strong a word, but... actually, no, obsession is probably exactly the right word. He genuinely believes that Superman represents an existential threat to human autonomy and development."
"And does he?" Lex asked, genuinely curious about whether this dimension's version of cosmic-level capabilities came with the kind of moral flexibility that made them actual threats to human freedom.
"Superman?" Cyborg's laugh was immediate and apparently genuine. "Superman's threat to human autonomy mostly involves helping old ladies cross the street, saving cats from trees, and occasionally giving really inspiring speeches about hope and justice that make people want to be better versions of themselves. If that's threatening human development, then we need to seriously reconsider our definition of 'threat.'"
"So your dimension's Lex Luthor has dedicated his considerable intelligence and resources to fighting someone whose greatest crime is being too helpful and optimistic," Lex said, working through the psychological implications with the kind of systematic analysis that had once made him legendary at corporate crisis management. "That's... actually kind of sad."
"Yeah," Cyborg agreed, his voice carrying genuine sympathy for what was apparently a complicated situation involving brilliant people making really poor strategic decisions. "The thing is, our Lex isn't evil—not really. He's just convinced that he's the hero of his own story, and that Superman represents everything wrong with a universe that doesn't reward human achievement and strategic planning the way it should."
"Whereas in my dimension," Lex observed, "I actually am trying to be the hero of the story, and the people who look like your heroes are the ones representing everything wrong with systematic conquest and human exploitation."
"Exactly," Cyborg confirmed. "Which is why Batman's protocols for your situation involve comprehensive verification procedures and psychological assessment rather than immediate detention or deportation back to your dimension. Because if you're telling the truth—if you really are fighting against evil versions of us—then helping you succeed is basically our moral obligation."
"And if I'm lying?"
"Then you're probably the most elaborate and psychologically sophisticated infiltration attempt in the documented history of interdimensional espionage," Cyborg replied cheerfully. "In which case, our response protocols involve really comprehensive educational experiences about why deception is poor long-term strategic planning, delivered by people who specialize in making bad decisions really expensive for the people who make them."
"Educational experiences," Lex repeated, thinking about what Dr. Chen would say about heroes who approached complex problems through systematic instruction rather than immediate violence. "That's actually a refreshingly civilized approach to crisis management."
"We've found that teaching people why their approach is problematic works better than just punching them until they stop," Cyborg explained. "Though to be fair, sometimes the teaching process involves a really comprehensive demonstration of why superior firepower makes negotiation preferable to continued aggression."
"Speak softly and carry a big stick?"
"Speak politely and have friends who can benchpress small planets," Cyborg corrected. "Surprisingly effective diplomatic strategy, especially when dealing with individuals whose initial approach to problem-solving involves systematic violence and property damage."
Before Lex could respond, the room's communication system chimed with what sounded like an incoming priority message—the kind of alert that suggested someone important had information that everyone needed to hear immediately.
"Alex," Superman's voice filled the room with that same warm authority he'd demonstrated during their flight to the Watchtower, "we're ready for you in the main conference room. The League's assembled, and we'd like to hear your full briefing about the situation in your dimension."
"Full briefing," Lex repeated, straightening his armor with the kind of purposeful gesture that had once preceded hostile corporate takeover presentations and was now preceding the most important strategic consultation of his career. "Right. Time to find out whether interdimensional heroes are prepared to handle problems that exceed cosmic-level threat assessment parameters."
"You'll do fine," Cyborg said, his voice carrying genuine encouragement rather than just professional reassurance. "Just remember—these are people who specialize in protecting others from impossible situations. If anyone's going to understand the kind of strategic nightmare you're dealing with, it's going to be them."
"And if they decide that interdimensional intervention is too risky?" Lex asked, though he was already standing and moving toward the door because dwelling on worst-case scenarios wasn't going to make them any less likely.
"Then they'll help you figure out a better approach," Cyborg replied with the kind of certainty that suggested this wasn't just optimism but actual experience with heroes who didn't give up on problems just because they were impossibly complicated. "Because that's what heroes do—they find ways to help people, even when conventional wisdom says it's impossible."
The force field deactivated with a soft chime, and the door slid open to reveal a corridor that looked like it had been designed by architects who understood that saving the world required both advanced technology and really excellent interior design. Clean lines, natural lighting, and the kind of aesthetic balance that suggested these heroes had both unlimited resources and someone with genuinely good taste making decisions about how to use them.
"Cyborg," Lex said, pausing at the threshold while his armor's systems provided tactical analysis of the route to the conference room, "thank you. For the hospitality, for the explanations, for treating an interdimensional stranger with more courtesy than most of my own business associates."
"Hey," Cyborg replied, his voice warm with what sounded like genuine friendliness, "everyone deserves help when they're trying to fix their mistakes. Even mistakes that accidentally threaten the stability of infinite realities."
"No pressure," Lex said, though for the first time since Dr. Chen had calculated their sixty-seven percent success probability, he was actually beginning to believe that interdimensional intervention might be possible.
"No pressure at all," Cyborg confirmed cheerfully. "Just the fate of multiple universes hanging in the balance of whether you can convince the most powerful heroes in our dimension to risk everything on a rescue operation that might not work and could potentially make the entire situation worse."
"When you put it like that," Lex said, walking down the corridor toward what was either going to be the most successful diplomatic negotiation in multiversal history or the most spectacular failure of interdimensional crisis management ever documented, "it almost sounds manageable."
Time to find out if heroes who'd dedicated their lives to protecting people would be willing to extend that protection to people from other dimensions.
Even when those people had accidentally created cosmic-level threats through scientific hubris and questionable strategic planning.
Even when fixing the problem might require facing enemies whose capabilities exceeded measurement and whose intelligence could probably redesign entire universes for entertainment value.
Even when the alternative was letting enhanced tyranny export its perfected conquest methodology to infinite realities that deserved better than systematic subjugation by people who'd turned oppression into an art form.
Some conversations, apparently, determined the fate of everything that had ever existed.
No pressure at all.
---
# **Meanwhile, on a Beach That Definitely Doesn't Appear in Tourist Brochures**
*(Or: How to Turn Swimwear Shopping into Advanced Relationship Dynamics When Your Girlfriends Could Probably Redesign Reality if They Put Their Minds to It)*
You know what they don't tell you about accidentally becoming powerful enough to benchpress small planets while maintaining a relationship with three women who could individually qualify as natural wonders of the universe? Simple activities like shopping for swimwear become exercises in advanced diplomatic negotiation, aesthetic theory, and trying not to short-circuit your own brain through prolonged exposure to cosmic-level beauty in retail environments.
"Harry," Jean said, her voice carrying that particular combination of ancient cosmic wisdom and the kind of earthly exasperation that suggested she'd been dealing with my decision-making paralysis for longer than most civilizations had existed, "it's swimwear. Not a comprehensive strategic analysis of interdimensional fashion coordination with potential applications for diplomatic relations between species that don't technically share the same understanding of textile engineering."
She was standing in front of the boutique's three-way mirror, and honestly, seeing the Primordial Flame of the Beginning in a red bikini that seemed to have been designed by cosmic forces with really strong opinions about the relationship between color theory and universal harmony was the kind of experience that made you understand why ancient civilizations built temples to commemorate things they considered too beautiful for normal human comprehension.
The fabric wasn't just red—it was *red*, the kind of red that made you think of the first sunrise ever witnessed, the heart of stars being born, the exact shade that existed in the moment between "before" and "everything that came after." And the way it complemented her auburn hair, which was currently catching the boutique's lighting and reflecting it back in ways that violated several laws of physics while looking absolutely stunning in the process...
"You're staring," she observed, though her tone suggested she found this more amusing than concerning. "Again."
"I'm conducting aesthetic appreciation analysis," I replied with the kind of dignity that had once convinced teachers I was paying attention in class when I was actually trying to figure out how Hermione's hair managed to look perfect even after we'd spent three hours running from things that wanted to kill us. "There's a difference."
"The difference," Bekka said from her position by the changing room entrance, where she was somehow managing to make a simple white sundress look like formal attire suitable for diplomatic functions on New Genesis, "is that aesthetic appreciation doesn't involve your mouth hanging open and what appears to be a complete temporary shutdown of your higher cognitive processes."
Her red hair was arranged in one of those effortlessly elegant styles that probably took thirty seconds to achieve but looked like it belonged in Renaissance paintings, and when she smiled at me—that particular Danielle Rose Russell combination of warmth and mischief that suggested she knew exactly what kind of effect she was having on my ability to form coherent thoughts—I felt my magical core do something that was probably not technically possible according to established thaumaturgical theory.
"My cognitive processes are functioning perfectly," I said, holding up two nearly identical pairs of swim trunks and trying to project the kind of confident decision-making that had once convinced a Sorting Hat I belonged in Gryffindor despite having a piece of Voldemort's soul attached to my consciousness. "I'm just conducting comprehensive analysis of color coordination possibilities, UV protection factors, and the potential for aesthetic harmony within our collective beach attire framework."
"He's overthinking swimwear," came Big Barda's voice from inside the changing room, carrying enough amusement to make the entire boutique's foundation settle more comfortably. "Again."
"I don't overthink," I protested. "I engage in systematic evaluation of complex variables to ensure optimal outcomes for situations involving multiple stakeholders with diverse aesthetic preferences and functional requirements."
The changing room door opened, and Big Barda stepped out wearing a black two-piece that looked like it had been engineered by someone who understood that functional swimwear for an Apokoliptian warrior goddess needed to balance visual appeal with the structural integrity required for potential supersonic flight and combat situations that might involve deflecting energy blasts while maintaining perfect form.
Let me be clear about something: I've seen a lot of impressive sights in my life. I've witnessed cosmic forces reshaping reality, watched gods negotiate territorial disputes, observed the birth of new stars from the front row. But Big Barda in swimwear was the kind of view that made you reconsider your entire understanding of what words like "beautiful" and "powerful" actually meant when applied to the same person simultaneously.
Six feet of perfectly conditioned muscle that could probably arm-wrestle Superman to a diplomatic draw, curves that defied several fundamental principles of engineering while somehow managing to look completely natural, and the kind of confident presence that made you understand why Apokolips had needed an entire planetary military structure just to contain one person's potential for spectacular violence and really excellent strategic planning.
"There," she said, settling into the boutique's chair with the kind of easy authority that made furniture look grateful to be useful. "Practical, aesthetically coordinated, and structurally sound enough to handle anything from beach volleyball to unexpected aerial combat scenarios."
"Aerial combat scenarios," I repeated, because apparently my vocabulary had been reduced to echoing whatever the most distractingly beautiful person in the room happened to be saying while my brain tried to remember how to function normally. "Right. Because that's definitely a concern for normal beach activities."
"With our track record?" Jean asked, moving to stand beside Barda while I tried to remember basic biological functions like breathing and maintaining normal heart rhythm patterns. "Expecting the unexpected is just good strategic planning."
"Besides," Bekka added, her blue eyes holding that particular gleam that meant she was about to make an observation that would definitely not help my current situation regarding cognitive stability and blood flow management, "we wanted to coordinate our color selections to create visual balance while still allowing individual expression within a unified aesthetic framework."
"Color coordination," I said, looking between the three of them and trying to process the fact that they'd apparently turned swimwear selection into an advanced course in color theory, strategic planning, and what appeared to be a comprehensive conspiracy to make me forget how to form complete sentences.
"Red, black, and white," Jean explained with the patience of someone who'd spent eons helping lesser beings understand concepts that should have been obvious. "Classic combination, universally flattering, and provides optimal contrast ratios for photography while maintaining individual aesthetic identity."
"Photography," I said, my strategic planning protocols finally managing to override the part of my brain that was dedicated to appreciating the view and returning to more practical concerns like privacy and media relations. "Right. Because we're definitely going to end up in tabloids regardless of what we wear, and at least this way we'll look coordinated instead of like we got dressed by grabbing random items from completely different fashion decades."
"Exactly," Barda confirmed, though her smile suggested she was more amused by my recovery of basic logical thinking than concerned about paparazzi. "Plus, coordinated aesthetics send a message about relationship stability and collaborative decision-making that makes it harder for media outlets to speculate about interpersonal drama or competitive dynamics."
"Collaborative decision-making," I repeated, finally settling on the midnight blue swim trunks because they coordinated with everyone's color selections and looked professional enough for potential diplomatic interactions with undersea kingdoms or cosmic entities who might drop by to discuss universal stability protocols. "Is that what we're calling this systematic approach to making me temporarily incapable of higher cognitive function?"
"We prefer to think of it," Bekka said with the kind of innocent expression that would have fooled absolutely no one who'd spent any time around New Genesis royalty, "as comprehensive relationship maintenance through strategic application of aesthetic coordination and really excellent timing."
"Strategic application," I said, disappearing into the changing room while trying not to think too hard about the implications of dating three women who were apparently capable of turning routine activities into advanced courses in psychology, fashion theory, and the practical applications of being so beautiful that nearby reality had to file incident reports.
"Don't overthink it, Harry," Jean called through the door, her voice warm with the kind of affection that made cosmic power levels seem less important than the simple fact that someone who could probably redesign the fundamental forces of the universe was willing to be patient with my tendency to turn simple decisions into elaborate strategic planning sessions. "Just put on the swimwear and let us handle the complicated parts."
"Like what complicated parts?" I asked, changing into the swim trunks while my armor's systems provided detailed analysis of the boutique's security protocols and potential exit strategies in case this beach day turned into another educational experience about the practical applications of heroic responsibility.
"Like explaining to Aquaman's security detail why three of his territorial waters' most frequent visitors are accompanied by someone whose energy signature probably triggered every monitoring system between here and the Mariana Trench," Barda replied cheerfully.
I paused in the middle of adjusting the swim trunks, processing that information.
"Aquaman's security detail?" I asked.
"Atlantean territorial waters come with comprehensive monitoring protocols," Bekka explained with that practical New Genesis approach to information management. "King Arthur takes ocean security very seriously, especially when it involves surface dwellers whose power levels could theoretically affect continental shelf stability if they got emotional about proper sunscreen application."
"I'm not going to get emotional about sunscreen!" I protested, stepping out of the changing room and immediately regretting the decision because all three of them were now looking at me with expressions that ranged from appreciative to predatory to something that was probably going to make this beach day significantly more complicated than normal recreational activities.
"Looking good, Harry," Jean said, her voice taking on that particular quality that made my magical core respond in ways that definitely weren't covered in any academic textbook about thaumaturgical theory.
"Very good," Bekka agreed, her gaze conducting what appeared to be a comprehensive tactical assessment that was somehow both clinical and intensely personal at the same time.
"Definitely good," Barda confirmed, her smile widening in the way that suggested she was already thinking about beach activities that weren't traditionally associated with family-friendly recreational environments.
"Right," I said, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while three women who could individually qualify as cosmic-level strategic assets were looking at me like I was the most interesting thing they'd encountered in their respective millennia of existence. "So. Beach day. Atlantean territorial waters. Coordinated aesthetic framework. Enhanced privacy protections courtesy of Queen Mera's opinions about media ethics and relationship respect."
"About that," Jean said, her cosmic awareness shifting into something that felt more like barely contained amusement than universal monitoring protocols. "Mareena may have mentioned our beach plans to her mother."
"Who may have mentioned them to Arthur," Bekka added.
"Who may have decided that our relationship represents an important diplomatic asset that deserves comprehensive protection from media intrusion and potentially hostile photography," Barda finished.
I looked between the three of them, processing the implications.
"So this isn't just a private beach day," I said slowly. "This is a royal diplomatic event with enhanced security protocols and probably some kind of official Atlantean position statement about superhero relationship privacy rights."
"Essentially, yes," Jean confirmed. "Though Mareena assured us that the diplomatic aspects will be handled discretely and won't interfere with normal recreational activities like sunbathing, swimming, and whatever other beach-related bonding experiences we might want to explore."
"Beach-related bonding experiences," I repeated, because the way she said it suggested activities that definitely weren't covered in standard beach safety brochures.
"We've been doing research," Bekka said, her innocuous tone completely at odds with the expression in her eyes. "Comprehensive analysis of optimal recreational activities for couples with enhanced physical capabilities and really excellent privacy protections."
"Research," I said, my strategic planning protocols beginning to suspect that this beach day was going to be educational in ways that hadn't been covered in any of my previous heroic training programs.
"Extensive research," Barda confirmed, her smile taking on that particular quality that made me remember why dating an Apokoliptian warrior goddess was simultaneously the best and most potentially dangerous decision I'd ever made. "We wanted to make sure our first real day off together would be memorable for all the right reasons."
"All the right reasons," I repeated, looking around at three women who'd somehow managed to turn swimwear shopping into a comprehensive briefing about diplomatic immunity, aesthetic coordination, and what was apparently going to be a very thorough exploration of the practical applications of enhanced privacy protections.
"Is there a problem with that?" Jean asked, moving closer with that fluid grace that made every step look like it had been choreographed by cosmic forces with really excellent taste in movement dynamics.
"No problem," I said, though my voice came out slightly higher than normal as she invaded my personal space in ways that made breathing more difficult and logical thinking significantly less likely. "Just... processing the information that our relaxing beach day is actually a carefully planned diplomatic event with comprehensive recreational research and enhanced privacy protocols that are apparently designed to facilitate bonding experiences that require said privacy."
"Harry," Bekka said, joining Jean in what was rapidly becoming a strategic encirclement that was definitely affecting my ability to maintain normal cardiovascular function, "are you nervous about spending quality time with us in a private setting with optimal environmental conditions and minimal external interruptions?"
"Nervous?" I asked, because apparently my higher cognitive functions had decided this was an excellent time to take a break and let my more basic survival instincts handle complex interpersonal navigation. "Why would I be nervous about spending a day at the beach with three women who could probably redesign reality if they put their minds to it and who have apparently conducted comprehensive research about optimal recreational activities for enhanced individuals in private settings?"
"Because," Barda said, completing what I was now recognizing as a carefully coordinated tactical maneuver that had somehow resulted in me being surrounded by three of the most dangerous and beautiful beings in documented existence, "you're overthinking again."
"I don't overthink—" I started.
"Harry," Jean interrupted, her voice dropping to that register that made my magical core respond in ways that probably violated several fundamental principles of thaumaturgical energy management, "shut up and kiss me."
Which, honestly, was exactly the kind of direct communication that made all the overthinking seem pretty irrelevant.
So I did.
And kissing Jean—really kissing her, not the careful, public-appropriate kisses we managed between superhero emergencies and media appearances—was like making direct contact with the fundamental forces that had shaped the universe. Warm and vast and infinite, with just enough controlled power behind it to remind me that I was kissing someone who could probably rearrange solar systems if she felt like it.
When we finally broke apart, I was definitely having trouble remembering why I'd been concerned about anything more complicated than the fact that this was apparently happening.
"Better?" she asked, though her smile suggested she already knew the answer.
"Much better," I confirmed, though my voice came out rougher than normal in ways that probably had something to do with kissing cosmic forces while surrounded by people who were looking at me like they had comprehensive plans for the immediate future.
"Good," Bekka said, moving close enough that I could smell whatever perfume she was wearing—something that reminded me of mountain air and starlight and probably cost more than most people's annual salaries. "Because we have plans for today that don't involve you conducting strategic analysis of every single decision."
"What kind of plans?" I asked, though I was beginning to suspect I already knew the answer and was definitely not opposed to whatever comprehensive recreational research they'd been conducting.
"The kind," Barda said, her hand settling on my arm with enough pressure to remind me that she could probably benchpress a small building while making it look effortless, "that are going to make this the most memorable beach day in superhero relationship history."
"No pressure," I said, though honestly, pressure was the last thing I was worried about when three women who could individually qualify as natural wonders were looking at me like I was the most interesting thing they'd encountered in their respective lifetimes.
"No pressure at all," Jean agreed, her cosmic awareness shifting into something that felt more like anticipation than universal monitoring protocols. "Just us, optimal weather conditions, enhanced privacy protections, and absolutely no scheduled appearances by cosmic threats, interdimensional visitors, or people who want to document our relationship dynamics for publication in magazines with questionable editorial standards."
"Just us," I agreed, and for once, my strategic planning protocols weren't raising any objections to the immediate future.
After all, what could possibly go wrong with a simple beach day?
---
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