|December 28, 2009, 08:00 EST
|In the Atlantic, Aboard a Merchant Freighter
The vast blue of the Atlantic stretched as far as the eye could see. The merchant freighter, a steel behemoth that cut through the waves, moved slowly forward, leaving the coast of Gotham behind. On a quiet deck, among stacked containers, the four young hero-in-trainings stood. They were dressed in civilian clothes, trying to blend in. Robin, wearing dark sunglasses that hid his eyes and part of his face, adjusted the peak of his cap, seeking to blend in even further.
Roy Harper, arms crossed and an impatient expression, was the first to speak. The ship ride, slower than his impatient nature tolerated, was already irritating him. "All right, are you going to tell me why the hell we had to delay departure for three days? Three days, guys? The mission is urgent! What was so important that this had to be delayed?"
Wally West, leaning against a dumpster, sighed dramatically. "My parents. They went crazy. Christmas! They wanted me home for every meal, every present opening, every... family hug! And then, of course, Flash and my aunt. They thought it was suspicious that I 'suddenly wanted to spend more time at home' and grilled me on my every move."
Robin agreed with a grunt. "Exactly. Same here. Batman... was... Batman. Extra patrols. 'Quality time.' I couldn't move without him asking me if I needed something. 'Master heroes' have an uncanny ability to sense when you're planning something clandestine." He was wearing his sunglasses, but the tone of his voice betrayed his own frustration.
Kaldur'ahm, always cool, spoke with his usual formality. "It was similar for me. My King, Aquaman, desired my presence for the festive rites of Poseidonis. And my parents were... concerned about my recent absence. I had to assure them that everything was in order, which, under the circumstances, was a... deviation from the truth."
Roy snorted irritably. "Yeah, yeah, we all had to deal with our mentors and their lectures. But three days is excessive. If the League finds out about this mission before we arrive, everything will be ruined."
Wally smiled, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Speaking of which, Roy... Didn't Green Arrow give you a level three interrogation? Didn't he give you one of his own scoldings for being 'too quiet' or 'disappearing'? Don't play hard to get."
Roy's face, already a little flushed from the sun, turned even redder. He glanced out at the ocean, embarrassed. "Ugh. Okay, yeah. He... was particularly suffocating. And then... and then Black Canary joined in! They said if I kept going out on patrol alone without telling anyone, I'd be 'grounded.'" The end of his sentence was an indignant murmur. "Punish me! Like I'm a kid! They're not even married yet!"
Wally and Robin exchanged an amused glance. Kaldur allowed a small smile.
"Oh, isn't it?" Wally asked, his tone heavy with false innocence. "Because for two people who aren't married, you two act a lot like a married couple punishing their wayward teenage son. It's almost adorable, in its own way."
Robin nodded, the sunglasses unable to hide his grin. "Yes, Roy. It's like a 'Mom and Dad' dynamic has formed before they've even admitted it. They've got you on a pretty tight leash."
Roy growled, crossing his arms even tighter. "Shut up. It's not funny. Just... annoying. I'm a hero! I don't need to be 'punished'!"
Kaldur, seeing Roy's level of frustration, decided to intervene. "Regardless of the difficulties in leaving, we are on our way. That is the objective. And the discretion that has been demanded of us is vital. We must prepare for whatever awaits us in Lima."
The others nodded, the atmosphere returning to seriousness. Despite the jokes and complaints, the gravity of their secret mission remained a reality. The journey had begun.
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Lima, Peru
December 28, 2009, 08:30 PET
The Sacrarium, Gardens and Training Halls
Three days had passed since Sebastian and the clones arrived at The Sacrarium, and Gregorio de la Vega's home had been transformed into a makeshift training camp. The atmosphere, though still imbued with a quiet mystique, now resonated with the sounds of discipline and endeavor.
In the hidden gardens of The Sacrarium, where lush vegetation and ancient ruins blended in natural harmony, Gregorio de la Vega observed his new and peculiar student. Sebastian, wearing the loose robes Strange had provided him, moved with intense concentration. Chaos Magic, which had previously been a wild and uncontrollable force for him, now began to take more defined forms under Gregorio's guidance. Small crimson orbs swirled around his hands, and lines of reddish energy extended and contracted at his will.
"Focus, Sebastian," Gregorio's voice was a mix of guidance and warning. "Chaos Magic is a primal force. You don't control it, you direct it. You must understand its volatile nature, but also its limitless potential. Breathe with it. Feel the entropy, the dissolution, the change. And then, channel it."
Sebastian nodded, his forehead beading with sweat. It had been brutal training. Gregorio's magic was one of order and precision, a direct contrast to Sebastian's, and adapting the mystic arts to his chaos power was a constant challenge.
"Now," Gregorio said, raising a hand. "It is time for a test. Theory is useless without practical application."
With a complex gesture of his fingers, the golden symbols of his Mystic Arts glittered in the air. From the earth itself, a creature emerged. It was a humanoid figure made of twisting roots and vines, with eyes glowing with emerald energy and an imposing build. The creature moved, its branches snapping like bones.
"Face it, Sebastian," Gregor ordered. "Use what I've taught you. It isn't hostile, but it will test you. Show me how you command chaos."
Sebastian swallowed, his eyes fixed on the elemental creature. He held out his hands, and the Chaos Magic erupted more strongly, ready for confrontation.
Meanwhile, in an adjacent training room with thick stone walls and a clay floor, Hugh Dawkins, in his Tasmanian Devil form, was a force of nature. His body had transformed into a mighty beast: rock-hard skin, razor-sharp claws, and surprising agility for his size. He moved in a flurry of punches and spinning kicks, taking on Wonder Boy and Warhawk at the same time.
Wonder Boy, with his superhuman strength, tried to land powerful blows, but Hugh, with years of combat experience and animal instincts, easily dodged or absorbed the impacts. Warhawk, with his budding wings, tried to flank and attack him from the air, but Hugh's speed and natural radar made him an elusive target.
"Come on, guys! A little more fury!" Hugh growled, his voice distorted by his beast form. His fighting style was chaotic but effective, a dance of jabs and spins. "You're overthinking things! React! Feel the flow of the battle! I'm not a Cadmus robot, I'm a living opponent!"
Hugh spun around in a flurry of claws and muscle, knocking Warhawk to the ground with a blow to the chest that knocked the wind out of him, and then, with a lightning-fast kick, sent Wonder Boy rolling on the ground. They both got up, bruised and frustrated, but with renewed determination. They were losing, and they knew it. Hugh was much faster,stronger and more unpredictable than they had anticipated.
"You're... too fast," Wonder Boy gasped, dusting himself off.
"And strong," Warhawk added, massaging his chest. "I thought my wings would give me an advantage."
Hugh laughed, his breath coming out in little puffs of steam. "Wings are an extension, boy. Not a crutch. And yes, I'm strong. But you are too. You just need to learn to use that strength, not just throw it around."
Elsewhere in The Sacrarium, in a room with surprisingly advanced technology for such a mystical place, Cherub ran. Not on the ground, but on a special treadmill. It was a gigantic circular platform, modified by Gregorio's magic to simulate different terrain and resistances. Around it, an array of mystical sensors flashed lights and whirred, recording every bit of Cherub's speed.
Suri, her neck craned slightly and her eyes glittering with fascination, watched the monitors where the readouts were displayed. Beside her, a young, athletic-looking man with short, dark hair swept to the side watched the data with a focused expression. It was Aerie, Gregorio's protégé, his large, colorful, dark-blue wings folded elegantly behind his back.
Cherub was a blur of light and sound, his legs moving so fast they almost resembled a contrail. The air around them created small gusts of wind.
"Amazing!" Suri exclaimed, her minuscule wings appearing and disappearing with excitement. "She's going super fast, Aerie!"
"Yes, Suri. Her potential is immense," Aerie replied, her voice calm and melodious, adjusting a dial. "The Master wants to set her current top speed to accommodate her training. And to ensure the runner's shock absorbers hold up."
Cherub slowed, panting but with a satisfied smile. "That was... exciting! I've never run that far or that fast in a controlled space!"
"Your readings are impressive, Cherub," Aerie said. "Your speed is almost comparable to the League's top-level speedsters, but without the same connection to the Speed Force that they possess. It's... pure power. It will help you understand your body's limits and how to overcome them. Not just speed, but endurance and control are key."
Cherub nodded, her breathing normalizing quickly. She was exhausted, but exhilarated. This was a kind of training Cadmus had never offered them, training that treated her as a living being with potential, not an experiment.
Throughout the Sacrarium, the echo of discipline and discovery resonated. The young, once subject to a limited existence, were now being molded, not to be weapons,but to be heroes. And time was running out for them to be ready
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[Flashback - The Aerie Story]
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|Badhnisia, South America
|December 20, 2007, 2:00 PM PET
|Secret Facility of the "Posthuman Project"
The air inside the underground facility was cold and metallic, permeated with the smell of disinfectant and the constant hum of unfamiliar machinery. The young man, who would one day be known as Aerie, barely remembered his birth name. They called him "Subject 12." His life before this place was a blur, a faint memory of a cradling mother and warm earth beneath his feet.
"Subject 12, prepare for the next phase," the voice of a scientist, cold and emotionless, echoed through the speakers.
The young man, about thirteen years old, with dark hair swept to the side and a stoic expression that hid his fear, clenched his fists. He wore only gray cloth pants, and his athletic, though young, body already bore the scars of previous experiments. He knew what was coming. More pain. More injections. More the strange sensation of his bones shifting.
"This is for the good of your country," a guard had said again, before the last injection. "Your President Mishra is only delaying the inevitable."
The truth was that his mother, President Mishra of Badhnisia, had refused to sign the oil trade agreement. And he, her son, had paid the price, kidnapped and handed over to the infamous "Posthuman Project." A place where they illegally turned people into metahumans for their own purposes.
They took him to a testing room, a kind of dark wind tunnel. In the center, a simulated cliff rose menacingly. The young man felt a pang of panic. Thick chains were attached to his ankles, chains that clanged with a metallic sound.
"The next phase, Subject 12," the scientist's voice explained. "We've completed the integration of the necessary bone and muscle structures. Now it's time for the functional test. Gravity waits for nothing."
The young man looked down into the simulated abyss. There were no nets. No mercy. The armed guards kept their distance.
"On the count of three! One... two... THREE!"
A brutal shove threw him into the void. The air whistled in his ears. A strangled scream escaped his throat as he fell. The chains on his ankles pulled, threatening to tear his legs apart. Panic gripped him.
But then, something else happened. A strange sensation, a stabbing in his back that wasn't painful, but liberating. He felt his shoulder blades spread, the skin tear with strange ease, and something grow,It unfolded with astonishing rapidity. A burst of color.
His eyes widened, not in fear, but in wonder. He had acquired wings. Large, majestic, painted in shades of blue-green with dark details. An intricate, natural design, it seemed to have been waiting to be released. Instinctively, he flapped his wings.
The wind lifted him. The young man climbed, climbed, fresh air filling his lungs, a sense of freedom he had never known before. He looked down, the silhouettes of the guards growing smaller. He had flown. He had flown!
But the joy was short-lived. The weight on his ankles became unbearable. The chains, he thought, he hadn't seen. The metal tugged with brutal force, an anchor pulling him back toward the abyss. The "Posthuman Project" hadn't foreseen victory, only the test. The chains were to ensure failure, death, if the experiments didn't work.
"Damn! He did it!" a guard shouted from above, frustrated. "Keep pulling the chains! We can't let him escape!"
The young man struggled, flapping with all his might, but the chains were relentless. They were pulling him down, toward the simulated rocks at the bottom of the cliff. The impact would be fatal. He closed his eyes, fear returning with overwhelming force. Freedom had been a cruel illusion.
Just as the impact was imminent, a golden glow burst into the room. A figure appeared in the air, floating with impossible grace. Gregorio de la Vega, Strange, with his purple cloak and piercing gaze.
With a swift, precise gesture of his hands, Strange wove a pattern of golden light. The chains binding the young man's ankles dissolved into glittering dust, freeing him. Then, with another gesture, the guards staggered, their eyes hollowed out, and they fell to the ground unconscious. The memory of what they had seen, of what they had done, erased.
The young man, now free, continued his descent for a moment, then Strange reached out a hand, and an invisible platform of mystical energy gently stopped him before he hit the ground. He was safe.
He opened his eyes, looking up at his savior. Strange smiled at him, a calm, compassionate expression on his face.
"You are safe, young flyer," Strange said, his voice ringing with gentle authority. "You have been harmed, but your spirit has not been broken. And now... you are free."
The young man, feeling the weight of everything he had endured—the fear, the pain, the loneliness, and now the overwhelming release—could hold back no longer. Tears sprang to his eyes, thick and silent at first, then unleashing a strangled sob. He threw himself toward Strange, seeking solace in the only point of safety he had ever found.
Strange, without hesitation, wrapped his arms around him, his purple cloak enveloping the boy in a protective embrace. The young Aerie clung to Strange's robes, allowing his tears to soak into the fabric, the sound of his cries echoing faintly in the vast room. All the pent-up emotions from months of torment were released in that moment.
Strange gently stroked his hair, his presence an anchor for the boy. "Cry, young soul. Release the pain. You are safe. There is nothing left to fear."
The young man felt overwhelmed. Free. A word he hadn't known in a long time. His eyes filled with tears, but also with new hope. Strange had saved him. And he knew, deep within him, that his life had changed forever. A new path began. A path where his wings would be a symbol of freedom, not a cage. The young man, now Aerie, had a future.
TO CONTINUED