The Uzumaki Family (Naruto X Justice League)

Chapter 14: Tea, Tights, and Trouble in Gotham

Flash:

If there was one thing Cisco had learned about being on Team Flash, it was that absolutely nothing ever stayed quiet for long. One minute you're enjoying your afternoon coffee, the next—bam!—your best friend walks into the lab looking like he's been on the losing end of a brawl with a blender.

Barry Allen wasn't exactly bleeding, but he certainly looked worse for wear, holding up his arm like a toddler who'd just lost an argument with a stapler.

"Sweet mother of meta—what happened to you?" Cisco gaped, dropping his taco mid-bite as he spotted the twisted, glinting shard of grey metal lodged neatly into Barry's forearm.

Barry, ever the deadpan, winced. "Do you really want the short version or the excruciatingly longer one with all the existential drama?"

Cisco blinked. "I want the one where this thing didn't happen while you were off making enemies like it's a full-time hobby."

"It's not my fault!" Barry shot back, exasperated. "I don't even know the kid!"

"Well," Cisco said with a shrug, "maybe your face just naturally provokes aggression."

Barry sighed dramatically and extended his arm. "Please just get this thing out of me before I develop a complex."

Caitlin, ever the professional, stepped in with gloves and scanners, while Cisco poked at the metal with the interest of a raccoon who's just found a shiny coin. "This metal survived your speed," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "That's... not something that should happen."

Barry wasn't really listening. He was watching Caitlin, who had already pulled up a profile on the computer. "Do we know anything about the kid?"

Caitlin tapped a few keys and frowned. "His name's Kawaki. Lives just outside Vegas with what appears to be a normal family. His brother's been seen flying around with Superman, though, so... define normal."

Harrison Wells—stoic, ever-cryptic Harrison—was staring at the image on the monitor like it had whispered secrets to him. He didn't say anything, but Barry could practically feel the theories simmering behind those calculating eyes.

"I'll go talk to him," Barry said, though his voice was uncertain, even to himself. "Maybe he's just... misunderstood."

"Misunderstood kids don't usually turn their cells into bio-metal javelins," Cisco said helpfully.

Wells nodded. "This metal wasn't fabricated. It was grown. His biology shifted. That isn't just advanced—it's alien-level engineering."

"And it was aimed at your heart," Caitlin added with concern, gently pulling the metal shard out with a tool that looked like it belonged in a horror film. "If your body wasn't enhanced the way it is..."

Barry exhaled. "He definitely didn't like my face."

"Could've been instinct," Wells offered in his always-too-calm voice. "Or... a test."

Cisco snorted. "You flunked."

Barry looked at the strange, twitching shard that seemed far too alive for his comfort. "Guess I should bring Superman. You know... in case he tries to stab me again."

"And if you get stabbed again?" Wells asked without missing a beat.

"I'll run," Barry said cheerfully. "Fast."

Caitlin's voice was softer. "Please be careful, Barry."

"I will." He gave her a reassuring smile and zipped out with the familiar whoosh of displaced air and electromagnetic good intentions.

But before heading to Metropolis, Barry did something rare: he went home first.

Because whatever Kawaki was—and Barry wasn't convinced the kid even knew himself—one thing was certain.

He wasn't normal.

And nothing about this was going to be easy.

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General Wade:

General Wade Eiling had once stared down tanks, insurgents, aliens, and three budget meetings in the same afternoon. He prided himself on not blinking unless absolutely necessary. So when the data file was placed gently before him, still warm from the printer's reluctant jaws, he opened it with the grim determination of a man expecting fire and brimstone—only to find a drizzle.

A drizzle of ink, that is. Barely three pages long, with much of it redacted or vague to the point of insult. One wouldn't have been surprised to see "Likes long walks on the beach" listed under the threat analysis section.

"The Uzumakis," he muttered, eyes narrowing as he flipped the flimsy folder with a disgusted twitch. "They've been here for over a decade."

"Sir?" the agent beside him tilted his head nervously.

"That's what the file says," Wade said, and the contempt in his voice could have curdled milk. "But I don't trust it. You don't hide in plain sight for ten years unless you're either very good… or very dangerous."

Or very annoying, he thought, rubbing the bridge of his nose like a man feeling the headache creep up with military precision.

He tapped the name Uzumaki again with a knuckle. "This reeks of misdirection. They're putting themselves out there now, probably on purpose. It's a message."

"To who, sir?"

"To everyone. 'Look at us, we exist, and we're not afraid.' It's a show of power—or a bluff."

He glanced over to the blurry image clipped inside the file—an unremarkable photo of a boy with spiky hair and a smile too bright to be innocent. Wade squinted. "Why now? Why Vegas of all places? And why do they keep popping up whenever something goes wrong?"

LexCorp's recent 'security breach' came to mind, and with it, the blackened hole where a weapons lab used to be. Coincidence? Perhaps. But Wade hadn't believed in those since he found his mother's wedding ring had not been taken by raccoons, despite her claims.

He turned to another page. The Arrow of Judgment incident.

"Chakra," he said aloud, like it was a dirty word.

The agent gave him a puzzled look. "Some kind of spiritual power, sir?"

"Eastern energy nonsense," Wade said, standing. "But these days, nonsense punches holes in buildings."

He crossed the room to the window, arms clasped behind his back. "They don't respect authority. They don't hide. They don't run. That either means they're insane—or they know we can't touch them."

A silence hung between them, heavy and humming with tension.

"Send men to this address." He handed the last page to the agent. "Quiet surveillance. No confrontation unless necessary. We're not ready."

The agent nodded and rushed out.

Wade turned back to the file and stared down at the name like it might blink first. Uzumaki.

"What are you really planning?" he muttered.

Then, with a weary sigh, he reached for his phone and dialed a number he had hoped never to use again.

"We still have to deal with the Flash," he said quietly once the line picked up. "That damn Wells is playing games. If he doesn't give in… things might get messy."

Click.

He ended the call before a response came through. Wade Eiling was not a man to waste time on niceties—especially not with the kind of chaos looming on the horizon. Because in a world filled with super-speed, spells, and chakra, the one constant truth remained:

Power without control was just another disaster waiting to happen.

-----------------------

Batman:

Selina Kyle returned like a mischievous alley cat—graceful, smug, and just the slightest bit amused—as she slipped back into Bruce Wayne's study with that familiar sway that spelled either good news or very dramatic news, depending on her smile's angle. Tonight, it tilted like a crescent moon.

Bruce, who had spent the last half hour trying to decrypt satellite footage and come to terms with a twelve-year-old girl declaring war on governmental inefficiency, looked up expectantly from the Batcomputer. His brow furrowed slightly, but his voice was calm as ever.

"Selina," he said, hands steepled beneath his chin, "tell me about the situation."

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she sashayed up to him with that glint in her eye, leaned down, and planted a soft kiss on his lips, pulling away just as his brain short-circuited for a beat.

"You are so cute when you're trying to act unbothered," she said, the corners of her lips quirking like she'd just stolen the Mona Lisa.

And then, with all the casual grace of someone discussing the weather, Selina climbed into his lap. Bruce, predictably flustered yet annoyingly composed, obliged by placing his hands around her waist. Her perfume was distracting.

"My master—or perhaps, more accurately, my temporary employer—is called Himawari Uzumaki," she began, voice lilting like a bedtime tale that promised dragons. "A powerful little thing with the eyes of someone who's probably flipped a tank before breakfast."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "She's… how old?"

"Ten, maybe eleven? But don't let that baby face fool you. She's clever. Sharp. Trained since she could pronounce the word chakra." Selina gave him a meaningful look. "She's never killed anyone, far as I can tell. Doesn't even want to. But she has views, Bruce. Strong ones."

"And you trust her?" he asked quietly.

Selina tilted her head. "Enough. She's not interested in blood, only justice. The kind of justice that's a little more... disarming."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Pun intended?"

Selina grinned wickedly. "Always."

She shifted slightly and continued, "I told her I'd tag along—for now. She thinks stealing a few priceless artifacts is amateur hour, so I get a clean slate and a front-row seat to the weirdest thing I've ever been part of. And let's be honest, Bruce, that's saying something."

His hold around her tightened slightly, more thoughtful now.

"What do you think?" she asked. "Should I continue or do you want me back here, playing your moonlight shadow?"

Bruce sighed. "You already know my answer."

"I do," she whispered, nuzzling into his neck. "But it's always fun to hear you say it."

After a lingering pause, he asked, "What does she want?"

Selina pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. "To be a hero. Like her father."

Bruce frowned faintly. "Did she mention him?"

"Little things. How he's finally free, how her brothers are a bit funny and sad at the same time. She wants to live up to them. Make her own name."

Bruce tapped his fingers against the chair arm. "Is she hiding something?"

"No. Honestly, I think she's proud. Doesn't want to sneak around. Said you could just visit. Ask your questions like a decent neighbour. Maybe take a casserole."

He stared at her.

"What?" she said with a cheeky grin. "That'd be adorable."

"Should I send you to spy?"

Selina shrugged. "Could. Or you could just knock on the door. She's ten, Bruce. Not Lex Luthor in pigtails."

"I'll think on it," Bruce muttered, standing. He gently lifted her off his lap.

"I'm heading back to her," Selina said sweetly, brushing his chest. "Try not to miss me too much."

And with a swift slap to his rear—whap!—she disappeared in a swirl of displaced air and faint perfume.

"Damned magic," Bruce growled, glaring at the empty space where she'd been.

He pulled on a robe and made for the news terminal.

Within thirty minutes, he wished he'd stayed in bed.

Reports flooded in like anxious owls at Hogwarts during exam week. Government employees, shady politicians, even a few pickpocketing thugs—all of them maimed.

Not dead. Not broken bones, either.

Just... missing limbs. Erased. Vanished clean off as if someone had hit the 'delete' button with a vengeance.

The footage was surreal. A blur of movement, a girl laughing in the background, the kind of chaos that came with a twisted sense of order. No blood, no mess—just an eerie, clinical absence where arms and legs used to be.

And the public?

Divided.

Half of them were hailing her as a divine whirlwind of karmic justice. The other half were preparing lawsuits, petitions, and furious hashtags.

Meanwhile, government departments were scrambling like Quidditch players mid-storm. Some called for Bruce Wayne's insight, others demanded Batman's intervention.

And Bruce?

He sat there, fingers steepled once again, eyes narrowing behind a tired frown.

"Hero or villain?" he murmured aloud. "And what kind of child is raised to erase limbs instead of just grounding someone?"

Behind him, the Batcomputer chirped with more news.

In the quiet, Bruce only sighed.

He might need more tea. Or a miracle.

Or perhaps—just perhaps—a chat with Naruto Uzumaki. Preferably before his daughter turned Gotham into a limbless utopia.

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Himawari:

The rooftops of Gotham had seen a great many things—masked vigilantes, suspicious cats, moonlit brooding—but none quite as cheerfully chaotic as Himawari Uzumaki hopping from ledge to ledge like a hyperactive firefly on espresso.

She wasn't sneaking. Oh no, sneaking was for people with something to hide.

Himawari, with her wild pigtails and her ridiculously oversized chakra bow strapped to her back, was practically singing as she bounced over laundry lines and neon signs, occasionally zapping a criminal mid-heist with terrifying precision. One poor soul found his getaway abruptly interrupted by an arrow to the wrist—non-lethal, but certainly mood-ruining.

That was, of course, until the cry rang out:

"Stop!"

It was a very serious kind of shout, the sort that immediately came with its own theme music and dramatic camera angle. Himawari turned with a raised brow and a delighted giggle.

Two shadows stood atop the adjacent rooftop, wind dramatically tousling their capes—if capes could actually be tousled. One wielded a staff, her red hair unmistakable even in Gotham's dreary light; the other had a sword and a glare so sharp it could slice steel.

Batgirl and Robin.

Himawari blinked. "Oh! I know you two!"

Batgirl wasted no time, gracefully disarming and zip-tying the wounded burglar, while Robin stepped forward, blade raised with a deadly kind of calm.

"You're interfering." Damian's voice was like cold water—stern, smooth, and entirely unimpressed. "You've been dishing out your own form of justice. Shooting people in the limbs? That's not heroic, it's criminal."

"Hmm?" Himawari tilted her head, childlike curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "You think I'm the bad guy? But I'm helping! I'm just... more efficient. You arrest them. I teach them a lesson they'll never forget!"

Robin didn't flinch, though the assassin in him was practically screaming. Everything about this girl was wrong—from the calm smile to the way she played with danger like it was a plush toy. She wasn't posturing, she wasn't afraid. And somehow… she knew everything.

"According to the law," he continued, voice flat, "you should be jailed for reckless endangerment, illegal weapons discharge, vigilantism without sanction—"

"Oh please," Himawari interrupted with a laugh, waving her hand. "Laws are written by old men who don't know how to handle girls like me."

Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Are you going to keep this up?"

"Of course! It's not like I'm killing them." Himawari beamed. "One limb is a small price to pay for redemption."

Batgirl and Robin exchanged a glance. A very serious glance.

"Right," Damian muttered. "Negotiations are over."

He dropped a smoke pellet with the kind of flair that would have made even Zatanna jealous, and Batgirl hurled a trio of batarangs that cut through the air with precision. Her staff came next—a blur of practiced swings—while Robin aimed a blow dart tipped with a paralytic.

Himawari yawned. Literally.

A flick of her finger sent the batarangs spinning harmlessly away, and she lazily kicked Batgirl across the rooftop like a ragdoll flung by a sugar-rushed toddler. Barbara let out a surprised oof! as she flew backwards, only saved from pavement-induced disaster by a well-placed grappling hook.

"Batgirl!" Damian called out, momentarily distracted before realizing his mistake. Himawari was already behind him, humming.

"Nice sword. Want me to enchant it?"

He struck with the grace of a trained killer, every movement a page from the League of Assassins' deadliest manual. But it didn't matter. She caught his blade between two fingers, eyes dancing with mischief.

"You're strong," Damian muttered, trapped beneath her as she pressed him down like an older sister pinning a rowdy puppy. "Who are you?"

"Himawari!" she chirped. "Uzumaki Himawari. I'm new in town. I like your costumes. You're Robin. You're Batgirl. I can see your real faces and I know your mentor."

Barbara, limping slightly, managed to haul herself back over the edge, one eye swelling and her mouth set in a thin line. "She knows about Mr. Wayne…"

That wasn't good. That was the opposite of good.

"We give up," she muttered, staff lowering. "There's no point in this."

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It was a curious thing, really, how a conversation that began with dislocated limbs could somehow end in warm hugs and moral dilemmas. But such was Gotham these days, where chaos often came wrapped in ribbons of reason—and sometimes, disturbingly charming little girls.

Barbara Gordon stood still, lips slightly parted, brain whirring like an overworked server in the GCPD's dusty basement. In front of her, the spot where Himawari had stood just moments ago still felt warm, as if the air itself hadn't quite accepted that she'd left. A kiss on the cheek. A giggle. A disappearing act. Like a very dangerous, very affectionate ghost in a sundress.

Damian was less contemplative and more... wounded. Not physically—he'd taken worse beatings from Alfred's ladle during breakfast training—but mentally? Oh yes. The proud young Robin, heir to the Bat, had just been schooled by a girl who skipped away like she'd won a game of hopscotch.

"I have never felt so humiliated before," he muttered, the words like vinegar on a paper cut.

Barbara gave him a side glance, arms folding with the weight of her inner conflict. "You'll learn that we can't always win a conflict. Surviving for another day is the right choice." Her voice was calm, but the tremor of unease beneath it was undeniable. Himawari hadn't just shaken their battle—she'd shaken their beliefs.

Because, if she was being honest with herself—and she usually was, painfully so—there had been truth in those words. A cold, uncomfortable kind of truth. The kind that made your stomach twist and your badge feel heavier than usual.

Crime rate: down by 2% over six years.

One month. One month of brutality wrapped in mercy, and Himawari promised a drop to 2% total. A ridiculous claim… wasn't it?

Barbara closed her eyes for a moment, the words echoing in her head like the tail-end of a siren.

"My one move shows them their limits and even puts the fear of death inside their hearts. On the plus side they are completely healed from all the illnesses so they can still struggle in society."

Completely healed. Healed. As if she were a twisted Florence Nightingale with chakra and moral ambiguity instead of bandages.

"Immortal help me," Barbara muttered under her breath, "but I might actually understand her point."

Meanwhile, Damian was still mentally licking his wounds. He had sparred with monsters, outmaneuvered assassins, and even bested Nightwing in a sparring match once (allegedly). But nothing prepared him for this. Himawari Uzumaki was... a paradox wrapped in silk and sunshine.

And kisses. Ugh.

"She kissed me," he muttered again, more to the heavens than to Barbara.

"She kissed me, too," Barbara replied drily. "It's called diplomacy. Or chaos. Hard to tell these days."

But the moment wasn't for sulking—it was for thinking. Because Himawari had left more than bruises and awkward memories in her wake—she'd left questions. About justice. About mercy. About what it meant to win.

Barbara looked out across the skyline, the city breathing slow and even for now. It was quiet.

Too quiet.

"I'm going to see Bruce," she said, already turning on her heel. "Before this peace goes back to being pieces."

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Himawari Uzumaki arrived home with the ease of someone who knew exactly where every creaky tile was and how to dodge them like a seasoned ninja. Beside her, appearing with a shimmer of silver light from a small talisman tied around her neck, was Selena. One blink, and there she was—gliding into the quiet, chakra-warmed countryside like a visiting spirit who had just remembered she had feet.

"Did you enjoy your time?" Himawari asked with a grin that hinted at mischief, stretching as she swung open the gate.

"Hehe, it was wonderful. Thank you, Himawari," Selena replied, brushing her hair back and sighing like someone who had just walked out of a particularly lovely dream. Or perhaps, a horror movie, depending on how one felt about crowded shopping streets and overly amorous park couples.

"No problem. I didn't want to see another one of those trashy romance dramas that take hundreds of episodes for something as simple as a hug," Himawari said with a shiver. "One time was enough of that nightmare."

Selena giggled, a touch sheepish.

She can never know I binged four seasons last week, she thought, casting a sideways glance at her host.

The Uzumaki household appeared before them, nestled among whispering trees and the faint glow of chakra-infused lanterns. Simple. Humble. Fresh as a summer morning. To someone like Selena, used to steel towers and glass-paneled prisons, the place felt unreal.

As they stepped inside, the scent of something deliciously home-cooked danced in the air like a cheerful ghost. The kitchen clattered in a gentle, motherly rhythm, and there, seated in the living room as if it were the most natural thing in the world, was a woman.

A stranger.

In a tight white T-shirt and denim shorts, swinging one leg idly as she flicked through channels like a bored teenager, the unknown woman glanced up. Selena blinked. The bat, the lipstick, the perpetual chaos she carried in her expression—it clicked.

"Welcome back, Hima!" Hinata called sweetly from the kitchen, her voice honey over warm tea.

"Thanks, Mom," Hima called back, only to notice Selena staring.

Selena, upon catching sight of Hinata, paused mid-step. It wasn't often she was stunned by beauty, but even she, a seasoned cat burglar with an eye for fine things, had to admire it.

Good genes, she thought, glancing between mother and daughter. The same eyes. The same poise. The same unshakable aura of kindness wrapped in quiet steel.

"She's got someone waiting for her," Hinata added over her shoulder, gesturing upstairs with a spoon.

"I'm guessing that's my cue," Himawari muttered, already heading for the stairs. "Come on."

Selena followed, curiosity prickling her skin. When they entered the room, it wasn't what she expected. There, perched gingerly on the edge of the bed like a confused but determined tourist, was the infamous Harley Quinn—looking entirely unarmed and unhinged in a very different way.

The blonde blinked at them like she'd just remembered where she was.

"Who are you?" she asked with a strangely calm expression.

"Himawari Uzumaki. You?"

"Dr. Harleen Frances Quinzel."

There was a beat.

"Harley Quinn," she added, as if remembering herself. "Former sidekick to the Clown Prince of Crime. Recovering psycho. Part-time therapist. Full-time guilt magnet."

Selena narrowed her eyes, but didn't speak—yet.

"How did you end up here?" Himawari asked, smiling in that way she did when she was assessing a person's soul. Like a psychic with manners.

"I met your parents in the park," Harley began, rubbing the back of her neck. "They helped... fix me. I talked with Mr. Uzumaki, and he said I could go if I wanted. But, uh… I didn't. I asked to stay."

"To heal," she added, softer. "I've done things. Awful things. Helped people who should never be helped. People have died because of me. And I can't make up for that, but... maybe I can try."

Selena's ears perked up.

"Your dad can cure people's minds?"

"Yep. Cures trauma like grandma cures headaches. Herbal tea and terrifying eye contact," Himawari replied cheerfully.

Harley smiled—shyly, of all things.

"I want to help. Even if it's just being a decent human for once."

Hima's smile deepened.

"Okay. Then let's work together. You'll start tomorrow—let's see what you're made of."

Harley stood up like a soldier accepting her orders.

"I'll do my best, boss lady."

And truly, she would. Despite the glitter and chaos, Harley Quinn had always been more than the madness. She was strong. Agile. Skilled in combat. Pain didn't slow her down, and she had a mind sharp enough to break and rebuild. Now, free of poison-laced affection, she might just become something remarkable.

The evening melted into warm conversation. Tea was served (green, not Earl Grey), Hinata's cooking filled the house with sacred smells, and for once, Harley Quinn wasn't running from a bat, a cop, or her own reflection.

Instead, she was learning how to talk about childhood memories without setting something on fire.

By nightfall, the Uzumaki household was filled with a new kind of peace: one that comes from accepting change, even when it arrives in denim shorts and a chaotic smile.