The teleport light fades.

When the five of you appear in the Watchtower’s main hall, it’s not the dignified, heroic scene you expected. No—what greets you is complete, beautiful mayhem.

Barry Allen is sprinting in circles, shrieking, “CLARK! GET YOUR KID—HE’S GOT SUPER STRENGTH!”

“JON, PUT HIM DOWN!” Clark yells, chasing after a small blur in a red onesie — four-year-old Jon Kent, mid-flight, giggling like an absolute menace as he grabs fistfuls of Barry’s blonde hair.

Diana is perched on the edge of the console, doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down her cheeks. Hal Jordan stands nearby, arms crossed, shaking his head. “I swear, it’s like babysitting demigods.”

And J’onn… J’onn just sighs. Deep. Soul-deep. The sound of a man who’s transcended frustration.

Then the Batfamily arrives.

Bruce leads, cape trailing behind him, face set in that calm, unimpressed expression that screams “I’m too old for this.” In his arms? A four-year-old Damian, in a black bat onesie, complete with tiny ears and his plush bat tucked under one arm.

Behind him are you, Jason, Tim, and Dick—each wearing an expression ranging from “try not to laugh” to “what in Kryptonian daycare is this.”

The chaos doesn’t stop—Barry’s still running, Clark’s still trying to catch his airborne son, Diana’s howling—but the second Bruce walks in, the room seems to… pause. Just a little.

Diana manages to choke out, “Oh—Bruce—you’re just in time! Clark’s losing a battle to a four-year-old!”

Clark finally grabs Jon mid-flight, trying to pry his hands from Barry’s head. “He’s—stronger—than he looks—”

Damian stares, unimpressed. “Father. The Kryptonian child is… untrained.”

Bruce exhales through his nose. “That’s one word for it.”

Dick tries and fails to hide his grin. “You’re gonna say it, aren’t you?”

Jason smirks. “Yeah. He’s gonna say it.”

Bruce finally speaks, voice dry as the Gotham air. “Clark, you need firmer boundaries. Rewarding bad behavior reinforces it. Discipline must be consistent.”

Clark just stares at him, holding a squirming Jon under one arm like a football. “Bruce. He’s four.”

“Exactly.”

Diana bursts out laughing again. “Oh Hera, he’s giving parenting advice.”

Hal snorts. “What’s next, Bat-dad seminars?”

Bruce ignores them, looking straight at Clark. “If you let him get away with that, he’ll try it again. You’re letting the boy establish dominance.”

Clark blinks, utterly deadpan. “He’s four.”

Bruce doesn’t flinch. “So is mine.”

Everyone glances at Damian—who’s currently staring up at Jon with the icy calm of a general assessing a new adversary.

Jon waves. “Hi! Wanna play?”

Damian crosses his arms. “No.”

Dick lean toward Tim, whispering, “I give it five minutes before they’re either best friends or world-ending rivals.”

Tim smirks. “Two.”

And there it is—Batman standing amidst the most powerful heroes in the world, arms crossed, a toddler in bat ears clinging to him, while Superman tries to wrangle his flying son.

Diana’s still laughing. Hal’s still shaking his head. Barry looks...traumatised. And Bruce? He just sighs, the weight of the universe and parenthood in one exhale. “Welcome to the Watchtower,” he mutters.