Ascension Code: Reborn in the DC Universe - Chapter 107

Megan and Robin were completely trapped. Poison Ivy’s living roots had entwined themselves around their bodies like hungry snakes, thick, damp, and pulsating, squeezing with relentless force. Each root was covered in fine thorns that lightly pierced their clothing and skin, anchoring them to the muddy ground of Bartholomew Swamp. The vegetal prison rose from the ground like an organic cage, coiling around their ankles, knees, waist, chest, and arms, immobilizing them against the trunk of a twisted tree. The strong smell of sweet sap and damp earth invaded their nostrils, mixed with the cold sweat of fear and adrenaline. Megan felt the roots pulsing against her green skin, as if the plant breathed along with her, sucking her Martian energy. Robin, beside her, maintained a serious face, his mask wet with mist, but his calculating eyes already processing every detail.

Ahead of them, Ultra-Humanite—the white gorilla with dirty fur and a deformed head, swollen veins pulsing in its exposed skull—pointed a high-caliber weapon directly at Robin’s head. The wide barrel gleamed in the dim light of the colossal tree’s runes, a thick finger on the trigger. The intelligent primate grinned, sharp teeth bared, cold eyes fixed on the boy.

Megan and Robin exchanged a single glance. Months of joint training on Mount Justice, brutal sparring sessions, rescue and infiltration simulations—it all converged on that moment. They didn’t need words. Just a subtle nod of understanding.

Megan focused. Her green eyes gleamed with psychic power. With a precise, invisible mental command, she invaded Ultra-Humanite’s simple yet powerful mind, taking temporary control of the motor nerves that commanded the gorilla’s arm. The weapon, previously pointed at Robin’s head, slowly rotated, its barrel descending until it aimed at the base of the roots that held the boy captive. Another quick command—and Ultra-Humanite’s finger pulled the trigger.

The shot exploded with a deafening bang. The high-caliber bullet ripped through the vines at their base, green sap gushing like blood. The roots snapped with damp cracks, freeing Robin. He wasted no time. With the trained agility of an acrobat and ninja, the boy performed a backflip, his body spinning in the air, his feet touching the wet ground for an instant before leaping again. He moved away in a fluid sequence of flips and rolls, disappearing into the shadows of the nearby trees.

Megan didn’t stop. Still controlling the primate’s mind, she forced the weapon to spin again. Another precise shot hit the base of the roots that held her. The vines exploded into pieces, freeing her body. She rose from the ground with a mental impulse, floating rapidly upwards, her green skin blending into the humid environment.

Poison Ivy, still crouched beside the colossal tree, raised her arms with feline grace. Her red hair danced like living vines, a predatory grin curving her full lips. She gazed directly at Robin, who leaped from tree to tree like a ghost.

“I’m sorry, Prodigy Boy,” she said, her voice hoarse and sensual, laden with sweet venom, “but I will put an end to your reconnaissance mission.”

From the ground, new lines of vegetation erupted like living spears. Thick, thorny branches shot up at speed, whipping the air behind Robin. The boy moved like a ninja: light feet touching trunks, hands gripping vines to propel his body, performing precise somersaults, spinning in the air to dodge by millimeters. Each branch that pursued him missed by a hair’s breadth, striking twigs and leaves that flew in green explosions. Robin ran, jumped, rolled—a deadly dance of pure acrobatics, controlled breathing, his mind focused only on escape and the mission.

Megan, floating above, activated her Martian camouflage. Her skin and uniform changed color and texture, blending seamlessly with the dark green of the leaves and the dense swamp mist. She became almost invisible, a green ghost hovering amidst the Ultra-Humanite’s gunfire. The white gorilla fired bursts of bullets that tore through the air, but Megan dodged with ethereal grace, her body spinning in the air as she approached the tree’s central core.

POV League of Injustice — Central Hideout

In the underground hangar, the Joker laughed hysterically as his fingers danced in his runic gloves. The floating magic mirrors before him displayed global chaos in real time: Paris, Taipei, Star City, Gotham. Each hand movement created a new catastrophe, mutant plants whipping, crushing, devouring. The air was thick with sweet sap and the constant hum of the colossal tree in the center of the courtyard.

“Why am I still laughing while I keep staring into the magic mirrors?” he murmured between laughs, his high-pitched, theatrical voice echoing off the walls of roots and metal. “Because I have so much power in my fingers! You can call me a controlling monster… or just a monster. And I say with a laugh: well, I don’t care!”

He tilted his head, his yellow eyes gleaming with pure insanity, and focused one of the mirrors on Gotham City. There, the Bat-Jet cut through the night sky in a low swoop, its cannons firing greenish liquid at the plants. With a simple whiplash of his index finger, the Joker commanded a colossal branch to rise from the cracked street. The vegetal tentacle struck the jet’s wing with brutal precision. Metal screeched, sparks flew. The Bat-Jet lost control, spinning wildly before crashing into a nearby building.

Seconds before impact, Batman leaped from the cockpit. His cape unfurled like bat wings, gliding with mastery through the wreckage as the jet exploded behind him in a ball of orange and green fire.

The wizard Zatara, floating nearby, recited incantations incomprehensible to ordinary humans—ancient words that made the air vibrate. A bubble shield of golden energy materialized around the advancing plant, cutting the colossal stem in half. The upper part of the plant remained trapped inside the bubble, struggling uselessly. The severed pieces that remained outside fell to the ground, writhing like decapitated snake heads, sap gushing and roots thrashing on the asphalt.

One of those agitated pieces struck a civilian trying to flee, hurling the man high into the air in a dangerous trajectory. His body spun in the air, a scream of panic echoing. But Plastic Man reacted instantly. His elastic body stretched and flattened, forming a living, red trampoline in the middle of the street. The civilian landed exactly in the center, bouncing once before landing safely. Plastic Man lifted the man off him with a fluid movement, gave a relaxed thumbs-up, and stretched again, his body elongating like rubber to reach the next branch advancing towards a group of firefighters.

The Joker, back in his hideout, laughed even louder, his fingers dancing endlessly in his gloves. The global juggling act continued—and the Unjust Society was only just beginning.

POV Erick

The darkness slowly dissolved, like black ink being washed away by dirty water. Erick Smith — Forge — awoke with a throbbing headache, a deep throbbing that reverberated from his skull to the base of his spine. The elemental fire in his chest pulsed weakly, still recovering from the mental assault that had nearly split him in two. He felt the damp, cold swamp floor against his armor, the black mud clinging to the reinforced E10 plates. The air was heavy, laden with the smell of decaying vegetation, stagnant water, and the low hum of arcane energy. His green eyes slowly opened behind the helmet visor, the HUD flashing with synaptic overload alerts. Five minutes. Just five minutes of unconsciousness, but it felt like an eternity of glowing needles still echoing in his mind.

Natasha’s calm, synthetic voice sounded directly in her ear, transmitted through the armor’s internal communicator, clear and professional as always.

“It’s good to see you’re awake.”

Erick took a deep breath, the armor’s air reprocessor filtering out the damp swamp smell. His voice came out low, hoarse, almost a whisper inside the helmet.

“What’s the situation?”

Natasha responded immediately, data streaming into her vision through the HUD.

“After you were knocked out, the Count, Black Adam, and Wotan imprisoned you in a larger magical cage made of energy. Stabilized arcane energy. They are transporting you to the enemy base now.”

Erick forced his eyes to focus. The cage was immense—a cubic structure of golden-yellow energy bars, pulsing like a living heart. The bars were thick, translucent, crackling with sparks of mystical power that made the surrounding air tremble. He could see clearly: at the top of the cage, Count Vertigo stood, his cloak billowing slightly in the damp breeze, hands clasped behind his back, an aristocratic smile fixed on his face as he observed the prisoners. Above him, Wotan floated, his body suspended in the air, hands outstretched, golden rays emanating from his palms and connecting directly to the cage bars, keeping the structure stable and impenetrable. Below, Black Adam held the base of the cage with his two enormous hands, defined muscles tensed beneath his black and gold clothing, flying toward the Unjust Society’s base at a steady speed. The entire cage moved like a floating cage, swaying slightly in the swamp wind.

Erick remained motionless, feigning unconsciousness. The darkened helmet concealed his open eyes. He could hear everything—the low conversation between Count Vertigo and Wotan echoed clearly through the armor’s enhanced sensors.

Count Vertigo inclined his head, his voice soft and confident.

“He’s waking up. Are you sure you’ll be able to contain them?”

Wotan did not look away, rays of light continuing to flow from his hands, his voice deep and ancient.

“The cage is impenetrable. Not even Superboy can escape it.”

Erick kept his breathing slow and controlled, his body relaxed within the heavy armor. Pretend. Observe. Plan. The elemental fire pulsed low. He saw Aqualad slowly rising within the cage, water still dripping from his uniform, his tattoos beginning to glow with a bluish hue. The Atlantean leader placed his hands on the energy bars, his fingers closing tightly.

“Wotan, you’re not the only one who knows the mystic arts,” said Aqualad, his voice firm despite his exhaustion.

He pulled at the bars with all his might, activating his powers. The Atlantean tattoos glowed intensely blue, mystical energy flowing from his body, trying to break free from the cage. For a second, the bars trembled, blue and gold sparks colliding. But then the cage reacted. A massive discharge of arcane energy exploded into Aqualad’s body—a bright yellow beam that coursed through his arms, chest, and legs. White smoke rose from his skin, the smell of ozone and burnt flesh filling the air. Aqualad screamed, his body arching in pain, his knees buckling. He fell to his knees, his hands still gripping the bars, his breath ragged.

Wotan looked down with cold contempt, his voice echoing.

“Please, Atlantis. Don’t think you belong in my league.”

On the swamp floor, several meters below the floating cage, Robin continued his desperate escape. The boy leaped from tree to tree, his body moving with acrobatic grace and ninja-like precision. Thick vines and thorny creepers whipped behind him, trying to strike him. Robin did backflips, rolled in the muddy ground, propelled himself across twisted logs, his light feet touching branches that barely moved. But a treacherous root caused him to stumble. He rolled on the ground, mud soiling his uniform, and the vines attacked en masse—an all-out assault, dozens of thick branches descending like living spears.

Before they could hit him, the vines were shattered in mid-air. Megan, still camouflaged and floating invisibly, materialized for a second. Her green eyes gleamed. With a mental gesture, she sliced ​​all the vines into thin shreds, green pieces flying like bloody confetti. Robin heard her voice in his mind, clear and urgent:

Robin, she replied.

He answered instantly, his mental voice sharp.

Artemis?

Megan’s voice replied, firmly.

No.

Robin looked up. The golden cage passed directly above him, meters away. Black Adam carried the structure on his broad back, Wotan floating above like a catalyst, golden rays keeping everything stable, and Count Vertigo standing atop, observing the swamp with disdain. But something changed. A red ship—the bio-ship, its organic hull gleaming—appeared out of nowhere at high speed. It struck Wotan head-on, a brutal impact that sent the wizard spinning in the air, his cape swirling, his body spiraling toward the ground.

Wotan’s concentration failed.

The golden cage trembled violently. The energy bars flickered, weakened, and dissolved into golden sparks. The entire structure collapsed, releasing all the prisoners. Vertigo plummeted from a great height, screaming, but Black Adam caught him in mid-air with one hand, holding him tightly. The villain looked down, his voice deep.

“Not me, you idiot. The others. The prisoners.”

They all landed safely. Months of rigorous training on Mount Justice—controlled falls, acrobatics, superhuman reflexes—ensured that no one was hurt. Superboy, Kid Flash, Artemis, Starfire, Aqualad, and Forge touched down on the muddy ground in fighting stances, bodies tense, eyes alert. Apparently, no one was truly unconscious. They were all faking it, waiting for the right moment.

Superboy landed near Ultra-Humanite, the white gorilla still holding the weapon. The Superman clone looked at the primate with pure contempt, fists clenched.

“I hate monkeys.”

And he leaped into the attack, his body blurring in the air with Kryptonian fury.

Bartholomew Swamp erupted in chaos once more. The battle for the Unjust Society’s base was only beginning.

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