Damian Al Ghul Wayne didn’t wait.

He didn’t even ask for confirmation.

He was already in motion—a blur of purposeful intent.

“Chrysalis, take a calming stance on Marinette!” he barked over the comms, his voice cutting through the panic. “Keep her focused!”

With a practiced motion, he tapped a spare tracking computer chip on his tactical suit. The target was confirmed: the original Marinette was deep inside the Louvre Museum, currently entangled with one of the bombs.

He ran.

His suit, a masterpiece of non-meta human engineering originally designed by his father, was now his only means of closing the distance in time.

This limited-power battery could grant him super-speed, but only for a critical minute.

As he activated the power, the world warped. A flash of lightning erupted from his heels, and the sheer force of the speed hit him to his core.

It was exhilarating

A terrifying, all-consuming rush.

So this is how the power of the Justice League felt, he thought, even as the buildings around him dissolved into streaks of color.

The sensation was addictive, but he was acutely aware of the ticking clock.

He had only a minute before the power juice of the Speed Force faded.

Damian didn’t slow for the streets; he became the speed.

The moment the suit’s power engaged, the air around him cracked, and he launched himself from the Catacombs, shattering the cobblestones in a silent, explosive exit.

The kilometers to the Louvre evaporated as he bypassed roads, treating every Parisian landmark as a momentary launchpad.

He wasn’t running; he was flying, performing a Parkour Blitz where scaffolding, gargoyles, and window ledges became mere stepping stones for his lightning-fast trajectory.

The Seine River, a significant barrier, was crossed in a single, impossible leap, the bridge railings blurring beneath him as he maintained Tunnel Vision toward his target.

With only seconds of power remaining, he saw the glass silhouette of the Louvre Pyramid and executed his Pinpoint Landing.

He slammed into a thick steel loading bay door.

The metal buckling inward with a sound that arrived seconds too late

And was inside the museum.

The extreme speed completely gone, replaced by a painful rush of adrenaline and weariness, he slid to a stop in the hall, the silence there a dramatic change from the energy of his arrival.

Having succeeded, his priorities were now the Marinette’s whereabouts, and the threat posed by the Leviathan.

Damian spotted the Vermin Queen—the original Marinette—at the center of the museum stairs, near the glass pyramid display. Her body was motionless, her eyes wide with shock. The revelation of the Adrien Agreste clones and his alleged death had completely paralyzed her.

He ran to her and gripped her shoulder, trying to shake her from the trance. “Dupain-Cheng, listen to me! You have to fight this! We don’t have time—the bombs first, break down later!”

But it was no use.

She was unresponsive, trapped in her own internal horror.

Damian glanced around and felt a surge of relief: her clones were thankfully independent enough from the original’s conscious state that they could continue their mission to diffuse the bombs across Paris.

Then came the frantic crackle of the comms.

It was Chrysalis. “I have no time!” Maya’s voice was strained.

“Once the bombs are diffused, I have to transform back in order for Marinette to lose her Akumatization.

I’ll try that, but we need to diffuse the bombs now.”

The Louvre bomb was his priority.

With no time left for persuasion or emotional support, Damian turned his focus entirely to the immediate threat.

He scanned the area, locating the device. He prayed to the quintessence above that they weren’t too late.


He quickly assessed the device. The bomb at the Louvre wasn’t complex; his meticulous practice dismantling explosives in Gotham made this an easy puzzle. “Just not hard,” he muttered to himself, his hands moving with surgical precision to sever the necessary wires. The timer stopped. The bomb was diffused.

But Marinette remained in her frozen state, eyes wide and unseeing, a testament to the paralyzing shock of the clones and Adrien’s alleged death.

He desperately needed a plausible solution for her.

Just then, the Leviathan soldiers.

Six of them

Moved into the hall.

They simultaneously removed their red visored masks, confirming his worst fear: the identical, unsettling image of the dead model, Adrien Agreste, plastered on every face.

There was no time for subtlety.

As the clone soldiers raised their weapons, he made one last, futile attempt to rouse the Vermin Queen, shaking her and shouting her name, but it was to no avail.

The first hail of bullets erupted. He didn’t hesitate.

Damian dove, dodging the immediate fire, and with a powerful grab, he tackled Marinette’s still form away from the deadly stream of ammunition.

Putting the paralyzed Marinette to safety, Damian immediately engaged the enemy.

He used his visor to play God, the red lasers in his on-visor dismantling the Leviathan clones’ assault rifles before they could fire another round.

He swiftly subdued four of them, but the situation was far from secured: two clones remained, and one was missing entirely.

He suddenly heard Marinette’s voice begging him to stop. She leaped in front of him, cradling the latest wounded Adrien clone. “Don’t you dare hurt him, demon!”

A bubbling, violet liquid began to encapsulate her form. “Maya, it’s time, now!”

Chrysalis’s voice, strained but firm, cracked through the comms: “Nooru, Light Wings Dissolve!”

The transformation immediately vanished, leaving only a wounded, traumatized teenager. Marinette’s eyes were bloodshot as she caressed the wounded Leviathan soldier in her arms.

The relief was short-lived.

A sudden, sharp gunshot echoed over the comms from the direction of the Catacombs.

To his horror, Damian saw in his HUD that an army of the clones had launched a massive attack on the Lazarus Pit.

Worse, Maya, now transformed back into her civilian form, was horribly outnumbered.

He watched in dread as Nathalie Sancoeur, the cold leader of Leviathan in Paris, wearing a sleek tactical suit, lunged at his dearest sister.

“Fuck,” Damian swore, his tactical mind dissolving into raw fury.