The next evening found the world mercifully silent. No apocalyptic prophecies thundering through dimensional barriers, no reality-warping villains puncturing the fabric of spacetime, not even a single emergency ping from the League's priority channel. Just peace — that rare, almost mythical state of existence that lived in the narrow gaps between one global crisis and the inevitable next.
Steam curled lazily from the rooftop Jacuzzi, catching the ambient glow of the city below like thousands of tiny spirits being set free from champagne flutes. The water shimmered with reflected neon — blues and golds and electric whites that painted abstract art across its surface.
Diana reclined against Harry's chest, her skin gleaming with droplets that caught the light of a hundred skyscrapers and turned them into constellations. The Wonder Woman-themed microbikini had started as a joke — his, obviously, delivered with that infuriating smirk and a raised eyebrow that dared her to wear it. She'd put it on anyway, half to humor his admittedly creative taste in humor, half to watch his entire cognitive process shut down like a computer experiencing critical failure when she emerged from the penthouse wearing it.
He had, predictably and gloriously, forgotten how to perform basic respiratory functions for a full three seconds.
"You know," he'd managed eventually, voice slightly strangled, "I was being cheeky when I ordered that. I didn't actually think—"
"That I'd wear it?" Diana had interrupted, moving with that predatory grace that made his pulse spike even after all this time. "Where's the fun in being predictable, Harry?"
"Right. Fun. Yes. That's definitely the word currently occupying my brain." He'd paused, emerald eyes tracking her movement with the intensity of a man witnessing something divine. "Along with several others that probably violate multiple divine decency laws."
"Good thing I'm not particularly concerned with Olympian propriety tonight."
"You're going to be the death of me, Princess."
"Bold claim from someone who's technically immortal."
"Technical immortality doesn't account for cardiac arrest induced by goddesses in swimwear. That's a loophole in the fine print."
Now, hours later, they floated together in quiet contentment. The water was perfectly warm, the autumn air pleasantly cool, the Manhattan skyline stretching out infinite and glittering before them. Harry's fingers traced idle patterns along Diana's arm — constellations, runes, nonsense geometry that existed purely for the pleasure of touching her.
"This," Diana murmured, eyes half-closed in something approaching bliss, "might actually qualify as perfection."
"I'll take that as a win," Harry said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, then another to the curve of her neck. "Though I'm fairly certain perfection is illegal without proper divine oversight. You should probably file for a permit. Forms in triplicate. Maybe sacrifice a dove or two to the bureaucracy gods."
"Do you ever stop talking?" Her voice carried amusement rather than annoyance — the tone of someone who'd long since accepted that verbal sparring was his primary love language.
"Only when I'm doing something significantly more interesting than talking," he murmured against her neck, voice dropping into that lower register that always made something coil tight in her chest. His hand slid from her arm to her hip, fingers splaying against warm, wet skin. "Though I can certainly arrange for alternative activities if you're finding my conversation lacking."
"I didn't say lacking," Diana breathed, tilting her head to give him better access. "I said—"
Whatever brilliant retort she was formulating dissolved into a soft sigh as his mouth found that particularly sensitive spot just below her ear. Her own hand reached back, fingers threading through his perpetually messy dark hair, and for one perfect moment the universe contracted to just this: heat and want and the comfortable intimacy of two immortals who'd found something rare in each other.
Then the temperature dropped fifteen degrees in two seconds flat.
The change was immediate and unmistakable — that specific metaphysical chill that had nothing to do with weather and everything to do with the fundamental laws of existence bending slightly out of shape. The city lights flickered, just for a heartbeat, like reality was experiencing a brief brownout.
Diana stiffened. Harry's eyes snapped open, emerald green suddenly sharp and alert despite the languor of the moment before.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," he muttered.
A voice — sardonic, unapologetically amused, and entirely too cheerful for someone who dealt with mortality for a living — floated from behind them.
"Wow. The afterlife's paperwork backlog finally clears up for the first time in two centuries, I finish processing approximately seventeen thousand souls who died in technically ambiguous circumstances, and what do I find when I come up for air? My favorite cosmic troublemaker having an upscale bubble bath with Olympus' most lethal export. This must be Tuesday. No, wait—" There was a pause, as if she was genuinely checking. "Yep. Tuesday. I'm good."
Harry closed his eyes, summoning reserves of patience that would've impressed Buddhist monks. "Death."
"Hey, bestie," she said, voice dripping with artificial sweetness.
"We're not besties."
"We're totally besties. I have a mug that says so. It's very official."
Lady Death — the entity mortals feared and immortals found deeply inconvenient — perched on the edge of the Jacuzzi like she'd materialized there specifically to ruin romantic evenings. Which, knowing her, she probably had.
She looked exactly like she always did: combat boots that had probably stomped through at least three apocalypses, artfully ripped black jeans, messy dark hair pulled up in a chaotic half-bun that somehow worked, and a black T-shirt with sparkly silver lettering that read "Ask Me About Your Soul Debt" above a cartoon skull with heart-shaped eyes. Her eyeliner was applied with such perfect chaos it looked like entropy itself had done her makeup as a personal favor. A cherry lollipop dangled from her fingers, the kind of mundane affectation that made her cosmic authority feel even more surreal.
Diana sighed without opening her eyes, though her posture had shifted from relaxed to combat-ready in the space of a breath. Old habits. "You could at least pretend to feel remotely apologetic about interrupting us."
"Oh, totally," Death said brightly, examining her black nail polish with exaggerated interest. "I even practiced in front of my bathroom mirror before I manifested. Really worked on the whole 'sorry for the intrusion' face." She demonstrated an expression of theatrical remorse that wouldn't have fooled a particularly gullible child. "See? Very convincing. Didn't stick though. Authenticity's hard when you're literally incapable of genuine regret about your job functions." She shrugged, unapologetic. "But hey — sorry, not sorry, you two lovebirds. Seriously though, this can't wait."
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture he'd perfected over years of dealing with cosmic entities who had no concept of appropriate timing. "Can't it possibly wait five minutes? Or at least until I finish scientifically proving that Olympian demigods can, in fact, purr when properly motivated?"
Diana made a sound that was half laugh, half something more dangerous. "I do not purr."
"You absolutely do. It's adorable. Very feline. I'm collecting data."
"I'm going to throw you off this roof."
"Promises, promises."
Death grinned, swinging her legs like a kid on a playground swing set. "As genuinely entertaining as watching you two flirt-fight is — and trust me, it's quality entertainment, I'd pay for tickets — this really, legitimately cannot wait. I've got official confirmation from the Reaper Division, cross-referenced with the Akashic Records and triple-checked by the Karmic Accounting Department." She pulled the lollipop from her mouth with a wet pop. "It was Vandal Savage who breached the 'Tower of Babel' contingency network."
The name dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water.
Diana went absolutely still. Not the stillness of relaxation, but the stillness of a predator that's just spotted prey. She sat up fully, water streaming down her shoulders, every line of her body suddenly coiled with purpose. "Savage?"
"Yep." Death popped the 'p' with evident satisfaction. "Your least favorite immortal caveman decided it would be fun to test-drive the complete annihilation of the Justice League. Had the whole thing planned out too — psychological warfare, customized contingencies, maximum trauma with minimum effort. Nearly succeeded, too, which honestly is impressive for a guy whose first tool was literally a rock." She tilted her head, considering. "If not for Harry's completely unauthorized but deeply appreciated intervention, Princess, we'd be looking at a very awkward headcount and I'd be processing a bunch of souls who died in really embarrassing ways. Superman killed by Kryptonite-laced bullet? Green Lantern dying from synthetic Fear toxin? That's the kind of death you can never live down, even in the afterlife."
Harry frowned, emerald eyes distant as he mentally reviewed the metaphysical signatures he'd catalogued during the crisis. "So he was the one manipulating the cascade from behind the curtain. I thought the resonance signature felt prehistoric when I traced it back. All that temporal weight compressed into the breach pattern."
"Congratulations, Sherlock Immortal," Death said, smirking with genuine appreciation. "You win the cosmic bingo and probably a gift basket from the Continuity Department. They're very grateful you prevented a timeline fracture." She pulled her legs up, crossing them pretzel-style on the Jacuzzi's edge. "And now that we've confirmed his direct involvement, verified his karmic debt load, and completed about seventy-three forms in the Cosmic Justice Bureau, the file on Vandal Savage is officially open for final closure."
Diana exchanged a look with Harry — the kind of wordless communication that passed between two people who'd fought together enough times that entire tactical discussions could happen in a glance. Strategy, capability assessment, potential complications, and mutual agreement, all compressed into two seconds of eye contact.
"Meaning what, exactly?" Diana asked carefully.
"Meaning," Death said with a cheerfulness that seemed wildly inappropriate for the topic, "you two get to kill him. Like, permanently. With extreme prejudice. All the prejudice. Maximum prejudice allowable under cosmic law."
Harry blinked, processing. "Legally?"
"As legally as divine jurisdiction gets, which admittedly is more of a guidelines situation than a strict legal framework, but yes." Death gestured vaguely toward the skyline with her lollipop, as if the city itself could testify to the validity of her claim. "Vandal Savage has run up more karmic debt than a Vegas casino during a mob convention. The balance sheet isn't just in the red — it's bleeding red ink so badly that the accountants are getting hazard pay. He's violated approximately six hundred divine laws, seventeen hundred moral principles, and is personally responsible for more unnecessary deaths than three world wars combined." She ticked items off on her fingers. "So yes, Harry — you and the Princess here have my official cosmic permission, with the full backing of the Higher Powers That Be, to end him permanently. Soul, body, timeline echo — full wipe. Existence deletion. The complete package."
"Finally," Diana murmured, and something fierce and ancient flickered in her blue eyes — the warrior who'd watched Savage commit atrocities for millennia, always slipping away, always surviving. A smile tugged at her lips, sharp as a blade. "He's escaped justice for far too long."
"Literally thousands of years too long," Death agreed. "The man's been cheating death since before death was even properly organized as a cosmic department. It's gotten personal at this point."
Harry leaned back against the Jacuzzi's edge, and despite the warm water, his mind had already shifted into that cold, calculating mode — the strategist who'd outmaneuvered gods and demons, who treated cosmic chess games like casual hobbies. "Do we have a current location?"
Death nodded, suddenly all business despite the lollipop and the sparkly shirt. "Geneva. He's holed up in an underground bunker beneath what's publicly registered as a biotech investment firm. Probably playing God with other people's DNA again because he's got issues with not being evolutionarily perfect enough." She made a dismissive gesture. "I've tagged the dimensional coordinates in your spatial index. Should pop up in your mental HUD whenever you check. The bunker's warded, obviously, but nothing you can't handle. He thinks he's being clever."
"He always thinks he's being clever," Harry said dryly. "It's part of his charm. That and the whole 'immortal megalomaniac' thing."
"To be fair, he usually is clever," Death pointed out. "Just not clever enough to account for you two specifically. That's his recurring blind spot — he plans for normal opposition." She grinned. "You're profoundly abnormal opposition."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should. It was meant as one."
Diana's hand found Harry's beneath the water, fingers interlacing in a gesture that was both intimate and tactical — partners in all things. "When do you need this done?"
"Whenever you can fit him into your schedule between saving the world and the apparent bubble bath marathons," Death said, hopping down from her perch. "Just, you know, soonish would be good. The karmic interest is accumulating and it's making the cosmic accountants twitchy. They get mean when the numbers don't balance." She paused, considering. "Actually, scratch that — take your time. Enjoy your evening. Savage has been alive for fifty thousand years. He can wait another night or two while you finish doing... whatever it is you're doing here."
"Decompressing," Harry supplied helpfully.
"Is that what the kids are calling it now?"
"We're both older than civilization. We're not kids."
"Everyone's kids to me, Harry. Occupational hazard." Death began to fade into smoky shadow, her physical form dissolving into that impossible state between existence and void. But her voice lingered even as her body dispersed, carrying that eternal echo that made mortal ears ring. "Oh, and Harry? One last thing before I get back to the seventeen million souls currently waiting in the processing queue?"
"What's that?"
"Try not to make this one messy. The last time you 'closed a file' for me — that business with the Kree warlord in the Andromeda sector — it took three senior reapers, two archival specialists, and a mop that was literally enchanted by Merlin himself to clean up the metaphysical aftermath." Her voice was warm with amusement despite the complaint. "The Janitor Department is still filing grievances. Very strongly worded grievances with multiple attachments."
"Noted," Harry called to the fading presence. "I'll endeavor to keep the existential splatter to a minimum."
"You're my favorite for a reason," Death's voice echoed, now barely more than a whisper on the wind. "Also because you never file expense reports. Those are the worst. Do you know how much paperwork is involved in soul processing? It's obscene."
Then she was gone completely, leaving only the faintest chill in the air and the sense that reality had just returned to its regularly scheduled programming.
Silence settled over the rooftop again. The city hummed below them, millions of lives intersecting and diverging in patterns too complex for any single mind to track. The Jacuzzi bubbled contentedly, steam rising into the cool night air.
Diana sighed, a sound caught between genuine annoyance and reluctant affection. "She truly has absolutely no sense of appropriate timing."
"Oh, she has perfect timing," Harry corrected, his fingers resuming their gentle exploration of Diana's arm, tracing the line of a old scar that had long since healed but remained as a faint silvery reminder. "She just enjoys being inconvenient. It's efficient interruption — maximum impact, minimum effort. Very on-brand for an anthropomorphic universal constant."
"Do we go tonight?" Diana's voice had shifted slightly, the warrior surfacing beneath the woman who'd been enjoying a rare moment of peace.
He brushed a strand of wet hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear in a gesture that was absurdly tender given they were discussing premeditated cosmic murder. "Soon. Definitely soon. But not this exact second." His thumb traced her jawline, emerald eyes catching hers with that particular intensity that always made her breath catch slightly. "Vandal Savage has survived for fifty millennia through cunning, luck, and an absolutely supernatural ability to be somewhere else when consequences arrive. He can bloody well wait another hour while I finish what Death so rudely interrupted."
Diana smiled, and it was a complex thing — part warrior's anticipation of a long-delayed hunt, part something softer and infinitely more dangerous. That fierce spark glinted in her blue eyes, the one that meant someone was about to have a very bad time. "Then let him wait. Let him have one more night thinking he's untouchable."
"I do love it when you get that particular look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're mentally calculating exactly how hard you can punch someone without vaporizing them immediately because you want them to suffer first."
"I don't have a look."
"You absolutely have a look, Princess. It's terrifying and magnificent in equal measure."
"Stop talking," Diana said, but she was smiling as she turned in his arms, water sloshing gently around them.
"Make me," Harry murmured, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips.
"Challenge accepted."
Outside, the city pulsed with life, eight million people going about their Tuesday evening completely unaware that two immortals were about to make history — again — as soon as they finished making considerably more personal history first.
Somewhere in Geneva, Vandal Savage continued his machinations, completely oblivious to the fact that his karmic credit had just run out and the collection agency was currently occupied with more interesting activities.
In the grand scheme of cosmic justice, a few more hours wouldn't matter.
But they would be very good hours.
—
# The Penthouse – Forty Minutes Later
The transformation from "leisurely evening in expensive swimwear" to "preparing for sanctioned cosmic assassination" had been surprisingly efficient, though Harry suspected that said efficiency had less to do with urgency and more to do with Diana's Amazon-honed ability to prioritize tactical preparation over literally everything else once the warrior princess mindset engaged.
She stood now by the floor-to-ceiling windows, backlit by Manhattan's glittering sprawl, and Harry had to pause mid-adjustment of his armor's dimensional anchors to simply appreciate the view. Not the city—he'd seen the city. No, this was Diana in full Wonder Woman regalia: golden armor that seemed to absorb and reflect light simultaneously, the kind of craftsmanship that made mortal smiths weep with inadequacy. Her sword—the God Killer, because Diana didn't do things by halves—rested in its sheath at her hip, and her shield was propped against the window frame within easy reach.
She was checking her bracers with the methodical precision of someone who'd been preparing for war since before most civilizations discovered agriculture, testing the fit, the give, the responsiveness. Muscle memory encoded over three thousand years of combat.
Harry's own armor had finished its self-assembly sequence—black dragonhide that rippled like living shadow, crimson veins pulsing with barely contained magical energy, the Deathly Hallows symbol glowing faintly over his heart. His cloak settled around his shoulders with that distinctive weight that suggested it existed in more dimensions than strictly necessary and had Opinions about proper dramatic presentation.
"Right then," Harry said, his voice carrying that electronic modulation that made everything sound vaguely ominous and British. "Before we portal directly to Geneva and demonstrate why Vandal Savage's continued existence violates several cosmic ordinances and possibly a few health codes, there's a tactical question we should address."
Diana glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised in that particular way that meant she'd already anticipated his question and was curious to see how he'd phrase it. "You're wondering whether we should bring backup."
"Specifically," Harry amended, moving to stand beside her at the window, "I'm wondering whether we should contact the others and offer them the opportunity to participate in what is, let's be honest, going to be a rather satisfying bit of cosmic justice delivered with extreme prejudice."
Diana turned to face him fully, arms crossed beneath her breasts in that unconscious warrior stance that somehow managed to be both intimidating and deeply attractive. "By 'the others,' you mean Mera, Karen, Shiera, Nyra, and Lilith."
"Our respective partners who happen to be formidable combatants with their own very valid grudges against Savage's general existence and specific recent activities," Harry confirmed. "Yes, those others."
Diana considered this with the kind of tactical analysis she brought to all complex strategic decisions, her warrior's mind running probability matrices and assessing potential complications. "That would be seven of us against one man, even if that man is an immortal megalomaniac with fifty thousand years of survival experience. Some might call that overkill."
Harry's laugh carried genuine amusement beneath the electronic distortion. "Diana, my love, my magnificent Amazon warrior princess, when it comes to Vandal Savage, there is literally no such thing as overkill. The man has survived everything from Bronze Age tribal warfare to nuclear detonations. He's been assassinated, executed, imprisoned, exiled, cursed by multiple pantheons of gods, and once—according to records I found in the Oblivion Bar's archives—was actually eaten by a demon who then died of existential indigestion. And yet he keeps coming back like a particularly persistent cockroach with delusions of grandeur."
He turned to face her directly, emerald eyes glowing behind his helmet's visor. "If anything, seven immortals with divine powers and very personal reasons to want him permanently removed from existence represents appropriate resource allocation for someone who's made avoiding consequences into an art form."
Diana's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "You make a compelling argument for overwhelming force."
"I make compelling arguments for most things. It's one of my more annoying qualities."
"One of many," she agreed, but her tone was warm with affection rather than criticism. "Though I'll admit, the idea of presenting Savage with six goddesses and one magnificently powerful wizard does have a certain poetic appeal. He's spent millennia underestimating women—treating them as resources to be exploited or obstacles to be overcome rather than threats to be feared."
"Whereas we," Harry said with satisfaction, "have the unique pleasure of demonstrating exactly why that particular blind spot represents a fatal strategic error."
Diana moved to the communications array embedded in the penthouse's wall—highly advanced technology that Harry had acquired through what he vaguely described as "creative procurement from people who didn't appreciate its full potential"—and began entering the encrypted frequencies that connected to their respective partners' secure channels.
"The question becomes," Diana mused as she worked, "how do we phrase this invitation? 'Hello, darling, Harry and I are about to commit cosmic murder, would you like to join us for the blood sport?' seems somewhat lacking in diplomatic finesse."
"I was thinking more along the lines of 'Death has formally authorized Savage's permanent removal from existence, we have confirmed coordinates for his current location, participation optional but strongly encouraged for anyone with outstanding grievances regarding recent attempted genocides and general megalomaniacal behavior,'" Harry suggested. "Professional but enthusiastic. Sets proper expectations while acknowledging individual agency."
"That's remarkably well-phrased for someone who usually communicates through sarcasm and theatrical violence."
"I contain multitudes, Princess. Sarcasm, theatrical violence, and occasionally coherent tactical planning."
The first connection pinged through—Mera's secure channel, routing through Atlantean communications infrastructure that operated on principles that made human telecommunications engineers question their career choices. The holographic projection materialized above the console, showing Mera in what appeared to be formal Atlantean court attire, which meant she was either attending diplomatic functions or had just finished attending diplomatic functions and was about to do something violent to decompress.
"Diana," Mera greeted, her voice carrying that distinctive regal authority that came from being queen of the seven seas and approximately three billion tons of water that did what she told it to do. "And Harry."
"Hello, love," Harry said warmly, his electronic modulation somehow managing to convey genuine affection. "How are diplomatic relations with the surface world proceeding?"
"Tediously," Mera replied with the kind of exhaustion that came from spending hours convincing world leaders that yes, Atlantis existed, no, they weren't going to share their advanced technology with nations who couldn't even figure out sustainable fishing practices, and yes, the environmental destruction of the oceans would have consequences that surface dwellers wouldn't enjoy. "Though I suspect you're not calling to discuss my current diplomatic headaches."
"We have Death's formal authorization to permanently remove Vandal Savage from existence," Diana said with characteristic directness. "Confirmed location in Geneva, comprehensive karmic debt documentation, full cosmic blessing for elimination with extreme prejudice. Harry and I are preparing to handle the matter personally, but we thought we'd extend the invitation to anyone who might be interested in participating."
Mera's expression shifted from diplomatic exhaustion to something considerably more predatory—the look of someone who'd just been offered the opportunity to resolve several outstanding grievances through the creative application of hydrokinesis. "Savage? The immortal cockroach who's been poisoning oceans, manipulating surface governments into environmentally destructive policies, and generally making himself a recurring problem for the past several millennia?"
"That's the one," Harry confirmed. "Though I'd argue 'immortal cockroach' is somewhat unfair to cockroaches, who at least serve a legitimate ecological function."
"When?" Mera asked, her tone suggesting the answer better be 'soon' or she was going to be disappointed.
"Within the hour," Diana replied. "Coordinates in Geneva, underground bunker beneath a biotech firm that's definitely engaging in activities that violate several international treaties and possibly the fundamental laws of ethical science."
"I'm in," Mera said immediately. "I'll portal to your location in twenty minutes. This gives me just enough time to change into something more appropriate for delivering karmic justice and possibly drowning someone in magically-compressed seawater."
The second connection opened before Diana could respond—Power Girl's channel, routing through whatever sophisticated communications array worked in conjunction with Kryptonian technology and probably made telecommunications satellites weep with inadequacy.
Karen appeared in the hologram looking slightly disheveled, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing what appeared to be workout clothes that suggested she'd been training or possibly just finished training or was about to start training, because Karen's approach to downtime involved maintaining combat readiness through constant physical conditioning.
"Hey guys," Karen greeted, her voice carrying that distinctive warmth that somehow coexisted with the fact that she could benchpress mountains and had heat vision hot enough to melt tungsten. "Please tell me this is about something interesting and not another League meeting about proper superhero PR protocols, because I swear if I have to sit through one more presentation about 'optimizing our public image through strategic social media engagement,' I'm going to punch something expensive."
"We're going to kill Vandal Savage," Harry said with admirable directness. "Permanently. With Death's formal blessing and cosmic authorization. Would you like to participate?"
Karen blinked, processing this information with Kryptonian speed. "...Okay, that's definitely more interesting than PR protocols. When and where?"
"Geneva, within the hour," Diana supplied. "Underground bunker, approximately fifty mercenaries with anti-superhero equipment, Savage himself presumably well-defended by whatever technological and magical defenses he's accumulated over fifty millennia of paranoid survival instincts."
"So basically a Tuesday evening with slightly higher stakes than usual," Karen observed. "Yeah, I'm in. Been wanting to have words with Savage about his contributions to atmospheric pollution through various industrial manipulations over the past century. Plus I still owe him for that thing in Budapest with the gene-splicing laboratory and the attempt to weaponize Kryptonian DNA samples."
"I remember that," Harry said with a grimace. "The cleanup took weeks and violated several international biohazard protocols."
"Exactly. So yes, count me in for cosmic murder. Let me grab my combat suit and I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
The third connection opened—Hawkwoman's channel, sophisticated technology that combined Thanagarian engineering with Earth communications infrastructure in ways that made aerospace engineers question their understanding of practical physics.
Shiera materialized in the hologram mid-flight, which was actually her default state because apparently Thanagarian nobility didn't do things like 'sitting down' or 'standing still' when they could be dramatically soaring through the air with wings that defied several laws of aerodynamics. Her armor gleamed with the distinctive sheen of Nth metal, and she was holding what appeared to be a Thanagarian war mace that probably weighed more than most people and could be swung with enough force to dent starship hulls.
"Diana, Harry," Shiera greeted, her voice carrying that particular authoritative tone that came from being a reincarnated warrior princess with approximately three thousand years of accumulated combat experience across multiple lifetimes. "I'm currently pursuing someone who thought stealing Thanagarian artifacts was a reasonable career choice, but your call took priority routing, which means this is either extremely urgent or extremely interesting."
"Vandal Savage has been formally cleared for permanent removal," Diana said with Amazonian precision. "Death herself provided authorization, confirmed karmic debt, full cosmic blessing for elimination. Harry and I are coordinating a strike on his Geneva bunker within the hour. Participation optional but strongly encouraged."
Shiera's expression shifted from mild interest to intense focus—the look of a predator who'd just spotted particularly satisfying prey. "Savage? The immortal bastard who's been manipulating warfare, funding conflicts, and generally making himself a recurring problem for recorded history?"
"The very same," Harry confirmed. "Though I should mention he's likely defended by approximately fifty millennia worth of accumulated paranoia, advanced technology, and probably several escape routes he's prepared for exactly this kind of scenario."
"Which means seven immortals with divine powers represents appropriate force allocation rather than overkill," Shiera concluded with obvious satisfaction. "Yes, I'm absolutely participating. Savage tried to steal Thanagarian technology three separate times in my current lifetime alone, and I've been waiting for cosmic authorization to handle him permanently. I'll be there in twelve minutes. Should I bring the fusion mace or the molecular disruption lance?"
"Dealer's choice," Harry said agreeably. "Though I'd lean toward whatever causes more psychological impact when he realizes he's facing six goddesses and one magnificently annoyed wizard."
"Fusion mace it is. More dramatic."
The fourth connection opened—Savanna's channel, routing through whatever sophisticated communications array worked in conjunction with feline-based supernatural abilities and probably operated on principles that made telecommunications engineers question their understanding of signal propagation.
Nyra appeared in bronze-skinned, feline glory, sprawled across what looked like an expensive couch in a way that managed to be both impossibly graceful and vaguely threatening, like she was comfortable but could transition from comfort to combat in the space between heartbeats. Her tail swished lazily, and her amber eyes held that particular gleam that suggested she'd been hunting something and was thoroughly pleased with recent activities.
"Harry, Diana, loves," Nyra purred, her voice carrying that distinctive feline quality that made simple greetings sound like invitations to considerably more interesting activities. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Though given you're both in full combat regalia, I'm guessing this isn't a social call."
"We're going to kill Vandal Savage," Diana said with characteristic Amazon directness. "Permanently, with Death's formal authorization. Geneva bunker, within the hour. Would you like to join us?"
Nyra's expression shifted from lazy contentment to predatory anticipation so quickly it was almost comical—like watching a house cat transform into a jungle predator in the space of a breath. "Savage? The immortal cockroach who's been funding poaching operations, supporting illegal wildlife trafficking, and generally making himself a target for anyone with functioning environmental ethics?"
"Among his many other crimes against basically everything decent," Harry confirmed. "Though I should mention he's likely defended by significant security measures, approximately fifty trained mercenaries, and probably several contingency plans for exactly this kind of scenario."
"So basically an interesting evening rather than a guaranteed slaughter," Nyra observed with obvious satisfaction. "Perfect. I was getting bored with hunting people who surrender immediately when they realize they're being stalked by someone with supernatural speed and really impressive claws. When should I be there?"
"Twenty minutes," Diana said. "Coordinates being transmitted now through the encrypted channels."
"Excellent. I'll bring the good knives." Nyra paused, her tail swishing with particular emphasis. "Also, Harry, darling—should I wear the tactical suit or the ceremonial hunting armor? Because if we're making this a formal execution, I feel like proper presentation matters."
"Tactical suit," Harry suggested. "Save the ceremonial armor for when we're killing people who deserve theatrical presentation. Savage just deserves efficiency and permanence."
"Fair point. See you in twenty."
The final connection opened—Venus's channel, routing through whatever sophisticated magical communications worked in conjunction with nature-based divinity and probably operated on principles that made telecommunications engineers question whether their understanding of signal propagation included sufficient acknowledgment of botanical consciousness.
Lilith materialized in the hologram surrounded by what appeared to be a forest clearing, though whether she was actually in a forest or the forest had simply manifested around her because nature responded to her presence was genuinely unclear. Her red hair caught sunlight—or possibly created sunlight, given her divine nature—and she was wearing what could charitably be described as 'nature goddess casual,' which meant strategically placed vegetation and the kind of natural beauty that made mortal artists weep with inadequacy.
"Harry, Diana, my darlings," Lilith greeted, her voice carrying that distinctive warmth that came from being a fertility goddess who'd spent millennia encouraging things to grow, flourish, and generally embrace life with enthusiastic determination. "I was just finishing some restoration work on a damaged grove, but your call routing suggests this is important rather than social."
"We have Death's formal authorization to permanently remove Vandal Savage from existence," Harry said with his characteristic combination of British politeness and casual discussion of cosmic murder. "Confirmed location, comprehensive karmic debt documentation, full blessing for elimination with extreme prejudice. We're coordinating a strike within the hour and thought you might be interested in participating."
Lilith's expression shifted from gentle warmth to something considerably more dangerous—the look of nature itself recognizing a blight that needed removal. "Savage? The immortal parasite who's been clear-cutting ancient forests, supporting industrial agriculture that destroys soil vitality, and generally treating the natural world as an infinite resource to be exploited?"
"The very same," Diana confirmed. "Though I should mention he's defended by significant security, approximately fifty mercenaries with military training, and probably multiple contingency plans for exactly this kind of scenario."
"Which means seven of us represents appropriate force rather than excessive enthusiasm," Lilith concluded with satisfaction that somehow coexisted with her gentle nature goddess persona. "Yes, absolutely, count me in. I've been wanting to have words with Savage about his environmental record for approximately three thousand years. Should I bring the entangling vines or the neurotoxic spores?"
"Why not both?" Harry suggested. "I'm anticipating this will be thorough rather than subtle."
"Excellent. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Should I coordinate with Mera on aquatic-botanical synergy, or are we planning separate assault vectors?"
"Separate vectors," Diana said with the kind of tactical precision that came from decades of coordinating complex operations. "Maximum confusion, overwhelming force from multiple directions simultaneously. Make him realize he's facing coordinated divine intervention rather than serial individual threats."
"Perfect. See you soon, darlings."
As the final holographic projection faded, Diana turned to Harry with an expression that mixed warrior satisfaction with something softer, more personal. "So. Seven immortals with divine powers, comprehensive authorization for permanent removal, and a target who's spent fifty millennia making himself the universe's most persistent problem."
"Sounds like a proper Tuesday evening," Harry agreed, his cloak settling around his shoulders with that distinctive dramatic flair. "Though I should mention—given we're about to coordinate what is essentially a cosmic execution involving six goddesses and one magnificently powerful wizard, we should probably discuss tactical approach. Because while overwhelming force is definitely the correct strategy, we should probably have some kind of plan beyond 'show up and hit him until he stops existing.'"
Diana smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made smart enemies reconsider their life choices and probably their continued existence. "I thought you'd never ask. Let's discuss exactly how we're going to demonstrate why targeting heroes' families represents the last mistake Vandal Savage will ever make."
Outside, Manhattan continued its evening routine—eight million people completely unaware that seven immortals were about to make history by permanently removing one of humanity's oldest and most persistent threats from existence.
Within the hour, Vandal Savage would discover that sometimes, survival instincts and fifty thousand years of experience weren't sufficient when the universe itself decided you'd accumulated enough karmic debt to warrant permanent closure.
And that closure was about to arrive with extreme prejudice, overwhelming force, and probably spectacular special effects that would make Geneva's emergency services question their career choices and possibly require extensive paperwork explaining why a biotech firm's underground bunker had been reduced to a crater containing traces of divine intervention and extremely upset cosmic justice.
It was going to be a very educational evening for everyone involved.
Particularly Vandal Savage, who was about to receive a comprehensive demonstration in why underestimating goddesses represented the kind of fatal strategic error that even fifty millennia of survival experience couldn't overcome.
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