In a dimly lit laboratory filled with humming monitors and scattered blueprints, T.O. Morrow sat hunched over his workstation, his fingers steepled as he reviewed the battle footage from Mister Twister's wrecked suit.
The video feed had been severed when Superboy smashed the armor's headplate, but up until then, Morrow had watched everything—the way the Team coordinated, the way they adapted mid-battle, and, most importantly, the way they overwhelmed his and Brom Stikk's creation.
Morrow sighed heavily, rubbing his temples in frustration.
"Impatient fool," he muttered.
Brom had refused to listen. Morrow had explicitly told him that piloting the suit himself was unnecessary. A lifelike android replica would have been the superior alternative—more durable, expendable, and devoid of human error. But no, Brom had been too hasty.
Still, despite the failure, not all was lost.
Morrow's gaze flicked to a secondary screen displaying a pulsating signal—a tracking program embedded in the armor had remained active long enough to scan for anomalies in the vicinity.
Red Tornado was there.
Morrow grinned, fingers tapping idly against the desk.
"Well, well… at least something came of this mess."
He turned back to his monitors, compiling the data from the battle. The fight had provided invaluable insight into the young heroes' abilities, teamwork, and strategies.
"I've learned quite a bit from this ordeal," he mused. "And next time, I won't leave things in the hands of an amateur."
His fingers danced over the keyboard as he pulled up a new blueprint—one that would correct all of Brom Stikk's mistakes.
**
Back at the base, the air was filled with the scent of warm cheese, tomato sauce, and garlic as the Team devoured the several boxes of pizza that Joseph had brought.
Kori and Kid Flash were particularly aggressive in their eating, scarfing down slices like they hadn't eaten in days.
Joseph, meanwhile, sat back with an incredulous look, arms folded as he listened to M'gann's recount what had gone down in his absence.
"Wait, wait, hold up." He shook his head. "You guys had a whole adventure without me while I was out getting pizza? First the clothes, now this? Do you all have a secret group chat that excludes me or something?"
Kid Flash, mouth full of pepperoni pizza, shrugged. "You snooze, you lose, Nova." He swallowed and gestured lazily with a slice. "By the way, thanks for the pizza."
Joseph rolled his eyes. "No problem. And the name's Joseph."
Robin smirked from across the table. "I dunno, you don't look like a Joseph. Nova's more catchy."
M'gann giggled. "It does suit you."
Joseph groaned but didn't argue further, instead grabbing a slice for himself and leaning back against the couch.
Across the room, Red Tornado stood over the shattered remains of Mister Twister's armor, analyzing its structure with his blank, expressionless faceplate. After a moment, he turned to the Team.
"You performed adequately," he stated, his robotic voice devoid of inflection.
"Uh… thanks?" Wally said through a mouthful of crust.
"I will deal with T.O. Morrow personally," Red Tornado continued. Without another word, he turned and walked off, leaving the young heroes to exchange glances.
"So that's it?" Superboy muttered, still skeptical. "We just let him handle it?"
"For now," Kaldur replied. "We are a team, but we are still learning. The League wouldn't have given us Red Tornado as a mentor if they didn't believe we had more to master first."
That seemed to settle the matter.
The rest of the night was spent eating, talking, and—at Joseph's insistence—giving him a proper tour of the base this time.
By the time they were finished, it was getting late, and one by one, the Team decided to call it a night.
As Joseph was heading out, Superboy hesitated, glancing at M'gann. Then, in a rare moment of humility, he mumbled, "Sorry… about earlier."
M'gann blinked, surprised, then smiled.
Joseph, listening from the Zeta-tube, raised an eyebrow.
Maybe he had judged him too harshly.
**
| Chicago's South Side – July 9
In a dingy warehouse by the docks, ten men sat around a makeshift table, the air thick with cigarette smoke and cheap beer. Stacks of cash and firearms littered the surface, but the real business was in the back—a dozen cages, each containing a frightened woman or child.
Business had been good. The buyers were scheduled to arrive in less than an hour. Everything was going smoothly.
Then—the air grew heavy.
A deep, inexplicable dread settled over the room. A feeling of inescapable doom.
The gang members shifted uncomfortably, exchanging wary glances.
One of them, the self-proclaimed "muscle" of the group—reached for his pistol. "You feel that?"
Before anyone could answer, a shadow fell over them.
High above, floating in the open rafters, was a figure dressed in purple and gold.
Nova.
The stories about him were legendary in Chicago's underworld.
No one ever escaped from Nova.
He hovered effortlessly, hands clasped behind his back, gazing down at them with cold, unforgiving eyes.
Freddy swore under his breath and fired.
The bullet never reached its mark.
The air shimmered, bending around Nova as if reality itself refused to let him be harmed. The deflected bullet ricocheted off a steel pipe, embedding itself into a wall.
Panic erupted.
The criminals scrambled for weapons, overturning tables in their haste.
Nova moved.
Faster than they could react, a golden bolt of energy lanced through the air, striking a gun mid-aim and disintegrating it on impact. Another followed, blasting a second thug's weapon into useless scrap metal.
One man tried to run.
Then gravity shifted.
The man was yanked into the air, flailing helplessly as an invisible force dragged him back toward the carnage.
Within seconds, every single weapon was destroyed.
The remaining thugs looked up in terror.
Nova descended slowly, feet touching the ground with a controlled ease. He still hadn't moved his hands from behind his back.
"You've made a mistake," he said calmly. "And now, you're going to pay for it."
A heartbeat later, they were lifted off the ground.
Ten hardened criminals, each one hoisted into the air like ragdolls, limbs flailing uselessly.
Nova brought them together—heads colliding in a brutal, synchronized impact.
They crashed to the floor in an unconscious heap.
The warehouse was silent.
The captives, still caged, stared at Nova in awe and fear.
Nova stepped forward, reaching out. Gravity bent to his will. The locks snapped open with effortless ease.
One by one, the hostages stumbled out, eyes wide, bodies shaking.
"Wait here," Nova ordered, voice softer now. "You're free now. Authorities will arrive to help you."
Tears filled some of their eyes as they were glad to have escaped their predicament.
Nova turned back to the unconscious criminals, expression unreadable. He considered erasing them from existence.
As the distant sound of sirens approached, Nova vanished into the night, off to track the buyers that Carla Viti had tipped him off to.