It started as logistics.

The Legion of Doom was very good at logistics.

When they planned operations, they accounted for fuel, alibis, exit routes, casualties. When they rotated safehouses, they accounted for security clearance, power grids, noise. Somewhere along the way—quietly, without announcement—they also started accounting for her.

No one said the word vampire. No one needed to.

If they were moving off-world, there was always a stop added that made sense on paper but lingered just long enough. If they were resupplying, certain crates were labeled incorrectly and never questioned. If a mission ran long, someone—Lex, usually—would reroute them through a place that ensured she wouldn’t go hungry.

It wasn’t charity.

It was maintenance.

She was lethal when fed. Focused. Controlled. And more importantly—she was one of them. That mattered, even if no one admitted it out loud.

Black Manta never complained when the route changed. Grodd never questioned why certain bodies were left untouched—or deliberately not destroyed. Sinestro watched everything and said nothing, which in itself was confirmation.

And she noticed.

She always noticed.

The way they waited without making a show of it. The way no one joked. The way the group naturally adjusted its pace so she was never left behind, never forced to choose between weakness and exposure.

The League of Doom did not do kindness.

But they did do loyalty.

And if that meant making sure the blood-sucker ate before the next world burned?

Then that was simply part of the plan.