It was a dark night in Gathom, cars driving, honking all just the same old Gathom. Meanwhile, Bruce was in his batcave, burying his face into cases. Until suddenly his radar went off like crazy, flashing red constantly. He stood, watching his monitor for anything that could cause that. He looked around, looking for the blincker that signaled a location. A meteor hit Earth unexpectedly. Red lights that flickered warning and monitors crashed expect for one. It showed a location.

Back at where the meteor crashed, a large cocoon was on flames. It cooled down after a few minutes. But inside was a woman. The cacoon didn't feel or look like it wasn't opening anytime soon. Gotham’s outskirts smelled like scorched ozone and broken trees. Bruce stood at the crater’s edge, cape snapping once before settling, scanning the impact site with the tired efficiency of someone who’d seen aliens fall out of the sky and still hated the paperwork.

The meteor wasn’t a meteor. It was a cocoon. Half-buried in molten earth, oval and immense, its surface layered with dark red crystalline plates veined in black light. Residual flames hissed and died around it, heat bleeding off in slow, controlled pulses like a sleeping heart. Whatever had fallen knew exactly how not to die on arrival. Bruce crouched, gloved hand hovering just above the surface. Sensors in the cowl scrolled warnings he didn’t bother reading aloud. Energy readings were off the charts. Not chaotic. Organized. Old.

Inside, the silhouette of a woman was visible through the semi-translucent shell. Tall. Still. Regal even in unconsciousness, as if gravity itself was showing respect.

“Not a weapon,” Bruce muttered. “Not debris.” The cocoon thrummed once, low and resonant, answering him like it had opinions. Inside the cocoon, Guest drifted between heat and memory. Stars burned behind her closed eyes. Tamaran’s twin suns. The Mother Flame whispering in fragments. Betrayal. Fire. Exile. The crash had been violent, humiliating, rude. She disliked rude planets. Her body was sealed in an instinctive stasis, ancient Tamaranean survival magic knitting itself tight. The shell would not open until the world outside proved it would not immediately try to kill her. Experience had taught her patience. And caution. And that planets with too much concrete were usually emotionally unstable.

A pressure brushed her senses. A presence. Dark. Controlled. Heavy with grief and discipline. Not hostile. Not kind either. Like a blade left carefully sheathed. Her glow flickered faintly, deep red light threading the cocoon’s veins. Interesting, she thought, drifting. The shadow wears armor. Bruce straightened as the cocoon’s energy spiked, then stabilized.

“Alfred,” he said quietly, eyes never leaving it. “I’m bringing it in.” A pause in his ear. Then, calm as ever, “Very good, sir. Shall I prepare the medical bay… or the containment wing?” Bruce watched the silhouette inside shift just slightly, as if dreaming. “Both.”