POV Megan
Mega soared through the desert sky, the warm morning air enveloping her body like a comforting embrace, laden with the dry scent of sand and rocks heated by the rising sun. Her green hair floated in the wind, and she stretched out her arms, feeling the absolute freedom that pulsed in every beat of her heart. She had always longed, always dreamed of being on Earth—the blue planet her uncle described with such fascination, full of vast oceans, gleaming cities, and legendary heroes. For the first time, she was there, flying freely under the infinite sky, but the scenery was different from what she had seen on Martian television: instead of vibrant metropolises or lush forests, there were only undulating dunes, arid rocks, and an empty horizon stretching to infinity. The sun's warmth beat against her green skin, invigorating her, making her smile involuntarily as she cut through the air in graceful loops, rising and falling like a migratory bird finally freed from its cage.
But then, at a certain point, reality hit her like a cold blast. "What am I doing here?" she murmured to herself, the echo of her voice lost in the wind. Euphoria gave way to confusion, and she slowed, hovering for a moment before gently descending to the ground. She landed near some dry trees, dead relics of the desert—twisted, gray trunks, bare branches that stood like fossilized skeletons, long since devoid of leaves or life, victims of the relentless aridity. She sat in a lotus position on the hot sand, crossing her legs and closing her eyes, allowing her body to float slightly above the ground, suspended by her innate telekinesis. Using an ancient Martian technique, taught to her by her uncle to access deep or lost memories—a meditation that involved focusing on the psychic essence, breathing slowly to dissolve mental barriers—she delved into her subconscious, seeking clarity amidst the fog that obscured her mind.
At that moment, the images returned like fragments of a broken dream. She found herself back on the previous night, the silvery moonlight illuminating the cratered terrain, the air heavy with tension. The boy—tall, muscular, with wild eyes—leaped toward her, his roar echoing like primal thunder. Mega felt the instinctive panic again, the way she had become intangible by pure reflex, allowing him to pass through her and collide with the rock. There was a familiarity about him, something that tugged at the strings of her memory like an invisible thread, but she couldn't define what—it was like recognizing a face in a crowd without remembering the name.
The scene jumped abruptly, like a hastily edited film. Now, the same boy leaned against her, his shoulders relaxed in a calmer setting, fiddling with an electronic device she couldn't identify—a compact gadget with a flashing screen and tactile buttons, perhaps a communicator or scanner. His fingers moved with precision, and he looked at her with an expression that mixed curiosity and something softer, almost protective.
Another transition, and she found herself in a cozy kitchen, the aroma of baked goods filling the air, metallic surfaces gleaming under warm lights. Facing the same boy, she heard her own voice in her memory: "Superboy. Cookies are ready. Be careful, they're hot." The cookies steamed on a tray, golden and crisp, with chocolate chips melting slightly. Just as Superboy reached out to grab one, a blurry figure sped past him, snatching the cookie first. The figure materialized as a red-haired boy, chewing with a mischievous grin: "Not as hot as you, kitty."
Mega, in her memory, blinked in surprise: "Thank you. That was sweet, I think."
The boy—now clearly Kid Flash—laughing: "Not as sweet as you, kitty."
Superboy, sulking, grabbed a cookie and began to chew forcefully, the muscles of his jaw tensing, a low grunt escaping as he ignored the flirtation.
At that moment, three people entered the memory's field of vision, filling the kitchen with movement and voices. One of them was a boy she knew from television broadcasts from Mars—Robin, Batman's sidekick, with his red cape and domino mask, agile and confident. He gave Kid Flash a light tap on the head, reprimanding him: "Fashions." On the other side, a blonde girl, wearing a tight green and black uniform, with the Green Arrow symbol prominently displayed on her chest—a stylized bow that Mega recognized from heroic stories. She took a cookie, biting into it with pleasure: "Very good, Megan." Then she took another and handed it to a boy next to her, the shortest in the room, apparently, with disheveled black hair and piercing blue eyes. The blonde girl fed him directly into her mouth, an intimate gesture that suggested closeness, as if they were a couple or something close.
The blue-eyed young man took a bite and smiled: "Really, Megan, it turned out great."
At that moment, within the memory, a voice echoed from the loudspeaker, authoritative and deep: "Everyone to the meeting room." Mega immediately recognized it as Batman's voice—the hoarse, unwavering timbre his uncle had shared in telepathic memories during visits from Mars, describing the Dark Knight as a relentless guardian.
The vision faded, and Mega awoke from her meditation with a start, her eyes opening onto the arid desert. "I have a team!" she exclaimed excitedly, her heart racing with excitement. "I have friends and I have a Superboy," she added, somewhat confused, processing the implications. "Or not... I need to find the others." Determined, she rose into the air, extending her mind in an attempt to mentally connect with her colleagues, or anyone within range—a psychic pulse seeking familiar echoes, thoughts, or presences. But nothing came; the mental silence was absolute. She quickly deduced: "I'm probably too far from my group." Without hesitation, she began to fly toward the desert, scanning the horizon with sharp eyes, searching for signs of life or tracks that would lead her back to her own.
POV Artemis
Artemis was carried like a princess in Kid Flash's arms, the desert wind whipping her blond hair as he raced across the dunes, the scorching sun beating down mercilessly on them. The terrain was a vast expanse of golden sand, interrupted by sporadic rocks and flickering mirages on the horizon. They approached a cluster of towering rocks—natural towers of reddish stone, standing like ancient sentinels, offering elongated shadows that promised relief from the oppressive heat. Kid Flash gradually slowed his pace, gently setting her down, his feet sinking into the soft sand. He knelt down, panting, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, sweat trickling down his face despite the speed evaporating some of the discomfort.
Opening the sealed compartment on his wrist—a small panel that unfolded to reveal an empty space, designed to store essential items like energy bars or tools—he turned to her: "We've been in this desert for over 24 hours."
"Why?" Artemis asked, frowning and adjusting the bow on her back.
"Because if it were less than that, I would have food," he explained, closing the compartment with a frustrated click, his tone revealing exhaustion and confusion.
At that moment, abruptly, an object—or rather, something living—crashed between them with titanic force, the impact creating a shockwave that threw them backward, raising a colossal cloud of dust that obscured the air like a sandy curtain. Artemis rolled in the sand, coughing, her eyes burning as she tried to get her bearings. As the dust settled, gradually revealing outlines, a young boy emerged, perhaps 16 or 17 years old, between 1.80 and 1.90 meters tall—muscular body, shirtless, skin sweaty and marked with recent scratches. He rose from the ground where he had crashed, roaring like a wild beast, his eyes glazed with irrational fury.
At tremendous speed, he lunged at Kid Flash, delivering a sharp slap to the speedster's head—the blow cracked like a whip, sending Kid Flash flying toward a nearby rock, where he crashed with a thud, cracking the surface. Turning to Artemis, the boy threw a powerful punch, but luckily, he hit a padded area of her uniform—still, the force threw her back, causing her to crash into the rocks in an explosion of pain that reverberated through her body, though without serious injury.
The boy, still fixated on her with animalistic eyes, moved in the blink of an eye, closing the distance to land a direct punch to her face. Time seemed to slow down for Artemis; the only thing she could think was: "I'm going to die." The fist approached like a missile, the air violently shifting.
But, leaping over the rock where she had crashed, a figure slammed into the shirtless youth, interrupting the attack. The figure revealed itself to be a young man—tall, athletic, completely covered in a tight black and gray suit, his face hidden by a full-face helmet that prevented any facial features from being seen. A circular shield was strapped to his left arm, the gleaming metal reflecting the sun in blinding flashes. The shirtless youth's punch collided with the shield, producing a metallic clang that echoed through the desert, throwing the assailant several steps back.
The young man with the shield turned slightly toward her: "Are you alright?" His voice was young, firm, with a tone of genuine concern that came through the filter of his helmet.
Artemis could only nod in confirmation, her heart pounding in her chest—her life had flashed before her eyes in a jumble of fragmented memories. The voice sounded too young to belong to an experienced adult, but the helmet prevented any visual identification.
The young man with the shield turned to the other: "He's huge. I think I'll have to stop you."
At that instant, a very soft hum began to emanate from him—a low, almost inaudible sound, like a subtle frequency generator that Artemis barely perceived, but which clearly affected her opponent. The shirtless young man began to scream, roar, pounding the ground furiously, craters forming in the sand; he tried to cover his ears, writhing as if unbearable pain pierced his skull, but his movements were uncoordinated, wild.
Taking advantage of the distraction, the shield-wielding youth pulled a flash grenade-like object from his utility belt—cylindrical, with a simple trigger, something Artemis vaguely recognized from the weapons her father had used in training. He threw it near the shirtless youth, and the grenade activated, emitting an intense red light that tinged Artemis's entire field of vision with crimson hues, as if the world were bathed in blood.
The fight then began, a brutal and dynamic choreography of skill against brute force. The shield-wielding young man advanced with martial precision, his movements fluid as flowing water despite the weight of the equipment. He delivered a right cross, his fist cutting the air with a hiss, striking his opponent's chin and sending his head tumbling back. The shirtless man retaliated with a savage punch, but the shield was raised at the exact instant, blocking the impact with a bone-chilling clang; the force of the blow pushed him a step back, but he immediately countered with a low spinning kick, sweeping the attacker's legs and knocking him to the ground.
Rising with a roar, the shirtless man charged like a bull, arms outstretched to grab. The shield-wielding youth dodged sideways, spinning his body in a graceful arc, and countered with an uppercut that struck the stomach, expelling air from his opponent's lungs in a guttural grunt. As the shirtless man doubled over slightly, the shield was thrown like a disc—flying in a perfect curved trajectory, colliding with the shoulder and ricocheting back into the thrower's hand, as if magnetized. The impact sent the shirtless man staggering, blood trickling from a shallow cut.
Taking advantage of the opening, the shield-wielding young man closed the distance with quick, precise steps, unleashing a series of rapid jabs to the torso—one, two, three—each echoing like war drums, forcing his opponent to retreat. The shirtless man, maddened by the ringing in his ears and blinded by the red light, swung his fists haphazardly, but his lack of discernment made him predictable; it was pure animal instinct, no strategy, just blind fury. The shield blocked another savage punch, the metal creaking under the pressure, and the counterattack came as a front kick that landed on the knee, producing an audible snap of stretched ligaments.
Artemis watched, impressed by the martial skill—each movement was economical and lethal, a dance of precision against pure brutality. The shield-wielding youth threw a left cross, his fist tracing a perfect arc, colliding with the jaw and spinning his opponent's head; in the same flow, he dodged an awkward counterpunch, stepping back to gain distance. He threw the shield again, this time aiming for the face—the disc spun in the air, striking the nose with a crunch of breaking bone, blood spurting in a red arc, and returned to his hand like a faithful boomerang.
The shirtless man, weakened but still fierce, tried to charge at high speed toward him—a blur of supersonic movement. But the shield-wielding youth, prepared, dodged with a sideways pirouette, leaving a grenade in the exact spot where he stood. The grenade exploded the moment the shirtless man approached, the shockwave throwing him back near the red flash grenade, rolling across the sand in a cloud of dust.
Taking advantage of the fall, the shield-wielding youth mounted him, his knees pinning his opponent's arms to the ground, and began striking with the shield—rhythmic, heavy blows aimed at the face and torso, each impact producing sounds of crushed flesh and creaking bones. One blow struck the temple, opening a deep gash; another, the chin, sending teeth flying; the shield descended like a hammer, desperately attempting a knockout, blood splattering the surrounding sand in abstract patterns.
But at that moment, the red flash grenade went out, its energy depleted. The only thing Artemis heard from the shield-wielding youth was an alarmed "Oh no." In an instant, the shirtless man, free from the debilitating light, reacted with superhuman strength—an upward punch that struck his opponent's chest like a cannon, sending him flying some 20 meters backward with enormous ease. The impact was so quick that Artemis barely saw it; she heard only a bang like a high-caliber gunshot, and the shield-wielding youth flew through the air, colliding with a massive rock that shattered completely in an explosion of fragments, dust, and a resounding echo.
Read the chapters in advance: patreon.com/cw/pararaio