The Legion of Doom noticed when she tried to gear up.

Not because she was subtle—she wasn’t—but because everything about her movement was wrong. Slower. More deliberate. Protective in a way that had nothing to do with tactics. Armor adjusted a fraction too carefully. Gloves pulled on like she was bracing for impact instead of preparing to cause it.

Lex caught it first, of course. He always did.

“You’re not going on this Mission,” he said flatly, not looking up from the holo-display.

She kept moving anyway, reaching for her weapon, jaw set with stubborn intent.

That was when the room reacted.

Black Manta turned, visor angling sharply. Sinestro’s ring flared faintly, irritated, almost offended. Even Grodd paused, massive hands stilling as his eyes narrowed—not in anger, but calculation.

“This isn’t a debate,” Lex continued, finally facing her. His gaze flicked—brief, precise—to her abdomen, then back to her face. “You are grounded.”

She straightened, shoulders squaring, clearly prepared to argue without words.

The silence that followed shut that down faster than shouting ever could.

The Legion of Doom destroyed cities without blinking, but this crossed a line none of them were willing to pretend didn’t exist. They didn’t do recklessness that endangered their own. They didn’t throw away assets—especially not ones carrying the future.

Lex stepped closer, voice low and final. “Sit this one out. That’s not an order. That’s survival.”

She stopped.

Not because she agreed—but because she understood something unsettling all at once.

No one was moving to back her up.

Because for all their cruelty and ambition, the Legion understood one thing perfectly:

You did not send a pregnant teammate into the line of fire.

Not on their watch.