102

 | Chicago - August 20

As soon as Joseph rematerialized in the Zeta-tube hub hidden inside a rusted toolshed in Chicago's South Side, the sharp scent of motor oil and dust hit him. He barely registered it. His mind was already elsewhere.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a burner phone, flipped it open, and dialed a secure number.

The line picked up almost immediately to his surprise considering how late it was.

"Hello, Nova. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Amanda Waller's voice was smooth and calculated.

"Waller. I need your help finding someone," Joseph said, his voice low but laced with steel. "A meta woman. Silver suit. Wings. Calls herself Silver Swan. If you track her down for me... I'll owe you a favor. Anything. No questions asked."

There was a pause. Then Waller replied, "Ah yes. The Swan. She left quite a mess in D.C., didn't she? Three dead. Starfire potentially dead. Social media ablaze—PikPok has her trending in the top slot, actually. Most are calling for her head."

Joseph blinked. Not at the outrage—he expected that. People loved Kori. She was bright, warm, and kind to a fault. But hearing PikPok's name from Waller herself? That gave him pause. Damn. His app had really grown.

"So?" he pressed.

"I can find her if she's still in the country," Waller replied. "And we'll need someone like you soon anyway. It's related to the Byth Rok situation from before. I'll forward her coordinates when we find her soon. Pleasure doing business with you, Nova."

The line went dead.

Joseph stared at the phone, his jaw clenched. The League had promised to track down Leviathan, and he had waited. Patiently. Obediently. But this? Letting the one who hurt Kori just roam free? Adding her to the rotation of villains that were imprisoned and escaped to cause more pain and suffering. No. Not this time. If the League wouldn't act, he would.

**

 | Lake Michigan - August 20

Joseph, clad in his Nova suit, floated silently over the dark waters of Lake Michigan. The same lake where the Prankster had almost detonated a boat full of innocent people in a twisted pursuit of revenge. If the mayor had killed his father, why not go after him instead of civilians?

The world was full of people like that. Twisted. Vengeful. Misguided. And now Silver Swan was added to that list.

But Joseph was different. His revenge would be swift, brutal, and personal. And by the time he was done, she would be gone from this world.

The night was cool, stars faint behind the haze of light pollution. Chicago buzzed in the distance, indifferent to his rage. He hovered in silence, impatiently waiting for Waller's call. But the anger in his mind refused to let him rest, so he flew lower—then dipped into the water, letting it cool him, literally and metaphorically.

He descended into the lake, his mind swirling like the water around him. Thoughts scattered. Emotions tangled. He realized he had reached roughly 800 feet below the surface—and was shocked to feel... nothing.

'Huh?' he thought. 'I don't feel too much pressure. Or the need to breathe.'

Just like he could go without food, it seemed he could also survive in environments with no oxygen and extreme pressure, maybe due to the Nova Force sustaining him.

'So that means I could survive in space? I could've flown from the Watchtower to Earth without dying? Though it would've taken days to arrive back on Earth,' Joseph realized.

He surged upward like a rocket, his anti-gravity field propelling him from the lake. As he broke the surface, he released a small burst of Nova Force that briefly ignited around him in a golden flare, evaporating every drop of water from his suit.

He checked his comm. No message yet from Waller.

With a tired sigh, he flew to a nearby park and landed on a bench, letting his mind drift in the night breeze. The park was mostly empty—it was well past midnight—but his Nova Sense tingled. Two life signatures approached. He heard the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel, and the squeak of wheels.

He looked up.

Two elderly men strolled through the park—one walking, the other in a wheelchair.

Joseph's eyes widened in recognition. Norman McCay.

The old pastor had once helped him when he was consumed by guilt—guilt from the lives he couldn't save, and from those he had taken. Norman's wisdom had grounded him when he teetered on the edge of darkness.

"Hello, son," Norman greeted warmly.

"Mr. McCay?" Joseph blinked, anger momentarily forgotten. "What're you doing here so late at night?"

"My friend, Mr. Dodds here, insisted on coming out tonight. Said a walk might do him some good. He's been having nightmares."

"I see things, Norman! Divine prophecies!" Dodds snapped. "Not nightmares, pastor!"

Joseph raised a brow. The man seemed eccentric… maybe senile. Wait.

Dodds?

"Are you… Wesley Dodds?" Joseph asked cautiously.

"Yes, I am," the old man rasped. "In my dream, I saw Kent talking to you."

Joseph froze. This wasn't just some random old man. And if Kent knew him then his prophecies might be the real deal.

The older man coughed violently. "The sands run out… and I can do nothing but wait in my own filth for sleep to claim me," Dodds gasped, eyes wild. "Someone must act!"

Joseph sat upright. Alert.

"I saw the coming of Armageddon," Dodds whispered with deep urgency. "You will play an important part in it… so prepare. Prepare with your Dream!"

Then his body went slack.

"Wesley!" Norman shouted, kneeling beside the wheelchair.

"No need to worry, sir," Joseph said, focusing on his Nova Sense briefly. "He's just asleep."

Norman exhaled in relief. "I'll bring him back to the hospital. Feel free to come visit me at the church nearby at any time. It was nice meeting you again, son."

"You too, Mr. McCay."

The two disappeared into the night, the squeaking wheels fading away with them.

Joseph stared after them, troubled.