Megan hovered high in the desert sky, the warm morning air rising in thermal currents that helped her maintain altitude without excessive effort. Her telekinetic powers enveloped her companions like an invisible, gentle net—Erick, Artemis, and the still-unconscious Kid Flash floated beside her, suspended about ten meters above the undulating dunes of golden sand that stretched endlessly beneath them. The scorching sun beat down mercilessly, reflecting off the sand and creating shimmering mirages on the horizon, like illusory lakes dancing in the distance. The wind howled softly in her ears, carrying fine particles of dust that clung to Megan's green skin and the uniforms of the others. She felt the mental weight of telekinesis—it wasn't physically exhausting, but it required constant concentration to maintain stability, especially with three additional bodies. Kid Flash, his black tactical uniform torn and dirty, hung inert, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, the contusion on his head swelling slightly beneath his disheveled red hair. Erick, in his black and gray suit with his helmet sealed, held his shield strapped to his arm, the internal visors flashing with constant data about the environment—temperature at 38 degrees Celsius, humidity low at 15%, winds of 20 km/h from the northwest. Artemis, beside him, gripped her bow firmly, her green eyes scanning the horizon with distrust, the hood of her green and black uniform partially shielding her blond face from the scorching sun.
The flight was smooth, but the silence was heavy, broken only by the whistling of the wind and the occasional creaking of Erick's equipment. Megan guided the group eastward, following a vague intuition mixed with the data Erick had shared via a brief mental link—a distant oasis, detected by her internal computer, offering shelter of dry palm trees and rocks. The vastness of the Bialian desert enveloped them: dunes rising like frozen waves, rocks eroded by time scattered like ancient sentinels, and in the air, the dry smell of burnt earth mixed with the salty sweat of their bodies. Megan felt a pang of anxiety in her still-clouded mind; memories came in flashes, like scattered pieces of a puzzle, but the focus now was on the group's safety. Her red hair floated lightly, and she adjusted her telekinesis to compensate for gusts of wind, keeping everyone level, their feet hovering parallel to the ground as if walking on air.
At that moment, Artemis broke the silence, her voice heavy with confusion and a hint of frustration, echoing in the open air. "So, we're a team?" She looked at Erick, then at Megan, the muscles tense in her athletic body, the bow swaying slightly with the movement of flight. The sand below them formed hypnotic patterns, like waves in a sea of gold, and the sun cast long shadows from the dunes, stretching out like shadowy fingers.
Erick, floating beside her, adjusted the weight of Kid Flash still on his shoulder—though Megan's telekinesis eased the load, he instinctively kept the boy safe. His helmet filtered the intense glare, the visors automatically adjusting to reduce the glare. "We were on a mission," he replied. "Something went wrong with the telepathic link and we lost our memory." He turned his helmet slightly toward Megan, the visor reflecting the cloudless blue sky. "Megan, do you know anything?" The desert below seemed endless, devoid of any sign of civilization—only the occasional rocky outcrop breaking the monotony, and in the distance, the distant echo of explosions from the tanks they had left behind, a muffled reminder of the danger that pursued them.
Megan, who was flying ahead, guiding the group with fluid arm movements to direct her telekinesis, glanced back without interrupting her flight. Her white eyes, characteristic of her Martian form, met Erick's through the visor. The air around her shimmered slightly with psychic energy, and she felt a constant buzzing in her mind, like background noise that made it difficult to focus. "It's all hazy in my mind still," she admitted, her voice soft but tinged with uncertainty, echoing both audibly and in a subtle mental echo that the others felt. "I managed to access very little information." She paused, adjusting altitude to avoid a stronger air current, the group rising slightly above a particularly high dune, revealing more of the endless desert ahead—a sea of sand stretching as far as the eye could see, the heat creating waves of distortion on the horizon. "The big problem is that something must have interfered with the link to cause the memory loss, something very powerful, because the memories I lost were from six months ago." His mind flickered with fragments: images of Mount Justice, laughter in the kitchen, but nothing cohesive, like torn pages from a book.
Erick and Artemis exchanged glances—Artemis with furrowed brows, the wind whipping loose strands of blonde hair, and Erick with his helmet motionless, but internally processing the data. The sun beat directly down on them now, the heat penetrating their uniforms, sweat trickling down Artemis's back, who felt the fine sand clinging to her exposed skin. "How do you manage to remember everything?" they asked almost in unison, their voices slightly overlapping in the thin air. Artemis adjusted the bow on her back, feeling the comforting weight of the quiver of arrows, each with specialized tips that she barely remembered how to use completely, but the instinct remained.
Megan, still flying, looked directly at Erick, her eyes fixed on the opaque helmet, as if trying to penetrate the metal with her telepathy. The flight continued steadily, the group passing over a series of small craters in the sand, possibly remnants of ancient impacts or recent bombs, the terrain marked by scars that told silent stories of past conflicts. She sensed Erick's mind—a strong barrier, but accessible thanks to the key he had given her.
Erick explained, his voice echoing clearly despite the wind: "I had surgery and implanted a chip in my brain." He lightly touched the side of his helmet where the neural implant was integrated, a device he had designed in his basement forge. The desert below shifted subtly—lower dunes giving way to flatter plains, with rocks scattered as if thrown by a giant, and the air heavy with a dry, mineral smell. "The problem is that in the middle of this operation, while Megan's telepathic link was active, thanks to the access key I gave her, something interfered, causing the chip to stop working for a brief moment." He paused, adjusting Kid Flash on his shoulder for greater comfort, feeling the warmth of the inert body against his own. The chip had flickered—a millisecond blackout, but enough to cause disorientation, blurred vision, and a throbbing headache that still echoed. "It incapacitated me for a few hours. However, it didn't cause me to lose my memory. The real problem was the disorientation." The flight carried them over a narrow ravine, cool shadows contrasting with the sun, and Erick felt a momentary relief from the heat. "At that moment I was investigating a specific type of energy we were researching." He didn't go into detail—it was an exotic energy, something the team had traced back to Bialya. "It's easier for me to explain to everyone when everyone's together. We have to find Robin and Aqualad." His internal computer mapped possible locations: Robin at approximate coordinates based on previous sightings, Aqualad in a nearby area, but the signal was weak.
At that moment, Artemis questioned, her voice cutting through the air with determination, her eyes fixed on the horizon where distant dust clouds suggested movement—perhaps more troops approaching. "It's not just us?" She adjusted her position in mid-air, feeling Megan's telekinesis like an invisible hand supporting her, a strange but comforting sensation. The sun cast halos around their silhouettes, and the wind carried the distant sound of engines, a constant reminder of the pursuit. "Try to connect him by radio. Maybe the radio frequency is longer than the telepathic power of... Excuse me, what's the name again?" She looked at Megan, frowning, her memory failing to fill in the gaps, the green and black uniform clinging to her body with sweat.
Megan, without interrupting the flight, replied softly, "Megan." Her name echoed in their minds as well, a subtle psychic boost, and she adjusted the speed slightly upwards, lifting the group to avoid a stronger gust of wind that would have kicked up sand below, creating a local mini-storm that obscured the ground for a few moments.
Artemis continued, nodding: "From Megan."
Erick intervened, his voice firm: "Batman gave us direct orders that we can't use the normal communication system we use." He vividly remembered Batman's deep voice in the Batcave, the shadows dancing on the damp walls, the cold air contrasting with the current desert. The helmet filtered out noise, but he could hear the constant hum of the internal systems—proximity alerts, life scans. "Apparently this country has very advanced technology in this regard and can track to a specific location." Bialya was known for its innovations in surveillance—hacked satellites, AI-powered drone networks capable of triangulating signals in seconds. Using radio would be like lighting a beacon, inviting more tanks and soldiers to their position. The group continued flying, the oasis now visible in the distance—a green spot amidst the sea of sand, leaning palm trees and a pool of glistening water, promising temporary refuge. The sun rose higher, intensifying the heat, and Megan felt the increasing strain on her telekinesis, but she persisted, the group drawing closer to their destination while the weight of the revelations hung in the air like desert dust.
The flight continued, each kilometer covered bringing more details to the scenery: the dunes varied in height, some reaching 50 meters, with crests as sharp as blades, sculpted by the constant wind. Erick monitored Kid Flash—vital signs stable, but the brain contusion required rest; he calculated that in a few hours the speedster would wake up, groggy but functional. Artemis processed the information, her mind spinning with fragments—vague images of training, arrows flying, but nothing solid. Megan, in turn, tried to mentally probe ahead, searching for echoes of Robin or Aqualad, but the fog persisted, limiting her reach. The desert was a natural labyrinth, with hidden valleys and outcrops that could shelter allies or enemies. They flew in tight formation, the silence returning, punctuated only by the wind and internal thoughts—a fragmented group, united by necessity, heading towards regrouping in a hostile world.
The Bialian desert sun beat down mercilessly, turning the air into an invisible furnace where each breath seemed to suck the oxygen directly from his lungs. In the center of a vast clearing surrounded by high dunes and reddish rocks, Superboy stood, his body tense like a spring about to snap. His arms were stretched out to the sides, bound by thick, lustrous black ropes—synthetic material reinforced with experimental fibers, likely developed in secret Bialian government laboratories, designed to withstand forces that would destroy ordinary steel. The ropes bit into his skin, leaving red marks that were already beginning to heal thanks to Kryptonian regeneration, but the constant pressure was enough to limit his movements.
Around him, a deadly circle of vehicles and men formed. Armored Jeeps parked in a semicircular formation, their tires sunk into the sand for stability, machine guns mounted on turrets pointed directly at the boy. Soldiers—at least sixty—stood in defensive positions, assault rifles raised, red laser sights dancing across Superboy's bare, sweat-marked chest. Behind the line of Jeeps, two M1A2 tanks modified for desert operation, with sandy camouflage and main guns pointed at the central target. The engines purred low, a deep rumble that vibrated on the ground and rose up the soldiers' legs. The air smelled of hot oil, burnt gunpowder, and heated metal.
Superboy breathed heavily, the muscles in his shoulders and back swollen with exertion. His eyes—deep blue, now bloodshot with fury—swept across the circle of enemies. He tested the ropes again, flexing his biceps. The black fibers stretched with a sound like a guitar string under extreme tension, groaning under the pressure. Several soldiers—ten on each side, gripping the ends of the ropes with reinforced gloves and feet firmly planted in the sand—felt the pull and leaned back, shouting orders to each other in rapid, urgent Arabic.
Then he really pulled.
With a guttural roar that echoed through the dunes like dry thunder, Superboy flexed his arms inward. The ropes stretched to their limit, the nearest soldiers dragged forward like rag dolls, their feet slipping in the sand. He swung his torso violently, using the momentum to hurl the men holding the ropes. Forty soldiers—twenty on each side—were launched into the air as if they were nothing. Bodies flew in clumsy arcs, colliding with each other, falling onto the hoods of jeeps, rolling through the sand in clouds of dust. Cries of pain and surprise erupted in the air; some soldiers limped to their feet, others remained motionless, broken bones or severe concussions.
But the ropes didn't break.
The material held, elastic enough to absorb some of the titanic force, and immediately another group of soldiers—reinforcements who had been expecting exactly this move—jumped onto the free ends. They gripped the ropes with climbing hooks and safety harnesses attached to the vehicles, creating human and mechanical anchors. Ten more, then twenty, then thirty men threw themselves onto the ropes, pulling with all the strength their trained bodies allowed. Superboy felt the counterweight and growled, teeth bared, veins bulging in his neck and forearms. He pulled again, dragging the entire group several meters across the sand, leaving deep furrows in the ground.
The circle closed even tighter. The remaining soldiers raised their weapons, laser sights converging on his chest. The tanks swung their cannons, the metallic sound of hydraulic mechanisms echoing loudly. An officer shouted an order, and the soldiers holding the ropes tightened even more, muscles trembling with effort, sweat dripping down their dust-covered faces.
Then, a solitary figure emerged from the shadow of one of the tanks.
A pale man—his skin as white as a sheet of paper, almost translucent under the brutal sun—walked slowly through the circle. He wore a dark hood, something absurd in the desert heat; the fabric absorbed the heat, but he didn't seem bothered. The hood covered his face, leaving only shadows where his eyes should have been. The soldiers made way, a respectful and fearful silence settling in.
One of the officers, with captain's insignia on his shoulder, turned to the pale man.
"Can you get inside his head?" she asked in English, her voice low but urgent.
The pale man stopped a few feet from Superboy. Slowly, he raised his bony hands and pulled his hood back.
What remained of his head was grotesque.
The skull was exposed—no skin covered the brain. The organ pulsed visibly, protected only by a thin, translucent membrane, almost like a bubble of biological plastic, stretching over the gray and pink folds. Thick veins ran across the surface of the membrane, pulsing slowly. There was no hair, no visible ears, just the bare brain mass exposed to the hot air, and milky white eyes that seemed not to focus on anything specific. The sight was so disturbing that several soldiers looked away, even the most hardened.
The creature—because it no longer seemed human—tilted its head slightly, as if examining Superboy.
"I don't know if there's a mind that can control it," he said, his voice dry and whispered, like dead leaves brushing against each other. His accent was indefinable, almost absent. He raised one of his thin hands, his long, slender fingers trembling slightly.
Superboy growled, trying to lunge forward, but the ropes held him in place. His muscles tensed again, the soldiers screaming in effort as they were pulled once more. He was about to lose his balance.
Then the pale man closed his eyes.
His hand rose higher, palm open, facing Superboy. An invisible—yet palpable—wave emanated from him. The air around him seemed to ripple, like heat rising from the asphalt, but colder, denser. Superboy blinked, his blue eyes widening for a moment. His shoulders relaxed against his will. The roar died in his throat. The veins in his neck diminished. His knees buckled.
He struggled—his clenched fists trembled, his teeth gnashed—but the psychic pressure was relentless. It was as if someone had switched off a light inside his head. His eyes rolled back, revealing white sclera, and he collapsed to his knees on the hot sand. His heavy body fell forward, the ropes loosening slightly as the soldiers, panting and exhausted, let out sighs of relief.
The pale man lowered his hand. The membrane over his brain pulsed once, visibly, as if breathing.
"Take him away," the officer ordered.
Soldiers approached quickly. Four of them grabbed Superboy by the arms and shoulders, dragging his inert body across the sand. The Kryptonian was heavy—even unconscious, his dense muscle mass made the difficult work—but they managed to lift him and throw him into the open back seat of one of the jeeps. The vehicle rocked with the impact. Other soldiers wrapped more ropes around his wrists and ankles, reinforcing them with heavy-duty metal handcuffs. The back door slammed shut with a dull thud.
The engines roared louder. The tanks swung their turrets away from the empty center of the clearing. The jeeps began to move, tires kicking up dense clouds of sand. Within minutes, the entire formation had moved away, leaving behind only deep track marks, furrows in the sand, and the bodies of a few wounded soldiers still groaning on the ground.
The desert returned to silence, except for the wind that blew, slowly erasing the footprints and carrying the dust away.
Superboy had been taken.
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