Ascension Code: Reborn in the DC Universe - Chapter 0148

The elevator plummeted abruptly, in a descent that defied logic and common sense. The interior lights flickered as the cabin slid through a narrow tunnel, and Paula felt a sudden pop in her eardrums – that gentle shock that reveals the immensity of the depth. She closed her eyes for a moment, silently calculating: twenty meters, thirty… more. Her heart pounded erratically, reflecting off the chrome walls of the shaft, until something trembled and the doors opened.

What he saw on the other side provoked genuine astonishment, so pure that it almost made his neck ache.

Artemis led her down a wide corridor, its metallic walls gleaming under embedded beams of light, like pulsating veins coursing through the body of a mechanical creature. The soft hum of fans and the echo of distant footsteps filled the air with an electric tension. Through the glazed openings that dotted the path, Paula glimpsed seemingly endless rooms. Robotic arms, made of dark steel, worked in perfect synchrony: one performed precise welds, another fitted tiny screws, a third calibrated sensors with a greenish laser that blinked like an eye. Conveyor belts rolled incessantly, transporting circuit boards and metallic casings from one module to another, while suspended structures rotated slowly in bluish scanning beams. The entire complex vibrated with activity, an industrial ballet without the presence of a single human being, and yet it pulsed with the discipline of a Swiss watch on alert.

Paula felt a shiver run down her spine: she had had access to hundreds of clandestine facilities throughout her life – Intergang bunkers, secret laboratories in Star City caves, buried fortresses of the League of Shadows – but nothing had ever reached this magnitude. The technological density, the oppressive silence, the feeling of absolute anonymity: everything screamed that no one there owed anyone an explanation.

And this underground empire, hidden beneath Gotham Mansion, belonged to the daughter’s boyfriend.

The polite Erick, introduced by Artemis months ago. The young hero with the easy smile, a member of the Justice League. How many lies, how many secrets did she ignore?

They came to a huge metal door. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a mechanical sigh, the surface split in two and slid into the walls, revealing a pulsating darkness beyond the threshold.

But it wasn’t an empty darkness.

Inside, the room stretched with a high ceiling, vibrant like a cybernetic organism. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of holograms floated in the air, layers of bluish light interrupted by nuances of green and purple. Three-dimensional screens displayed fragments of the constantly transforming world: grainy images of seaports with containers stacked to the sky; airport runways illuminated by yellow spotlights; the organized chaos of nighttime avenues in Marseille, Singapore, and some remote point in Kazakhstan, recognized almost instinctively. Columns of numbers followed one another like alien languages, while maps marked pulsating points in global territories. Digital documents opened and closed in the blink of an eye, overflowing with raw data impossible to read with the naked eye. There were confidential bank records, cargo manifests containing route codes, radio intercepts decoded in real time – all presented with the precision of a surgeon.

Paula felt her throat go dry. Never in her entire career had she seen such absolute scale and control. And in the center of that sea of ​​information floated him: Erick, the hidden author of that subterranean machine, the guardian of secrets capable of moving nations.

Someone there was extraordinarily busy. And that person was sitting right in the epicenter of it all.

A single beam of translucent light pierced the dimness of the room, focusing on a high-backed chair in front of countless screens displaying codes and maps in furtive silhouettes. Paula felt compelled to correct her own impression: those lines didn’t form a simple chair, but a meticulously designed throne—each metallic segment, each structural reinforcement, each carbon fiber complicit in a design that radiated power. The screens orbited the luminous point like satellites around a star, projecting a silvery glow onto the dark steel of the floor and defining the space with an almost surgical coldness.

Artemis pushed her seat into the circle of light. The wheels glided across the metallic floor with a restrained yet intense whisper: there, only information had a voice, and that minimal sound sounded like a roar. The throne rotated slowly, as if wanting to assess the visitor from every angle.

Then, Paula saw — for the first time — the unmasked face of Jade’s boyfriend.

The young man with green skin settled into the chair with the naturalness of someone born there. He was almost two meters tall, with shoulders as broad as beams, dense muscles effortlessly accentuated by the dark fabric of his overalls. His face was disconcertingly beautiful: soft lines converged in an almost philosophical harmony, reminiscent of statues of ancient thinkers whose serenity seemed to transcend time. But it was his gaze that captivated: two light blue, attentive circles, so direct that they examined Paula from head to toe, registering details—the worn leather of her coat, the wedding ring gleaming on her finger, the slight tension in her shoulders—in fractions of a second.

Paula didn’t back down. Silently, she returned the scrutiny with experienced eyes: behind the neutral mask, old analytical gears turned. She recognized that pattern. She had deciphered powerful men in rooms stifled for decades, and there she saw familiar signs: subterranean isolation, global surveillance, obsessive control of every variable. It was paranoia architected in concrete and algorithms—the same kind that structured megalomaniacal empires, laboratories of insane scientists, corporate boards that collect risks like others collect stamps.

“Good evening, Ms. Nguyen.”

The voice was deep, measured, each syllable chosen to echo with authority. And the surname, of course, did not go unnoticed: not Crock — the name that carried his ruin — but Nguyen, his given name.

“I regret that we have to find ourselves in this situation,” he continued, “but extreme measures have become unavoidable.”

Paula’s face hardened like armor. Her education had been of no use to her, least of all that night. Now she understood the whole picture: that man, that empire buried beneath the earth, that throne surrounded by millions of electronic eyes. It was for him that Jade worked. It was he who pushed her daughter into Amanda Waller’s unforgiving orbit. The anger, contained in the sinister silence of the descent, finally found a concrete target—and Paula opened her mouth to…

“I have no words to ask for your forgiveness.”

Paula paused, feeling the air slide down her throat.

Erick leaned forward on the throne, his forearms resting on his muscular knees, his gaze fixed. There was no staged scene, no rehearsed corporate apology, no trace of false political contrition. There was only the inescapable weight of the truth.

“I put your daughter at risk. The operation was mine. The plan was mine. At some point during the preparations, something went wrong, and I still haven’t figured out what. But the responsibility isn’t shared.” His voice, heavy with regret, wavered for a moment. His eyes, once vivid as sapphires, were now a deeper, darker blue. “It was my fault. Forgive me.”

The silence that followed had an almost viscous texture, as if the air were sinking in layers of tension.

Paula remained motionless, surprisingly without reaction—and, for someone who had spent almost three decades in the underworld, that was almost a miracle. She had served bosses who threw entire families into the river, scientists who treated people like mere lab rats, executives who approved massacres with the same indifference with which they served themselves a cup of coffee. They all had something in common: they never bowed before a mistake. The blame always fell on the subordinate, on chance, on the enemy. To assume guilt was to shake the pedestal on which they stood.

And there he was, a young man seated on a throne that upheld an empire capable of bending nations to his will, confessing a guilt with the solemnity of someone repeating a prayer recited for days.

The “kind hero” had disappeared down the hallway. The “paranoid megalomaniac” had resisted until that moment. Now there remained something that Paula still couldn’t name—a mixture of curiosity and unease that tightened around her chest like an invisible fist.

She exhaled the air she held in her diaphragm and raised her chin in a gesture of polished steel. The anger still boiled inside, but it felt like a dead weight she couldn’t carry. She knew plans like no one else: they knew how to crumble like houses of cards under the breath of reality. The chair beneath her feet was daily proof of that.

“There’s no point in being angry with you,” she said finally, her voice firm. “And there’s no point in arguing about what’s already happened. We need to act now if we want to save Jade.”

Something gentle appeared on Erick’s face—perhaps approval, but nothing like relief. He leaned back, raising his chin toward the set of canvases, like a monarch defying fate.

“I’m investigating. I have agents on five continents, hackers dismantling server after server, and a series of other measures that I prefer not to detail. But it’s proving more challenging than I imagined. Whoever took control has erased their tracks with surgical precision, which reduces the list of suspects… but it’s still a list.”

“Then stop your search.”

Paula’s words echoed through the room like a stone thrown into a tranquil lake. Erick and Artemis turned in unison.

“I already know who kidnapped my daughter.”

Erick’s face changed—not in a dramatic gesture, but as if a layer of ice advanced beneath his skin, petrifying every muscle. His blue eyes became two glaciers, and Paula felt a shiver run down her spine, the same shiver that gripped Artemis beside her, a veteran hardened by the battlefields, now frozen by her boyfriend’s gaze.

“And who would these people be?” His voice came out low, restrained, but laden with a subtle threat.

“Before Artemis brought me here,” Paula maintained the cold tone of someone presenting an operation report, “I received a call. Amanda Waller. I don’t know if you recognize the name. She kidnapped my daughter and wants me to extract information from her that Jade refuses to give.” A brief, almost surgical pause. “And I believe that information has everything to do with you.”

The air in the room seemed to gain weight, accumulating like a leaden cloud over the two of them. Artemis took a half step back. Paula gripped the edges of the wheelchair without realizing it, with the same firmness as someone seeking a foothold in a stormy sea.

The throne has once again become the focus of the polls.

Then all the screens stopped working.

Hundreds of holograms disappeared in a cascade, like a river of light being swallowed by darkness, and for an instant only the twilight and the suspended breath of the two women existed. Then, the light returned—but its focus had narrowed to a single point.

On the central screen, a Black woman appeared, corpulent, with short hair and a stony gaze. Multiplied in photographs, official records, and security camera footage, she dominated the space. Around her, the digital world opened up like a monstrous fan: news, dossiers, documents stamped with extreme secrecy—padlocks that seemed like toys in the hands of Erick’s hackers. Personnel files, career histories, addresses, medical records, consultations, and prescriptions unfolded in successive layers, dismembered at a speed that left Paula breathless, even though she had already witnessed intelligence operations around the world.

And then the others arrived.

Files—layers of floating light and beams of three-dimensional data—exploded throughout the room, illuminating the somber atmosphere with shades of blue and green. Holograms of reports pulsed on the panels: Task Force X. Suicide Squad. Censored mission logs, with entire sections covered by black rectangles, slid in silent columns. And there were the agents, in flesh and blood and in digital form. Face by face, file by file, a mosaic of profiles unfolded around the perimeter: medal-laden veterans, courtroom monsters with glacial stares, metahumans strapped to explosive collars. Each codename generated new document branches; each branch, precise coordinates.

Erick’s voice cut through that ocean of trembling, crystalline, and impersonal light, cold as the depths of his own heart.
“Then I found you. The one responsible for this.”

On the immense screen suspended above the metallic throne, the hologram of Amanda Waller remained motionless, her eyes gleaming with determination, her austere face illuminated by gray lights that accentuated each wrinkle. She stared at the room with the expression of someone who had never allowed guilt to rob her of sleep.

Artemis and Paula stepped onto the steel floor covered in colorful reflections, positioning themselves on either side of the throne. The echo of their footsteps mingled with the constant hum of the holographic devices. Paula raised her chin and let her gaze sweep across the cascade of data, absorbing the magnitude of what she saw. Against her will, the word escaped in a low voice:
“Impressive.”
“But not enough.”

In the center of the room, a suspended globe rotated with precision, tracing each continent with thin lines of turquoise light. On its surface, red dots shimmered in an irregular sequence – dozens of targets scattered across American territory and beyond: clandestine facilities, maximum-security prisons, secret bases not included in any official budget.

“All of these facilities are linked to Task Force X and Amanda Waller,” Erick explained, his voice thick with certainty. “Official, secret, hidden even from Congress. My artificial intelligence has scoured each one of them—energy consumption, data traffic, personnel movement, supplies.” He paused, the silence settling in like a snap in the air. “Your daughter isn’t listed on any of them.”

Paula’s expression hardened, her eyes narrowing in cold determination. Artemis, beside her, displayed the same tension – jaw clenched, brow furrowed, prepared for what was to come.

“Which means Jade is in another location, a point off all records, kept isolated even from Waller’s own structure.” Erick brought his fingertips together in front of his mouth, his eyes fixed on the hologram’s ballet of lights. “This makes the rescue mission much more difficult. You don’t break into something you can’t find.”

With a smooth turn, the throne rotated on its metal axis, aligning Erick directly with Paula. The creaking sound echoed off the cold metal.
“They said they want you there. To extract information from your daughter. Correct?”

Paula murmured a brief nod, without taking her eyes off the red constellation that was spinning before them.

“Then let’s go after her.” Erick’s voice hardened, becoming a single sentence. “You know what Waller will do to Jade, even if she vomits everything on me. And I highly doubt that will happen.”

Paula nodded again, more slowly. She knew. No one else understood better. Amanda Waller had been one of the reasons Paula had abandoned that life – besides, of course, the detail about her legs. The two things were inseparable. Waller orchestrated the operation that left Paula sprawled on the damp warehouse floor, her spine fractured with a dry crack, her career destroyed in an instant. Between them was an old personal debt, with years of accrued interest. Paula knew the creditor’s method: prisoners who surrendered everything saw their value evaporate, and in Waller’s world, what has no value doesn’t occupy cells for long – be it a bullet, an explosive collar, or a suicide contract.

But there would be no confession. Paula knew her daughter. Jade would endure everything to the end, through clenched teeth and that ironclad pride that tore at her heart. She had inherited this strength from who knows where. From me, Paula admitted in her thoughts, and the confession hurt both sides at the same time.

She looked at Erick, studying him for a moment, trying to decipher the enigma: why had Jade risked so much for that man? What had he offered that was so valuable as to attract the League of Shadows, the American government, this silent war against everyone? And it wasn’t just Jade. Her two daughters were linked to that green-skinned man, each by an invisible bond, and Paula wasn’t there to see the knots being tied.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips, laden with frustration and regret. She should have protected her daughters better, she thought. Guilt hung thick in the air.

Then Erick stood up. His body erect, his gesture smooth and decisive, like someone abandoning doubt and embracing action. Standing, his silhouette stood out against the planet of light and the crimson dots, imposing.
“If we can’t track her down by conventional means, we’ll resort to others.” He fixed Paula with a burning gaze, like a plan being hatched. “She wants you there, doesn’t she?”

Paula nodded with a slight movement of her head, firm as someone who accepts a destiny already mapped out.

“Then we’ll take you there.” Erick circled the throne in a sweeping gesture, his boots echoing on the dark marble floor. Each step reverberated through the silent chamber, and his voice—firm and unwavering—sounded over his shoulder like a sentence. “Follow me.”

Artemis pushed her mother’s wheelchair through the immaculate corridors of the base, keeping pace with Erick, whose footsteps echoed off the metal walls. Paula observed every detail: the slivers of light escaping through hidden cracks, the subtle glow of sensors embedded in the ceiling, the gradually decreasing temperature, dry and cold, inspiring a feeling of constant vigilance. The doors opened automatically as Erick approached, moving with a soft whisper, without him needing to touch any doorknob.

They walked through a corridor where structures shrouded in gray tarpaulins stood like beached ships, silhouettes that promised dormant secrets. Then they entered a gallery suspended by steel beams, with glass walls that revealed a deep well bathed in an ethereal blue light; the bottom disappeared into the shadows, like an infinite ocean. With each new wing, a thought crystallized in Paula’s mind: this didn’t seem like a hero’s hideout. It was the capital—the administrative and scientific heart—of something much bigger.

Finally, they entered the hospital wing. Paula knew immediately where they were thanks to the details: the air was noticeably colder, filtered by systems that removed even the smallest trace of impurities; an aseptic, acidic odor hung in the air, immune to any perfume. The walls were covered with metal shelves illuminated by white LEDs, displaying an inventory that ranged from the familiar to the completely inexplicable: long rows of shimmering beakers, sealed flasks containing liquids of colors nonexistent in nature, surgical instruments lined up with the precision of a military arsenal, alongside items that seemed to have been plucked from the depths of a dream—crystals suspended in milky broths, flasks that emanated their own faint, hypnotic glow, like trapped fireflies.

In the center of the room, the air seemed to vibrate suddenly, as if the particles were responding to an invisible command. And then, without warning, a man appeared out of nowhere, woven from solid light, pixel by pixel, until he took complete form: he wore an impeccable white coat, thin-rimmed glasses rested on his nose; his features were mature, calm, with the air of a family doctor who inspired confidence. The hologram was so perfect that Paula doubted for a second that she wasn’t looking at a being of flesh and blood.

The doctor of light bowed with meticulous reverence. “Sir, how can I help you?” His voice was vague and neutral, yet laden with an almost poetic and mechanical courtesy.

Erick stopped a few steps away and, with a sweeping gesture, introduced the two women. “This is Paula, Jade and Artemis’s mother.”

The hologram turned to Paula and tilted its head with the same precision as a well-calibrated robot. “How can I help you, ma’am?”

“I want a complete treatment,” Erick said firmly.

“Complete in what sense, sir?”

“Everything we have here.”

For a moment that seemed like an eternity, something gleamed in the doctor’s artificial eyes—if a hologram can express surprise, this one certainly did. Then, he assumed an expression of professional satisfaction. “Understood, sir.”

Paula frowned, exchanging a confused look with Artemis. Complete treatment? What exactly did that mean?

“You can rest assured, sir.” The hologram raised its hand toward the ceiling. The room responded to a silent command: small lights aligned, illuminating the center of the room.

The floor began to vibrate softly, the hum of gears spreading beneath the wheelchair wheels. Ahead, metal plates slid over one another, opening a wide hatch in the smooth floor. From the crack emerged a platform, rising slowly like an underwater elevator until it was level with the ground. On it rested an object that made Paula’s heart race: a vertical capsule, the size of one and a half people, with translucent, curved surfaces, connected to the floor by tubes and cables as thick as tree trunks. The empty interior reflected the cold light in droplets of condensation; at the top, folded mechanical arms resembled the legs of a sleeping insect, ready to awaken.

“What could it be?” Paula’s voice came out firmer than she expected, trembling with emotion.

Erick crossed his arms over his chest and leaned slightly forward, his expression grave. “Your daughter suffered all this because she was seeking a cure for you.”

Paula’s chest tightened, and a knot threatened to cut off her breath. “She…?”

“Exactly. She spent years selling her talents to anyone who promised to restore her legs.” He raised his hand toward the capsule. “She accepted mission after mission—for the League of Shadows, for Intergang, for collectors and criminals whose names you would never hear—always in exchange for the promise of a cure. They all deceived her. They all disappeared after receiving payment.” Erick’s blue eyes never left hers. “I promised a real cure. And I kept my promise.”

His voice had the firmness of someone who carried an unwavering truth. He described how Jade would deliver Paula there, in a week, for the procedure, how everything was ready, only the date remained to be set.

Paula’s world crumbled. A torrent of emotions overwhelmed her: the pain of realizing her daughter’s silent sacrifice, the anguish of having risked so much for her, and, stronger than anything, a corrosive pride. An immense pride for a girl who plunged into the underworld and resisted despair, never giving up on her mother.

“Okay.” Erick’s voice sounded distant, but clear. He uncrossed his arms. “The time has come. I wish it were under different circumstances, but we can’t choose the perfect moment. We’re going beyond what was agreed upon.”

Paula looked up, a mixture of relief and distrust in her pale eyes. “And what do you intend to do now?”

And then Erick smiled. A smile as subtle as it was sharp, the precise curve of a scalpel about to tear the veil of hope. It was the first time Paula had seen him smile since that nightmare had begun, and the gesture was devoid of any human warmth. It was the smile of a gambler revealing, from up his sleeve, the secret card capable of annihilating his opponent.

“You’ll regain your movement. But that’s not all.” He took a step, almost floating, toward the capsule—a gleaming cylinder of glass and stainless steel—and the cold light of the equipment cast dramatic shadows under his chin. “We don’t have time for months of physical therapy and rehabilitation. You don’t get where you get as a convalescent. So, let’s prepare you a little better.”

The air in the hospital ward, thick with disinfectant and artificial cold, seemed to compress around Paula. Her throat burned with saliva that constantly dried up.

“I don’t know if you know Slade Wilson.”

That name slid down her spine like an iceberg: Slade Wilson. The Terminator. The memory of his fists capable of shattering steel before his opponent’s brain could even react. Paula remembered every encounter: the sound of bones breaking, the metallic taste of her own blood, the weeks of acute pain that followed. He was the culmination of a military experiment that had transformed flesh into a fighting machine—a formula that had never been replicated.

“I managed to reverse-engineer the serum that gave him his powers.”

A deathly silence hung over the ward. The surrounding machines continued to emit indifferent beeps, but the world seemed to freeze the instant Erick uttered those words.

“Not only that.” Erick maintained a calm tone, as if making a request. “I improved the formula, cross-referencing its base with the Bane Venom compound, removing all the toxins that destroy the body and mind. The result is stable, more potent than the original, without the collapses that left old Bane on his knees.” He looked at Paula and Artemis. “And it’s ready for use. I hope you’re prepared to receive it.”

Paula and Artemis stood petrified. Amidst the fluorescent lights, they knew from experience the value of that discovery: it would be worth more than fortunes, weapons, and government alliances. For decades, clandestine laboratories around the world had tried to recreate the accident that created Slade Wilson. Hundreds of test subjects had agonized, dying without leaving a trace. And now, before them, a young man—with serene eyes and sharp determination—had not only replicated the miracle: he had perfected it, stabilized it, consolidated it.

“It’s hard to believe,” Paula murmured, feeling the world tremble beneath her feet. It was the most sincere understatement she could muster.

“In a suit.” Erick’s smile widened a millimeter, as if amused. “But I did it. And at this point, there’s no more time for doubt. The compound has already been tested. It’s ready. The three of us will go through the process and come out stronger on the other side.” The smile vanished, giving way to an impenetrable, polished, and firm conviction. “And your daughter will come home.”

Paula swallowed hard as his words reverberated in her chest. It wasn’t an empty promise, it wasn’t rehearsed rhetoric: it sounded like a command from destiny. Each syllable seemed to carry the weight of the entire future, as if the simple act of pronouncing them propelled the world one step closer to victory.

“Sir.” The doctor’s voice broke the silence, muffled by the vital signs flashing on the monitors. “All done.”

“Excellent.”

Artemis pushed her mother toward the capsule. Paula felt the slight warmth of her daughter’s hands, still somewhat numb from the whirlwind of news. Beneath her furrowed brow, Artemis displayed an almost palpable bewilderment: the boyfriend she knew had become a manipulator of super-soldier serums, ordering surgeries that defied logic. And yet, in the girl’s eyes, there was a latent fascination, like gunpowder about to explode.

“Madam,” said the doctor, approaching with the precision of a Swiss watch, “we will have to remove all your clothes.”

Paula almost laughed. That awkward atmosphere was the opposite of anything she knew. She had already infiltrated a floating casino in Macau naked, crossed frozen waters with only her skin to avoid leaving a trace. Modesty… ah, modesty was a luxury for someone who had never been in a war zone.

With mechanical movements, she began to undress. Artemis gathered each piece of clothing, folding everything carefully, as if guarding relics. The icy air brushed against the scars that crisscrossed Paula’s body: the burn mark on her shoulder, a vivid reminder of Bialya; the long cut on her rib, a painful tattoo from a mission in Madrid; and the dead line on her lower back, where the skin hadn’t felt anything for years.

Artemis helped her to her feet from the wheelchair, and the doctor positioned her in front of the capsule. A low hum—almost a rumble—echoed as the glass door opened. Inside, articulated supports were being prepared, mechanical arms lurking in wait.

“Breathe normally,” the doctor instructed, his soft voice contrasting with the intense glare of the monitors.

A soft mask slid across Paula’s face, fitting like a cold embrace. The next instant, a thick fluid began to rise through the cylinder, translucent and warm, slowly enveloping her ankles, knees, stomach, and chest. It wasn’t cold—it maintained the same temperature as her skin—and that was all the more unsettling, as if the liquid thought, breathed along with her.

Paula’s consciousness began to blur, dulled by a sweet vapor escaping from the mask. By conditioned reflex, she tried to resist, reaching out her hands, but in fractions of a second she gave in: for the first time in years, there was a real reason to fall asleep.

The last image that remained in his blurred vision was the relentless silhouettes of Erick and Artemis, side by side, enveloped in the green and gold glow of the capsule. Above, small robotic arms began to descend, unfolding thin blades and instruments as precise as a watchmaker’s hands.

And then everything went dark.

Then, everything went dark.

…

Outside, Erick and Artemis remained motionless, their eyes fixed on the translucent wall of the capsule. A thin veil of mist formed there, momentarily blurring their vision—until the world lit up again in cool shades of blue and green.

Inside, Paula’s body floated in a viscous liquid, shimmering like liquid amber. The surface of the fluid glittered under the beams of light that passed through the acrylic, projecting undulating shadows onto the sterile walls of the room. Not an inch of skin moved, not a breath of air escaped—only the solemn stillness of a relic trapped in time.

Then, the mechanical arms appeared. Before reaching the shell, a faint, electrified hum ran through the air, vibrating in the metal clamps on the floor. When they touched the base of Paula’s spine, the sound transformed into a ferocious whisper of blades: blades smaller than fingernails, sharp as razors, that penetrated between the vertebrae and muscles with the dexterity of a goldsmith. Each cutting movement was accompanied by an amber flash—the result of an instant cauterization system—that sealed the tissue as it was opened, eliminating any trace of blood.

Between the sharp forceps, translucent probes penetrated, so thin they blinked in pulses of light like microscopic fireflies. They examined nerves and fibers, mapping each damaged bundle, translating the internal chaos into a diagram clearly projected onto the small monitor beside them. The repetition of the movements was so rapid and regular that the human eye perceived it only as a constant vibration—as if the room itself had vibrated in resonance with that surgery.

Artemis pressed her arms against her chest until she felt her nails dig into her skin. The tension in her shoulders betrayed a veiled fear beneath a mask of coldness.

“Before applying the serum, we need to completely cure the paralysis,” said Erick, his voice low and firm, reverberating in every metallic corner of the room. His blue eyes followed every second of the robotic work. “The compound amplifies what it finds. If there’s the slightest crack, it will become even bigger. It needs to be fully involved in the process.”

He stepped away from the capsule and pointed to a glass cylinder beside it. There, organic material was forming, layer upon layer, in a bath of reddish light that seemed to pulse like an artificial heart.

“This is the biological printer. Here, we reconstruct each broken fragment: the crushed vertebra, the severed nerves, the entire spinal cord segment—the corticospinal tract, the pathway that connects her will to her legs. Notice how the collagen fibers and neural matrix intertwine, thread by thread. When the tissue is complete, it will be grafted during surgery.”

Artemis looked away from the cylinder to her mother’s pale face and exhaled:

“What are the chances of success?”

Silence. Only the uninterrupted hum of the metal servants answered. Then Erick raised his chin and smiled, with absolute confidence:

“One hundred percent.”

The sound of that number reverberated in Artemis’s chest. She turned her head suddenly, as if trying to dispel her disbelief. One hundred percent. In her entire life, she had heard that spinal cord surgeries were cruel lotteries, that the fate of hundreds was decided at the edge of the operating table—usually with lasting consequences. And there, in that cold, technological room that Erick had erected, everything condensed into an unshakable certainty.

Sensing her apprehension, he walked toward her, leaning in just enough so that their bodies almost touched. The reddish light of the cylinder outlined her sculpted profile, and he spoke softly, with a hint of dark pride:

“The impression is made with the best of my technology, intertwined with the magic I’ve been developing. A perfect copy of what your mother lacks and, simultaneously, a biological seal that makes the body accept this copy as if it had never lost the original. Cell by cell, without rejection, without scars, without room for error.” He smiled again, but his gaze acquired a sharp precision. “And, after she is remodeled, the serum will do the rest—transforming her into something this world cannot even measure.”

Artemis swallowed hard, feeling the ground vibrate beneath her feet.

Suddenly, two side hatches opened with a dry creak. From within them, two other twin capsules emerged, empty, polished, waiting. The metal reflected the light in silvery facets, inviting her to take a place beside her mother.

Erick was already undressing. Without hesitation, he took off his dark clothes and placed them on a stand that rose to receive them—a mechanical altar erected between tubes and monitors. When he was naked, his green skin glowed under the white light, his muscles outlined like shadow stakes against the immaculate floor.

He turned over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on hers:

“Let’s not waste any time. In a few hours, you’ll cease to be merely human.” The voice sounded like an old promise. “Remember what I told you?”

She remembered.

A few weeks ago, she had come to him seeking power. Years in the field had taught her the precise geometry of her own inadequacy—the instant an ally bent steel with his fingers while she reloaded, the weight of a quiver that would never be enough against something that didn’t bleed. This awareness had a name, but she had never spoken it aloud to anyone. When she finally did, she chose the wrong time: it was late, it was raining in Gotham, and she was too tired to hide it. He didn’t look away. He didn’t mention virtue, limits, or what it meant to be human as if it were a category and not a condemnation. He remained silent until she finished, and then said, “I can do it”—without solemnity, like someone noting an appointment in a diary.

Artemis looked at the man standing between the capsules.

There was a version of him she knew by heart: the specific curve of his smile when he thought she wasn’t looking, the habit of rolling up the sleeve of his left shirt when he was thinking, the ozone scent that lingered in the air after he used his powers in an enclosed space. That version was still there, intact, recognizable in the blue of his eyes. But something else had grown around him—not a mask, because masks hide, and this hid nothing. It was more like discovering that the room you’d slept in your whole life had a wing no one had ever mentioned. He was naked in the light, without any embarrassment, his green skin glowing with the absolute serenity of someone who had never learned to diminish himself, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes fixed on hers with a patience that needed nothing. And there was something about that newly visible scale that disturbed her in a way she couldn’t blame herself for—like looking directly at a light source and not wanting to blink.

So she decided. I’ll understand all of that later.

She undressed unceremoniously, her clothes falling awkwardly to the white floor, and stepped into the capsule. The interior was warm and textureless, like immersing herself in her own body temperature. To the left, through the double glass and the amber fluid that filled the two tanks, the silhouette of her mother floated suspended, the mechanical arms moving around her with the meticulous concentration of a watchmaker before a piece that cannot be remade.

Erick’s cartridge lid closed with a low, prolonged sound, like equalized pressure. Hers followed the same path—slowly, then suddenly, with a click that sounded definitive.

The liquid rose to his ankles, his knees, his waist, his chest, every inch covered with a uniformity that left no room for hesitation. The respirator molded itself to his face. Through the curvature of the acrylic, the room arched and distorted—the lights fragmented into shards, the Doctor of Light standing in the center between the three tanks, his arms crossed, motionless with the peculiar tranquility of someone guarding something that cannot be stolen.

After that, only darkness.

And within it, dense and warm like the liquid itself, lies the promise of change.