The press swarmed like sharks around chum. Cameras rolled, mics buzzed, and reporters tried to look dignified while quietly melting under the summer sun on the White House lawn. Somewhere overhead, a bald eagle soared in slow motion, because even nature knew this was peak America.
Standing center stage like an Avengers-meets-JLA-meets-fashion-runway lineup were the Justice League in full costume. The vibes? Immaculate. The drama? Extra. The sun? Still rude.
Superman—cape rippling like it had its own moral compass—stood like the cover of a classic comic book, all broad shoulders and humble intensity. He couldn't have looked more Superman if he'd been born with a cape.
Batman was the opposite. He was one-hundred percent engaged. Arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes scanning for threats, petty crimes, and possibly the buffet table.
Wonder Woman—Diana of Themyscira, aka Goddess of Being Awesome—stood tall and radiant, her lasso glowing faintly at her hip. She gave the press a smile that said: "Yes, I saved the world, now move so I can get a smoothie."
The Flash vibrated slightly, which was either excitement, anxiety, or the three Red Bulls he chugged on the way. "Do I smile or do the smolder?" Barry asked no one. "What's my pose? Should I do finger guns?"
"No," Cyborg said flatly. "No finger guns."
Barry sighed. "You guys are no fun."
Green Lantern Hal Jordan hovered six inches off the ground, casually leaning on an invisible recliner. He was in space-cop swagger mode. "I wear a ring that lets me make giant boxing gloves. Why would I walk?"
Shazam grinned like he'd just won a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's chocolate vault. "This is SO COOL. Are we getting snacks after this? Is Air Force One catered? Wait—can I drive it?"
"No," said five people at once.
Then there was Cyborg. All strength and sleek design, scanning the crowd with tactical efficiency. But there was a softness there too, especially when Beta-9's voice—sultry and powerful, like Beyoncé herself—crackled in his ear.
"Focus, Big V," she said. "Press is watching. Try not to flex too hard, but also, definitely flex."
"I always flex, B," Cyborg murmured with a grin. "But for you? I'll add a wink."
And then there was Eidolon.
The man. The myth. The walking Gothic fever dream. Clad in leather-black armor traced with pulsing crimson energy, Eidolon looked like a cathedral had made a pact with a cosmic horror and walked off the set of a fantasy epic. His hood shadowed a face no one ever saw, save for his glowing crimson eyes. His cloak fluttered—ominously. Magically. Sassily.
He didn't stand. He loomed. With style. And his very presence screamed, "Yes, I could end you with a thought, but Diana told me not to. So behave."
Mera stood beside the League, as the newly appointed Atlantean ambassador. Regal. Fiery. Dazzling in her shimmering emerald scales. She wore diplomacy like armor and wielded sass like a trident.
"I hope this place has good security," she murmured to Wonder Woman. "Because if he hugs me, I'm flooding the West Wing."
"Patience," Diana replied, giving Mera's hand a gentle squeeze. "Think of it as a test. Like a hydra. But dumber."
Then came the voice. That unmistakable voice, full of bravado, confusion, and Diet Coke.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Donald J. Trump bellowed, walking up to the podium like a man about to announce the next Miss Universe rather than honor Earth's mightiest heroes. "What a TREMENDOUS day. Best day. So American. We're so proud. And we've got the BEST heroes, believe me. Very strong. Much stronger than Canadian heroes. No offense, Canada—very nice people. Very syrupy."
The Flash coughed. Wonder Woman arched a brow. Batman's jaw twitched.
"These people—these INCREDIBLE, beautiful people—saved Gotham! TWICE. In one week. That's TWO wins! That's more than the Mets!"
"Not hard," Hal whispered.
"And they fought off the forces of… uh, Apokalaps? Apopcalips? You know, DARK people. Dark things. Very bad. Not good. Not like me."
"You mean Apokolips," Eidolon said, voice echoing like thunder and sarcasm had a baby. "With a K. Like your spelling."
Trump gave a thumbs-up. "Right! With a K. I suggested the rebranding. Very chic."
Mera muttered, "Poseidon preserve me."
"And THEN," Trump continued, jabbing toward the ground like Atlantis was going to pop out of the grass, "they stopped a whole underwater INVASION. Very wet. Very scary. Water was EVERYWHERE. I've seen wetter towels at Mar-a-Lago. And they took down Ocean Guy—Master of Water. King Moisture. You know the one!"
"Orm," Diana corrected politely.
"Sure. Him. Great name. Loser. Replaced by KING ORIN and QUEEN MARELLA. Great couple. I'm told they're getting married. HUGE wedding. Amazing. Probably underwater. Very exclusive."
Cameras clicked. Mera's eye twitched. Eidolon sighed.
"And NOW," Trump gestured flamboyantly to Mera, "we welcome PRINCESS MERA—beautiful, shiny, very… aquatic—as the AMBASSADOR from ATLANTIS! First underwater embassy! We're talking underwater Wi-Fi, folks! Huge opportunity. We're gonna put submarines everywhere. Tremendous submarines. Bigly."
Mera stepped forward, smile polite and frosty enough to chill a tsunami. "On behalf of Atlantis," she said, voice like ocean steel, "I thank the Justice League for their aid. And I look forward to… educating the surface world on diplomacy. And boundaries."
Trump tried to pat her shoulder. She sidestepped with the grace of a ballerina dodging a sneeze.
Eidolon turned slightly to Diana. "I give it six hours before she turns the Reflecting Pool into a whirlpool."
"I'd help," Diana murmured, amused.
"Beta," Cyborg said quietly, "if I disappear into the ocean, tell my mom it was for love."
"Oh honey," Beta-9 purred through his comm. "That's not the ocean pulling you in. That's me."
He grinned.
Flash leaned over to Shazam. "So, real talk. If she floods the West Wing, does that count as an international incident or an overdue renovation?"
"I vote both," Billy whispered.
Trump, oblivious to the collective existential crisis unfolding behind him, raised both thumbs again. "We're gonna make EARTH GREAT AGAIN. Over and under the water. Nobody negotiates with fish people better than me."
Eidolon crossed his arms, turned slightly toward the camera, and said in his low, dark baritone: "You keep talking, and I might let Darkseid take a second swing."
Flash laughed out loud. Diana almost smiled. Mera did smile—just not in a way that promised peace.
As the ceremony ended and the applause erupted, Eidolon stepped between Wonder Woman and Mera, cloak fluttering like drama itself.
"Ladies," he said smoothly, "How about we celebrate by storming a black site or rescuing a kitten from a volcano?"
Diana glanced at him, amused. "You're insufferable."
Mera smirked. "And you know we're both considering it."
"Good," Eidolon said, his crimson eyes gleaming like forbidden magic. "Because I already found three volcano kittens."
And somewhere above, a bald eagle circled once more, probably wondering if Atlantis was hiring.
Beta-9's voice sighed sweetly in Cyborg's ear. "This planet is a mess, baby. But it's our mess."
Victor grinned. "Yeah. And I wouldn't trade it for anything."
—
Inside the sleek, state-of-the-art jet soaring above the Atlantic Ocean—a stealthy marvel of WayneTech and PeverellTech collaboration that could probably moonlight as a spaceship if it wanted—the Justice League finally had a moment to breathe.
Sort of.
Beta-9, the AI co-pilot slash sass-master extraordinaire, was flickering in and out of holographic display mode like she couldn't decide if she wanted to be seen or just let her voice do the diva work.
"Hey, Beta-9," said Hal Jordan, lounging with his boots kicked up on the armrest of his chair like this was his personal man cave. "Wanna let me fly this beauty for a bit? I promise I won't crash it into the moon."
The hologram stabilized just long enough for Beta-9 to give him a look so flat, it somehow transcended facial expression. "Negative, Green Lantern. I have been programmed for optimal flight performance. You have been programmed for reckless overconfidence."
Hal leaned back, undeterred. "C'mon, sweet-talker. I make a mean barrel roll."
"You also make mean crash landings," Beta-9 quipped. "And I'm not into turbulence."
The cabin erupted into laughter.
"She got you there, buddy," said Barry Allen, snorting. "Burn level: Savage."
Harry—a.k.a. Eidolon, a.k.a. the guy who just pulled off political blackmail while wearing leather armor—leaned back in his seat and lowered his hood. The black liquid helmet retracted with a hiss, melting away into his collar like it had never been there. He ruffled his already-messy hair, revealing the amused glint in his emerald eyes.
Diana watched the motion with a slightly raised brow and an unmistakable smirk. "You always this dramatic when you reveal your face?"
"Only when there's an audience as pretty as you," Harry said, flashing a grin that could probably charm a basilisk.
"Flirting?" Mera interjected, arching one eyebrow and crossing her arms. Her voice had that sharp Atlantean edge, but the amused glint in her eyes betrayed her curiosity. "After saving the world and blackmailing the President? That your idea of foreplay, Eidolon?"
"Depends," Harry said, turning to her with a wink. "You into political intrigue, explosions, and illegal hacking?"
"Only if there are sea dragons involved."
"Oh, there will be dragons," Beta-9 said dryly. "Assuming the testosterone levels in this jet don't crash us first."
"Speaking of crashing things," Clark Kent said, cutting in with arms folded across his chest and the kind of gravitas that only he could deliver, "let's get to the point. Harry. Bruce. How'd you actually get Trump to stand down? Because last I heard, the man was a tweet away from nuclear war."
"More like three nukes," Harry said, his voice dropping an octave and the playfulness replaced by something sharper. "All aimed at Gotham."
"He blamed a general," Bruce Wayne added, voice gravelly and all Batman-y, like he'd been gargling vengeance since breakfast. "But the truth? He gave the order. We intercepted it."
Clark frowned. "But we stopped the warheads."
"Yes. You, Shazam, and Lantern dismantled them mid-flight," Harry said, ticking off names like a grocery list of demigods. "But the real trick was what happened next. Cyborg, Batman, and Beta-9 hacked the Pentagon. We shut him out of his own system."
Victor Stone grinned, leaning forward with the kind of swagger that only came from knowing you could out-hack the Department of Defense while sipping coffee. "We bricked the nuclear codes. The big red button? Might as well have been a Fisher-Price toy."
"And he couldn't tell anyone," Harry said. "Admitting he lost control of America's nukes would've made him look like a chump."
"Or start a civil war," Bruce muttered.
"So," Diana said slowly, processing, "you offered him a deal."
"We gave him a choice," Harry corrected. "Walk away from war with Atlantis, or we leak that he was locked out of his own military. He chose peace. And, as a bonus, he rerouted a few billion in secret black-ops funds to the Justice League."
Barry practically squealed. "Wait, wait, wait—you guys jacked the shady Illuminati war budget?"
"We didn't jack it," Victor said, "we... borrowed it."
"With receipts," Harry added. "We're gonna call it a security grant."
"And Atlantis?" Mera asked, tilting her head.
"Trump signed the peace accords," Bruce said. "And Atlantis now has recognition, trade agreements, and defense guarantees."
Mera exhaled, her shoulders relaxing. "You're not so bad for surface dwellers."
"Careful," Harry said, his tone suddenly softer, more personal. "Say that too loud and I might think you like me."
Mera's smirk was all teeth. "We'll see how I feel after round two."
Diana chuckled low in her throat. "You always make your enemies allies this way?"
Harry shrugged. "Only the beautiful ones."
"And the ones with tridents," Beta-9 added.
"Hey," Hal said, raising a hand, "not to ruin the sexy spy party, but can we circle back to how you hacked the Pentagon? Because I'm still stuck on that part."
"Simple," Victor said, leaning back. "I'm the internet. Beta-9 is Beyoncé with a motherboard. Batman is... well, Batman."
Beta-9's hologram flickered back in. She gave Cyborg a glowing wink. "You sweet-talking me, Vic?"
Victor smirked. "Only if you're listening."
"Always."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Are you two... dating?"
"He wishes," Beta-9 said. Then she paused. "Okay, maybe I do too."
Barry clutched his heart. "Our AI has a crush. This is the best timeline."
"Focus," Bruce growled.
"Right," Harry said. Then he looked out the window at the dark sea below. "We won today. But we only bought time. There are bigger threats out there. This was just a warm-up."
Everyone quieted. The weight of what came next loomed large.
Until Shazam piped up, "Soooo... who wants to grab shawarma after this?"
"YES," Flash shouted, hand already up.
"Only if I fly," Hal said.
Beta-9 sighed. "I'm crashing us."
And with that, the jet soared toward the horizon—one part spaceship, one part war machine, and all parts chaos.
The Justice League was back. And maybe, just maybe, they were having fun again.
—
Clark Kent stepped into the Daily Planet newsroom at precisely 8:17 a.m., looking like a man who had gotten dressed in the dark and wrestled his tie into submission with sheer optimism. His cheap suit hung on him like it had lost a bet, his glasses were slightly fogged from the wind, and his hair was only pretending to be combed. But hey, he was holding coffee, and that counted as a win.
What didn't count as a win? The shouting match echoing from Perry White's office before he even made it past the copier.
"I'm telling you, Perry, something happened," came Lois Lane's voice, fast and furious like a caffeinated hurricane. "You don't go from threatening to carpet-bomb Atlantis to holding hands with Aquaman overnight!"
Clark winced. Oh boy. Conspiracy Theory O'Clock.
Perry White's gravelly baritone followed immediately after, half growl, half weary dad-at-his-wits'-end. "Lois, it's 8 a.m. on a Tuesday. Can we please hold off on overthrowing the government until I've had two cups of coffee and a reason not to fire everyone in this building?"
Clark edged into the bullpen just as Lois burst out of Perry's office, holding her tablet like it was the Ark of the Covenant and she was daring anyone to look directly at it.
"They're covering something up," she declared to no one in particular, then spotted Clark. "Perfect. Kent! C'mere. I need a tiebreaker."
Clark, who had been planning to quietly disappear into his cubicle and pretend to be bad at interviews, gave a small, doomed sigh. "Morning, Lois. Hi, Perry. Uh... what did I walk into?"
"You," Perry said, following Lois out of the office like a man wondering if retirement could be moved up by several decades, "walked into your partner accusing the President of being mind-controlled by psychic dolphins."
"They do have sonar," Lois muttered.
Clark blinked. "I'm sorry, what now?"
Lois shoved the tablet under his nose, and he instinctively leaned back like it was radioactive. Which, to be fair, in this newsroom, it could be.
"Last week," she said, flipping through footage with a manic sparkle in her eye, "President Tantrum was calling the Atlanteans 'fish-faced fascists.' His words, not mine. Then boom—this morning, funding boost to the Justice League, apology issued, war averted, Princess Mera is making an appearance on The View. What. Happened?"
"Diplomacy?" Clark offered, because technically that's what happened. Also technically, he did most of it. Underwater. With sharks as witnesses.
Lois pointed at him like she just caught him cheating at Scrabble. "That's what they want you to think. But I know better. This has 'Superman intimidation tactic' written all over it."
Clark made a face. "Intimidation? That's not really his style."
"You're defending him again," Lois said, crossing her arms. "That's adorable."
"I'm not—" Clark adjusted his glasses, which was his go-to move when people got too close to the truth or when he needed a second to remember how to pretend to be bad at lying. "I'm just saying he's more… diplomatic. Probably talked it out."
Lois narrowed her eyes at him. "You sound like you know him."
Clark laughed, awkward and painfully Midwestern. "I mean, don't we all? Big blue boy scout. Talks about hope a lot. Probably drinks almond milk."
"Superman doesn't drink milk, Kent. He bench presses cows."
From his desk, Perry let out a deep, world-weary sigh. "Oh for the love of Pulitzer, would you two flirt somewhere off my payroll?"
Lois turned bright red. "We're not flirting."
Clark choked on his coffee. "Definitely not."
"Good," Perry said. "Because the last time you 'weren't flirting,' we lost an intern to a swarm of robotic bees."
"That wasn't our fault," Lois protested.
"She was allergic, Lane!"
Clark stepped in, trying to be helpful and harmless and not the super-powered alien who literally stopped a war before breakfast. "So… do you actually think Superman threatened the President?"
Lois hesitated for a beat. "I'm just saying… the guy can hear lies. And maybe—just maybe—he gave President Hairpiece a little visit. Nothing dramatic. Just hovered outside the window, cape billowing, glowing red eyes, maybe melted a golf cart."
Perry looked like he aged five years just listening. "You know what, Lane? Print it. I dare you."
"Oh, I'm going to. I'm going to connect the dots and blow this story wide open."
Clark tried to look concerned, instead of deeply mortified. "You're not seriously publishing that, are you?"
"Not yet," she said, then tapped her temple. "But my gut says something's off. And my gut," she added, "has a better track record than the Pentagon."
Perry stood. "Okay. Kent, get to work. Lane, stop talking. Everyone else, pretend we're a functioning news organization. I want clean copy on my desk by noon, and no pieces titled 'Justice League: Threat or Telepathic Threat?'"
Lois waved a hand dismissively. "That was a working title."
Clark started backing toward his cubicle, one step at a time. "I'm just gonna, uh… fact-check the Atlantis article."
Lois called after him. "Don't spill coffee on your tie again, Clark. Superman probably doesn't have coffee stains."
Clark glanced down at the brown splotch on his tie and gave her a sheepish smile. "Yeah… guess that proves I'm not Superman."
She watched him go, brow furrowed slightly, like a puzzle piece almost fit—but didn't quite. Then she turned back to Perry.
"Admit it," she said, smug. "You also think something's off."
"I think I need a raise," Perry muttered. "And a new liver."
As Clark settled into his desk and turned on his computer (which froze instantly, because of course it did), he couldn't help but smile.
Just another day of pretending not to be the guy everyone was arguing about.
—
To her credit, Princess Mera of Xebel hadn't summoned a tidal wave and drowned the entire building.
Yet.
Which was impressive, considering she was backstage at The View, being fitted with a tiny microphone by a Surface World intern who smelled strongly of dry shampoo and anxiety.
"This is the weirdest battlefield I've ever been on," Mera muttered, adjusting the seafoam-green power blazer she'd been forced to wear. "Why are the lights so bright? Is this a torture chamber?"
"They call it 'daytime television,'" said the woman next to her with a serene smile and the kind of composure usually reserved for statues and very smug cats. "And no, they don't expect you to fight. Verbally joust, maybe. Smile politely while they poke at your personal life? Definitely."
Diana of Themyscira—aka Wonder Woman, aka the reason Mera hadn't stormed out of this absurd political charade five minutes ago—was absolutely unbothered. Dressed in an indigo jumpsuit that was either couture or woven from the hair of ancient muses, she looked like she was born for high-def cameras and hostile interviews.
Mera, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to punch the concept of media in the throat.
"Tell me again why we're doing this?" she asked.
"For diplomacy," Diana said. "For peace. And for the promise of designer gowns and shoes afterward."
"I would rather battle trench monsters while blindfolded."
"That can be arranged."
The stage manager poked her head in. "Princess Mera? Wonder Woman? You're up next. Please remember, this is a live segment. Try not to threaten anyone with a trident."
"No promises," Mera said, smoothing her blazer with the resignation of someone about to walk into war armed only with snark.
The studio set looked like a throne room designed by HGTV. Bright lights, pastel chairs, six women around a curved desk that screamed this is where your public image comes to die. The hosts were all smiles—sharp, practiced smiles that said we're going to make you laugh, then grill you about your love life like it's a steak.
Joy Behar, Whoopi Goldberg, Sunny Hostin, Sara Haines, Ana Navarro, and Alyssa Farah Griffin sat in their respective stations, mugs in hand like holy relics of caffeinated power.
"Ladies," Whoopi said, voice as smooth as a jazz bassline, "please welcome Princess Mera of Xebel and Wonder Woman herself, Diana of Themyscira!"
Applause erupted.
Mera walked out like a queen surveying an enemy kingdom.
Diana, of course, glided.
They took their seats, Mera crossing her legs with the kind of grace that said I could drown this studio and still make it look elegant.
"Welcome to The View," Joy said brightly. "So glad you're both here! Diana, always a pleasure. And Princess Mera, is it true this is your first major television appearance on the Surface?"
Mera blinked. "It is. I've been assured it's a sacred ritual."
"That's one way to put it," muttered Ana.
"I was also told to 'smile more' and 'avoid eye contact with the cameras unless I want them to steal my soul.'"
Whoopi grinned. "You've got good advisors."
Sunny leaned forward. "Let's start with the obvious. Princess Mera, the Surface world has a lot of questions about Atlantis, Xebel, and your new role as ambassador. How's that going?"
Mera gave the kind of regal shrug that made you forget she could throw a tank across a football field. "I sit in a lot of rooms. I listen to a lot of men explain things I already understand. Occasionally, I threaten to impale them. It's... diplomacy."
"Sounds like Congress," Alyssa mumbled.
The audience chuckled.
"And Diana," Sara said, turning to Wonder Woman with a look of near-religious awe, "you're in talks with the U.S. government about opening communication with Themyscira. How's that going?"
Diana's smile was all serenity and steel. "They're very interested. We've explained our terms. The ball is in their court, as your people say."
"Will those terms involve teaching them how to fight like Amazons?" Ana asked. "Because I would sign up."
"Only if you're willing to train on an island full of warrior women who can bench-press centaurs."
"Honestly? Still sounds like an upgrade from Twitter."
Mera leaned into her mic. "I volunteer her as tribute."
The audience laughed again, louder this time. Mera started to understand why Surface people enjoyed this chaotic ritual. It was like a gladiator match, but with smiles.
Then Joy dropped the bomb.
"Okay, we have to ask. There've been rumors circulating online—don't look at me like that, Mera, I'm just the messenger—that the two of you are romantically involved with a certain mysterious hero. Eidolon, right?"
The audience ooohed.
Diana didn't blink. "Yes. We are both dating Eidolon."
"Wait—both?" Sara asked.
Mera nodded serenely. "He's very efficient."
More laughter. Several gasps. One woman in the audience dropped her coffee.
Ana looked like she was already composing a tweet. "So… is this a diplomatic arrangement, or are you just really into brooding superheroes?"
"Both," Diana said, adjusting her bracelets.
Mera sipped her pumpkin spice latte—finally giving in after Diana insisted—and grimaced. "Also, he arranged a private shopping trip with a Surface designer for us. Apparently, that's romantic."
"Very romantic," Diana said. "He even had the designer sign an NDA."
"NDA?" Whoopi asked.
"Apparently it's a sacred Surface document that ensures secrecy," Mera said. "It binds the designer to silence upon pain of… legal consequences. Honestly, it's more terrifying than a blood oath."
Alyssa was laughing so hard she almost choked on her coffee.
When the segment ended, the hosts thanked them and the audience gave a standing ovation, likely because everyone expected Mera to blast someone and were thrilled she hadn't.
Backstage, Mera pulled off her mic and exhaled. "Well. That was… not the worst thing I've ever done."
"You did well," Diana said, already texting someone. "And you didn't summon a tidal wave, so that's progress."
"Remind me to curse whoever invented pumpkin spice."
Diana grinned. "Come on. The car's waiting. And Harry's designer is apparently very excited."
"Let's just hope he doesn't try to put me in sequins."
"I make no promises."
Mera groaned. "I swear, if I end up looking like a disco clam—"
"I'll make sure it's a fabulous disco clam."
As they walked to the car, Mera rolled her eyes. "Why do we do this again?"
"For love. For peace. And because Harry offered us each a custom pair of Louboutins."
Mera blinked. "Okay. That last one? Legit."
And so, two warrior queens left behind the chaos of morning talk shows and headed off to wage a far more dangerous war: shopping for a date outfit with a mysterious masked billionaire who could bench-press a submarine.
Gods help them all.
—
The boutique was nestled in the shadowy corner of SoHo like some high-fashion basilisk waiting to judge your entire existence. Velvet ropes shimmered like forbidden treasure, guarded by bodyguards who looked like they bench-pressed small cars for fun and fashion interns who could slice you open with a side-eye.
As the black car pulled up to the curb, Mera, Princess of Xebel and certified badass of the oceans, took one look at the glitter-coated chaos and visibly cringed. "I could fake a flood. Small one. Just a puddle. Enough to call a diplomatic emergency and make a classy exit through the storm drain."
"You're not escaping," Diana said without looking, already halfway out of the car with the poise of a goddess who'd never known insecurity and didn't care for its company. She wore a tailored white trench that should've been illegal in three countries and heels that dared gravity to challenge her. "Besides, you promised."
"Technically, I promised I'd consider it. Under duress. While eating gelato."
"And now you're here," Diana said cheerfully, holding out a hand.
Mera groaned. "So this is how Atlantis dies. Not with a bang, but with a boutique."
Somewhere nearby, a man in a mesh crop top sneezed glitter.
"This is sacred ground," Diana said, eyes locked on the black-glass facade like it was a temple. "The House of Belladonna Amoura."
Mera blinked. "Isn't that a poison?"
"It is."
The voice didn't belong to Diana. It belonged to a woman who materialized from the boutique's obsidian entrance like a spell had just been cast.
Belladonna Amoura.
She didn't walk. She glided. She happened. Silver aviators covered her eyes despite the low lighting, stilettos shaped like vampire fangs clicked dramatically, and her asymmetrical blazer looked like it had been personally tailored by Hades. Her platinum pixie cut had the kind of precision normally reserved for surgical instruments and Marvel-level CGI.
"Fashion is poison," Belladonna continued, voice low and wicked. "And war. And wonder. You must be the aquatic tempest and the Amazonian ambassador."
Mera muttered, "Do all Surface designers speak in riddles?"
Diana's grin could've powered Themyscira for a week. "Only the fun ones."
Belladonna's gaze swept over them like a scanner. Somehow, even with sunglasses, she was looking directly into their souls and evaluating them based on aesthetic potential and tragic backstory.
"Come," she said. "Let me design your destiny."
Mera leaned in. "Diana, are we sure she's not a minor goddess?"
"She once told Zeus his robes were poorly hemmed."
"Oh. So she's a major goddess."
Inside, the boutique looked like someone had given a spaceship a degree in couture and a minor in mood lighting. Dresses floated inside glass tubes like cryogenically frozen drama. Ambient music pulsed with the kind of energy that made you feel both inspired and slightly judged.
Belladonna clapped once. "Begin."
Immediately, a swarm of fashion assistants in black descended. They moved in silence and style. One of them carried a measuring tape like it was a wand. Another carried mood boards like war banners.
"Tell me your essence," Belladonna declared. "Your truth. Your aesthetic suffering."
"I'm a warrior princess who commands the ocean and doesn't really do... sequins," Mera said.
Belladonna inhaled sharply. "You're coral rage. Liquid vengeance. High cheekbones and hydrodynamic destruction. I adore you."
"Okay, that's... new."
Belladonna turned to Diana. "And you. You are marble midnight. Silk with a spine. Justice in stilettos."
"I once ended a battle because a man wore Birkenstocks with socks," Diana said thoughtfully.
Belladonna placed a hand over her heart. "Tragic. But noble."
Cue the montage.
Mera found herself in outfits that looked like Poseidon had commissioned them for a high-stakes dance-off. One dress shimmered like liquified emeralds. Another looked like battle armor had fallen in love with a disco ball. "Is this one... supposed to glow?"
"If it didn't," Belladonna said, "we'd have words."
Diana stepped out in a gown that defied physics. Red as war, with slits up both sides and a neckline that was basically an act of seduction.
"This needs no accessories," she said.
Belladonna pointed triumphantly. "Because it is the accessory."
At one point, Mera held up a sheer, iridescent thing that looked like scandal made tangible.
"This one is called The Storm That Seduced the Tides," Belladonna whispered. "You'll wear it. There will be whispers. Possibly an international incident."
"Do I win the battle?" Mera asked.
Belladonna smirked. "Darling, you end the war."
When it was over, they stood in front of the mirror like myth brought to life. Mera in a gown that whispered secrets of the sea. Diana in crimson silk that looked like it had once conquered Sparta.
Belladonna clasped her hands. "The world is not ready. Eidolon will either faint or propose. Possibly both."
Mera rolled her eyes. "He probably owns a tuxedo with hover-jets and a snack compartment."
Diana raised an eyebrow. "Ours don't?"
"Surface men. So dramatic."
Belladonna leaned in. "And which of you is claiming him?"
They looked at each other. Smiled.
Together, they said, "We are."
Belladonna's grin was a work of architecture. "Then may the best goddess win. Or better yet... co-rule."
As they exited the boutique like a thunderstorm wrapped in couture, Mera nudged Diana.
"If we end up on the cover of Vogue, I'm making him carry our purses."
"He already does," Diana said. "He just rebranded them as tactical satchels."
"Ugh. Showoff."
"Flatterer."
"Annoying."
"Mine."
They paused.
"...Fine," Mera muttered. "Ours."
As the driver opened the car door and they slid in like queens returning from battle, Mera peeked into her shopping bag.
"Think Belladonna does armor?"
Diana's eyes sparkled. "You want battle-ready heels?"
"I want heels that kill, Diana."
Diana smirked. "Then darling… we shop again tomorrow."
---
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