The clearing in the Bialian desert was shrouded in a tense silence, broken only by the night wind that whispered through the distant dunes, carrying grains of fine sand that danced in the air like invisible ghosts. The silvery moonlight bathed the group, casting long, sharp shadows on the cold sand, where the knocked-out and bound soldiers lay motionless in a corner, their uniforms soiled with dust and dried blood. Robin, still processing the embarrassment of the previous moment, adjusted the red cloak over his shoulders, feeling the night's chill penetrate the insulating fabric of his uniform. His eyes, behind the domino mask, swept over the faces of his companions: Forge, his face now exposed—white skin contrasting with disheveled black hair and blue eyes that seemed to carry an invisible weight; Artemis, her cheeks still flushed a deep red, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if trying to protect herself from further revelations; And Megan, floating slightly above the ground, her green skin glistening faintly in the moonlight, her red hair rippling gently in the breeze, an expression of determination mixed with innocence in her white eyes.
Kid Flash and Aqualad lay unconscious on the sand, carried there by Megan's telekinesis. Wally—Kid Flash—breathed shallowly, the swelling on his right temple bulging like a purple protrusion, thin veins visible beneath his pale skin, his black tactical uniform torn where the impact against the rock had been most severe. Kaldur—Aqualad—looked even worse: lips cracked and dry as ancient parchment, dark, dull, and dehydrated skin, eyes closed in deep furrows of exhaustion, his Atlantean uniform with sand marks clinging to where sweat had dried hours ago. The night air, now around 5 degrees Celsius, worsened their condition, the cold accelerating the loss of body heat and making shelter and hydration urgently needed.
The group formed an irregular circle in the clearing, the ground marked by the furrows of recent fighting—deep footprints in the sand, dark stains of blood where bones had broken, and pieces of twisted metal from destroyed weapons scattered like relics of battle. Robin broke the awkward silence, clearing his throat to clear it from the cold air. "If this is what we need to do to recover what we've lost... I accept," he said, his voice firm despite the persistent blush on his cheeks. He crossed his arms, mimicking Batman's posture in moments of decision, feeling the weight of responsibility as interim leader. "We have no choice. Without the memories, we're blind here."
Artemis, still flushed as if the moonlight accentuated her shame, uncrossed her arms for a moment, adjusting the bow on her back—the familiar weight of the quiver of arrows anchoring her to reality. She snorted softly, her breath escaping in a white cloud. "Fine, I accept too," she murmured, her green eyes avoiding Forge's gaze, fixing on the ground where the sand formed rippling patterns in the wind. "But only because we have no other choice. Let's just get this over with."
Forge nodded slowly, his blue eyes meeting Megan's with a confidence forged in past missions he remembered vividly. "I accept as well," he confirmed, his deep, controlled voice echoing the tone he used in his basement forge during crucial experiments. "Do whatever it takes, Megan. We're all in this together."
Megan, floating a little higher now, felt the collective weight of that confidence—as if their gazes were additional telekinetic wires, anchoring her to the group. Her white eyes blinked once, processing the confirmations, and she nodded solemnly. "Alright. I'll connect everyone's minds. Relax... it'll be like entering a shared dream." Her voice was soft, almost musical, laden with the subtle Martian accent that echoed in their minds like a psychic whisper. She extended her arms, palms facing upward, and closed her eyes, focusing her telepathic energy. The air around her shimmered slightly, an invisible green aura expanding like ripples on a calm lake, touching first Forge, then Artemis, and finally Robin. Kid Flash and Aqualad, unconscious, were excluded for now—their unstable condition could complicate the link.
The instant the connection was established, the real world dissolved like sand slipping through their fingers. They found themselves immersed in a strange, ethereal world—a vast web of luminous threads stretching infinitely in every direction, like a cosmic net woven from greenish light and pulses of psychic energy. Each hole in the net was a window to a memory: flashes of lived moments, raw emotions, guarded secrets. There, one knot glowed with the image of Robin training in the Batcave, sweat dripping down his face as Batman watched with silent approval; another revealed Artemis in a solitary moment, arrows flying precisely against imaginary targets, her fierce determination mixed with a hidden vulnerability; and further on, memories of Forge in his basement, elemental flames dancing in painful rituals, the smell of hot metal and burnt circuits filling the air. Megan's memories dominated the center—visions of Mars, familiar telepathy with her uncle, and fragments of the Earth she so admired.
At the heart of this web, Megan hovered like a guardian goddess, her eyes gleaming with an intense white inner light, her arms raised as if conducting a cosmic symphony. Her red hair floated around her head like living flames, and her form seemed larger, more imposing, clad in an ethereal cloak of psychic energy that rippled like waves on an invisible ocean. From her hands and head emanated rays of pure green light—thin as silk threads, yet pulsating with power—that stretched across the web, connecting directly to their minds. One ray touched Erick's (Forge's) mind, penetrating layers of memories protected by his neural chip, sensing the initial resistance before flowing; another connected with Artemis, navigating emotional barriers erected by years of solitary training; and the third reached Robin, intertwining with the mental discipline forged in Gotham, accessing the voids left by loss.
At that moment, they began to have visions—not like fragmented dreams, but like a cohesive narrative, reconstructed by Megan's telepathy. Memories of the previous day surfaced vividly, as if they were reliving each instant in high sensory definition: the smell of sterilized metal in the meeting room, the low hum of holograms, the weight of the mission hanging in the air.
They found themselves in the meeting room of Mount Justice, the former Justice League hideout now adapted for the young team. The reinforced metal walls echoed faintly with the sound of ventilation systems, and the air was crisp, a stark contrast to the desert that now surrounded them in reality. In the center, Batman dominated the room—his imposing silhouette in black and gray, his cape hanging like dark wings, his masked face impassive under the cold illumination of the holograms. Behind him, a translucent blue hologram projected maps and data, vector lines tracing routes across the globe, focusing on the Middle East.
Batman spoke in his deep, unwavering voice, each word laden with authority: "The watchtower detected a massive energy surge in the Bialya desert. Spectral analysis detected extraterrestrial elements at its origin. Find out what happened there. Bialya is a criminal state controlled by the Queen Bee. And it's not part of the United Nations League. Any communication risks being detected. Do not communicate by radio under any circumstances."
When he mentioned the Queen Bee, the hologram changed: her image appeared in life-size, a stunningly beautiful Black woman, with straight, black hair cascading over her shoulders, dark, penetrating eyes that seemed to hypnotize even through the digital projection. She wore noble attire—a gold and red dress with intricate embroidery evoking honeycombs, glittering jewels on her neck and wrists, exuding an aura of absolute power and dangerous seduction. The hologram rotated slightly, showing details of her regal posture, her hands adorned with rings that shone like stars.
Batman continued the explanation, the hologram now displaying a detailed map of Bialya — borders marked in red, vast deserts punctuated by oases, and hidden military installations. "You will land two kilometers from the Bialya border."
The visions then leaped, like pages turned in a living book, to their arrival in the country. They found themselves inside the bio-ship—an organic Martian vessel, its walls pulsating with luminescent green veins, the air humid and alive as if breathing. The ramp lowered with a hydraulic hiss, revealing the moonlit night desert of Bialya, endless sand stretching beneath the starry sky. Superboy descended first, carrying a large, heavy electronic device—a rectangular black box with flashing control panels, retractable antennas, and thick coiled cables, the same device they had just found when they located Robin. His Kryptonian muscles flexed effortlessly under the weight of hundreds of pounds, his bare chest sweating slightly in the cool night air.
They found themselves discovering the soldiers' hideout—crouched atop a hill similar to the one Robin had climbed moments before, the group observing from afar a camp illuminated by spotlights, camouflaged tents, and jeeps parked in formation. The smell of diesel and distant campfires hung in the air, and low voices in Arabic echoed.
Next, visions of the superheroes installing the equipment: Aqualad giving precise orders, his calm, authoritative voice echoing in the night — "Install it here, in this exact spot." The group dug a shallow trench in the sand, carefully positioning the black box, connecting cables to sensors embedded in the ground, calibrating the panels with quick touches on the holographic controls. The air vibrated with the subtle energy of the activating device, LED lights flashing in green confirmation sequences.
Robin operated the main panel, his fingers dancing over the buttons: "Affirmative. We'll be ready in a moment."
Kid Flash, standing beside him, was examining a portable scanner, his face illuminated by the blue glow: "Bingo? The place is full of Zeta rays."
Aqualad — probably the misspelled "Huawei," but clearly him — continued, his voice firm: "We continue to detect non-terrestrial trace elements."
Once again, the view shifted to Megan's point of view, as she gazed at the team in their makeshift camp. Her white eyes focused on her companions, feeling the telepathic link pulse like a collective heart. "I'll check in camouflage mode," she said, her form flickering as she activated Martian invisibility, her body merging with the night air like a green ghost.
Forge nodded, adjusting his helmet: "I'd also be investigating a soldiers' camp overseas."
Aqualad nodded, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon: "Be careful and maintain telepathic contact."
Suddenly, as if a curtain had been pulled back, they were all dragged back into the real world. The ethereal web dissolved, the rays of green light receding towards Megan, who opened her eyes with an exhausted sigh, lowering herself to touch the sandy ground. The desert reappeared around them—the cold clearing, the stars above, the icy wind carrying the scent of sand and the dried blood of defeated soldiers. Megan, Robin, and Artemis blinked, processing the influx of restored memories: the details of the mission, the bonds of the team, the dangers of Bialya now vivid in their minds as if they had never been erased. Forge watched, his neural chip having already preserved his, but now the group was aligned.
The Bialian soldiers' camp was a makeshift complex in the heart of the desert, camouflaged tents erected in a clearing sheltered by high dunes that blocked the icy night wind. Inside one of the largest tents, transformed into an improvised laboratory, the air was stifling, heavy with the metallic smell of electrical equipment and the residual ozone from high-voltage discharges. The thick canvas walls trembled slightly with the distant hum of generators, and lamps hanging from the ceiling cast a clinical white light over the scene, creating sharp shadows in the corners where supply crates were piled high. At the center of this precarious setup, Superboy was strapped to a metal cross-shaped device—a robust structure of reinforced steel, with horizontal arms extending to the sides, designed to immobilize prisoners of superhuman strength. His arms were outstretched and bound by extremely thick shackles, special alloy chains ten centimeters in diameter, studded with hydraulic pins that automatically adjusted to restrain any attempt at muscular expansion. Near his ears, two circular devices — like modified headphones with electrical coils flashing red — emitted a low, constant hum, ready to amplify neural impulses or discharges.
Several men in white lab coats, presumably scientists recruited by the Bialian regime, circled him, their faces illuminated by cold, professional curiosity. They wore insulating gloves and protective masks, pressing buttons on portable control panels connected by thick cables to the structure. With an audible click, one of them activated the system, sending high doses of electric shock through Superboy's body—currents of thousands of volts pulsing through the shackles, causing his muscles to involuntarily contract, veins bulging on his pale, sweaty skin. The scientists watched, fascinated, noting data on digital tablets, murmuring amongst themselves about Kryptonian resilience: "Incredible, the muscle tissue regenerates in seconds," said one, while another adjusted the meters to register energy spikes. Superboy howled in pain, his teeth clenched, his blue eyes bloodshot with fury and agony, but his body resisted—his skin steaming slightly where the shocks landed, but without permanent burns, his bones and internal organs withstanding the pressure that would kill an ordinary human in an instant.
In front of Superboy, just a few meters away, was a spinning sphere contained within a similar device—a spherical metal cage with electrified rods, designed to confine and test energy artifacts. The sphere, about the size of a basketball, spun furiously inside, its iridescent surface pulsing with internal blue and green lights, as if it were a captured alien energy core. At the same time, some scientists around this structure were also pressing buttons on adjacent consoles, releasing shocks into the sphere—discharges that made its rotation accelerate, emitting a loud, vibrant hum that echoed in the tent. The sphere seemed to react organically, as if it were alive, its lights flashing in irregular patterns.
While Superboy howled in pain from the continuous shock, one of the scientists switched off the system with a quick gesture on the panel, the buzzing ceasing abruptly, leaving only the echo of Superboy's scream in the confined air. At that moment, a pale, white man, with a translucent membrane on his head that allowed a view of his exposed brain—grey folds visibly pulsing, thin veins running across the surface like rivers on a living map—approached slowly. He wore a strange cloak, a dark, flowing fabric that seemed to absorb the surrounding light, creating a somber aura in contrast to his cadaverous pallor. The scientists respectfully made way, their gazes a mixture of admiration and fear.
"Fascinating," the man murmured, his voice dry and whispered, as if echoing from an inner void. He tilted his head, examining Superboy with milky, unfocused eyes.
"Taking level 4 shock," ordered the pale man, raising a bony hand to signal.
The scientist obeyed, pressing the corresponding button. Once again, Superboy roared in pain—a primal scream that reverberated off the tent walls, his body writhing against the shackles, muscles swelling in vain as electricity coursed through him like liquid fire. In front of him, the sphere contained within the device roared as if recognizing Superboy's pain—a strange, almost organic sound, like a distorted echo of his scream, its rotation accelerating violently, lights flashing in sync with the Kryptonian's pulses of agony.
POV Erick
In the Bialian desert, under the same silvery moonlight that illuminated the distant camp, Erick—Forge—and his companions were huddled in a small depression between dunes, the icy night air cutting like invisible blades. The sand beneath their feet was cold and compact, marked by recent footprints and the weight of unconscious bodies. Aqualad was now in critical condition, lying on the sand with half-closed eyes, his breathing shallow and irregular, his body trembling involuntarily as dehydration worsened with each passing minute. He murmured frantically, calling out the name "Tula, Tula, Tula," his weak, hoarse voice echoing in the void, as if he saw ghosts of his Atlantean past in the dry air. His dark skin was pale and parched, his cracked lips bleeding slightly, veins bulging on his arms where his Atlantean uniform had torn in several places.
The analysis device integrated into Erick's suit—a holographic scanner projected onto his helmet, with vital sensors flashing red—showed that his condition was critical: hydration levels at 40%, irregular pulse at 120 beats per minute, body temperature dropping to 35 degrees Celsius, signs of imminent organ failure in his kidneys and liver. Erick, his helmet retracted revealing his handsome face with black hair and blue eyes, analyzed the data with concern, the night air condensing in his breath. "Guys, we need to make a decision," he said, his deep voice echoing through the group. "We have to get Aqualad and Kid Flash to the bio-ship so they can receive treatment."
Megan rose, floating slightly, her white eyes gleaming in the moonlight, her red hair rippling in the breeze. "We can't leave Superboy behind," she insisted, her voice laden with psychic urgency that echoed faintly in their minds. "If they take him, we might never find him again."
Robin, adjusting his domino mask, gazed at the dark horizon where dunes rose like frozen waves. "Can you bring the bio-ship here?" he asked, his voice young but authoritative, feeling the cold penetrate his cloak.
Megan shook her head, hovering a little higher. "Difficult, it's too far," she replied, mentally calculating the distance—miles of hostile desert, weak signal due to Bialian interference.
At that moment, Erick repeated, adjusting the shield on his arm: "We have to make a decision. We're out of time."
Artemis, arms crossed over her green and black uniform, suggested, "Why don't you have them levitating?"
Megan responded immediately, her eyes fixed on the horizon as if sensing a distant presence: "It's impossible, I have to find Superboy, he's lost his... He's completely without his memories, just an empty mind and instinct. He could end up hurting himself in this state."
Robin intervened, crossing his arms: "We're in a critical situation. Superboy has extreme strength and durability, he can hold out. Aqualad needs urgent help now."
At that moment, as Megan was about to reply, she suddenly froze, her white eyes widening as if struck by a vision. Her mind involuntarily expanded, picking up distant echoes—visions of Superboy's mind flashing by: him roaring in pain, screaming while trapped in a machine, feeling indescribable pain that pulsed through electric shocks, his body writhing against thick shackles, a spinning sphere echoing his agony. Megan screamed, the sound echoing in the desert: "It's no use, we have to save him now!"
She took flight immediately, her body rising with extreme speed, cutting through the night air like a green missile, leaving a trail of psychic energy that dissipated in the wind.
The crowd shouted in unison, voices echoing in the clearing: "Megan! Wait!"
Robin, his eyes wide behind his mask, shouted one last time: "We still don't know who erased our memories, and it could happen again!" His voice was heavy with warning, the wind carrying the words into the void as Megan disappeared into the dark horizon.
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