If you've ever wondered what happens when a supervillain with the social skills of a cafeteria meatloaf teams up with an immortal megalomaniac who's been perfecting his evil laugh since before the invention of the wheel, Billy Batson was about to find out. And honestly? He probably would have preferred fighting a dozen giant robot spiders. At least those didn't have strategic planning skills that had been refined over fifty thousand years of practice.
Dr. Thaddeus Bodog Sivana crouched over his laboratory workbench like a particularly aggressive vulture who'd been subsisting entirely on spite and energy drinks for the past week. His basement laboratory looked like someone had taken a Best Buy, a RadioShack, and the secret lair of every Bond villain ever, then mixed them together in a blender operated by someone with serious anger management issues and an unlimited budget for blinking lights.
"Fascinating," Sivana muttered, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses while seventeen different monitors displayed enough magical formulas to make a calculus teacher weep with joy. His voice had that distinctive nasal quality that suggested he'd been the kind of kid who got stuffed into lockers by people who clearly didn't appreciate intellectual superiority. "Absolutely fascinating. The harmonic frequency resonance between vocal projection and magical transformation matrices... yes, yes, I see the pattern now."
The thing about being a fourteen-year-old superhero is that most of your enemies spend a lot of time thinking about your weaknesses. Which, when you think about it, is both flattering and deeply disturbing. Sivana had apparently been thinking about Billy's weaknesses with the kind of obsessive dedication usually reserved for doctoral dissertations or conspiracy theories about whether hot dogs are actually sandwiches.
On his primary monitor, a detailed 3D model of Billy rotated slowly, looking like something from a very expensive and slightly creepy medical textbook. Respiratory system pulsed blue, muscular structure glowed green, nervous system flickered white, and overlaid across everything was a complex web of golden energy that flowed from Billy's mouth downward through his entire body like some kind of magical circulatory system.
"Magic word dependency syndrome," Sivana announced to his empty laboratory, because apparently even supervillains needed to hear themselves talk sometimes. His voice carried that particular note of academic satisfaction that usually meant someone was about to have a very bad day. "The transformation trigger is entirely vocal, entirely dependent on the subject's ability to produce specific sound frequencies at specific harmonic intervals."
He paused to push his glasses up his nose—a gesture so automatic it was probably hardcoded into his nervous system by this point.
"Block the vocalization, prevent the transformation. Prevent the transformation, neutralize the target. Neutralize the target, claim victory over the forces of insufferable righteousness and probably get invited to some kind of supervillain award ceremony."
Then he did something that would have made small children hide under their beds: he cackled. Actually cackled. The kind of maniacal laughter that would have been embarrassing from literally anyone else, but somehow worked perfectly for a man whose life's work involved the systematic defeat of everything good and wholesome in the world.
The laboratory door slid open with a pneumatic hiss that sounded like the world's most expensive coffeemaker, and Vandal Savage entered with the kind of predatory grace that suggested he'd been practicing intimidating entrances since before humans figured out that fire was useful for more than just pretty light shows.
Savage looked like what would happen if you took a Fortune 500 CEO, gave him fifty thousand years to perfect his intimidation techniques, and then dressed him in a suit expensive enough to fund a small country's space program. His steel-gray eyes surveyed Sivana's laboratory with the calculating gaze of someone who'd spent millennia learning to evaluate potential assets, threats, and useful idiots with surgical precision.
"Doctor," Savage said, his voice carrying that distinctive tone of barely contained impatience that suggested he had entire civilizations to conquer but was willing to tolerate this conversation for strategic purposes. "I trust you've made progress with the specifications I provided."
Sivana straightened with the eager enthusiasm of a graduate student who'd just discovered his thesis advisor held the key to both his academic future and his student loan forgiveness.
"Oh yes, yes indeed!" Sivana practically vibrated with excitement, like a caffeinated hamster who'd just solved quantum physics. "Magnificent work, absolutely brilliant tactical analysis. Whoever compiled these files understands psychological warfare better than most people understand basic arithmetic. The Batman's contingency protocols are masterpieces of paranoid planning—thorough, efficient, and completely ruthless when stripped of their original moral limitations."
He gestured toward his displays with the kind of excited energy that suggested he'd been surviving on nothing but coffee and vindictive satisfaction for the past week.
"The vocal paralysis spell matrix is particularly elegant," Sivana continued, his voice taking on the tone professors use when they're about to explain something that will definitely be on the final exam. "Rather than crude physical trauma to the larynx or trachea—which would be obvious, easily treatable, and frankly rather pedestrian—it operates on the harmonic frequency level. The target retains full physical function. Breathing, swallowing, even whispering. But becomes completely unable to produce the specific sound combinations required for magical transformation."
Savage moved closer to examine the displays, his presence somehow making the already-cramped laboratory feel smaller and significantly more dangerous. Like having a shark suddenly appear in your swimming pool, except the shark had been to business school and probably had an MBA.
"Duration?" Savage asked, because immortal megalomaniacs were apparently very focused on project timelines.
"Ah, that's where it gets truly beautiful," Sivana said, his grin sharp enough to cut glass and probably cause minor lacerations. "The original protocol called for temporary paralysis—forty-seven minutes, precise and limited, designed to neutralize the threat without permanent damage. Very Batman, really. Efficient, effective, and burdened with unnecessary moral considerations about things like 'permanent injury' and 'basic human decency.'"
His expression grew more predatory, like a particularly intelligent wolf who'd just figured out that the three little pigs had seriously underestimated the structural integrity requirements for proper home construction.
"But your modifications... oh, your modifications are inspired," Sivana continued. "By altering the harmonic resonance frequency and introducing a self-reinforcing feedback loop, the spell becomes permanent. The target's vocal cords physically reorganize at the cellular level, making them incapable of ever producing the transformation trigger again. Ever."
Savage's smile was cold enough to cause localized climate change and possibly a new ice age.
"Leaving Billy Batson trapped as a fourteen-year-old child forever," Savage observed, his voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved a particularly challenging crossword puzzle where all the answers involved crushing the hopes and dreams of teenagers.
"Precisely!" Sivana clapped his hands together with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just discovered that Christmas and his birthday had been moved to the same day. "No super strength, no invulnerability, no flight, no lightning, no divine magic, no access to the wisdom of Solomon or any of those insufferably helpful gods. Just... Billy. Mortal, vulnerable, ordinary Billy Batson. Who can then be eliminated by any number of conventional methods that work perfectly well on unenhanced human children."
The thing about supervillains is that they always sound so reasonable when they're explaining their plans to murder teenagers. It's like they've convinced themselves that attempted child murder is just another item on their to-do list, somewhere between "pick up dry cleaning" and "overthrow the natural order of justice."
Sivana moved to another bank of controls, his skeletal fingers flying over switches and dials with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd spent years learning to operate complicated equipment designed for morally questionable purposes.
"The delivery system is particularly elegant as well," he continued, because apparently evil required good presentation skills. "Subharmonic projection array, designed to look like standard Fawcett City emergency broadcasting equipment. The boy will never see it coming. He'll probably try to help with whatever crisis we stage, attempt to transform into Shazam, and discover that his magic word has suddenly stopped working. Like trying to start a car and discovering someone has stolen the engine."
"Timeline?" Savage asked, consulting what appeared to be a watch that probably cost more than most people's houses.
"Ready for deployment within the hour," Sivana replied, glancing at a series of chronometers that were counting down with mechanical precision. "I've already identified the optimal location—Fawcett Central Park, near the playground where he takes those foster siblings of his. Plenty of open space for the equipment, multiple escape routes, and enough civilian targets to ensure he responds personally rather than delegating to other heroes who might be less emotionally compromised."
Savage nodded once, sharp and decisive, like a CEO approving a merger that would probably result in several small countries going out of business.
"Civilian casualties?" he asked, because apparently even immortal megalomaniacs had to worry about liability issues.
"Minimal, if all goes according to plan," Sivana said, though his tone suggested he wasn't particularly concerned either way. "The goal is tactical elimination of the target, not mass destruction. Though if collateral damage occurs during the engagement..." He shrugged with the casual indifference of someone who'd stopped worrying about the moral implications of his actions somewhere around the time he'd decided that his life's work should involve defeating teenage superheroes.
"Acceptable," Savage said simply, because when you've been alive for fifty thousand years, your definition of "acceptable losses" probably includes things that would make normal people require therapy.
"The Justice League's response?" Savage continued.
Sivana's expression brightened like a kid who'd just been asked about his favorite video game.
"They're scattered, demoralized, questioning their own security protocols and probably suffering from various forms of trust issues after the previous attacks," he replied, his voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who'd spent considerable time studying his enemies' psychological weaknesses. "Even if they do respond, they'll be operating under the assumption that this is another targeted assassination attempt using their own contingency protocols. They'll be prepared for technological warfare, electromagnetic pulse weapons, kryptonite derivatives, fear gas, nanomachine infiltration—all the sophisticated methods that were used against the others."
His grin was sharp enough to perform minor surgery.
"They won't be expecting simple magic designed to operate on harmonic frequencies," Sivana continued. "By the time they realize what's actually happening, the spell will already be in effect and the boy will be permanently neutralized. It's like preparing for a nuclear attack and getting defeated by someone with a really good slingshot."
Savage studied the displays for another long moment, his steel-gray eyes cataloguing every detail with the thoroughness of someone who'd spent millennia learning that success usually depended on obsessive attention to variables that other people considered unimportant.
"The Eidolon situation?" he asked finally, and suddenly the temperature in the laboratory seemed to drop about ten degrees.
Sivana's expression grew considerably less confident, like a student who'd just been asked about the one chapter he'd forgotten to study.
"Ah. Yes. Eidolon," he said, adjusting his glasses nervously. "Wizard, personal friend of both Batman and the Batson boy, known for his... creative approaches to conflict resolution and his unfortunate tendency to take threats against children extremely personally. Also known for having the kind of magical abilities that make most supernatural entities reconsider their life choices."
"Your assessment?" Savage asked, his voice carrying that particular note of cold curiosity that suggested he was genuinely interested in the answer and probably already knew what it would be.
"Dangerous," Sivana admitted reluctantly, his academic honesty overriding his preference for optimistic projections. "Extremely dangerous. His magical abilities are poorly documented but clearly extensive, his resources appear to be virtually unlimited, and his moral flexibility regarding the application of lethal force is... significant. If he's present during the operation..."
He trailed off, apparently having reached the part of his analysis where the conclusions became less "academically interesting" and more "potentially fatal."
"He will be," Savage said simply, with the certainty of someone stating obvious facts like "gravity pulls things down" or "teenagers make questionable decisions." "He's been present for every previous attack, arriving either during or immediately after the attempt. He's clearly coordinating with Batman to provide rapid response capability, and his relationship with the Batson boy is documented in multiple intelligence reports as genuine personal affection. He will not allow the child to face this alone."
Sivana pushed his glasses up his nose again, a nervous gesture that suggested he was beginning to have second thoughts about aspects of this plan. Probably the aspects that involved not being immediately incinerated by an irritated interdimensional wizard with attachment issues.
"Then the operation becomes considerably more complex," he said carefully. "Eidolon's magical abilities could theoretically counteract the vocal paralysis spell, and his tendency toward creative violence might make the immediate aftermath... unpleasant... for anyone in the vicinity who happens to be involved in threatening children."
"Which is why," Savage said, his voice carrying that note of absolute certainty that suggested he'd been planning for exactly this contingency since before the invention of written language, "the operation has been designed with multiple redundancies."
He gestured toward another display that flickered to life, showing what appeared to be architectural blueprints overlaid with geometric patterns that hurt to look at directly and probably violated several laws of physics.
"The vocal paralysis spell is merely the primary approach," Savage continued. "If Eidolon attempts to interfere... containment protocols. Specifically designed to neutralize interdimensional magical practitioners with limited moral flexibility regarding the safety of people they consider family. Eidolon may find himself temporarily... indisposed... while the primary objective is completed."
Sivana studied the new display with the focused intensity of someone trying to calculate exactly how dead he was likely to be by the end of the evening, and whether his life insurance policy covered "death by irritated wizard."
"This is significantly more complex than the previous operations," he observed, which was probably the understatement of the century.
"The previous operations were reconnaissance," Savage replied, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone explaining simple concepts to particularly slow students. "Information gathering, psychological warfare, establishing patterns and response protocols. This is the primary objective—permanent neutralization of Shazam before he can fully mature into his magical potential."
He turned to face Sivana directly, his steel-gray eyes carrying the weight of fifty millennia of strategic planning and absolutely no tolerance for failure or excuses.
"Billy Batson is fourteen years old and already capable of challenging gods," Savage said, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that comes from having personally witnessed the rise and fall of entire civilizations. "In five years, he could be powerful enough to reshape reality according to his moral code. In ten years, he could become effectively unstoppable. In twenty years..."
The implication hung in the air like smoke from a particularly ominous funeral pyre.
"He becomes the kind of force that could actually threaten your long-term plans," Sivana finished quietly, finally beginning to understand the scope of what they were actually attempting.
"Precisely," Savage confirmed. "This is not about defeating a teenage superhero, Doctor. This is about preventing the emergence of a god-tier entity who believes in justice, mercy, and the protection of the innocent. Such beings have an unfortunate tendency to interfere with the natural order of power, conquest, and the survival of the fittest. They develop inconvenient habits like 'helping people' and 'stopping injustice' and 'making immortal megalomaniacs reconsider their lifestyle choices.'"
Sivana nodded slowly, his academic mind finally grasping the full context of their operation. This wasn't just assassination—it was preemptive genocide against the person Billy Batson would become if allowed to reach his full potential. Which was somehow both more terrifying and more morally reprehensible than regular murder, which was really saying something.
"I understand," he said quietly. "When do we begin?"
Savage checked his watch with the precision of someone whose schedule was measured in centuries rather than hours.
"Thirty-seven minutes," he announced. "Initiate the crisis scenario, deploy the containment protocols, execute the primary objective. Clean, efficient, final."
He moved toward the laboratory exit with the fluid grace of someone who'd been making dramatic exits since before the invention of doors, then paused at the threshold like a shark that had just remembered it had forgotten to mention something important.
"Doctor," Savage said, his voice carrying the kind of absolute authority that had probably been toppling governments since the Bronze Age. "Failure is not an option. The Justice League has already been psychologically compromised by the previous attacks. Batman is questioning his own methods, Superman is dealing with trust issues, Wonder Woman is experiencing combat-related trauma. They are vulnerable, demoralized, and operating under the assumption that they understand the nature of the threat they're facing."
His smile was cold enough to cause frostbite and possibly a minor extinction event.
"They don't," he continued. "And by the time they realize what's actually happening, it will already be too late."
The door slid shut with a soft hiss, leaving Sivana alone with his machines, his plans, and the growing realization that he was about to participate in something that would either make him the most successful supervillain in history or the most spectacularly dead one. There really wasn't much middle ground when it came to plans that involved murdering teenage superheroes who happened to be personal friends of interdimensional wizards with anger management issues.
He looked up at the displays showing Billy Batson's anatomical structure, the harmonic frequency patterns, the spell matrices that would strip away everything that made the boy more than human.
"Nothing personal, my dear boy," he murmured to the rotating hologram, because apparently even supervillains felt the need to justify attempted child murder to themselves. "It's simply a matter of ensuring that the wrong people don't accumulate too much power to challenge the right people. Very reasonable, really. Quite practical. Absolutely necessary for maintaining the proper balance of things."
He began the final equipment checks with methodical precision, his skeletal fingers dancing across control panels that hummed with malevolent purpose and probably violated several environmental safety regulations.
In thirty-seven minutes, Billy Batson would discover what it felt like to be permanently, irrevocably human.
And Harry Peverell would discover whether his considerable magical abilities were sufficient to prevent the systematic elimination of everyone he'd sworn to protect.
Sivana adjusted his glasses one more time and began the countdown sequence.
It was going to be a very interesting evening. The kind of interesting that usually ended with either victory celebrations or funeral arrangements, and very little in between.
---
## Meanwhile, in the Kitchen of Domestic Chaos...
Meanwhile, in the Vasquez kitchen, the atmosphere had shifted from casual conversation to something that felt suspiciously like a war council, if war councils typically involved expensive donuts, teenage romance complications, and the kind of strategic planning that required both interdimensional magic and algebra homework to be temporarily abandoned in favor of not dying horribly.
Harry was studying building schematics that he'd somehow produced from what appeared to be thin air, because apparently interdimensional wizards had very advanced filing systems that existed outside normal space-time. His emerald eyes traced architectural details with the focused intensity of someone who'd spent years learning to read blueprints for both legitimate construction purposes and the more creative applications of structural demolition. The papers glowed faintly with crimson light, suggesting they weren't exactly the kind of documents you'd pick up at the city planning office.
Billy sat across from him, having pushed his homework aside with the resigned acceptance of someone who'd realized that quadratic equations could wait indefinitely when people were actively trying to murder him before dinner. His enhanced hearing was automatically cataloguing every sound in the apartment—Mary's rapidly accelerating heartbeat from the living room where she was pretending to read while obviously eavesdropping, Eugene's mechanical tinkering from upstairs, and the distant sound of Rosa's car pulling into the driveway.
"They'll want open space," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying that particular tone of clinical analysis that suggested he was thinking like a tactician rather than a charming dinner guest who brought expensive pastries. "Somewhere with multiple escape routes, good sight lines, minimal interference from buildings or natural obstacles. Probably somewhere you're known to frequent, so they can predict your response patterns and arrival time with the kind of precision usually reserved for scientific experiments."
Billy studied the schematics, which appeared to show various locations around Fawcett City overlaid with what looked like tactical analysis and possibly magical energy readings that definitely hadn't come from any normal city survey.
"The park," he said, his voice carrying the certainty of someone who'd just recognized an inevitable conclusion. "Fawcett Central Park, near the playground. I take Darla there at least twice a week, and it's where I usually transform when there's some kind of emergency in that part of the city. It's like my unofficial superhero staging area."
"Logical choice," Harry agreed, making notes on the margins of the schematics with what appeared to be a pen that wrote in liquid starlight, because apparently normal office supplies weren't sufficient for interdimensional tactical planning. "Open space, multiple approach vectors, enough civilian presence to ensure you respond personally rather than delegating to other League members. Also convenient for their escape routes once the operation is complete, assuming they survive long enough to need escape routes."
That last part was delivered in the kind of casual tone that suggested Harry was already considering various creative ways to ensure the bad guys would not, in fact, be needing those escape routes.
Mary's voice drifted in from the living room, carefully pitched to sound casual and probably failing completely because Mary had never been particularly good at hiding her emotions or her tendency to overthink everything.
"So when you say 'operation,'" she called, "are we talking about like a coordinated military assault, or more of a sophisticated trap, or just really organized attempted murder? Because those all require different defensive strategies, and I've been doing some reading about tactical planning and resource allocation under combat conditions."
Billy raised an eyebrow, because this was news to him. "What kind of reading?"
"Academic research," Mary called back, her voice carrying that particular note of defensive pride that suggested she'd been spending considerable time on Wikipedia and possibly some questionable military strategy websites that were definitely not appropriate for teenagers. "You know, theoretical applications of small-unit tactics, resource management under pressure, optimal positioning for asymmetric warfare. Very educational. Lots of diagrams and charts and statistical analysis of historical battle outcomes."
Harry looked absolutely delighted, his eyes dancing with amusement and what appeared to be genuine respect for Mary's academic dedication.
"She's been studying military strategy?" he asked, grinning. "That's adorable and terrifying and probably extremely useful. I do appreciate a well-researched support team, especially one that takes initiative in developing relevant skill sets."
"She's been studying military strategy because she has a massive crush on you and wants to be helpful," Billy said bluntly, because someone had to acknowledge the obvious and it might as well be him. "Also because she's probably the smartest person in this house and gets bored when she's not learning new ways to solve complex problems that most adults would find completely overwhelming."
"Billy!" Mary's voice carried across the apartment like a guided missile targeted directly at his sense of self-preservation and possibly his continued existence.
"What? It's true!" Billy called back, because he'd apparently decided that honesty was more important than his own safety. "You reorganized Eugene's entire robotics lab by efficiency algorithms you learned from YouTube! You rewrote Darla's study schedule using optimization theory you taught yourself from online courses! You absolutely have been reading military strategy because you want to help Harry plan whatever we're gonna do about people trying to kill me!"
Silence from the living room, which was somehow more ominous than Mary's usual enthusiastic protests and probably meant she was plotting some form of elaborate revenge that would involve charts and possibly PowerPoint presentations.
Harry was grinning now, the kind of expression that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying the family dynamics and possibly planning to adopt all of them, assuming they survived whatever was coming.
"I think she's planning to emerge from the living room with a comprehensive tactical analysis and possibly PowerPoint presentations," he observed. "The silence suggests she's organizing her arguments and preparing visual aids."
"God help us all," Billy muttered, though he was smiling despite himself. "She'll have charts. And probably a bibliography with proper citations and footnotes."
"I heard that!" Mary called, her voice getting closer as she apparently decided that dignity was less important than participating in what was clearly the most interesting conversation that had ever occurred in their kitchen. "And yes, I have charts! Charts are an excellent organizational tool for complex information! Visual representations of data improve comprehension and retention rates by approximately thirty-seven percent according to multiple peer-reviewed studies!"
She appeared in the doorway carrying what appeared to be a clipboard, several notebooks, and what looked suspiciously like a hand-drawn tactical map of Fawcett City with various locations marked in different colors and annotated with what appeared to be very detailed analysis of traffic patterns, emergency response times, and tactical advantages.
Harry's expression shifted from amused to genuinely impressed as he studied Mary's materials, his emerald eyes scanning her work with the kind of focused attention he usually reserved for magical calculations.
"Those are actually quite good," he said, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who was genuinely impressed by competent work. "Excellent use of color-coding for threat assessment, and your analysis of escape routes shows real strategic thinking. Have you considered a career in military intelligence? Or possibly criminal planning? The skill sets are surprisingly transferable, and you'd probably excel at either one."
Mary's face lit up like someone had just told her she'd won the Nobel Prize for being generally amazing and also possibly the lottery and maybe discovered a new planet named in her honor.
"Really?" she asked, her voice slightly breathless. "You think they're good? I mean, I know they're just amateur work, but I tried to be thorough and consider multiple variables and potential contingencies and statistical probabilities of various outcomes."
"Mary," Harry said seriously, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who was genuinely impressed by competent work and wanted to make sure she knew it, "these are better than most professional tactical analyses I've seen. You've identified patterns I didn't notice, considered variables I missed, and your resource allocation suggestions are actually brilliant. If you ever decide you want a career in interdimensional crisis management, I know some people who would be very interested in your skills and probably willing to offer excellent benefits packages."
Mary's brain apparently short-circuited completely, because she stood there for a moment making soft squeaking noises while clutching her clipboard like a life preserver and staring at Harry with the kind of expression usually reserved for religious experiences or particularly good chocolate.
Billy just shook his head. "You broke her again."
"I complimented her intelligence," Harry protested mildly, though he was clearly enjoying Mary's reaction. "That's supposed to be one of the safer topics for conversation with teenagers."
"Yeah, but you did it in that voice," Billy replied. "The one that makes people feel like they've just been personally validated by the universe and possibly crowned as the smartest person in the room. She's gonna be floating for weeks."
Mary finally managed to regain basic speech functions, though her cheeks were still bright red and she was clutching her clipboard like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to reality.
"I... thank you," she managed. "That's... I mean, I just wanted to be useful. And maybe help keep you alive, Billy, because you're kind of important to this family and we'd be really upset if you got murdered by mysterious supervillains with poor planning skills and questionable fashion choices."
"Aw, Mary," Billy said, his voice carrying genuine affection despite his tendency to tease his foster sister about her obvious infatuation with their interdimensional friend. "That's actually really sweet."
"Also," Mary continued, apparently having decided that if she was going to be emotionally vulnerable, she might as well be thorough about it, "I like having Harry around. He makes everything more interesting, and he treats us like we're intelligent human beings capable of handling complex information instead of children who need to be protected from reality and fed a steady diet of reassuring lies about how everything will be fine."
Her voice grew stronger, more confident. "Which is refreshing, because most adults act like teenagers are basically very tall toddlers with access to the internet and questionable judgment about everything important."
Harry's expression grew softer, more genuine, like she'd just said something that resonated with him on a personal level.
"That's because most adults forget what it was like to be young and intelligent and frustrated by being underestimated," he said quietly. "You're all remarkably capable people who happen to be teenagers, not teenagers who might someday become capable people. There's a significant difference, and most adults never bother to learn it."
"See?" Mary said, turning to Billy with an expression of triumph mixed with obvious adoration. "This is why I have excellent taste in interdimensional wizards. He understands the fundamental difference between chronological age and intellectual capability, and he doesn't talk down to us like we're particularly bright pets."
Billy was about to respond when his enhanced hearing picked up the sound of Rosa's key in the front door, followed by her characteristic pattern of footsteps and the soft sound of her setting down her purse and medical bag. Rosa had a very distinctive way of moving that suggested she was tired from a long day of dealing with medical emergencies but happy to be home with her family.
"Rosa's home," he said automatically, then realized this might complicate their tactical planning session. "Should we... move this somewhere else? Or explain why there's an interdimensional wizard in our kitchen with magical blueprints and Mary's apparently been studying military strategy like she's planning to apply to West Point?"
"Rosa likes Harry," Mary said quickly, her voice carrying the urgency of someone who really didn't want their favorite interdimensional wizard to disappear before dinner. "She thinks he's a good influence because he encourages our academic interests and always brings really expensive food that makes our kitchen smell like a five-star restaurant. Also, she thinks he's 'devastatingly handsome' and has 'excellent manners,' which she mentioned approximately seventeen times after his last visit."
"Rosa said I was devastatingly handsome?" Harry asked, looking pleased and slightly surprised, like he wasn't entirely used to compliments about his appearance from responsible adults.
"She also said you were probably too good to be true and Billy better not get you killed because we'd never find another family friend who brings French pastries and makes us feel like intelligent adults," Mary continued, apparently having decided that full disclosure was the best policy. "Her exact words were 'that boy better not get that beautiful British man murdered by whatever ridiculousness he gets up to in that cape, because I will ground him until he's thirty-five and possibly longer if I'm feeling particularly vindictive.'"
Billy winced, because Rosa's threats about grounding were not idle promises. "She said that?"
"She was very specific about the grounding timeline," Mary confirmed. "Also about the definition of 'ridiculousness' as it applies to superhero activities. She made a list. It's quite comprehensive and includes subsections for different categories of dangerous behavior."
The front door closed with Rosa's characteristic gentle firmness, followed by her voice calling out in the kind of tone that suggested she was tired from a long day but happy to be home with her family and possibly suspicious about whatever her foster children had been up to in her absence.
"I'm back!" Rosa's voice carried through the apartment with the warmth that made their house feel like an actual home. "Mary, honey, could you help me with groceries? Billy, I picked up those math workbooks you needed, and could you please explain why Mrs. Henderson from next door thinks she saw lightning strikes in the backyard twice this week? And whoever's here, I hope you're planning to stay for dinner because I picked up enough Chinese takeout to feed approximately seven people and I'm not eating leftover kung pao chicken for the rest of the week."
Mary immediately straightened, her organizational instincts kicking into overdrive like someone had just activated her internal efficiency protocols.
"That's Rosa," she said to Harry, her voice carrying obvious affection and pride. "She's... she's really great. You'll love her. Everyone loves Rosa. She's like the perfect combination of tough and caring, and she makes the best coffee in the city, and she's probably going to adopt you into the family within five minutes of meeting you properly because that's just what Rosa does."
"I'm looking forward to it," Harry said, beginning to gather up the magical schematics with practiced efficiency. "Though we should probably continue our strategic planning later. After dinner. When we have more privacy and fewer opportunities for well-meaning adults to worry about the safety implications of whatever we're discussing."
Billy nodded, already moving toward the living room to help with groceries. "Rosa worries enough about normal teenage stuff. She doesn't need to know about assassination attempts until after we've handled them and can present them as resolved problems rather than active threats."
"Agreed," Harry said, the schematics disappearing into whatever mysterious storage dimension he kept his more questionable possessions. "Besides, I suspect your Rosa will have excellent insights once she knows the full situation. People who work in emergency medicine tend to develop very practical approaches to crisis management and resource allocation under pressure."
Mary was practically vibrating with excitement as she headed toward the front door, her clipboard still clutched in her hands like a security blanket.
"This is perfect!" she said, her voice carrying the enthusiasm of someone who'd just realized all her favorite things were about to happen simultaneously. "Rosa can meet Harry properly, we can have dinner like a normal family, and then afterward we can figure out how to keep Billy alive while simultaneously demonstrating why threatening children is an excellent way to discover what interdimensional justice looks like when applied with extreme prejudice and possibly creative applications of magical physics!"
Billy paused in the doorway and looked back at his foster sister with fond exasperation.
"Mary? Maybe don't phrase it exactly like that when you're talking to Rosa."
"Obviously," Mary said, her voice carrying that particular note of someone who was absolutely going to phrase it exactly like that because she'd been reading military strategy guides and was excited about the practical applications. "I'll use much more tactful language. Something subtle and reassuring that doesn't immediately suggest we're planning to participate in magical warfare against professional assassins."
Harry caught Billy's eye and winked, and Billy realized that whatever happened next, at least he wouldn't be facing it alone. He had his family, he had one of the most powerful magical practitioners in any dimension looking out for him, and he had Mary's increasingly comprehensive tactical analysis.
All things considered, whoever was planning to attack him was probably in for a very unpleasant surprise. The kind of surprise that usually ended with people reconsidering their life choices and possibly their continued existence.
From the front hallway came Rosa's voice: "Mary, sweetie, why do you have what appears to be a military tactical map of the city? And Billy, Harry is here, isn't he? I can smell expensive coffee and that cologne that probably costs more than my car payment."
Billy grinned despite everything. Rosa had always been remarkably perceptive about things like interdimensional wizards hiding in her kitchen with magical tactical plans.
This was going to be an interesting dinner conversation.
---
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