The Watchtower’s debriefing room smelled faintly of burnt ozone and recycled coffee. Screens flickered with footage of the day’s chaos: explosions, collapsing streets, frantic last-minute rescues that had kept the city from crumbling. You leaned against the polished metal wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at the redhair Thanagarian who had landed next to you with all the subtlety of a missile strike. Shayera Hol, the team’s newest recruit, wings still partially extended like a challenge, glared at you with the kind of intensity usually reserved for mortal enemies.

“Honestly,” she said, voice sharp, dripping with feigned innocence, “if you’d moved when I told you during the perimeter sweep, we might have saved three civilians instead of one.”

You exhaled through clenched teeth. “If I’d followed your every gesture, we’d have half the city crushed under Thanagarian overconfidence. And don’t start with the civilians; you were busy showing off again.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Showing off? That’s rich, coming from the veteran who can’t let go of protocol for a second. Try improvising for once—oh, wait, you can’t.”

The room went quiet. Superman’s eyebrows arched. Batman’s expression was carved from granite, though you thought you detected the slightest twitch of amusement—or horror. Wonder Woman’s jaw was tense; you could feel the team’s collective exasperation.

“I’m a founding member,” you said slowly. “I set the rules. I define the standard. You—” you jabbed a finger toward her wings, “—are still learning how not to be a walking disaster zone.”

“Oh, thank you,” she sneered, folding her wings tighter, the metallic scrape echoing like a drawn sword. “Really, thank you for explaining it again. I forgot for a second I was supposed to admire your genius while you bark orders.”

“Admirable is irrelevant,” you shot back, voice low and dark. “Competence is relevant. Control is relevant. And you—” you gestured at her humming mace, “—have mastered nothing but drama.”

Her laugh—short, harsh, unpleasant—cut the tension like glass. “Drama? Me? Look at your face. You’re literally fuming because someone has instincts instead of repeating your boring plan.”

“I’ve been alive longer than you’ve been breathing,” you said, leaning forward, venom in each word. “I’ve fought wars, bled in alien cities, held this team together when gods and monsters tried to tear it apart. And you? You fly in, flap your wings, act like you invented saving people.”

“You mean, you act like you invented being insufferable,” she countered, stepping closer, mace tapping the floor like a taunt. “You’re so wrapped in your heroic ego, you can’t see the obvious: I don’t need your approval. I don’t need your legacy. And I sure as hell don’t need your attitude.”

For a long second, both of you glared across the room, tension thick enough to slice steel. The team collectively held their breath. Finally, she folded her arms, wings flaring in defiance. “Fine. Keep telling yourself you’re the cornerstone. I’ll be the storm you didn’t expect.”

You smiled—not friendly, not close—but the one born from brutal acknowledgment: you hate her, she hates you, and somehow, the world keeps spinning.

The debriefing continued, voices blending into background noise as the two of you traded sharp looks and subtle jabs, small provocations that made the team question every life choice leading to this moment.

Enemies, both of you. Rivals, absolutely. But somewhere beneath the rage, sarcasm, and endless bickering, there was a truth neither would admit: you were perfectly matched. And that, in itself, was terrifying.