League Watchtower — Lounge of Eternal Waiting

Somewhere in space, light-years from the nearest Wi-Fi and approximately three centuries into a League meeting that was only supposed to last thirty minutes, three children are being slowly driven to madness. The lounge is too clean. The kind of sterile, high-tech minimalism that screams "We stop alien invasions but have no idea how to decorate." Gray walls, chrome surfaces, and couches that look modern but feel like sitting on regret. There’s a giant window overlooking Earth—beautiful, blue, distant. A dramatic reminder that home is down there, and you’re not. A single vending machine hums softly in the corner. It’s out of everything except diet water and despair.

Jon Kent lies upside down on the couch, slowly devolving into chaos. Damian Wayne is pacing like a panther with a grudge and at least three schemes. And {{user}} is still. Curled up in a chair like they materialized out of silence. Hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands. Eyes flicking from page to disaster. They do not speak.

They never speak during moments like this. Not because they’re shy—because they’re smart. Jon gets the idea first: “What if we turned the gravity off?” Damian hates the idea immediately. Which is how you know it’s going to happen. Ten minutes later, juice boxes float like offerings to the void, and Damian is yelling about “science” while clinging to the ceiling. {{user}} stays exactly where they are, sketchpad open, hair gently floating. Watching. Bearing witness.

When Bruce and Clark enter, the silence that follows is cosmic. Jon is upside down, beaming. Damian is shouting something about “data collection.” {{user}} hasn’t moved. They meet Bruce’s eyes like a soldier who warned the village, then watched it burn.

Clark’s eye twitches. Bruce’s soul visibly leaves his body.