From Tartarus to Gotham

The world convulsed in a pain so raw and unyielding that it felt as if every living soul were being forcefully twisted into unfamiliar shapes. The dying sun, its brilliance stolen by the weight of despair, sank reluctantly as if dragged by invisible, merciless hands. In Gotham—as once-proud monuments and neon dreams crumbled into a fevered nightmare—buildings bowed in grotesque submission to unspeakable terrors, their spires and facades trembling with a desperate, almost pious fear. The streets were a labyrinth of malignant life, where every shadow whispered secrets of unutterable horrors.

Amid this catastrophic cacophony, Young Justice fought to carve a path through blocks that reeked of pure terror. Every step was a trial of both body and mind. The chaos began with a banshee cry—a piercing, mournful wind slicing through shards of shattered glass, echoing like the lament of lost souls. Then emerged an army of soulless eyes, unblinking and relentless, drawing the team into their orbit of despair. These figures, once human, now moved with a cold, precise lethality, their bodies warped into living weapons, sharpened like scythes honed on the raw edge of brutality.

Kaldur'ahm's voice, laced with both determination and undeniable sorrow, cut through the pandemonium like a silver-edged blade. "Push forward! Kid Flash, carve a path!" His command was not merely an order; it was a lifeline cast into the maelstrom of hysterical violence, a call to face both external danger and internal anguish.

Without hesitating, Wally—Kid Flash—exploded into motion. His yellow and red suit blurred into streaks of courageous defiance as he dodged swinging limbs and glistening razor-sharp teeth. Yet behind the mask of reckless brilliance hid a torrent of inner turmoil: haunted by memories that whispered of hospital corridors, silent night vigils, and funeral home eulogies. With every burst of speed, he waged a private war against the ghosts of his past, trying to outrun both the nightmare that now surrounded him and the fear that clung too closely to his heart.

Artemis, poised and precise, unleashed a torrent of arrows—a barrage that rained down with brutal, metallic fury. Each projectile was a cry of defiance, a desperate plea to hold onto the last vestiges of hope, as she covered their retreat with an unyielding precision that belied the inner conflict swirling within her. Every arrow, released with piercing focus, carried fragments of her own battered resolve, evoking memories of battles fought in the solitude of her dark thoughts.

Cassie's roar rang out over the clamor, a raw bellow that defied the oppressive despair coiling around them. As she deflected a monstrous, twisted assailant with her bracers, the green sky above ignited in a sickly, burning hue—a grotesque mirror of her internal strife. Every impact she felt, every fracture in her heart, was a painful reminder of a past laden with regret and loss. The pavement itself trembled in sympathy, quivering as if in deep fear of the carnage it was privy to.

"Stay close!" Kaldur commanded once more, his watery power slicing through the quaking earth. Each step he took sent ripples of relentless mini-quakes across the besieged ground—a physical manifestation of his own inner tremors, a constant reminder of the burden of leadership and the memories of fallen comrades whose faces haunted every shadow.

The oppressive air was a choking miasma thick with decay and despair, almost as if the very atmosphere was steeped in sorrow. Wally danced between the ruins and clashing bodies with remarkable defiance, his speed a tangible testament against an ever-encroaching doom. Yet beneath each sprint lay the silent scream of memory: agony and regret that threatened his courage, gnawing away at his youthful resolve. "Come on, show me what you've got!" he taunted aloud—words that masked a far deeper cry for validation, an attempt to silence the inner voices that reminded him of every moment he had ever failed.

In that split second, the street yawned open like a ravenous maw—a monstrous chasm that threatened to swallow him whole. It was Artemis, in a flash of desperation and instinct, who yanked him back from the brink. Her voice, sharper than the arrows she loosed, cut him off mid-flight. "Wally, focus!" she barked, each word weighted with the urgency of saving not just his life but also the fragile shards of his identity. Even then, a wild grin flashed across his face—a smile that masked deep-seated panic and the memory of times when his bravery had been his curse.