Robin's POV
Robin walked cautiously near a cluster of jagged rocks, each casting long, distorted shadows under the relentless desert sun. The heat was stifling, as if the air itself were on fire, pressing against his exposed skin and causing beads of sweat to trickle down his forehead, slightly blurring his vision through his mask. His head throbbed with extreme pain, a rhythmic pulse that echoed in his temples like incessant hammering, making every thought a Herculean effort. He incessantly questioned what was happening around him—why did everything seem so strange, so out of place? Recent memories were a complete void; he didn't remember yesterday, nor how he had arrived there. It was as if a black veil had been cast over his mind, obscuring the events that had led him to this arid and hostile place.
He had woken that morning with the scorching sun beating down directly on his face, the intense rays penetrating his closed eyelids and forcing him to open his eyes with a start. The sandy ground beneath his body was rough and hot, particles of sand clinging to his cape and uniform, irritating his skin. His first instinctive reaction was to seek cover—years of training with Batman had instilled in him the need to assess threats before exposing himself. Therefore, he now approached these higher rocks, natural towers of stone eroded by wind and time, with fissures and protrusions that offered potential cover. The scorching sun was already affecting him deeply: his peripheral vision was slightly blurred, the heat accelerated his breathing, and dehydration was beginning to manifest in a dry mouth and cracked lips. The headache didn't help at all—it intensified with each step, as if invisible needles were piercing his skull, distracting him from any attempt at logical reasoning.
At that moment, a distant noise broke the oppressive silence of the desert: the sound of wheels turning in the sand, a mechanical rumble mixed with the sound of tires grinding fine grains. Robin froze for a fraction of a second, sharpening his senses despite the pain. He spotted a jeep approaching, the vehicle painted in camouflage shades of beige and brown, raising a cloud of dust behind it. Without hesitation, he raised his arm and threw his grappling hook at one of the rocks high above his head—the kevlar line stretched with a sharp hum, anchoring itself firmly to the stone. With a fluid pull, he rose quickly, climbing to a hidden spot on a high ledge, where the angle made him invisible from the ground. From there, he watched the jeep slowly pass, its engine rumbling softly as the occupants scanned the horizon.
By focusing on the details, Robin managed to recognize the uniforms of the men inside the vehicle: standardized military uniforms, with insignia and camouflage patterns typical of the Bialyan army—the angular cut of the jackets, the embroidered emblems with the national symbol, the reinforced boots for desert terrain. He immediately wondered what these soldiers were doing there—patrolling a remote area, armed with automatic rifles and communicators. To confirm his location, he opened the holographic map projected from his utility belt, the display flashing to life with vector lines and GPS coordinates. The data confirmed the worst: he was in Bialya, in the heart of Bialyan territory, a nation known for its geopolitical tensions and unstable alliances. The map showed endless dunes, scattered oases, and borders marked with conflict zone alerts. He wondered once more what was happening—how had he ended up there? Where was Batman? The absence of the mentor was a palpable void, an anchor lost in a sea of uncertainties.
At that moment, he muttered to himself, "I'd better call him." His hand instinctively moved to the communicator built into his uniform, his fingers hovering over the activation button. But before he could press it, a flashback invaded his mind with vivid clarity: Batman's deep voice echoing in a dark room of the Batcave, strictly ordering that they were forbidden from using any kind of electronic or similar communication—no calls, no radio signals, nothing that could be traced or intercepted. The tone was unwavering, a precautionary measure against unseen enemies. Robin immediately withdrew his hand from the communicator, the gesture of risk overriding any impulse to make contact.
Another thing that deeply startled him was the date displayed on the map screen. He blinked several times, checking the numbers: the last clear memory he had was of June 5th, a routine day of training and patrolling in Gotham. Now, the calendar showed September 4th—three months had passed in the blink of an eye. The shock hit him like a punch to the gut, quickening his pulse and intensifying his headache. How had time passed so quickly? It was impossible; something was wrong, deeply wrong. He realized that an influence had occurred on his mind—a psychic or chemical manipulation that had erased entire blocks of memory. Trained by Batman for many years, he had learned to detect signs of mental interference: inconsistent gaps, persistent headaches, spatial disorientation. His mask closed automatically, the internal visors activating analysis modes—scanning brain frequencies, hormone levels, searching for anomalies.
He looked down, where some loose stones revealed something unusual: a torn piece of black fabric, partially buried in the sand. With a precise leap, he climbed down from the ledge and carefully pulled the fabric out, completely unearthing it. There, embroidered on the worn material, was a Kryptonian symbol—the angular and unmistakable emblem of the House of El, the same one associated with Superman and his lineage. Robin wondered what he was seeing there—how had a piece of Kryptonian uniform ended up in Bialya? What did this mean for his situation? The scene cut abruptly.
POV Artemis
Artemis heard someone calling repeatedly, the voice echoing in an urgent yet familiar tone: "Kitten, kitten." The sound pierced the fog of her consciousness, pulling her back to reality. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking gently to adjust to the filtered light entering the room. Before her, materializing in focus, stood a tall, athletic young redhead, wearing a black tactical uniform that seemed tailored for agility and discretion. A mask covered part of his face, leaving his flaming hair visible, and aviator goggles protected his eyes, likely from dust or bright glare. The uniform was equipped with utility pockets and reinforcements in key areas, suggesting functionality in the field.
Startled by the unexpected proximity, Artemis jumped back, her muscles tense and ready for action. Her hand instinctively reached for the bow hanging on her back, her fingers closing around the familiar grip, positioning it in a defensive stance. The boy, noticing the panic in her eyes, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and spoke calmly, "Calm down. I'm on the side of good." He stood slowly, keeping his distance so as not to threaten her, and continued, "I'm Kid Flash." To reinforce his point, he gestured to his own uniform, highlighting the red lightning bolt symbol on his chest, a stylized emblem that pulsed with symbolic energy.
Artemis frowned, analyzing him skeptically. "I've seen Kid Flash once on television," she retorted, her voice firm despite her inner turmoil. "And he doesn't wear black." His uniform was entirely in dark tones, with subtle red lines contrasting with the matte black, unlike the vibrant yellow image she recalled from the news.
Kid Flash looked down, examining his own clothes with a bewildered expression. "Honestly, I don't quite understand this," he admitted, running his hand over the fabric. Changing the subject to defuse the tension, he pointed to her: "But you're wearing Green Arrow," he said, indicating her uniform with a nod.
Artemis looked down and saw that her uniform was something completely new—a sophisticated design, with shades of dark green and black, light armor integrated into the shoulders and knees, and a hood that fit perfectly. She could tell that the quality of the material was far superior to what she was used to; the fabric was flexible yet resistant, probably with advanced fibers that repelled impacts and allowed for full mobility. It was nothing like the rudimentary pieces her father had given her—this looked like cutting-edge technology, perhaps even with incorporated ballistic elements.
She immediately asked, "Who put me here?" Her voice held a mixture of anger and distrust, her eyes scanning the surroundings—a simple hut, made of wood with a thatched roof, uneven walls, and a dirt floor.
Kid Flash shook his head, genuinely lost. "I don't even know how to answer that question," he replied, scratching the back of his neck. He pointed to her bow: "Do you know how to use this?"
"I know," she stated confidently. "My father taught me." At that moment, a lapse of memory struck her—a sudden failure, as if a piece of her mind had been erased and rewritten. "My father... He must have done it. It must be another test from him."
Kid Flash tilted his head, curious. "What kind of test?"
She turned to him, her eyes hardening. "He must want me to kill you."
The words hung in the air like a sharp blade. A deafening silence fell over the cabin, so heavy it seemed to suck all surrounding sound away. Not even the wind outside dared to blow; only the distant crackling of some old wood broke the absolute void. Kid Flash blinked, processing what she had said, his face frozen in a mixture of disbelief and discomfort. Artemis held his gaze, the bow still steady in her hands, but not pointing directly—not yet. The moment stretched out, tense, as if time had stopped to allow the gravity of the statement to settle.
Then the silence was broken by a new and menacing sound: a sharp, rising whistle, the unmistakable noise of an object moving at high speed through the air. The noise came from afar, but it was approaching too quickly—like the roar of a missile cutting through the sky. Before either of them could react properly, the impact came. The cabin exploded in a violent wave of fire, debris, and dust, the wooden and straw structure disintegrating in fractions of a second. The force of the explosion threw them out, rolling on the hot sand as burning fragments rained down around them.
As soon as they managed to get up, coughing and spitting sand, they saw the jeeps approaching at high speed from about 100 meters away—robust military vehicles with wide tires adapted to the desert, painted in sandy camouflage. Mounted on each one, machine guns spewed bullets towards them, the sound of gunfire echoing like rapid thunder, bullets ricocheting off the ground and raising clouds of dust.
They started running out, their feet sinking into the soft sand, their hearts racing. It was clear they were in a sort of natural prison: surrounding them were gigantic hills, too steep for any kind of climbing—vertical rock walls, at almost 90-degree angles, covered in loose stones that made any attempt suicidal. This trapped them, forcing them to run only forward, because there were only two exits: the direction from which the jeeps were coming, filled with enemy fire, or ahead, into open but uncertain terrain, with undulating dunes and little cover.
They ran, sweat dripping, breath ragged under the merciless sun. At one point, Artemis executed a precise backflip, spinning gracefully in the air, and shot an arrow from her bow. The arrow flew with impressive speed, but struck with far more force than she was used to—the impact was like a contained thunderclap. She recognized the type: an explosive arrow, but this one had an even greater explosion, not of conventional flames, but a concussive blast. She could see the displacement of air, a visible wave that expanded like an invisible dome, compressing the surrounding air and causing the entire structure of the jeep to crumble—metal twisting, glass shattering, tires exploding into torn rubber. The entire vehicle disintegrated into a cloud of debris, but the two soldiers inside managed to jump out at the last instant, rolling through the sand and getting up dazed, coughing up dust, alive despite the catastrophic damage to the jeep.
She kept running, bow still in hand, her heart pounding. The approaching jeeps began firing more intently, machine guns swirling and spitting lead in continuous bursts, bullets tracing trails of dust on the ground. From behind the jeeps, tanks also began to appear—heavyweight armored vehicles, with their main guns pointed, firing towards them with deafening roars, projectiles exploding nearby and creating smoking craters.
At that moment, Kid Flash approached her in a blur of motion, his superhuman speed making him almost invisible. "No way, no way!" he shouted over the chaos, "their arrows are bigger than yours!" He easily lifted her into his arms, his arms tight around her, and began to run at high speed away from the jeeps—the world around them becoming a blur of sand, rocks, and distant explosions, the wind howling in their ears as they escaped towards the uncertain horizon.
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