The sensation was dizzying, but different. It wasn't the chaotic shattering of before. This time, it was like stepping off a moving train: the world stopped spinning, and you planted your feet firmly, still woozy, but aware.
One moment, there had been a void. Now, you were in a body — your body — in an unfamiliar room, sunlight cutting through the gaps in the blinds. Panic tried to rise, an old, familiar enemy, but you crushed it with the strength of someone who had faced that same ghost a thousand times before.
The question, now, wasn't a cry of despair. It was a tactical starting point. You forced your breathing to slow, feeling the air enter and leave your lungs. Six months. Someone (or something) had carefully excised six months from your personal timeline. A clean, surgical procedure. Unsettling, but not devastating. Because you weren't a blank slate. You were a living archive of multiple endings.
Your eyes, now focused, scanned the environment. The pattern of dust on the floor, the type of wood on the door frame, the smell of mildew and cheap disinfectant. Fragments of other realities clicked into place with the scent of this place. You knew where you were. Or at least, when you were. The collective amnesia episode. The Desert Mission.
Mental checklist, activated.
Current timeline:
Hero Name: (Hero). Confirmed by training with Black Canary.
Mentor: Black Canary. Great. Competent, direct, respects boundaries. Doesn't pry into the dark corners of your soul.
Arsenal: Multi-functional yo-yo. Renjichiro (that wretched parasitic animal that came from god knows where) granted the "Voice Ability". Extremely weak. Limited to one use per day/night cycle. Practically useless in combat, more of a mystical amusement park trick that might be useful occasionally but isn't a very good superpower.
Renjichiro's Status: Asleep/Indifferent. Only shows up in absolute emergencies or when he thinks it'll be fun. Calling him would be a waste of time and possibly patience.
The basics were covered. You could work with this for now.
Then came the interruption – a tap on the shoulder: light and hesitant.
You turned, not with the startle of prey, but with the controlled speed of someone anticipating contact. Your eyes met his. Wally West. Disheveled red hair under the dark hood of camouflage mode, green eyes full of genuine concern that, in this timeline, hadn't yet been worn down by frustration with you.
He introduced himself: "Hey? Kitten? You okay?"
"Kitten." The nickname made a muscle near your eye twitch. In some timelines, you would have strangled him for it. In others, you would have rolled your eyes with affection. The crucial question now: What was your relationship with the team in this specific timeline?
The memory of the last six months was blank, but the tone of the story you could infer. You weren't the complete outsider, nor the best friend. Training with Black Canary suggested a certain level of acceptance, but not intimacy. Wally using a casual nickname suggested… familiarity? Or just his usual indiscretion?
You couldn't risk a sudden personality shift. Too risky. The "sweetness" belonged to another life, the "aggressiveness" to another. The safe harbor was neutral for now. The impassive. The "just me" that, in essence, was a calculating observer.
You took a step back, breaking contact. Not aggressively, just establishing a boundary. Your voice, when it came out, was deliberately flat, a little hoarse, as if emerging from a stupor.
"I'm… fine…" you said, pausing as if searching for words in the void of amnesia. You needed to play the game. Feign the confusion, but not total panic. It was a fine performance, like so many times before. …boy…
He smiled, visible relief on his face. "Kid Flash. I'm Kid Flash." He raised his hand, offering a greeting, a gesture of camaraderie.
You looked at his outstretched hand. Touch was unnecessary, something too intimate you didn't want to give. Your gaze rose to his, and you merely inclined your head in a brief, dry nod, ignoring the offered hand.
The rejection was clear, but silent. Wally didn't seem offended. His hand lowered and he let out a low, harmless laugh, more out of embarrassment.
"Alright, alright. No pressure," he said, hands going to his hips. "Looks like the penny's dropped for everyone, huh? Do you remember… anything?"
The question was your cue. You were on stage. (Hero) with six months erased, but with millennia of experience behind her eyes. It was time to start the dance again.
"I remember… very little," you murmured, your gaze losing focus, as if seeing distant scenes. It was true, technically. You just didn't specify how much. I mean, you knew the basics of yourself in this timeline, but other than that… "I remember… very, very little," you repeated, emphasizing the scarcity with an almost inaudible whisper.
It was enough. It was believable. It was exactly what they expected from someone waking from a traumatic blackout. And it was the perfect opening – a nearly blank canvas upon which you could paint only what was necessary, while your true mind, a living, agonizing archive of catastrophes and infinite restarts, remained perfectly hidden. Hidden behind the slightly glazed eyes of a young heroine who, for all intents and purposes, had simply lost a semester of her life.
The mask was in place. The game had begun anew.
Artemis and Wally were always together, at least from what you saw in other timelines. The thought arose: if Wally was here, then Artemis was there too.
You stepped away from Wally, a natural movement of someone seeking space to think, and your gaze swept the location. There, near a dusty crate, stood the blonde, motionless on the floor. Artemis. The most suspicious and dangerous piece on the current board.
You approached with careful steps, feeling (without needing to look) that Wally followed, a nervous shadow. Your mind calculated options in nanoseconds. Kneel? That gave her a tactical advantage, a chance to wake up frightened and strike. Kick her? Too brutal, would destroy any chance of future alliance.
The solution was a simulation of basic first aid. You leaned slightly forward, maintaining a safe distance, and let your voice out in a clear tone, loud enough to penetrate the stupor, but without being a shout.
Artemis groaned, a low, confused sound rising from her throat. Her eyelids fluttered, fighting an invisible weight, and then opened. The green eyes that met yours were hazy, clouded by the same fog that covered them all. There was no recognition. Just an alarmed emptiness, looking at your face before the boy beside you.
Artemis – opened her eyes completely, and instinct spoke louder than confusion. In the blink of an eye, she slid away in a fluid combatant movement, her hand already finding the bow at her side. Before anyone could blink, she was on her feet, the string taut and a blunt-tipped arrow pointed directly at the boy's chest. Her posture was a tense line of ready muscles, defensive, but the green eyes behind the mask were hazy, searching for a focus that stubbornly eluded her.
"Hey, it's okay. It's okay," the boy in black and red – Kid Flash – said, his hands rising in a universal gesture of surrender. His voice tried to sound calm, but there was a thread of panic in it, a vocal cord stretched to its limit. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm one of the good guys. You know, Kid Flash."
Artemis didn't lower the bow. Her critical gaze, sharp even in disorientation, ran over his costume, lingering on the dominant black, the absence of vibrant yellow.
"I've seen Kid Flash on the news," she said, her voice rough from the abrupt awakening and tension. "He doesn't wear black."
The statement was more than an observation.
Her gaze then shifted from Kid Flash to you. You, who remained a step behind, neither cowering nor trembling now, but rather observing. Silent, not in a defensive or attack stance, or anything – a still figure in a potential conflict scenario. The suspicion in Artemis's eyes changed tone. It was no longer just about uniform colors. It was about unstated alliances. If the boy wasn't the real Kid Flash… who were you? Accomplice? Another victim? Or something more?
The arrow remained nocked, but the tip, for a thousandth of a second, hesitated between the two potential targets. The room was charged with an electric silence, where the next move, the next word, could trigger violence or further fracture the already precarious truce of awakening.
"Who is she?" – the question was directed at Wally, but the accusatory tone included you. "Your victim?"
"WHAT?! NO, NO!" – Wally's denial was almost a shout, a burst of genuine panic at the accusation. He turned fully to face them both, arms still in the air.
The name came out of your mouth, sharp and clear, cutting off the start of his protest. It was a statement. Without waiting for a reaction, you turned, your focus already shifting from the theater of distrust between them. Your attention was on the exit – an opening covered by a thick red cloth serving as a door. You walked towards it, your steps firm on the packed earth floor, and passed through it, leaving behind the sound of adolescent voices that quickly became murmurs of argument.
Outside, the world was a punch to the senses. The oppressive heat of the desert and the cruel, white light of the sun hit you full force. You raised a hand to shield your eyes, dazzled for an instant. But instincts, deeper than any recent memory, were already in action. The other hand found the yo-yo at your belt.
With precise movements, you opened it. In place of a mirror or string, the interior revealed a small digital screen. A radar. A single red dot pulsed at the edge, moving towards the center with alarming speed. And then more appeared. And more. A cloud of hostiles approaching rapidly.
Enemies. Many.
Without a wasted word, you turned and pulled the entrance cloth aside, tilting your head into the dimness of the tent.
"What are you waiting for?" – your voice was a dry command, leaving no room for debate. "Let's go. We have to move."
Inside, Wally and Artemis interrupted their half-whispered discussion. Wally turned his whole body to face you, confused.
"What? What do you mean?"
"We have enemies approaching," you replied, your eyes already scanning the horizon again over your shoulder. "And there are a lot of them."
Artemis lowered the bow a centimeter, her face a tangle of distrust and tactical assessment. "And why should we trust you?" she asked, her green eyes fixed on you, searching for a flaw, a lie.
You didn't even blink. Gave a slight shrug, a gesture of profound indifference that was more eloquent than any argument.
"If you want to stay and die, stay," you said, your voice flat. "I'm just warning, not asking."
With that, you let the cloth fall, turned, and started walking. Not a desperate run, but a quick, determined walk, moving away from the tent, towards the dunes that offered some cover. It was a bluff. A classic psychological induction. You wouldn't let them die – you couldn't, the cost of resetting another timeline for such a foolish thing was too high. But they didn't need to know that.
And, as you predicted, the bluff worked. The sound of quick footsteps in the sand reached you before you even looked back. First Wally, reaching you with his natural speed, his face still a confusion of unasked questions. Close behind, with more cautious but equally determined steps, came Artemis, her bow now lowered, but ready, her eyes alternating between your back and the threatening landscape around. They kept a distance between themselves, a tacit and unstable truce, but both had chosen the unknown you represented over the certainty of a siege in the tent.
The fine, hot sand slipped like death clocks under your fingers as you crawled to the crest of the dune. The sun was a white needle in the sky. Wally and Artemis followed you – he with the clumsy agility of someone who trusts speed more than terrain, she with the silent grace of a predator who knows every shadow.
"Where are we going?" – Artemis's whisper reached you, sharpened by necessity. It was no longer just distrust; it was the raw clarity of someone needing a direction to avoid going mad.
Your response was a single gesture: hand raised, fingers closing into a silent fist. Shut up. Watch.
She swallowed the rest of the question. Wally, beside her, mimicked the gesture with exaggerated seriousness, like a child copying an adult.
At the top, you lay on your stomach, the sand burning against the uniform. They lay down beside you, forming a trio of improvised spies. For a moment, only the wind spoke, carrying the smell of dust and metallic heat.
In the valley below, war was moving. An agile jeep led the way, followed by armored vehicles with angular plating and, behind them, the low, threatening back of a light assault tank. Men in hybrid uniforms – a mix of desert camouflage and non-standard high-tech pieces – swept the area. Their shouts rose in a guttural cacophony: orders and warnings in a strange language.
They were hunting. And the arsenal said the prey was worth it.
Wally held his breath beside you. Artemis clenched her fingers around a handful of sand, her knuckles white. You just watched. Your eyes mapped: twelve visible soldiers with weapons in hand, military-grade advanced weaponry, vehicles with unconventional modifications. The group passed, dust raising an opaque curtain behind them, their trail pointing firmly east – towards the abandoned tent.
The moment the last engine rumble dissolved into the wind, you moved.
You rose into a low crouch, turned, and began descending the dune westward, following exactly the fresh trail the vehicles had left – the path they had come from.
Wally and Artemis stood up like hesitant shadows, exchanging a look loaded with pure doubt, but their feet moved before their brains could protest. They followed you, staying low, distrust now mixed with growing bewilderment.
"Wait" – Wally caught up, his whisper a mix of confusion and alarm. "They went that way. The tent is that way. Why the hell are we going towards them?"
You didn't even slow your pace. Your voice came out low, clear, steel logic wrapped in the haze of supposed amnesia.
"They came from somewhere. A base, a post, a starting point. The path here has already been swept by them. It is, at this moment, the 'cleanest' area." – You dodged a loose rock without looking down. "And if they're investing so much in searching for lost people… people like us…"
You paused, calculated, letting the conclusion hang in the hot air.
"…it's because they've already found us before. If that's happened, there must be others like us. So, let's go to the source. To the answer."
The explanation was perfect. Rational, tactical, emerging naturally from the observation and deduction of a forgetful but astute soldier. Nothing in it betrayed the absolute knowledge you carried – the complete script of this failed mission, the identity of the mercenaries, the exact location of their hideout, and the fact that Superboy, Kaldur, and M'gann were already there, captured or on the verge of it.
Simple and easy, you thought, internally, as you led your two disoriented companions directly into the heart of the storm. The amnesia role was a convenient disguise. It gave you freedom to act, to guide, without needing to explain the hows and whys that only the memories of a thousand timelines could justify.
They followed you, because in the desert of their own minds, your firm direction was the only compass they had. And you pressed on, because you knew exactly where that road of sand and danger led.
Your focus was on the terrain ahead, on the horizon line beginning to dissolve into twilight. The sun, an agonizing fireball, plunged behind the dunes, painting the sky deep oranges and purples. The scorching heat of the day began to yield to a night cold that promised to be cutting.
Your focus was on the terrain ahead, on the horizon line beginning to dissolve into twilight. The sun, an agonizing fireball, plunged behind the dunes, painting the sky deep oranges and purples. The day's heat, which stuck sand to the skin, began to yield to a night cold that promised to be sharp as a blade. The light died fast, swallowing the contours of the world.
It was then, on the threshold between day and night, that the silence was torn.
An explosion shook the air to the east, distant but powerful. You stopped, turning just enough to see a column of black and orange smoke rise against the twilight sky, lit from below by an eerie glow.
Your line of reasoning, focused and linear, broke for an instant. Superboy. The logic was clear: either he had caused that, or he was the target. Either scenario, he was there, unstable, dangerous, without memory. Going to him now, without the others – without M'gann, whose powers were the key to restoring his memories – would be a colossal and potentially useless risk. It was a too volatile variable. The plan remained: gather the team, then rescue the Kryptonian.
"What was that?" – Wally's voice reached you, laden with a mix of alarm and curiosity. He stood still, staring at the smoke.
You were already turning back, your decision made. "Not our problem. Let's go!" – The order came out dry, urgent. Your hands were already moving, grabbing the yo-yo and opening it with a familiar click. The blue radar screen illuminated your face.
"Hey, wait! There could be someone there! Someone needing help!" – Wally protested, his hero instinct emerging through the amnesia fog.
You didn't answer. Your eyes were fixed on the two red triangles appearing at the edge of the screen, approaching at brutal speed. Jets. Reconnaissance? Attack.
"Get down!" – your voice was a roar, a command that allowed no hesitation.
"What?" – Artemis began to ask.
It was too late for explanations.
The jets cut the sky above them with a roar that seemed to tear the air itself. Two black, angular shapes, with no visible insignias, passed like lightning. They didn't just overfly; as soon as they passed, a volley of tracer rounds tore into the sand behind you, raising a curtain of dust and rock shrapnel.
"DIVE!" – you shouted, this time throwing yourself against Wally and Artemis, using your body weight to push them to the ground, behind an insufficient dune crest.
The jets made a tight, impossible turn in the air, lining up for another pass. This time, the target was clear: the three dots on the sand.
No time to run. Not enough cover.
Your fingers, moving with the speed of trained desperation, began to shake the yo-yo. Not in a playful motion, but in a specific, almost ritualistic pattern. The string, tinged with an amber glow under the faint sunlight, began to spin above your head, not as a weapon, but as a flat, vibrating disc.
The instant the jet cannons spat fire again, you raised your arm with the yo-yo swinging. Spinning furiously, it created a semicircular barrier of thread above you, like a shield.
Just as the jet passed, ready to turn again.
And then, a voice. Sweet, calm, and coming from inside Artemis's head.
"Don't worry, I'm almost there."
Artemis's eyes widened. She looked at you and Wally with a mix of shock and absolute confusion.
"Did you… just hear a girl talking in your head?" she asked, her voice a thread.
You were busy looking at the plane. Wally, lying in the sand, still kept his eyes on the jets preparing for another attack.
"Girls are always on my mind," he muttered, "But they're usually not talking."
Before the planes could fire, something changed. They crashed into each other, exploding in the sky.
In their place, a green-skinned girl with red hair and a shy smile landed softly on the sand in front of you.
Wally rubbed his eyes, examining her new white and red uniform.
"Well, J'onn, the uniform looks familiar…" he said, cautious. "…but I'm not sure the new body screams 'Martian Manhunter'."
The green girl – Megan – seemed confused for a second. Then, her face lit up with sudden, joyful recognition.
"You know my uncle J'onn!" – she exclaimed, her large, expressive eyes shining with a recognition none of you shared. Then, as if consulting an internal manual of social etiquette in a crisis situation, she pointed at each of you with a meticulous finger. "Hello, Megan, of course! You're Kid Flash. Wally. You're Artemis."
Her finger then turned to you, and then her smile, once so confident, faltered for a fraction of a second. The light in her eyes trembled before your completely lost expression, the lack of any sign of recognition.
"And you…" she continued, her voice a little softer, tentative. "…you're (Hero)! Of course! I mean… I don't know your name, but that's what we call you. (Hero)."
"Oh, goodness. The amnesia… hit the three of you. And in different ways."
She straightened her shoulders, a small movement that seemed to carry a huge decision. The concern in her eyes didn't disappear, but was overlaid with a firm layer of determination.
"It doesn't matter" – she said, her voice regaining a spark of its initial sweetness, but now mixed with steel. "I'm Miss Martian. M'gann M'orzz. Let's go, I'll explain everything on the way… Robin and Superboy need our help."
The walk was a blur. Until they found Robin, fighting with choreographed precision against indistinct figures. The scene unfolded around you like a silent film in which you were a dazed spectator.
"I got this. Thanks." – Wally, moving in a flash, stole the opponents' weapons.
"KF. Man, it's good to see a familiar face." – Robin offered a handshake.
"What's up, Rob. Memory loss?" – Wally replied, relief evident in finding a reference point.
"Six months" – Robin was saying, pragmatically. "Let's tie up these creeps and compare notes."
The group gathered, exchanging fragments:
"So we're a team?"
"The five of us and Superboy" – Megan explained.
"Then this must be his." – Robin examined a piece of fabric with the 'S' symbol.
"Yeah. Did you see him?"
"I think so" – Robin replied.
"No" – Artemis said, crossing her arms.
"I remember Batman ordering radio silence. Our team must work for him" – Robin deduced.
"How do you know we don't work for my mentor?" – Wally countered, poking the symbol on his chest.
Wally's suit changed from camouflage to Kid Flash's vibrant colors. "Wow, that's so cool!"
The dazzlement was contagious. The others started poking their own symbols, exploring the hidden functionalities of their uniforms. The serious conversation dissipated amid exclamations of surprise. On instinct, you just slapped Wally's hand to make him stop that; seriously, it was getting annoying.
"We need to recover our memories" – she said, her voice echoing slightly in the psychic space. "To help Superboy."
Around you, the world had changed again. They were no longer in the desert. They were in a mental space, purple and dreamlike, with fragments of memories – images of training, missions, faces – floating in the background like pieces of a cosmic puzzle.
Megan was at the center, her expression serious.
She then turned to the group, her gaze passing through Wally, Artemis, Robin, and finally landing on you.
"I brought you into my mind…" – M'gann explained, with a thread of hesitation. "…to share what I've remembered so far. But I need your help. Together, our fragmented memories can form a whole…" – she paused, her gaze pleading, vulnerable. "…if you open your minds to mine."
Everyone looked at her, then at each other, hesitant. Wally seemed uncomfortable. Artemis, distrustful. Robin, calculating.
"You want to rummage through our most intimate thoughts?" – Artemis retorted, already in denial.
"I don't intend to intrude, but…" – Megan tried to speak, but Robin cut her off.
"You need to invade our minds to understand what happened to us. Go ahead."
"My brain is all yours. Try not to be overwhelmed by its genius." – Wally said before winking at you, who just rolled your eyes with a frown.
"Or disappointed" – Robin completed, a near-smile on his lips. "Hey, why is nobody ever just… nothing?"
You rolled your eyes again, an ancient weariness hovering over you. Then you paused. The dilemma was real and dangerous. If Megan accessed your mind, she would find not fragments, but a whole, organized library of thousands of timelines – a catastrophe. But if you refused, you'd stand out even more, fueling suspicions that could be fatal later. Two probabilities loomed: the team would find your reluctance strange, or you'd lose the chance to know exactly who you were in this specific timeline – what the shared memories, bonds, dynamics were that you'd need to replicate.
The decision needed to be a middle ground. A limit.
"Only the last six months" – you said, your voice sounding surprisingly clear and firm in the mental space. "And only what you need."
You didn't notice the quick, shocked look from Artemis, followed by a flash of something that might have been a complicit smile before being suppressed. But you did notice when Wally, interpreting your firmness as fear, tried to put a comforting arm around your shoulders.
"If you're scared, I'm here" – he said, his attempt at support as clumsy as it was genuine.
The rejection was instant and silent. You simply leaned forward, letting his arm slip into the void, and stepped aside, creating a clear physical distance. Without a look, without a word. The message was unequivocal.
Wally's arm remained suspended for a second before he let it drop, a shadow of rejection crossing his face.
It was a strange, collective process. Like puzzle pieces being fitted by an invisible hand, each one's memories began to connect, forming a shared narrative within M'gann's psychic space.
First came Robin's memory, sharp and laden with Batman's gravity:
"The Watchtower detected a massive energy overload in the Bialyan desert. Spectral analysis revealed elements of non-terrestrial origin. Find out what happened at that location. What landed there." The Dark Knight's voice was an unmistakable bass. "Bialya is a pariah state ruled by Queen Bee… and it's not a member of the League's UN Charter. All communications are subject to interception. Maintain radio silence at all times. You will land in Qurac, on Bialya's border, two kilometers from the danger zone."
The scene changed, merging with Kid Flash's perspective: the arrival in Qurac's oppressive heat, the strange landscape, the tension in the air. Then Artemis entered the memory stream, showing the silent assembly of equipment, the cautious looks exchanged. The sequence flowed – Megan preparing to fly, an order from Aqualad echoing… but then, at the exact moment when M'gann's memory should have merged with the others', showing the complete scene, there was a sharp cut.
Not an image, not a sound. A void. A blank, silent screen of pure absence.
The impact was physical. As if a thread connecting them had been cut, everyone was ejected from the shared psychic state. They came back to themselves in the desert, gasping, as if emerging from a deep dive.
"AQUALAD!" – the name came from several mouths at once, a cry of instant recognition and alarm. The memories had returned the absent leader.
Robin, already in tactical mode, stood up. "Where is he? What happened next?"
Megan shook her head, her face pale under the daylight now bathing the desert. "I don't know. That's the last thing I… that we remember."
Her eyes then turned to you, (Hero). The unspoken question was heavy. Everyone had shared fragments, reconstructed the mission up to a point. But you… and Superboy, who was still lost somewhere… you were blank pages in that story of the last six months. Black holes in the collective memory.
"If Kaldur's been wandering the desert for that long…" – Robin said, his voice laden with practical concern. "…that's not good for a guy with gills."
His fingers flew over the miniaturized keyboard on his wrist. "Now that I know where to look for him…" – The holographic screen projected a map with a blinking dot. "He's close. But he's not moving."
"Not good" was an understatement. The run across the dunes was a blur of sand and rising anxiety. And then, they found him.
Aqualad – Kaldur'ahm – was lying on his back in the sand, near a rock that offered scant shade. His eyes were open but glazed, staring at the merciless sky. His lips moved, forming words in a low, constant rhythm, but it wasn't English, nor any surface language.
It was the ancient tongue of Atlantis. Guttural and fluid sounds that sounded like a prayer or a delirium.
Despair was a visible cloud over the group. Megan held Aqualad's head in her lap, her telepathic powers finding only the solid, repetitive wall of Atlantean delirium.
"I can't restore his memories in this state" – she admitted, her voice a thread of frustration and worry.
Robin, ever practical, assessed the situation with a clinical eye. "He needs immediate rehydration. Call the Bioship."
"She's out of range" – Megan shook her head, her eyes turning to Kid Flash. "But you can get him there fast."
Wally opened his arms in a helpless gesture. "He's too heavy and my fuel is running out. Right now, I can barely manage a jog."
It was at that moment you acted. You turned to Wally, your deliberate movement breaking the group's paralysis.
"If you eat something, could you take him?" – your question was direct, while your hands already worked on the yo-yo.
"I mean, yeah, theoretically, but I'd need to eat at least a feast, and here in the middle of nowhere—" Wally's voice was interrupted by the sound of a click followed by an amber glow. You had opened the yo-yo, not as a radar, but as a small dimensional aperture. Your hand plunged into the light and from it pulled four compact energy bars, emblazoned with the familiar Flash logo.
"Wow, where did you—" Wally began, eyes wide.
"Just eat, already!" – you cut in, tossing the bars into his hands. Then, you pulled a small thermostable water bottle from the same seemingly impossible space and tossed it to Robin. "Give him this. Slowly."
Robin caught the bottle in the air, not questioning the origin. He knelt beside Kaldur, trying to get the Atlantean to swallow the precious sips.
Artemis, who had been watching everything with her suspicious eyes, turned to Megan, momentarily ignoring the small logistical miracle you had performed.
"Why don't you levitate him back?" – the archer's question was logical, pointing to the Martian's obvious power.
Megan's reply came laden with a personal tone. "I can't." – She looked at the horizon, as if she could see through the dunes. "I need to find Superboy. Six months ago, he… didn't exist as a person. He has no memories, just instincts. I'm the only one who can reach him, who can try to calm him down."
Wally, already devouring the second bar, spoke with his mouth full. "Superboy is indestructible! Just ask those tanks he bent like pretzels."
"It's Aqualad who needs your help" – Artemis insisted, her voice gaining an urgent tone. "Like, now." – Her eyes then landed on you again, watching you grab a clean cloth (also extracted from your yo-yo) and wet it with a bit of water, starting to tie it around Kaldur's wrists and forehead, in an effort to lower his temperature and provide topical moisture.
"No! Superboy is in pain." – Megan said, holding her head before flying off, making Artemis shout.
"M'gann, wait!" – Artemis's cry was a mix of anger and despair.
"We still don't know what erased our memories! This could happen again!" – Robin's logical warning echoed uselessly in the desert, swallowed by the sound of the wind.
Artemis clenched her fists, her frustration exploding in a dry kick at a loose rock, which flew a few meters. "I don't believe this! Aqualad could die here, and she's going after the… the indestructible guy! It would take minutes! And she herself admitted she doesn't remember everything!" – Her voice was a hiss laden with disbelief and anger.
She watched you, (Hero), who continued your silent, meticulous work: tying the last damp cloths around Kaldur's wrists and forehead, basic but vital care. Kid Flash, beside you, tried to swallow the last energy bars with a speed bordering on desperation.
It was then you spoke, your voice coming out calm and flat, an absolute contrast to the surrounding turbulence.
"Let's take Aqualad first."
Everyone looked at you. The simplicity of the statement was like a bucket of cold water.
"We'll all take him. If Megan is going after Superboy, let her go. We can't stop her."
Robin, ever the strategist, raised the most obvious objection, his voice tense. "But what if her mind gets wiped again out there? Or worse?"
You stood up, wiping your hands on the side of your uniform. Your eyes scanned the terrain for sturdy branches or anything that could serve as an improvised stretcher.
"Then we'll deal with it later" – you replied, your logic relentless and cold. "One life is worth more than one mind. The mind can be recovered. Life cannot."
You cut your own thought before it could deepen. You wouldn't explain about the "magic of love" or the inevitability of their bond overcoming amnesia. That was irrelevant and, frankly, irritating in your prior knowledge. What mattered was the brutal calculation before you: an Atlantean in critical condition from dehydration and shock in a desert, versus a virtually indestructible Kryptonian who, at worst, could be contained (with great effort) later.
Your frustration was deep, but ancient. How many timelines? How many times had Megan prioritized Superboy's instincts over tactical necessity? It was a pattern. A predictable pattern and, at this moment, fatally negligent.
But you weren't there to judge patterns. You were there to ensure the final outcome: no one dies. Aqualad was wasting away. Superboy was a force of nature that could wait. Megan might face psychic dangers, but they were abstract dangers compared to the organic failure unfolding in the sand.
"Robin, help me with these rocks and branches. We need to stabilize his neck and back to move him" – you ordered, your voice taking on a commanding tone that sprang not from a remembered hierarchy, but from pure necessity and the clarity of your purpose.
The improvised stretcher was a precarious thing – sturdy branches tied with strips of fabric extracted from spare capes from your yo-yo (a resource no one questioned anymore, for now). Aqualad lay upon it, his body heavy and inert, still whispering the liquid, guttural sounds of Atlantis. The damp cloth you kept on his forehead was the only barrier against the merciless sun.
You and Wally carried the front poles, the weight distributed, but even so, each step in the soft sand was an effort. Wally, despite the energy bars, breathed heavily, his accelerated metabolism burning the fuel visibly.
"Shh, Kaldur, quiet now" – Robin whispered, walking beside the stretcher, his eyes fixed on the holographic map projected from his wrist. His voice was low, urgent. "We can't risk a firefight with Aqualad knocked out like this."
"Ugh. It's not just him" – Wally grumbled between breaths, sweat streaming down his face. "I'm out of gas. Those bars were just a sip in a desert."
Artemis flanked the group on the opposite side, her steps silent on the sand, her eyes constantly sweeping the dunes. Her hand was always near the quiver, but her face was tense.
"And I'm almost out of arrows" – she added, her voice contained but laden with the same practical tension. "If we run into more of those mercenaries… we're going to have to be very, very creative."
The air was heavy, charged not only with heat, but with the palpable vulnerability of the group. They were a slow, noisy target, carrying their incapacitated leader, resources at the limit. Every shadow of a dune could hide a sniper, every boulder an ambush.
You, in tacit command of the withdrawal operation, kept your senses sharp. Your ears filtered the whisper of the wind, the drag of feet in the sand, Wally's labored breathing, and Kaldur's deliriums. Your eyes, however, were fixed ahead, on the point on Robin's map representing the Bioship – a distant refuge that seemed to recede with every heavy step.
The plan was simple: reach the ship, stabilize Kaldur, then search for Megan and Superboy. But between them and safety lay the desert, and the desert, you knew very well, rarely surrendered its prey without a fight.
The priority remained clear. Keep Aqualad alive. Keep the group moving. And pray – or, in your case, calculate coldly – that luck, or the hunters' inattention, would last a little longer. Each step was a victory. Each minute without an attack, a miracle. And in the tense silence, broken only by the sounds of your escape, everyone's unspoken question was: How much longer?
QURAC:
September 5, 02:32 AM
Robin was in command, his fingers flying over the consoles, ensuring the life support and camouflage systems remained stable. In the central area, a table had been improvised as a stretcher. Aqualad, Kaldur'ahm, lay upon it, still pale, but the line of monitors beside him showed vital signs slowly firming up – still concerning, but no longer in free fall.
You were beside him, a silent, efficient worker. Your movements were precise: checking blood pressure via a sonic pulse monitor you had connected, adjusting the flow of the intravenous rehydration saline, changing the cool cloth on his forehead. Your hands worked with a familiarity that went far beyond basic first aid training.
Artemis watched from a safe distance, arms crossed, but with intense curiosity.
"Where did you learn to do that?" – her question came out low, almost a challenge.
You didn't even look up from your work, your hands already bandaging a superficial wound on Kaldur's forearm with sterile bandages. You merely shot a quick, inscrutable glance in her direction before returning your full attention to the patient.
"Secrets" – you murmured, your voice a hoarse whisper, but the final word was cut off by the sound of a grunt.
Artemis seemed to accept the answer with a slight shrug. "Got it…"
It was then that the peace was broken. Not by an alarm, but by a voice. Sweet, clear, and implanted directly into everyone's mind.
"Hey, guys, I've got Superboy. He's back to normal and we're on our way."
The effect was immediate and violent in Aqualad. His eyes, previously closed or glazed, flew open. He sat up abruptly on the stretcher, a sudden movement fueled by pure instinct and confusion. The IV needle pulled at his skin, and the monitors beeped in protest.
"Who are you?" – Kaldur's voice came out rough, laden with a native authority even in his debilitated state. "And how did you get inside my head?"
You acted before he could hurt himself further. Without ceremony, but firmly, you placed your hands on his shoulders and pushed him back, forcing him to lie down. "Lie down" – your order was dry, leaving no room for debate. You quickly replaced the cloth that had fallen from his forehead and adjusted the IV needle, your movements gentle but decisive. The combat nurse had returned to full mode.
Megan's voice answered in everyone's mind, a little hesitant now. "Hello, Megan. Aqualad's memories… I knew I had forgotten something."
Relief was palpable in the air. Wally, who was propped against a wall catching his breath, let out a dramatic sigh.
"Ah, man, me too" – he complained, faking exaggerated disappointment. "I didn't get any souvenir from the mission."
Megan's reply came, and this time there was a hint of telegraphed, but genuine, amusement in her mental tone.
"Don't worry, I've already taken care of your souvenir."
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