The League of Doom did not thank her.

They relied on her.

The laboratory hummed with power—benches cluttered with half-disassembled weapons, screens scrolling diagnostics faster than most of them could read. She moved through it all like gravity, steady and inevitable, hands already inside a device that had failed three continents ago.

Lex watched from the doorway, arms crossed. “I told you not to overload the capacitor,” he said coolly, not to her—but to the scorched remains of a gauntlet on the table.

Black Manta scoffed. “It was rated for that output.”

“It was rated for your understanding,” Sinestro snapped, irritation sharp. “Which is not the same thing.”

Across the room, Harley swung her legs on a stool, peering over goggles. “She fixes my stuff every time,” she said cheerfully. “Even when I duct-tape it on backwards. That’s talent.”

A low mechanical whine cut through the bickering as one of the devices powered back on—clean, stable, perfect. The room went quiet.

Lex’s mouth twitched. “See?” he said, smug now. “Functional.”

Grodd huffed. “She should have been consulted before deployment.”

“She always should be,” Lex replied. “Yet you all insist on breaking things first.”

The woman didn’t look up. Didn’t react. Just set the tool aside and reached for the next ruined piece of tech like this was routine—because for her, it was.

They argued. They postured. They failed spectacularly.

And then they came to her.

Because every weapon, every suit, every doomsday device eventually ended up on her table—and it always left better than it arrived.

The League of Doom planned destruction.

She made sure it actually worked.