DC: Year One-- IC Thread.

[Bounce]

| ASTEROID BLUE HEAVEN
| Sector 2814.9G

From out of a pocket at the back of his hip, the H'lven Green Lantern produced a thimble-sized flask from which he put a little kick into the wharmpess that had gone cold about two hours ago. Swirling the dark liquid around in the miniature cup, the veteran law enforcement rodent tested the potency of his concoction before putting the flask away again. It still tasted like swill, but at least it took the edge off a little bit. Grimacing slightly at the bitterness, the squirrel-like Lantern put the cup back down and stuck the well gnawed, stub of his earlier cigar back into his mouth in order to try and get the saccharine taste from his mouth. Wharmpess was a Bolovaxian drink that Kilowog had introduced Br'r to several years before. What he'd discovered about it was that wharmpess looked good, smelled better, and tasted like hammered trog swill.

A perfect metaphor for humans.

"How's our poozer doin', Aya?" the miniature Green Lantern inquired gruffly, pushing the cigar stub over to one side of his mouth so that it dangled from the corner as he spoke.

A holographic rendering of the interior of the space station was overlaid in front of the usual cockpit HUD. The projection depicted Kai-ro struggling to restrain a multi-armed robot from assaulting a waste disposal unit, which had Kai-ro in a headlock, and using one leg to hold back an automated food processor, which was cat fight slapping at the first robot. Various ring construct hands were attempting to pry and pull and seperate the lot of them, but to no avail. "I believe that Trainee Kai-ro may require assistance," the feminine AI voiced sympathetically.

"Eh," Br'r uttered with a shrug, as the cigar traveled to the other side of his mouth and he picked up the cup of coffee again.

"Green Lantern, I am receiving a transmission."

The porcelain mug stopped just a half inch away from the H'lven's face. Turning his furred head back slightly, the diminutive Lantern asked, "From?"

"The transmission origin is tagged as Oa."

A colorful string of words in a variety of languages were muttered under his breath, as the H'lven looked down into his coffee cup and then tossed it. Running a hand through his scruffy face, the Green Lantern finally gave a nod. The holographic projection of Kai-ro was then replaced by the face of a reddish alien with a rather elongated cranium. "Clarissi," Br'r stated politely, addressing the Slyggian by his title.

"Green Lantern," Salaak intoned in kind. "We show you to be in Sector 2814. What's your present location?"

"Asteroid Blue Heaven," the H'lven supplied evenly, his tone becoming gruffer still as he asked, "Why?"

"Good. You're close to Gemini in Sector 2815," The Slyggian remarked cryptically, turning as though to acknowledge someone who was off screen. When he'd turned back to the H'lven Lantern, Salaak explained, "The Graxions have requested our assistance with a homicide."

The H'lven frowned, the cigar again trailing over to the other side of his mouth. "Homicide?" the Lantern echoed, plucking the stub from out of his teeth and waving it around as he spoke. "What the frell? When did we become the galaxy police? It's a murder. They've got detectives. I'm sure they can find the smoking gun."

"The Graxions have... reason to believe this might be a Consortium hit, Br'r," the Clarissi stated, nonplussed by the H'lven's insubordinate barking. "Arisia's handling a treaty negotiation at the moment. I'd prefer that she handle this, but if it is the Consortium then we have to get out in front of this one."

The H'lven was speechless for a moment. But only a moment. "Frell fracking hell, Sally, I'm training a fracking poozer here, not leading an Alpha unit," Br'r argued, anger slipping into his voice as his cigar-augmented hand gestures only grew more articulate. "This is a Consortium job? How bad?" the Green Lantern demanded.

"An entire family. Kids. Even the pets."

Were it not for his fur, the H'lven would have appeared to have blanched. He'd seen enough murder scenes to know that they weren't pretty to begin with. And when kids were added to the equation, nasty business only got that much more disturbing. Now tack on the Consortium's so-called business rules and it wasn't as simple as just killing someone. "Frack, Sally, kid's ring won't work for a month if he sees that," the small Lantern uttered flatly.

To be quite honest, Br'r wasn't all that certain his would either.

"He'll be witnessing worse if we don't stop this now," the Green Lantern administrator stated matter-of-factly, folding all four of his arms down on his desk as he stared down at the small chipmunk and said only, "Good luck, Green Lantern."

And then he hung up on them, leaving Br'r staring at an empty field of stars. In which he caught his own reflection and wasn't all that certain he liked what he saw any more.

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​

The young Chinese monk was struggling. His protective aura kept Marty's arms an inch away from his neck, but he could still feel pressure pushing up against his throat. And the food processing unit's wildly slapping arms were beating against his leg and, occasionally, smacking between them, sending inadvertent shudders of phantom pain through him created by his own subconscious in sympathy for the abuse that his body was taking. Large, green constructs in the form of a pair of hands were holding back Bertha, as Kai-ro felt his foothold beginning to give way.

It wasn't his balance. His own will was starting to falter.

The eruption of green energy was startling to everyone - including Kai-ro - as a massive backhand issued a pimp slap that sent all of them scattering across the floor. As the robots and Kai-ro looked up, standing in the doorway to the bar was mighty mouse himself.

"You." the H'lven barked, pointy a stubby finger at Bertha and then directing his attention over toward Marty with equal vitriol. "And you. Get a fracking divorce." With that said, the Green Lantern turned to the automated food processor. "And you. A waste disposal unit? Do you have any idea where that's been?"

The three robots got to their servos, shamed into silence by the short, furred rodent. Kai-ro's mouth was hanging open, speechless as the H'lven's dark gaze fell next on him. "You, back on the ship."

Nodding, mouth still agape, the young Green Lantern got to his feet. As he started to obey, the boy paused and looked back at Bertha for a moment, then back at Br'r. "But... the weapons discharge..."

"What?" the H'lven uttered sharply, then spied the rifle on the bar. Turning to glare at Bertha again, the squirrel-like Lantern growled. "You're gettin' a warning this time,"

"WHAT!?" Kai-ro snapped in disbelief.

"Don't make me come back here," Br'r growled, pointing at the three robots in turn. "I'll be angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

With that, the H'lven turned and marched back out the way he came. Jogging to keep pace with the short Lantern, the young monk fell into step beside his partner and trainer. "Why are you..."

"Shut up," Br'r barked shortly, offering only. "We've got a job to do."

 

[Morden Man]

[YT]SIQH28INcdw[/YT]​

Somewhere above Central City a man was screaming. Given the shrillness of the man’s voice you could be forgiven for thinking it was a woman. The owner of said shrill voice was none other than Michael Carter, or “Goldstar” as he had insisted upon being called whilst wearing his powersuit, and he was currently careering through the clouds at close to the speed of sound. Beside him hovered Skeets, the BX9 robot that Carter had brought back to the past with him, and from the way he was unenthusiastically listing along it was clear to see that he was enjoying the experience much less than Carter was.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me that flying was so awesome, Skeets? I can’t believe you get to do this all the time.”

That Skeets had very little choice in the matter given he lacked legs seemed completely lost on Carter.

&#8220;<I must have neglected to mention it, sir.>&#8221;

&#8220;I don&#8217;t not pay you for you to not tell me things, Skeets.&#8221;

&#8220;<I shall bear that in mind,>&#8221; Skeets purred. &#8220;<Perhaps we ought to begin, sir? It&#8217;s been two hours since we left the apartment and whilst I&#8217;m sure you are enjoying flying, there is much work to be done.>&#8221;

&#8220;Fine! Fine! We&#8217;ll do what C3P0 wants to do, as per usual.&#8221;

That the pair had been doing anything but what Skeets had wanted to do since arriving in the twenty-first century once again seemed lost on Carter. It had taken the best part of half an hour in Carter&#8217;s presence for Skeets to wonder whether his unique lack of self-awareness was an elaborate façade. The next three months had convinced him it wasn&#8217;t.

&#8220;<Central City Police Department scanners are showing eighteen recorded disturbances across all districts.>&#8221;

&#8220;Any bank robberies? I wouldn&#8217;t mind seeing my face on the front of The Central City Citizen standing over a knocked out dude in a Jimmy Carter mask.&#8221;

&#8220;<There is one,>&#8221; Skeets began. &#8220;<CCPD are in hot pursuit of The Royal Flush Gang on the other side of the city.>&#8221;

&#8220;The Royal Flush Gang? Heck, that&#8217;s about a big a break as we could ask for, let&#8217;s do this!&#8221;

&#8220;<Wait,>&#8221; Skeets said abruptly. &#8220;<Something&#8217;s happening. They&#8217;ve been&#8230; they&#8217;ve been apprehended.>&#8221;

&#8220;What? That doesn&#8217;t make any sense,&#8221; Carter said, bemused. &#8220;Whatever, there must be something else? A hostage situation? A shootout? Give me something to work with here.&#8221;

&#8220;<Thirteen&#8230; ten&#8230; six&#8230; three. The disturbances are dropping off faster than I can count them, sir.>&#8221;

&#8220;I swear to God, Skeets, if you&#8217;ve made me leave my apartment for no reason I&#8217;m trading you in for a toaster.&#8221;

&#8220;<There is&#8230; one left, sir.>&#8221;

Skeets transferred the details of the disturbance to Carter&#8217;s visor. In the corner of it flashed a set of coordinates, a picture of the exterior of a fast food restaurant, and some live black and white CCTV footage of a pair of overweight men having a physical altercation.

&#8220;You&#8217;ve got to be kidding me? This is the best you can do? Seriously? I can&#8217;t believe I&#8217;m even wasting my time with this.&#8221;

Carter touched down outside the fast food restaurant. It had taken him the best part of forty-five seconds to fly there, the entirety of which he had spent complaining to Skeets about the disturbance being &#8220;small fry&#8221; for a hero of Goldstar&#8217;s immense stature. Before pushing his way into the building, he glanced back at Skeets and shot him a disapproving look. This is not what he had in mind when he zipped up his powersuit two hours ago, neither was it what he had travelled four centuries for, but here he was regardless.

Inside, the two men were still wrestling on the ground. Cumulatively the two men were so fat that at times it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Out of frustration the manager of the restaurant finally decided to separate the two men. For his efforts he was sent to the ground with a bleeding lip by a flailing arm.

&#8220;You look like you&#8217;re having a tough day,&#8221; Carter said, helping the manager to his feet with a smile. &#8220;What&#8217;s going on here?&#8221;

&#8220;Your guess is as good as mine,&#8221; The manager said, wiping the blood from his lip. &#8220;They started arguing about a girl or something, &#8216;Khaleesi&#8217; I think her name was, and then this happened.&#8221;

&#8220;I see. The name&#8217;s Goldstar by the way. You&#8217;re going to want to remember that, believe me.&#8221;

The manager watched in bemusement as the gold-clad man walked towards the men. Ignoring their squabbling completely, Carter prized them apart and sent each of them sliding to opposite ends of the restaurant with a casual flick of his wrist. He looked up for a moment and noticed that amongst the restaurant&#8217;s twenty or so customers, a few were brandishing phones in his direction. Never let it be said that Michael Jon Carter lacked a sense of theatre.

&#8220;What the hell do you think you&#8217;re doing?&#8221; Carter bellowed, feigning righteous fury. &#8220;You&#8217;re grown men. Fat, disgusting grown men, but grown men nonetheless. What sort of example are you setting the children of America?&#8221;

This was it, Carter thought, what he said next would define him. There was no way that the first real footage of Goldstar, the greatest superhero on Earth, wouldn't go viral. They would eat this up on the Internet and every man, woman, and child would know who 'Goldstar' was before the end of the week.

&#8220;Look at yourselves. Don&#8217;t you think the world has enough reason to laugh at you already? It&#8217;s downright unseemly for men your size to fight in public.&#8221;

A few titters of laughter echoed around the restaurant from the other customers. Carter held his hand to his ear and murmured under his breath to Skeets.

&#8220;How long until the police are here?&#8221;

&#8220;<Approximately fifty-nine seconds, sir.>&#8221;

The last thing that Carter wanted was to stick around for the police to arrive. He&#8217;d watched enough television to know that the vigilante always slipped away before the police got there. Partly because vigilantism was still illegal last time he checked, but mainly because it was cool.

&#8220;The police are going to be here any second. I wouldn&#8217;t bother trying to run if I were you, because&#8230; Who are we kidding? Chances are neither one of you have run in well over a decade, so I&#8217;m not going to waste my breath. I suggest you sit and wait for them nicely though, because if I have to come back here it's not going to end well for either of you.&#8221;

With that, Carter strode out of the restaurant, shooting his trademark bright smile at the other customers as he went. The looks many gave him in return ranged from complete confusion at best to mocking grins at worst, though it didn&#8217;t seem to register with Carter in the slightest. As he crossed the road and ducked down into the alleyway where Skeets had waited, he punched the air and smiled.

&#8220;So?&#8221; Carter asked with a self-assured laugh. &#8220;Did I nail it or did I nail it?&#8221;

&#8220;<It was&#8230;>&#8221; Skeets searched for an appropriate phrase. &#8220;<Completely indescribable, sir.>&#8221;

 

[MST3K 4ever]

Oswald sat in his office while he was being interviewed by Summer Gleason for a profile piece on "Gotham Spotlight." The interview was going very pleasantly along. Oswald was charming and forth coming in many answers, and Summer was trying very hard not to flirt with Oswald.

"Mr. Cobblepot.." Summer started to ask and Oswald interrupted with, "Summer please it's Oswald."

She brushed back her brunette hair and said, "All-right then Oswald. To open a nightclub of this size in Gotham is somewhat of a gamble according to some critics. How do you respond to that?"

Oswald nodded and replied, "Summer to those critics I cannot argue with I agree that this is a huge undertaking, and I am putting up a great deal of my personal wealth. All of that being said I believe in the glory of our fine city. I firmly believe that this city is starting to show signs of a renaissance. Mayor Kohl has done an exemplary job in showing how this city's best days are in front of her, and not behind her. His policies have benefited all people from all walks of life, and as result many major corporations are reinvesting in Gotham. I believe that this nightclub can be a driving force in the field of entertainment in our city. So all of that being said the good far outweighs the bad, and I believe in Gotham."

Summer smiled and asked, "Two weeks and you officially open. Are you going to be ready?"

Oswald returned the smile and said, "Count on it."

The two wrapped up the interview and Oswald gave Summer a pass for the opening night festivities. Once she left he made his way to his secret office and took his seat in the dimly lit room behind a wide conference table. He pressed a button and a voice on an intercom said, "Yes Penguin."

The Penguin asked, "The nerve gas? Has it been shipped to Eastern LaSerna?"

The voice replied, "It's on it's way. By this time tomorrow General Casalla will be firmly entrenched in power, and payment will be in your account as always."

The Penguin replied, "Excellent."

 

[MST3K 4ever]

Rhiannon parked three blocks away from her work.

Leaving my car at a nightclub so I can try and break into my work. Not exactly what I had in mind for my night out on the town, but hey I think my parents would be impressed that I'm getting out more.

Rhiannon got out of her car and disappeared down a back alley near the club. She looked around and said, "Okay let's see if I can do this again."

Rhiannon concentrated and saw the familiar red & blue flashing aura around her, and that once again the world was getting a lot bigger. A soda can was moments ago regular sized was now the size of a wheat silo.

Rhiannon shook her head and said, "This is really gonna take some getting used to. Not to mention I might as well be running to Gotham considering the size I am and the distance to the office from here."

She took deep breath and began to head towards her work.

Rhiannon had been walking over half an hour and was over half way there, but was exhausted. She leaned against a wall and said, "Gym membership for Christmas. That's what I want this year."

As Rhiannon leaned against the wall she began to recount her encounter with the spider. The shifting of her weight and how she was able to manipulate her strength as well.

Rhiannon closed her eyes and began to concentrate. Within a matter of seconds Rhiannon began to feel nothing as she opened her eyes Rhiannon suddenly realized that she was floating on air.

"Whoa! What in the world? Wow!," she exclaimed. She began to float up and up and then as focused a bit more she was hovering in place.

Rhiannon smiled and said, "Wow! Beats the daylights out of walking."

Rhiannon focused her energy forward and suddenly found herself gliding along.

Way better than walking that's for sure. I must be able to float on the air-currents. Can't wait to see what else the testing shows.

Rhiannon arrived just outside the loading dock area of the CDC and looked around.

Okay at my size I'm probably invisible to the cameras, but that still doesn't solve the issue of how I get inside.

Rhiannon noticed that the main loading dock door wasn't exactly air tight.

She floated over and saw that there was a gap in the corner between the door and the floor.

Nice gap, but even at this size I'm still too big. Unless...if I do this an I'm wrong I could be stuck at this size for good. However if I don't get inside and get some answers I won't have peace of mind.

With that Rhiannon shrank even smaller. The wind currents that are barely even noticeable to most felt like gale force winds as she struggled to get through the gap.

Once she got through Rhiannon concentrated and grew back to her previous size.

She said dusting herself off, "Okay not exactly the perfect entry, but I can work on that."

Rhiannon floated up to a nearby air-vent and began to make her way to her lab.

 

[Bounce]

| GRAXOS IV
| Sector 2815.3M

The young monk sank to his knees. He felt the color drain away from his face as his eyes grew larger and larger at the sight in front of him. His mind struggled with what must have been madness as he fought to comprehend what he saw. He wanted to look away, but he found that he couldn't. His breath choked in his lungs, as his throat seized up on him, so that each attempt to take a breath only sent him that much closer to hyperventilating.

"Breathe, poozer! Breathe!"

"Heart rate is elevated. Blood pressure beginning to fall. I believe that Green Lantern is about to..."

"Just breathe, kid!"

Kai-ro lurched forward, a green container forming in front of his face as the boy pitched forward and violently expelled the contents of his stomach. Coughing, sputtering, heaving, the young Green Lantern doubled over onto the floor until there was nothing left for him to throw up. That was when he saw it. A humanoid eye, staring up at him from where it lay partially crushed down into the carpet fibers.

"Fracking frell," Br'r muttered, absently elevating the container away to dispose of it as the H'lven surveyed the massacre in front of them. They had been a family of four. Mom, dad, two kids - an older daughter and a younger son. They had two pets. And they had all died together.

Well, not together. At least, not all at once. And not at the same time. "Fracking frell," the diminutive Green Lantern muttered again.

"I do not understand why it was necessary to kill the pets," Aya commented dryly. "They were incapable of functioning at witnesses to this event."

"They probably died first," Br'r uttered gruffly. "Consortium business rules. A show of intent. Or of their sincerity. Just some sick frack who thinks that'll get them talking," the H'lven looked at the bodies - or pieces of bodies - in the room, taking in the arrangement of the gore and the splatter patterns. Someone had painted on the walls with one of the kid's severed fingers like they were crayons, spelling out a message that said: We want the money.

"It wasn't a robbery," the H'lven Lantern remarked aloud.

"To what do you attribute this hypothesis?" Aya inquired curiously.

"Look around," Br'r commented, pointing at family heirlooms and glass cases that were still relatively intact. "They want money, but I get the impression nothing was stolen." Holding up his ring, the H'lven said, "Ring, DNA and forensic sweep."

Swallowing against the continued efforts at heaving up, Kai-ro rose on shaking legs as he took a cue from the H'lven. "Ring, DNA and forensic sweep, please," the boy commented, his hand trembling as he put his ring hand out.

And nothing happened.

Br'r merely grunted, the sound making the young Lantern jump despite himself. Poozer was all kind of freaked out. And who could blame him? "Take a break," the veteran Lantern commented dryly, moving on with his investigation. "Aya, start calculating time of death and then get me what you can on all four of our victims."

Elongating one finger into a slender, cylindrical probe, the robot AI carefully examined an open laceration on the chest of the man, the central figure in the house of horrors. "Time of death, one point four solar rotations ago," Aya reported stoically. "I believe that the man was the last to die, and did so while the attackers were still attempting interrogation."

"Give me the play-by-play," Br'r remarked gruffly, stooping down by the daughter as he swept over the body with the ring.

"The blood spatter on the mother's legs belongs to the son, however, she does not appear to have moved either voluntarily or involuntarily after the blood splashed her," the robot commented in a matter-of-fact tone. "In contrast, the daughter and father also have blood splatter from the boy which indicates that they moved subsequent to its contact. Logical inference is that they were still alive at the time. However, the daughter has blood splatter from the father on her which indicates that she was immobile after that time."

The H'lven looked up at the corpse of the Graxion father. "He doesn't look like much to me," the Green Lantern noted gruffly. "Banker. Accountant maybe..."

"Computer software programmer," Aya supplied in answer. "He was the president of a small software firm that supplied a translator matrix for several languages native to this sector."

"Huh," Br'r uttered. Merely that, as though what the robot had said had not at all factored into whatever it was the Green Lantern was considering about the situation. "Not the type to get mixed up with Consortium business. Let alone hold out like this. Why didn't he just give them what they wanted?" Or, maybe he had. And the Consortium did this to convey a message.

"One cannot supply information one does not possess."

The H'lven and the robot both turned their heads to look over at the young Green Lantern. Still pale, the young boy merely said, "Perhaps... he didn't know."

Br'r nodded faintly. "Sounds about right," the H'lven noted, standing and moving away from the teenage girl. "Whatever did this was large. The physical violations were enough to have killed the mother and daughter. Pulverized their internal organs. They were bleeding out inside even before the tards cut their throats."

"Likewise, the boy's head appears to have been crushed by hand," Aya noted.

"And no DNA on the bodies," Br'r added dourly. "Whoever did this was clean."

One thing did add up. This crime scene was everything Salaak had said it would be.

 

[Andy C.]

Story of the Century
PART III​

"Sorry, pal, but it looks like your story's already wrapped up."

I'm twenty-two years old, and trying to get my first big break in journalism. I've been traveling overseas an awful lot, getting stories on various events-- political upheavals, civil unrest, natural disasters. Part of it is because I feel the people in the places I visit need their stories to be told, so the rest of the world can offer aid and make sure the same tragedy doesn't occur elsewhere.

Another part of it, one that's becoming a bigger and bigger part of it every day, is that journalism allows me to go wherever I'm needed without raising too much attention. No matter the situation, nobody's going to notice another attention trying to get a by-line.

"But how can that be? Nobody else was onto this story...."

I'm briefly back in the States, following a lead in Chicago. A few months earlier, one of my more dangerous outings in London led me to stop a shootout between the police and a gang of heavily armed thugs, who were discovered to be using weapons sold to them by the multinational crime syndicate Intergang. I spent the next few months tracing the weapons back, through front groups, dummy corporations, underground cartels, eventually following the money and the guns back to the US, and specifically to the office of Chicago Mayor Theodore Hatch.

The problem, however, was that Hatch had a clean criminal record....well, as clean as a Chicago politician could manage. Nobody would dare go near him, even though I'd uncovered a mountain of evidence connecting him to groups like Intergang, and even worse, the terrorist organization Kobra. The guns he'd been selling under the table had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds.

So I came to Chicago looking for a fight.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I pulled up the daily news only to see Mayor Hatch being taken away in handcuffs.

"You weren't the only one looking to blow the whistle on Hatch," says Jonathan Chambers, the aging editor of the Tribune. "Somebody else connected the same dots you did-- found a few more that you missed, frankly. She gave the Feds enough for them to expose Hatch and bring him in. Just like that, one of the country's biggest gun-running rackets is dismantled."

I have to say, I'm impressed. When I was following the trail back to Hatch, I had to deal with a lot of very unsavory people. People who would probably try to kill me if they got suspicious, or if I looked at them the wrong way. Even with the powers I've got, sometimes it got a little too hairy for my tastes.

So for someone to push even farther, to dig up enough dirt to expose the Mayor for his criminal activities......they'd have to be absolutely fearless.

"Never seen a spit-fire quite like that one," Chambers says with a grin. "You don't spit in the wind, you don't mess with a sleeping dog......and you damn sure don't screw with Lois Lane."

"So let's get right to it," Lois Lane says, turning on her recorder as the last rains of Hurricane Zack drizzle down. "I'm standing with a man who I've just seen do things that common sense and every known law of physics say are completely impossible. We've got photos, video footage, and dozens of eyewitness reports, and I'm still having a hard time believing my own senses. So, first things first.....who and what are you?"

Every muscle in my body burns from the sheer physical exertion I've put myself through tonight. I've never pushed myself so hard for so long, and yet, the biggest challenge in the city is standing about 5'7" and grilling me before I can even catch my breath.

"I, ah.......I.......excuse me a second," I pant, still trying to collect myself. "I'm.....pretty wiped out from the storm. That was.....was intense."

"Intense?! That was amazing!" the young man with bright orange hair says, practically jumping out from behind Ms. Lane, all the while snapping pictures with his camera.

"Photographer," I think to myself. "If you're Lois Lane.....then that....that must make you....Jimmy Olsen, right?"

"Whaa-?! You know who I am?!?!"

I can't help but smile. Photojournalism is quickly becoming a lost art, what with everyone in the world being able to snap a picture on their smartphone, but you can still tell the amateurs apart from the guys who have a real eye for how to tell a story with pictures. And Jimmy Olsen has a fantastic eye. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Perry White yet, but I'd love to tell him that signing Lois Lane and pairing her with Jimmy Olsen was a brilliant move.

"You haven't answered my question," Lois reminds me.

"Sorry," I blush. "I'm, uh.......I'm a friend. Or at least, I'd like to be."

She raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"'A friend?' Anyone's in particular, or just generally good-natured?"

"A little bit of both, I guess?"

For a second, I'm not the only one who's blushing. She recovers smoothly, however.

"Well, Mister 'Friend,' you apparently survived an explosion that destroyed a Category 3 Hurricane, and before that, caught a crashing C-130 in mid-air. How is that possible?"

"I, um, well......" I stammer for a second, trying to come up with the words. I've never really had to describe my powers to anyone before, so it's not exactly easy. "Well, I'm....different. I'm able to manipulate my personal gravitational field, which allows me to negate the pull of the Earth's gravity on me. As for lifting the plane and surviving the explosion, well......I'm just strong."

"'Just strong?' Strong enough to move a hundred-thousand ton tanker? How strong are you?"

"Well, I'd never moved anything that big before tonight," I admit, "And I've never really found the exact limit. But if I had to guess how strong I was, I'd say.......very."

"Oh! Hey! What about the 'S' on your shirt?" Jimmy Olsen pipes in.

"Oh, um, it's not actually an 'S,'" I say, looking down at the symbol on my T-shirt. "It's.....well, it's kind of a glyph I think.....a very powerful symbol from my.....from, well, where I come from."

"And where's that?"

"I...I don't actually know," I say, reflexively looking up at the sky. "Other than that it's pretty far from Metropolis."

Lois looks at me, then over to a gawking Jimmy, then back to me.

"Did you just imply what I think you did?"

"I'd like to tell you more, Ms. Lane," I say, "But there are some things I just.....can't. Some of it's to protect people that I care about. A lot of it, though, is just because, well.....I don't actually know."

"This is ridiculous," Lois mutters to herself. "I'm talking to a man who basically performed a miracle, who's now saying he's from outer space. This couldn't be more of a fairy tale if he showed up on a white horse with a big red cape--"

"Hah!" I accidentally laugh out loud.

"What's so funny?"

"Sorry again," I say, unable to suppress my grin. "It's just.....I actually do own a big red cape. I've just never thought about wearing it when I do this sort of thing."

For a moment, fearless and steel-nerved Lois Lane is speechless.

".....okay, so you just implied that this isn't your first time out," she realizes. "So.....the mudslide in Argentina last year, with survivors talking about a 'blue blur' saving them? Was that you?"

"Some of it, yeah," I nod.

"And all those stories out of the Midwest about an 'Angel in Blue Jeans?'"

"Well, a lot of those stories were people with good fortune and wild imaginations," I say sheepishly, "but I was there on a good bit of them."

"Why are you doing all this?" she asks. "Just jumping into danger to save people, what do you get out of it? Who's paying you? The government? The military? .....LexCorp?"

The three of us collectively wince at the last one.

"I don't work for anybody," I say. "I'm not on anyone's payroll. And if I was doing this for the attention, I would've talked to you years ago. Heck, I probably would have headed out already if I weren't too spent to stand, let alone fly. I don't want this to be about me, I'm just....just a volunteer."

"So, what, you're just doing this out of the goodness of your own heart? I'm sorry, but even with everything I've just seen, that's a little hard to swallow."

"That's a shame," I shake my head. "The world needs more helpers. Do you remember what Fred Rogers used to say?"

Lois blinks for a second, caught off guard.

"Fred Rogers? As in, Mister Rogers, the children's show host?"

I nod.

&#8220;He said, 'When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.&#8221;' That's what I want to be. I don't really know that much about where I came from, or why I'm here....but while I'm here......I'm going to be a helper."

The strain on my body starts to wear on me, and I double over, catching my hands on my knees to keep myself from falling down.

"I, uh.....I think I need to go get some rest," I say, struggling to stay upright. "It's been a pretty long night. And even with the worst of that storm averted, there's.....well, there's still a lot of work to do around here. So I imagine the next few days are going to be pretty long ones too."

"Hang on, you still need to explain yourself on--"

"I'll be around Ms. Lane, Mr. Olsen," I say, staggering towards the street. "We can pick up where we left off some other time, I hope. I think I'll wear that cape next time."

"At least tell us your name," she says. "What are we supposed to call you?"

I turn back to them, and shrug.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," I say with a wink. "Maybe you can make that 'S' on my shirt stand for something."

With that, I summon up the last bit of energy I have, and jump as high into the air as I can. I manage to clear the rooftops of the first row of buildings back into the heart of the city......before crashing down into an alley below.

Hopefully they didn't see that landing. I don't think I'm going to be able to jump or climb or fly my way back to my new apartment, which is all the way down on Hobb's Bay. I don't even know if I've got it in me to walk down the street.

I think......I think I just need to lay here for a bit. Get some rest. The city's safe for now. I can worry about everything else once the sun comes up and I've recharged a bit.

As my head gets heavy and sleep starts to take me, I realize that I haven't even been in Metropolis a day, and I'm already sleeping behind a dumpster in a back alley.

Still, an awful lot of people are going to be sleeping safe and sound thanks to what I did tonight.

So overall, not a bad way to introduce myself to the City of Tomorrow.

Here's hoping that tomorrow is a little better, though....

 

[Bounce]

| GRAXOS IV
| Sector 2815.3M

The young monk was still pale, his face a pale shade of the same color as the suit he wore. Taking note of this, the ship's artificial intelligence asked, "Green Lantern, you do not appear to be operating at peak efficiency."

"Occupational hazard."

As the doors parted at the back of the ship's small forensics lab, the H'lven spoke while he stepped inside. Briefly surveying the screens where the recruit had been performing crime scene analysis, the chipmunk-like Lantern said only, "What do ya got?"

"With Aya's assistance, I have been able to reconstruct the assailant's hand by extrapolating a mold from the impressions on the bodies," the youth remarked, as a holographic rendering of a child's skull appeared outlined in green, while in red was a large, taloned hand which wrapped around the whole of the face.

"Reptilian," Br'r noted flatly.

"Vornian," Aya's detached, synthetic voice supplied. "There were also fingerprint impressions in several of the blood smears."

"Can we identify this fracker?"

"We already have," the boy stated. His voice was still shaky, hinting at a lingering nausea and the choking miasma of fear. The red outline of the hand expanded back to become a towering figure. "His name is Arkillo."

"He has priors." It wasn't a question. If this Vornian was in the Green Lantern database, then it couldn't be the first time he had a brush with the law.

"That's not what is odd about this suspect," Aya noted aloud.

"No? Then what is?"

Touched another button on the display, the young monk brought up an image which replaced the hologram of Arkillo with a Green Lantern trial report and sentencing data. "According to his file, Arkillo is currently incarcerated in an Oan sciencell."

"Currently," Br'r repeated back, the question clear in his voice.

"That is correct, Green Lantern."

The H'lven was silent for a moment, his arms crossed before his chest. Then he turned and started to walk away. "Set a course for Oa," the Lantern ordered shortly.

"Should we contact the Guard..."

"No," the reply came back gruffly, before the doors shut behind the H'lven.

"What do you suppose that's about?" the monk inquired, presumably to Aya but to no one in particular. Because he didn't expect an answer in any case.

 

[Batman]

"Come on, Tim. Put that thing away. You'll drain the battery before we get home."

Dana Drake could swear she heard the sound of a muffled groan under the breath of her stepson's breath, but smiled to herself as he complied anyway. She didn't blame him for the attitude - infact, she was beginning to get a little annoyed herself. They had been in the city for well over six hours running errands, and it was almost well past the seven-year-old's bed time. Her car had broken down earlier in the week, forcing them to take the monorail, which had closed after seven. Things had only gotten progressively worse from there, as the clouds began to rumble above them, signifying the beginnings of a storm. Metropolis had declared a state of emergency just a few hours earlier, and it seemed as though whatever was left of the that mess was about to reach them. Luckily, she had already called ahead to her husband, who was on his way from the Southeast District to pick them up from her work office.

"How much farther do we got?", the boy asked. "I wanna go home."

Dana smiled, trying to keep him off edge.

"Only a couple of blocks. Same as when you asked the last time. Just be patient and we'll be there before y'know it, okay?"

Tim eventually smiled back. "Okay."

Even so, she placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and ushered him along, looking around nervously at the curb. It was because she and every other citizen of Gotham City knew that the streets were never a safe place to be at night. They hadn't been since long before she could remember, when the police started avoiding accusations of corruption in the press and the politicians began turning a blind eye to men like Carmine Falcone and Boss Maroni. She sighed to herself, pushing those thoughts aside and telling herself that she was being ridiculous. Everything would be fine.

"Mom, who's Bruce Wayne?"

Dana raised an eyebrow as she looked down at Tim, who looked up at her with genuine curiosity. Bruce Wayne was a name that was getting harder and harder to escape, given the amount of headlines that seemed to run about him on a daily basis. Newspapers, the internet, television, he was everywhere. And it'd been five months since he'd returned to Gotham from wherever he ran off to after that horrible tragedy. After awhile, you'd think people would eventually stop caring. Now even her own child was beginning to talk about him. It almost made her want to roll her eyes.

"He's a very rich man, sweetie. Why on Earth would you ask about him?"

"Well, 'cause I keep seeing his name on the news app, see?", he replied, holding up his phone. "'Bruce Wayne spotted leaving Dixon Suites with heiress'. What's an heiress?"

Dana smirked. "Something you can learn about when you're older."

Turning her attention back towards the street ahead, Dana was caught off guard as she noticed someone else had just made their way around the corner. A couple of men, grizzled and ugly, wearing ratty-looking clothing with their hands in their pockets. The definition of shady looking characters. To make things worse, there was also nobody else around them for a few more blocks. Normally, it'd be easy to pass it off as simple paranoia, but Dana had lived in Gotham for far too long. Paranoia was always the rational reaction. It was practically law of the jungle, as far as this city was concerned.

"Let's hurry up, honey. Your father's probably already waiting at the office."

Doing her best to slowly guide the both of them as far apart from the other two men as possible, she considered crossing the street just to outright avoid them. But she knew that if she'd just press on a little farther, maybe five minutes, they'd finally make it to 5th and Main. Then they'd be out of the blind spot for the rest of the night. And as much as the men approaching them made her uncomfortable, she had to admit that she'd rather take her chances with them than delaying the walk ahead any more than they had to. They hadn't even really made it to the bad part of town. One of the men finally locked eyes with her, sending a cold shiver down her spine.

"Evenin'."

Trying not to look frightened, Dana hid her trembling hand in her coat pocket and nodded politely. Tim looked up from behind his green hoodie and raised an eyebrow at the two men, noticing that they were walking very strangely. Rushed, yet trying to walk slowly at the same time. It was the first time he'd experienced such behavior from an adult. It reminded him of one of the nervous kids at his school whenever they'd done something bad. Dana's other hand clenched tightly onto his shoulder, pulling him closer to her.

"Hello."

Turning towards the street ahead, Dana and Tim both continued on, trying to act as if nothing had just happened. But whenever they both heard footsteps rushing up behind them, there was a newfound sense of panic between the two. Tim had no idea what was happening, and Dana hoped he'd never understand it. But this was Gotham. When it came to confronting any manner of life's ugliness on these streets, it wasn't a matter of if, it was a matter of when. Turning their walk into a sprint, Dana grabbed Tim by the hand and started to reach the end of the curb - before they were intercepted by the second man, who cut infront of them and slammed his palm onto the wall. His arm outstretched infront of their path.

"Hey, now. What's your hurry, lady? You lost?"

Dana shook her head. "N-No. We're fine. Really."

Tim looked behind them, noticing that the other man was blocking the other direction. And that he seemed to be doing it intentionally. He wanted to pull out his phone and dial 9-1-1, because he'd been taught in school that it's what you had to do when bad things were about to happen. But he also knew that even if the battery life would sustain itself a minute longer, it wouldn't last long enough for that.

"Doesn't seem that way to us, ma'am.", the man replies, advancing. "Infact, I think you and the kid may have just made a left at Albaquerque."

Seeing no direction to run in, Dana pulled Tim behind her as they backed up towards the wall, immediately flanked by the two men - who at this point, had all but made their true intentions clear. One of them reached into his pocket, and Tim's eyes went wide, starting to realize what was really happening before Dana could shield him.

"M-Mom?"

"Please. Please don't do this,", Dana pleaded, desperate. "I have a son. My husband, he's..."

"Yeah. About that,"

That's when the man pulled out his switchblade. And smiled.

"I don't really care."

Dana hurriedly turned to grab Tim as they grabbed at her purse and wrist, respectively. She knew it was over for her, but her thoughts were with what to tell the boy. He couldn't run. He was too petrified and they were too big an obstacle to get past. All she saw infront of her was one option to give him, even if it was grim.

"Close your eyes, honey. For god's sake, close your eyes!"

And Tim did as exactly she told him, tears streaming down his face, dropping into a huddled position toward the ground, frightened out of his mind for what was about to happen. But what he heard next wasn't the sounds of his stepmother's screams, or the one of men cutting into her flesh. What he heard was the sound of thunder and broken glass as it exploded all around them. And then, his eyes still shut, he heard a sound far more unexpected...

He heard their screams.

 

[Batman]

"Get in the damn car!"

Holly Robinson didn't usually respond well to threats. Even at seventeen years old, she was accustomed to the manner of which Gotham's worst scum presented themselves on a nightly basis, developing something of a tolerance for men who seemed to want to treat her like dirt. And she usually fought them back. Not because she wasn't afraid of them, but because it was just the nature of the business. In Gotham, it was a dog-eat-dog world, and if you didn't play it rough, you didn't play at all. That was the way things were, and you had to understand that in order to survive. She had even outfitted herself with all manner of defensive weapons - a stiletto hidden in her left boot, pepper spray in her right pocket, a cellphone she kept routinely charged and even a backup for emergencies. Working as a thief, you'd be crazy not to be at least a little bit prepared for any tight spots.

None of that did her a damn bit of good, however, if she had a 9 millimeter pressed against the back of her skull. Which she currently did, while being shoved into the back of a waiting taxi on a street corner of Gotham's Narrows island in the middle of a storm that was only escalating. The owner of the piece was Vinny "The Diesel" Kriel, a local dealer of goods for any variety of clientele. And tonight, he was looking to collect what he felt Holly owed him. Namely, over twenty-thousand in stolen goods that she'd pilfered for her boss. Someone had tipped him off that she was the culprit, and needless to say, he wasn't taking the news very well.

"Okay, alright. Jesus..."

Her hands in the air in mock surrender, Holly made herself as comfortable as possible as Kriel got into the car with her and slammed the door shut. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of twenties and handed them to the driver, who didn't seem to notice that he was armed.

"Where to, pal?"

"Just drive. Drive until this is over!", Kriel spat, pointing the gun at him. "And it's either gonna be over when I get what this little ****e took from me, or it's gonna be over we get to the river..."

He pointed the gun back at her. "You got me?!"

"Yeah,", the driver nervously replied, turning the dial. "Yeah, I got you."

"Thanks for the help,", Holly sarcastically murmured.

"Be quiet!"

Kriel grabbed her by the hair, forcing the gun against her chin. Holly wasn't afraid of death, but she was certainly in enough pain to relent to his demands. The only problem was, what he wanted was impossible to give him back. The items had already been sold on Gotham's black market weeks ago, before Kriel even knew they were missing, and the only alternative would be to cough up the money to pay him back. And it just so happened that Holly didn't have twenty grand in her back pocket. Nor was her employer willing to give up that much to a lowlife owner of a glorified pawn shop.

"You got one minute to start talking, you hear me?! One goddamn minute! Where's the stuff you took from my shop?!"

"Look, oww-... Vin,", she replied, behind grit teeth. "It's like I already explained to you. If I knew where any of it was, I'd tell you. But it just so happens that I don't know where any of it is. So get your damn gun outta my face!"

That was when Kriel officially lost his patience. Slamming the weapon across Holly's forehead, he sent her flying back into the driver's side window, a spiderweb crack forming in the glass under her point of impact. Holly was barely conscious enough to feel the pain of it, but she began to realize how grave the situation was whenever droplets of blood began trickling down the glass infront of her eyes. Before she could react, Kriel had already pulled her back, forcefully shoving the gun in her mouth.

"Then we got ourselves a problem, don't we?"

For the first time since the incident had started, Holly began to show visible terror on her face. She hadn't taken this guy seriously before now, even with the gun. But he was only seconds away from snapping, and the hammer of the piece was already being pulled back. She'd die seconds from now, and it was all over a bunch of stupid collectibles. Bracing herself for the worst, Holly closed her eyes, hearing nothing but the beat of her own frantic heart as the world started to fade to black.

Then the car made a noise. Or, more accurately, something made a noise ontop of the car. Because just as it pulled up to a stop light, something unseen had landed on the roof, violently shaking the cab back and forth for a moment. Holly, with the gun still in her mouth, opened her eyes in puzzlement as Vin started looking around, wide-eyed.

"What the hell was..."

Ripping the gun away from Holly, he pointed it at the driver, who raised his hands.

"What the hell did you just do?!"

The driver looked just as stunned as he was.

"What?! Me?! I thought that was you! I don't know what the hell that was!"

Rolling down the passenger side door, Kriel raised his weapon as rain and wind poured down on his face. Looking up at the roof, he squinted his eyes, fighting back the droplets of water coating them and blurring his vision. Even if it weren't storming, it would be too dark to see what was looking back at him. But he knew that he had a much more immediate problem now whenever he felt something grab at his wrist - and pull him hard. So hard, infact, that he felt himself shift up out of his seat and hit the top of the taxi's interior.

Reeling from what had happened, Kriel landed back in his seat, his weapon gone and his wrist numb, as if it had been broken. Holly scrambled to the farthest corner of the seat and watched in horror as something moved outside of the window. Kriel looked over at her, confused and petrified at the same time.

"What in god's name just..."

Suddenly, a dark figure grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Before he could realize what was happening, he looked back and screamed as loud as humanly possible. Holly could do nothing but scream aswell, watching her attacker as he was then pulled out of the window of the taxi and into the pouring rain, his legs wriggling as they were the last trace of him to disappear into shadow. Lightning flashed and briefly revealed something monstrous, but Holly couldn't even comprehend it. All she could see was darkness.

But she could hear the pounding. The screaming. The crunching of fist on broken bone, as Kriel's cries were quickly silenced. By the time she could bring herself to look back up, Holly noticed that the cab driver had already bolted for the other side of the street and left the door hanging wide open, swinging back and forth as violent winds from the storm licked the vehicle. Lightning flashed again, and there was nothing there. Just empty streets blanketed in rain.

Trembling, she frantically reached into her back pocket and pulled out her emergency phone, dialing an emergency contact. Not the police - nobody in Gotham ever called them for anything, and with good reason. The person she called was the very person who had arguably gotten her into this mess - that person also being her employer.

"S-Selina? It's Holly."

She sat back in the chair, mascara running down her face as she stared at the open passenger side window. Entranced, almost, at what possibly could have been out there. And why she suddenly felt alot safer now than she did just moments ago.

"You're not gonna believe what just happened."

 

[Batman]

As his city slept, so did The Roman. Carmine Falcone was a man who was used to living with the very definition of luxury, wrapped in silk sheets in the massive bedroom of his penthouse apartment. He very seldom ever had a nightmare, knowing all that he had accomplished was enough to put him into a blissful rest each and every night. If he had a problem, all he had to do was give the word, and it'd be eliminated. That was power you couldn't write a check of any amount for. It was the kind of power he had, and it kept him warm on nights like this.

What he never expected was to be awoken to the sound of one of his own windows being shattered. The Roman shot up in bed, alarmed and awakened instantly by the realization of the impossible. His penthouse was guarded by a militia of thirty armed guards. He had two of them stationed right outside of his bedroom doors at all hours of the night. And yet something had broken through his window?! Throwing the sheets aside, Falcone raced up to the window and looked out the newly created hole, seeing nothing but the skyline of the city he practically owned.

"Dios..."

Looking back at his wall, Falcone suddenly noticed that there was something embedded in it. Slowly approaching, he couldn't make out what it was exactly. Only that it was a blade, of some sort, entrenched so deeply into the wall that it had practically made a hole of it's own. Realizing that this couldn't have been happenstance, he ran over to his nightstand and retrieved a loaded semi-automatic pistol.

"Johnny! Boy, where are you?!"

His bedroom doors swung open, revealing his massive nephew and personal bodyguard, Johnny Viti.

"Uncle?"

"Quickly, you imbecile! Alert the others!", Falcone barked, brandishing his weapon. "We have an intruder on the grounds!"

Johnny turned to the object embedded in the wall, and approached, attempting to pull it out. As he tugged at it, his uncle retrieved a two-way radio that was lying on a nearby table, placing it to his ear.

"Hello? Hello?! This is Falcone! Who the hell's out there?!"

There was no response. Only static. Falcone dropped the radio and ran up to the doors leading up to his balcony, swinging them open just as Johnny managed to pluck the bladed instrument from the wall. Looking at it's fully revealed form, confused, he turned to Falcone as the mobster treaded wind, rain, and lightning to look out onto his courtyard.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?! IS ANYBODY OUT THERE?!"

To Falcone's horror, the sight revealed to him by the lightning showed that there were indeed a number of men stationed out there - it's just that none of them happened to be conscious. Each one laid face-first, sprawled out against the tile below. Dropping his gun in astonishment, Falcone backed away in horror at what he'd witnessed, refusing to believe it was real. Maybe he was having a nightmare for the very first time.

"Non è vero, Non è vero..."

"FALCONE."

Both Falcone and Johnny's eyes were drawn to the heavens, as a figure was revealed to them, perched on the electrical wire hanging above the penthouse. A figure that looked less like a human and more like a beast from hell itself.

"You and your kind stole Gotham,"

"I'm taking it back."

With another flash of lightning, it was gone. Completely disappeared.

Falcone stood, dumbstruck, as his nephew handed him the bladed object.

He looked down at the blade, noticing the shape in his hands.

It was of a Bat.

 

[Andy C.]

​

Photo by J. Olsen

"Behold, I Show You the Superman!"
Unidentified Strongman Saves Thousands of Lives, Raises Millions of Questions
By Lois Lane​

Earlier tonight, the citizens of Metropolis were confronted with what can only be described as a series of miracles, impossible acts that defy all known laws of physics, all carried out--according to a flood of photos, videos, and eyewitness accounts-- by a single man.

Hurricane Zack, a Category 3 storm that was projected to deal catastrophic damage to the city, was thwarted by a man in a blue t-shirt and jeans, wearing a "glyph" on his chest that for all the world looks like a stylized letter "S." His actions, which range from pulling a puppy out of floodwater to literally flying through the air to steer an out-of-control C-130 with his bare hands, seem like something out of a fairy tale, a cross of Prince Charming and Hercules. And in his wake, the grateful men and women of our city are left with very serious questions.

Who, or what, is this mysterious 'Superman?' Is it part of some grand, complex hoax? A form of mass hallucination, perhaps? Could this be an individual equipped with some highly advanced technology, akin to the experimental anti-gravity and force-field drones currently being developed by DARPA and LexCorp?

According to the man himself, the answer may be even more unbelievable than his actions. When asked, he seemed uncertain of exactly where he came from,"other than that it's pretty far from Metropolis." The implications of that sentence alone, if true, are nothing short of staggering.

Naturally, however, an extraordinary claim like this demands extraordinary evidence. Until the exact nature of who the Superman is and how he can do these incredible things is discovered, any theories regarding surrounding him must be met with skepticism.

However, one thing that cannot be disputed is this: there are thousands of people in the city of Metropolis who are alive and safe thanks to the Superman.

-Lois Lane, AP​

News travels fast, they say.


A thousand feet above ground level, Lois Lane's story appears on one of a hundred monitors, a grand display of information that all began to take shape around that single article.

As more and more news spreads reporting the impossible events of this evening, a phone line is opened.

"Mercy?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I take it you made it through tonight's inclement weather unharmed?"

"Yes, sir. A little water damage in the living room, but other than that I'm--"

"Excellent. I know tonight has been....eventful for everyone. However, I'm afraid that tomorrow is going to be a very busy day."

"....understood, sir. I'll be there first thing in the morning."

"Good. For now, get some rest. I suspect that the both of us are going to have a packed schedule for the next few days."

"Understood, Mister Luthor."


Hurricane Zack was not an easy task. Weather systems are delicate and very complex things. Seeding clouds with the right amount of particulates to affect temperature and pressure on the necessary scale, but keeping them soluble enough to avoid detection, was an arduous process, not to mention an expensive one. Still, the "Brave New City" initiative to follow would have been a milestone in revolutionizing urban society not just in the city, but across the planet.

Not to mention the storm would have accounted for the disappearance of the Miss Kitty 5, and the sale of the gravity well weaponry to his client in Asia would have more than made up for the losses in rebuilding Metropolis.

It was to be a master stroke of his genius..........and it was all undone by some smiling jackass in a T-shirt.

While the hurricane may have been broken, something far more powerful and destructive is forming in its place.

Inside the mind of Lex Luthor, a storm is brewing.


********

News travels fast, they say.

As the internet and television explode with reports of a "Metropolis Marvel" or a "Super Savior," very powerful people convene in the lower levels of the Pentagon.

"Tell me this is a joke," groans Lieutenant General Harold Swanwick, head of the Northern Command of the United States Air Force.

"Wish I could, Harry," replies General Samuel Lane, head of the First United States Army. "God damn, I wish I could. Crazy doesn't even begin to cover this. A foreign invasion, I could understand. A terrorist attack, I can get my head around. But a flying spaceman who shrugs off explosions and flies through the air? I'm still expecting to wake up."

"Oh, you're awake, Sam," says Director Amanda Waller, head of the Central Intelligence Agency. "We've been tracking this creature's movements for some time now, but this is the first time we've had solid confirmation of it. I'll be honest, I always thought he was a bogeyman myself. But the evidence is there. This thing is real, and it's not going away."

"Well, the question is, what do we have to worry about from it?" Swanwick muses. "Everything that's been reported about the 'Superman' so far paints a picture that it's on our side."

"Well, that's the thing," Lane sighs. "Sure, it looks like it's on our side now, but how do we know for sure? What if it's putting on a friendly face? What if it's setting us up to be colonized or invaded? Hell, what if it just decides it doesn't like us that much after all?"

"Gentlemen, I didn't come here tonight to engage in idle speculation," Waller interjects. "I came here tonight to make sure we've all got our cards on the table. So that if it ever comes down to it, we know what plays we're going to make, what we're going to use in the event that the Superman becomes a threat to national security."

The three of them eye each other suspiciously, like veteran poker players attempting to read their opponents' faces. These three are responsible for incredible amounts of firepower and intel, and have projects in the works that even the President isn't at liberty to know.

"Why don't you start, Amanda?" Swanwick asks. "I'm sure anything we could learn about 'Task Force X' could be invaluable in--"

"Task Force X isn't a viable option for this one," Waller interrupts, a sting in her voice. "Maybe you'd like to fill us in a bit on 'Brother Eye,' if that might--"

"Enough, you two," Lane cuts her off. "We're on the same side, damn it. We don't need to be sniping and prying at each other. You want to know what I've got? I'll tell you."

General Lane sighs, and pulls up a file on the tablet in front of him.

"Here's everything you need to know about Project Metal Zero..."


********

News travels fast, they say.

Information travels to every corner of the globe at the speed of light. News media is flooded with sensational stories. Social media explodes in a storm of updates and pictures.

The sea of data is practically boiling. Millions of stories, like schools of fish, swarm the abstract world of 1s and 0s, following every twist and turn the larger narrative takes.

Even in the digital sea of data, there are predators. Some larger than others....

Hidden away in the codes of every search engine, every operating system, every communications network on the globe, something begins to stir. Something ancient and vast, and very, very hungry.

 

[MST3K 4ever]

As the rain outside could be heard inside the club Oswald watched as the workers were doing everything in their power to make sure that the lounge would open on time.

Oswald made sure to shower the workers with praise, and show a semi-genuine interest in their work. Yes contented cows often gave the sweetest milk, but in this case Oswald was also feeling the workers out. Who knows what kind of connections that they could have outside of their work. His father taught him to never judge a book by it's cover. For example the cigarette girl that worked for Don Scardino by all outward appearances was a bubble-head blonde. In reality her moving around the club frequently enabled her to overhear many interesting bits of information, and she knew how to get that information to the right people. Oswald was applying those lessons to today.

Oswald felt one of his L-Phones vibrate. It vibrated once and then silence. Which meant that this call was for The Penguin.

He looked around and saw that there was no way to make a discreet exit, so Oswald thought for a moment and called all the workers together.

He said, "My friends your work has been nothing short of magnificent. I have no doubt that we will not only be ready for opening night, but maybe even a couple of days early. You all deserve great praise for what you've done."

Oswald applauded and the workers joined in as well. Oswald waited for the applause to die down and said, "To that end we open in two weeks, however the night before we open I insist that you all attend a private party here. It will be just for you and your families. Everything that night is for free, and I will see to it that there is entertainment that night. Top-notch entertainment I will spare no expense. You all have certainly earned it and my gratitude."

The workers applauded and Oswald held up his hands as the applause seemed to go on. When it finally died out Oswald said, "It seems that the weather this evening is a bit on the dreadful side, and rather have you all go out in a monsoon I would ask that you leave everything where it is until tomorrow. I know that I am telling to leave early, but please don't worry you all will still be paid for a full day's work."

Oswald looked around and said, "Thank you again, and please go home safely. See you tomorrow."

The workers began to file out and Oswald called his manager Heather over. He handed her a business card. He said, "That's the private line for Katy Perry. Call her tomorrow line her up for the party. Pull out all the stops."

She nodded and said, "Yes sir Mr. Cobblepot. Will there be anything else?"

Oswald shook his head and said, "No no my dear. Head on home I'll close it up from here."

Once Heather left Oswald strolled through the lounge and made sure no one else was around. He pulled out his Penguin phone and called the number on it back.

Penguin said, "I trust this is of absolute importance."

Penguin was talking to an inside source in the Falcone Crime Family. Generally Falcone and Oswald rarely came into contact with one another. Oswald felt that Falcone was too over the top in terms of his "business." Oswald usually worked very quietly and off the radar, and had others who kept him insulated but in the loop.

Penguin shook his head as he said, "Excuse me? A giant...bat?"

 

[MST3K 4ever]

Rhiannon sat in front of a computer monitor at normal size in her office. She had been switching between normal and shrunken size so much that Rhiannon began to question what kind of damage she was doing to her body.

Luckily for her she was able to use the air vents to move back and forth between her office and the lab. It was during this time that Rhiannon also learned that security in this place was a joke. She was able to avoid motion sensors, discovered that the security cameras were more for show than anything else, and that the computer logs could be altered in a matter of seconds.

Our tax dollars at work was her only thought on the subject.


Still she decided that it was best not to push her luck. Just finish the testing and get out was her goal. Rhiannon ran every test she could think of, and was amazed and terrified all at the same time as she went through the results.

Rhiannon said, "The meteor somehow mutated my pituitary gland. Putting it in a state of flux which is making my shrinking possible. At least according to the tests this isn't causing any damage to me, and I can control my powers. The question is; now that I have these powers what am I going to do with them?"

Rhiannon leaned back in her chair and realized that there was no way she was telling anyone at work about this. As far as they were concerned there was no "ill side effects", and Rhiannon was content to let it stay that way. Besides if they found out about all this Rhiannon knew she would be on an operating table, or they would find a way to try and trigger her powers and she'd be on a dissection tray.

Rhiannon studied the results again and had another thought.

Maybe it's best if I just do nothing. Act like nothing happened and what to see if these powers are only temporary. Then again the test indicate that I'm keeping these powers for the rest of my life like a set of luggage.

Rhiannon looked at the clock on her computer and said, "Okay girl-wonder it's time to call it a night."

With that Rhiannon shut down the computer after clearing out all the information, shredded her paperwork, shrunk down, left the building and headed back to the direction of the car.

 

[Batman]

The war has begun.

I'd have never imagined reaching this point a month ago. Sitting in the darkest corner of that study, bleeding out and beaten within an inch of my life after going up against Maroni's Red Hood faction. Still hearing their laughter at me. Taunting me, mocking me, tearing me down like I was nothing. Telling me I wasn't a threat to them. Alfred never knew how right he was when he told me I wasn't ready - the elements weren't on my side. There was never any fear to be had out of whatever I was then. Some wannabe vigilante with a few gadgets and a ski-mask to hide his shame. But tonight changed everything. Even as I awaken in the cold, dampened cot sitting in the middle of the caverns beneath the Manor - my accumulated wounds still freshly patched up and the rest of my body bruised elsewhere, I feel a sense of accomplishment now that I never have before. It's invigorating.

Looking up at the workbench ahead, I take a look at the costume, tossed astray after it's initial test run. Armor held up even better than I imagined, but I'll need to have a few adjustments made. There's a problem with the weight I'm carrying and it's affect on my movement. The cape sure as hell isn't helping with that, given it feels like I'm lumbering around with every other step. And the cowl's goning to take some getting used to. I hadn't anticipated the depth perception being a problem in conjunction with the interface of the lenses. Sensitivity in the microphone is a little too high, aswell. I could barely hear over the roar of the storms. But despite the flaws, it all held together. Like patchwork, the suit accomplished exactly what it needed to - it made them afraid. Every single punk I encountered look at me like I was something out of their worst nightmares.

God help them. That's a feeling I'm never going to get tired of.

"Ears still ringing?"

Alfred approaches from the rear entrance, uncharacteristically carrying a tray with him. Breakfast of some sort, it looks like, and a newspaper. My morning coffee as a bonus. The stench of it is enough to push past the pain of last night's exertion and stand up, stretching my limbs and letting out a yawn.

"I'll survive."

Raising an eyebrow, Alfred places the tray next to me.

"Not for too much longer, I'd imagine."

He indicates the newspaper headline, which I immediately fixate on as I take a drink. The Gotham Guardian's morning edition. To my astonishment, it reads exactly what I predicted and never predicted at the same time - "Bat Out Of Hell: Mysterious Winged Figure Sighted Through Gotham During Massive Storm". Before I can even react to that, Alfred pulls that headline away, revealing another underneath it. This one of the Globe. "Haunted Gotham? Citizens Report Being Saved By 'Supernatural' Bat-Man."

I take a keen interest in the last headline, especially.

"Bat-Man?", I wonder aloud. "That's... an interesting title."

"I'm sure it'll catch on like wildfire,", Alfred responds, dryly. "The papers weren't the only ones talking about it, actually. The television news outlets were positively livid with speculation. You'd be the talk of the internet, too, had a strongman in Metropolis not already stolen your thunder. I believe he's what they refer to as, 'trending'."

I smirk. "Wow. Some competition already. I'll have to do something about that guy,"

Alfred's stern look cuts through the sarcasm before I've even finished delivering it.

"I thought you'd agreed to keep things discreet. And yet here you are, all over the bloody news. What's discreet about that?"

Giving him a look, I toss the paper aside and limp past him, still sore from one of those idiots bashing a tire iron into my knee. Luckily it didn't do any damage. Just aches for the moment. Alfred's concerns should be there, and yet he's talking to me about staying in the shadows. I did that to the best of my ability. He should know that by now. I'm not someone who's ever sought any kind of glory or attention. It's distracting enough during the day, when I'm out there trying to be Bruce Wayne.

"I saw a pair of muggers about to kill a mother and her son, Alfred. Forgive me if discretion wasn't at the forefront of my mind whenever I chose to stop them."

Alfred follows, hobbling on his cane as we both advance into the dimly lit portions of the cave, making our way to the southeast exit.

"You and I both know that isn't what I was referring to. Stopping a few pursesnatchers and rapists is one thing. We both expected a few rumors to circulate. But to go against The Roman? By yourself, this soon? What were you thinking?"

I stop dead in my tracks.

"They heard about that?"

Alfred scoffs.

"It's on every channel. The papers were late to it, but the rest caught on. One of his men leaked every sordid detail of it to the press. Once he regained consciousness, of course."

Turning to him, annoyed, I look him directly in the eyes when I speak. He doesn't understand, and why the hell would he? He wasn't there. He didn't feel the rush of it as I stared Falcone down, making my threat loud and clear. The people of Gotham aren't his to abuse anymore. I did the city a service by standing up to him alone.

"I was sending a message."

He remains unconvinced.

"No, Bruce. You were showboating."

"You didn't have the evidence to throw him in jail, like you could with any common thug. So you went and attacked his militia, unprovoked, just to prove something to yourself."

I glare. "Falcone didn't seem to see it that way."

Alfred looks off, silently. Almost as if he knows it's be pointless to argue any further.

"What do you want me to say, Alfred? That I won't do it again? You and I both knew what this was when it started. Organized crime is the source of everything wrong with Gotham. It all drips down from the top, and if I don't attack them now, they'll only grow stronger.", I explain. "I don't have time to wait around for Falcone to slip up when he's spent so long covering his tracks already. Harvey isn't making any progress, and the police won't act because they're all working for him. It's up to me to bring him down. And I'm doing it alone."

"What I want you to say is that you won't get reckless,", he replies. "But clearly, we're already past that point."

Clenching my fists in anger, I grab a shirt and tie left for me at the cave's entrance and leave.

"I'm late for a meeting."

He doesn't protest. Neither of us say anything else.

If it's going to be like this every night, I may need to find a new butler.

*****​

"P-Please..."

Elsewhere in Gotham City, a man feels his left index finger sever from the bone and fall to the ground, immediately gushing blood from a stump of where it used to be. But he's been through so much agonizing torture in the last few hours that, frankly, he doesn't even care. He's been feeling lightheaded ever since they decided to place heated irons onto the flesh of his bare chest. Still, though, he manages to let out another few tears as his body violently convulses.

His captors look down at him and likely smile at that. He doesn't really know, and couldn't even tell if he were paying attention, given that the masks were hiding their faces. There was a reason you never dared to cross paths The Red Hoods in Gotham, and GCPD Sergeant Greg Snyder was learning that firsthand.

"Please?", one of them asks, mockingly. "Please what? Continue?"

Another chuckles, turning to the torturer.

"I think he wants us to continue."

Snyder looked up at them, drenched in sweat and completely out of breath. He'd been pushed past the breaking point long ago, and somehow, they just kept going. It's like they were deliberately trying to squeeze as much life out of him as they could. Though, given what Snyder had heard about these psychos, it was a very likely possibility.

"I'll... I'll give you anything you want. Just stop."

"Well, now..."

The three Hoods standing over the bound Sergeant's body take a sidestep, revealing their leader. The enigmatic Red Hood One. For as many stories as there were about the gang itself, there were twice as many horrific recountings of their leader's laundry list of crimes. Extortion, kidnapping, murder in the first degree. He'd slaughtered entire graveyards by himself. If he even was just one guy, that is.

"Anything we want?", He asks, chipper. "Including, say, the name of the man who'd tipped you and your men off to our little escapade back at the Docks?"

Snyder's mind suddenly goes into a frenzy, remembering the events prior to the worst night of his life. As if it were lost among the screams and the pain he'd been forced to endure. Captain Gordon had sent a team in on a raid to bring in the Red Hoods while they were supposed to appear for a drug trade between one of their rival factions in the Falcone crime family. Some two-bit newcomer calling himself El Gato had broken off a piece of The Roman's pie and was offering The Red Hoods a good deal - a portion of product and insider information.

He remembered how it went wrong, because they'd been tipped by an inside man working from within the Red Hoods themselves. But he didn't work for the GCPD. There were rumblings that indicated Maroni had the entire East Gotham precinct wiretapped, practically, so they had to work through the District Attorney's office to get a line in. Gordon trusted the source, but only because he answered directly to...

"H-Harvey Dent."

Snyder's head hung low, as he sold out the counselor without hesitation.

"The leak came from Harvey Dent. H-He's got a man working for you. Don't know who it is."

Red Hood One takes a step back, in mock surprise.

"Really? One of own is a turncoat?!", he exclaimed. "Good heavens to betsy, this just won't do."

Turning to the men assembled behind him, Red Hood One points directly at them, accusingly.

"Show of hands, gentlemen! Which of you is the snake in a nest of vipers? Who's got Dent's ears burning?"

They all look at eachother, confused.

"No one? No one at all? Okay, then..."

Pulling out a revolver from within his jacket, Red Hood One aims it at the first man he sees.

"Guess you'll have to do."

The lesser Hood panics, immediately placed in the line of fire.

"B-Boss? What are you..."

BLAM!

The brains of the former Red Hood Thirteen splatter all over his horrified compatriots, who cower in fear as Red Hood One takes a step forward, placing the revolver back from whence it came. Casually strolling through the crowd, he motions back to Sergeant Snyder on his way out.

"Every day that the traitor doesn't reveal himself, one of you dies. So act quickly now,", he coldly spouts. "As for Sergeant Tattletale? End his suffering."

Sergeant Snyder goes wide-eyed as his torturer pulls out a gun of his own.

As the weapon goes off and Snyder's last scream echoes through the warehouse, Red Hood One silently contemplates his gang's next move. Needless to say, Maroni won't be happy to hear about this. That deal going sour meant losing a hot commodity - leverage on The Roman. But he might take it a little better if they brought down the man responsible.

Beneath his featureless dome, Red Hood One smiles.

"Seems a visit to Gotham's White Knight is in order..."

 

[Carnage27]

Barry followed Jay to the scene that he was called to, an apparent suicide. The victim was a happily married man, and a successful local business man. There was no motive for him to take his own life. Once the other officers left with the man's family, who had no desire to stay in their home that night, Barry carefully entered to start his own investigation. There was something off about the situation.

The wife had mentioned the man seemed to be in a haze for the past two days, something that wasn't uncommon for suicide victims. But considering he had no other signs of mental illness, family history of it, and Barry smelled something foul.

But as he investigated the scene, even he had to admit it seemed pretty straight forward. There was no sign of struggle, no narcotics in the house that may have pushed him to something like this. He saw no other option than what the other police decided upon.

As he pondered the poor man's fate, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Without looking at who was calling, he answered, "Allen."

"You're answering your phone with just 'Allen', now? There you go, badass," Iris chuckled on the other end.

"Oh, hey Iris," Barry coughed. "What's up?"

"I'm at work. Was wondering if you could help me with something."

"Sure. Be there in a flash."

**********

When Barry got to the station, he realized it had only been ten seconds since he left the crime scene. Barry paced outside the station, wasting time. He knew Iris only wanted to talk about work, but that didn't make him feel any less nervous. When he figured he wasted enough time, he sauntered in.

"Bout time," Iris said. "I've been waiting."

"Oh come on," Barry protested. "I was only a few minutes!"

"I'm impatient," she shrugged. "I was wondering if you could go over this toxicology report and brain scan on a suicide victim I'm investigating."

"Another one..." Barry said to himself.

"What?"

"Huh? Oh. Nothing," he shook his head. "What's the deal?"

"There was no motive, no prior histories," Iris seemed stumped. "Only reason I'm actually looking into it."

"Makes sense," Allen nodded.

"Here's the data," she smiled. "Let me know what you find."

**********

The man stumbled into the dank, dirty apartment he called home, tossing the device in his hand down and pulling down his hood. The machinery in the corner was the only thing that didn't belong in the destitute apartment. The tattered green robes he wore smelled, as they hadn't been washed in weeks, but his master said he would be rewarded soon enough.

<Well done, my Piper>, the master's voice filled his head. It was the first voice the deaf man had ever heard, and he had followed its every word ever since. <The police will continue to follow you handy work, keeping them busy as I continue my plans.>

<Thank you, Master Grodd,> the Pied Piper said thankfully. <Shall I continue?>

<Of course,> Grodd's voice growled. <And you will be rewarded.>

The Flash
in
~Pay the Piper~
​

 

[Andy C.]

​

"Is this a joke of some kind?!"

When Mala and I reach the gates of the royal palace, Artemis of the Royal Guard is there to meet me. While she usually hides her scorn for me to prevent from making a scene, today the anger is hot on her face.

"Artemis, calm yourself when addressing the heiress to the throne," Mala says, stepping between myself and the seething guard.

"I don't care who claims to be her mother," she spits, her dark green eyes boiling with venom. "I have spent years of my life mastering the War Games of the Amazons. I've honed my body and mind to perfection, for the sole purpose of being our people's champion. Three years running I have won the Games. And now I should surrender my title to a spoiled outsider for the sake of her ego?!"

The word of my desire to enter the War Games has spread, it seems. Worse, they assume I mean to turn it into a show, that I expect everyone to let me win merely because of my station. They assume I wish to make a mockery of their beloved custom, and in turn, they make a mockery of me.

"Surrender, Artemis?" I say, stepping forward to face my accuser. "I was led to believe that an Amazon never surrenders. Such behavior is beneath us."

I glance behind Artemis to the row of guards behind her, each with the same casual smirk.

"Though apparently we are not above idle gossip."

"Did you hear that?" Artemis turns to her friends. "'We.' 'Us.' Little Princess Diana thinks she is one of our kind. She thinks she knows what it is to be an Amazon better than we do."

The others are too afraid of repercussions to laugh, but I can see them snicker.

"I have never claimed to be of Olympian blood, Artemis," I say, a level voice containing the anger within me, "But Themyscira is the only home I've known. The Amazon ways are the only life I've ever seen. If I was not born an Amazon, then I will earn the right to call myself such. Even if it means having to face you in the arena."

I take another step closer, matching her hateful glare with one of steely determination.

"Especially if it means that."

Since I was a girl, Artemis has done everything in her power to show she was better than me, that I was undeserving of ruling her or anyone else. On foot, on horse, with bows, with swords, she has ever been there to show me up.

"Do you really think you can fight me, Princess?" Artemis sneers.

"I've been fighting you my whole life."

"Enough! Both of you!"

Artemis and the other Guards turn with a start to see my mother, her own face red with outrage.

"Your Majesty, I--"

"Quiet yourself, Artemis, before I have you locked away!" she commands. "Now be gone from my sight!"

The red-headed guard bows her head, then turns, shooting me one last disdainful glance before storming away.

"My Queen, the Princess-"

"Now is not the time, Mala," my mother interrupts. "You have done more than enough in indulging my daughter's taste for mischief and misconduct."

Mala bows, before shying away herself. As she does, she lowers one hand and presses her thumb and third finger together-- part of a secret code she and I have shares since we were children. It means she intends to sneak back into the palace to see me later tonight.

"Diana," she finally addresses me. "Come with me."

I nod, signalling to Mala to wait until midnight before coming back-- if my mother is truly upset, then we will likely be arguing for quite some time-- before following my mother up the palace steps and into the main hall.

"I....I had hoped you would not see that confrontation, Mother," I say, uneasily.

"Do you really intend to continue this foolishness, Diana?" she says as we turn the corners, away from the throne room and down a corridor on the eastern wing. "To forego the coronation ceremony and instead fight with your subjects in the arena?"

"I wish to prove that I deserve to be among them, my Queen," I answer.

"But you are not among them, my daughter," she says. "You are above them. Princess and heiress to the throne of Themyscira. You are not some common rabble to fool around with swords and spears."

"You are right in that," I say, as we descend a staircase towards the lower vaults of the palace. "I must be ready to one day rule our people, to lead them and protect them. But I must be unafraid to face threats to our people, both from without....and from within."

My mother glances towards me, a raised eyebrow.

"The nature of my birth is always going to be a point of contention," I explain. "There are those, like Artemis and many more, who will refuse to be led by someone they see as an inferior. If I claim the right to the throne without first demonstrating that I have earned my place, then they will turn against the throne. Against you, and against Themyscira. I will not risk centuries of peace ending in a civil war, our sisters splitting over the royal succession."

"And you think competing in the Games will earn the acceptance you seek?" she asks. "That a few foot-races and bouts in the arena will prevent the division you fear? That bruising Artemis's ego will solve these problems?"

"No, mother," I answer. "But it will be a good place to start."

Mother grins, amused perhaps, but also approving.

"Then if you are going to engage in this foolish cause," she says, "We had best find the proper colors for you to wear."

Reaching a large, heavy door at the end of the hall flanked by two guards, my mother gestures to them, and opens the vault.

The vault is a large, dark room, the only light coming from a lantern held by the guard who accompanies us inside. There are many like it, troves of royal treasure or displays of Amazonian history, most of which I have either been led through by my mother, or I have sneaked into with Mala at one point or another. This one, however, has always been beyond my ability to explore.

The displays show items....unfamiliar to me. Devices made of materials I've never seen, whose purpose I can only guess. There are books, written in a language I cannot make any sense of.

And in the center of the room, there is the wreckage of a long, white boat. Its design is unlike anything the Amazons know, with no sail and no place for oars.

"Mother.....what is all this?" I ask, confused and slightly dreading what I might hear.

"Relics from the outside world," she answers. ""When you came to us, I did not believe it to be mere coincidence, or a twist of the fates; I believe the goddesses and gods planned for you to come here, to finally break our separation and connect our lost island with a larger world. This is the ship that brought you to us, my child......"

She gestures towards the far wall, and the guard points the lantern towards it. Hanging down is a banner, tattered and stained by old seawater. The banner flies red and white stripes, and a field of blue with white stars.

"....and those are the colors of people who delivered you to us. Your colors."

 

[Carnage27]

Arkham Asylum

Crane sat at his desk, hands folded against his chin, pondering the multitude of newspapers strewn across his desk. Most national papers were adorned with stories of the Superman of Metropolis and the Flash of the Twin Cities of Central and Keystone, but all the Gotham papers were focused on the mysterious Batman that had appeared seemingly all over Gotham City last night. Some said he had wings. Others claimed he had bared fangs at the men he attacked. Even Carmine Falcone's men seemed more scared of him than they were the Roman.

The supernatural rumors sold papers, but Crane knew better. If this so called Batman was indeed superpowered, he wouldn't have been hiding in the shadows and throwing threats at the Roman. He'd be taking them all down like the Superman stopped a hurricane.

No, this was a man. A man of means, training, and cunning, but a man none the less. What really impressed Crane was his methods, though. Clearly, he understood fear. In a matter of hours he generated fear in the criminal community Jonathan had barely managed in weeks. What was interesting, however, was that he seemed to be actively attempting to take down the Falcone family.

"Well, well, Mister Batman," Jonathan pondered to himself. "It looks like we have the same goal here. Maybe I'll allow you to take the lead on the Roman while I focus my efforts elsewhere."

Yes, this Batman could be a successful tool if pointing in the right direction. He would need to be taken care of eventually, but for now the Scarecrow would let him be.

**********

"Boss, watta bout this Batman?" one of Scarecrow's pushers asked. He had called them together to discuss Gotham's new costumed celebrity. Normal criminals were a cowardly lot, and Crane worried they would crumble thanks to the newcomer's escapades. But he would not allow his fledgling empire to be stopped by a fighter in tights.

"The Batman is doing nothing more than what we are doing, gentlemen," Scarecrow said to his minions. "He's attempting to turn fear against the criminals of this city in the same way we will use it to bring this city's people to their needs. If you do not fear him, he holds no power over you. Understood?"

"Easy for you to say," another chirped. "You got da fear toxin."

"Indeed I do," Crane produced a syringe from a pocket, twirling it in his fingers. "And if you continue to do your jobs, and we continue to pull the funds we have been, soon all of Gotham will get a taste of our fear. Now go. Sell the product."
​

 

[MST3K 4ever]

As the morning sun broke over Gotham Oswald sat on his patio sipping his coffee at his country estate called Sky Land.Oswald enjoyed this time of the day, because not only was he able to gather his thoughts but he always imagined what the possibilities of the day might be. A new source of revenue? An opportunity to give back (while getting something of equal or greater value out of it for himself)? A nugget of information that would render another poor soul in service to The Penguin? One thing was for sure in Gotham there was always possibilities for any of them or something else. Life was rarely boring Gotham.

Oswald still couldn't believe what he heard from his source in Carmine's family; a giant bat threatening Carmine. Was this a new member of a rival gang? A house thief with a flair for the dramatic? Some hopped up Meth Addict? Oswald though had one overriding belief about this new character; he wasn't looking to move in, and he wasn't to be taken lightly inspite of the Halloween costume. Anyone who could get that close to Carmine had skills not to be trifled with, but also he got that close to Carmine and didn't kill him. Oswald knew people that would sell their grandchildren to the gypsies to get that close to Carmine just for a chance to break Carmine of his addiction to oxygen.

Just then his butler Coleman entered and said, "Sir, the food for your collection is prepared."

Oswald was somewhat jolted to hear the voice of his faithful servant. He replied turning to Coleman, "What? Oh yes yes my good man thank you ever so much. I'll take of it in few moments. I'm going to finish my coffee and then get dressed. Thank you again."

Coleman bowed slight and said, "I didn't mean to startle you sir. With your permission I will take care of the fish pond. If you need anything else please let me know."

Oswald nodded and replied, "No apologies needed my friend. I'll talk to you again before I leave for the lounge. That'll be all."

Coleman turned and left as Oswald began to finish his coffee. Oswald also enjoyed taking care of his exotic bird collection. It gave him a sense of pride that he had one of the most extensive collection of birds in the world, and he would also he marvel at their beauty as they took flight.

Oswald finished his coffee and took his leave to get ready for the day.

 

[MST3K 4ever]

Okay as much as I am enjoying, on a certain level, the whole shrinking and floating thing I gotta walk back to my car. At this rate I'll get to my car in time to watch the sunrise.

Rhiannon was far enough from the office that she felt comfortable enough to return to normal size. She floated down a back alley and once she saw no one else was around Rhiannon returned to her normal 5'6" height. Rhiannon looked around to make sure her clothes were still fitting properly. Rhiannon was able to control her powers but a fear began to surface for her. What if she one day shrunk down and wasn't able to grow back to normal size? or worse hat she lost control of her powers? This was a frightening and intriguing part of her life that Rhiannon was now entering into.

As she began to walk back to her car Rhiannon heard noises in a nearby alley.

Rhiannon approached quietly as she saw someone with a gun robbing someone else. Rhiannon looked around to see if there were any police officers nearby. There were none, and she knew if she called the police by the time they got there it would probably be too late.

Rhiannon felt her pulse quicken and her breathing become much more accelerated.

All-right Girl Wonder let's see what you can do.

With that Rhiannon shrank down and floated to a nearby window sill. She landed and began looking around.

This looked a lot easier to deal with about 10 feet away.

Rhiannon saw a wine bottle on the ground, and floated down to it and then picked it up.

If I stick to the shadows I should be okay. I think...I hope.

Rhiannon floated up and slammed the bottle over the robber's head. He dropped like a sack of rocks and his would be victim just blinked for a moment. Very quickly the victim ran away not sure what to make of what happened.

Rhiannon floated down and watched as the victim ran safely away. The robber started coming to and said, "What the hell?"

Rhiannon realized that she was right next to the robber, and worse he saw her. Without even thinking Rhiannon punched him knocking him out.

Hopefully he didn't get a good look at me, and he chalks this whole thing up a bad dream.

Rhiannon floated away and once she was out of the alley she returned to normal size.

Well all things considered; not bad. I think I could do this again. Maybe, possibly, who knows. I guess I got some things to think about.


Rhiannon made it back to her car and home. After a bag of microwave popcorn, and a couple reruns of "Castle" Rhiannon decided that her powers were a gift and not to be ignored. Once she came to that conclusion Rhiannon began planning out her next step into becoming, dare she think it, a...super heroine.

A costume. I need something to protect my identity and also I would hate to keep getting dust all over my nice clothes. Then a name I need a name. It's gonna be an interesting time to say the least.

 

[Bounce]

| OA
| Sector 0

In less time that it would have taken either Green Lantern to have flown from Graxos IV to the nearest wormhole, the sleek Interceptor popped from out of planetary orbit into the sight of the self-made Guardian homeworld. In as much as the boy was starting to grow accustomed to the concept of other worlds, people from different planets, and a ring that operated off a funky green light... it still felt very much like a dream he was waiting to be woken from. He had just traveled millions of lightyears in the span of a second. Voyaged from his world to another, a station on the fringe of space and a planet that could have been Earth in some episode of the Twilight Zone.

Perhaps that was what this was. The Twilight Zone. Just, a very green one.

From the center of the ship's bridge, the H'lven chipmunk sat back in the center chair. "Let's see if that got anyone's attention," Br'r remarked cryptically.

Before the young monk could turn his head to ask what the H'lven had meant by that, a voice echoed through the interior of the ship.

Aya hadn't told them that there was an incoming communication. That meant whoever was speaking had direct access to the Interceptor's computer.

And that meant, the Interceptor's creators.

"Green Lantern 1014, you are not authorized to be in Oan space."

As the voice echoed off the interior of the cockpit, the image of a panel of three blue-skinned and red robed figures materialized at the front of the bridge. In the center was Appa, his permanent scowl and heavy lined brow only accentuating the less-than-warm overture which had welcomed the Green Lanterns to their supposed home. At his right, a scarred woman spoke next.

"You were dispatched to Sector 2815 at the request of the Graxions. You will explain your presence here immediately."

Pressing the claws of his small paws together, so that they formed a steeple before his short muzzle, the rodent-like Lantern seemed to reflect a moment before he spoke. Then he paused, reaching over to pick up his diminutive cup and have a sip of cold wharmpess, delicately tipping the cup back as he held out one small digit as though enjoying a fine tea. And, when that was done, he supplied the answer requested.

Well. He supplied an answer anyway.

"A Green Lantern is authorized travel to any known sector in pursuit of an investigation ordered by the Guardians," the H'lven quoted, citing to the Book of Oa and the code of conduct by which their corps operated its law enforcement mandate. And, having, quoted it as such, turned the question around. "Is Oa an exception to this policy?"

"You do not ask the questions, 1014," the Guardian on the left snapped in retort. A male with a lock of white hair at his forehead.

"Answers don't come otherwise," the H'lven quipped back cryptically, hopping from the chair to the top of the pilot console as he addressed the panel. "You gave me an investigation. It led me here. So I am here. Any... questions?" the veteran Green Lantern asked rhetorically.

If it was possible, Appa's scowl deepened. "We will discuss your attitude at some length, 1014."

"I look forward to the conversation," Br'r answered vapidly, making a vague gesture with one paw as he added, "I hope you won't mind if I have some questions for you when we do." With that said, silence permeated the increasingly uncomfortable environment on the bridge of the ship. The young monk was so tense, he was apt to have a heart attack before he was twelve. "Aya, take us in for a landing," Br'r ordered shortly, there being nothing further from the Guardians.

Clarissi Salaak was waiting for them by the time the ship landed. The Slyggian was wringing each of his four hands. "Of all the... irresponsible... insubordinate..." the Slyggian was muttering, his normal pink hue flushed a deep magenta as his blood pressure rose while the ramp to the Interceptor lowered to admit the small H'lven and his young human partner.

"Always a pleasure to see you too, boss," the H'lven deadpanned dryly, as the chipmunk walked past the Slyggian without so much as a second glance.

"Clarissi," the young monk intoned, pausing before four-armed alien and giving a respectful bow.

If his gesture of respect was noted, it garnered no response. The Slyggian was not even looking at the boy, instead he was already turning to head off the rodent. "What are you doing here, Br'r?"

The way the H'lven's fur bristled gave a second of forewarning of what was about to happen. Stopping in mid-stride, the chipmunk-like Green Lantern whipped around and looked up at the Slyggian administrator. "I'm an investigator. I'm on an investigation. This is what's called investigating. You may not recognize it for all the stack of paper you've got shoved up your..."

"Actually, we are pursuing a lead in the Graxion case, Clarissi," the young monk remarked, interjecting himself between the H'lven and the Slyggian.

Salaak blinked at the audacity of that statement. "This is Oa," the Slyggian stated firmly.

"Really!?" Br'r quipped in retort, giving a dismissive gesture with one paw as he started storming toward the sciencells. "Well, frack. I thought this was Halon Falls," the H'lven went on to remark, talking back to the trailing group as he barked, "Aya, I told you we should have turned left at Andromeda!"

Clearing his throat, Kai-ro looked from the retreating back of the grizzled H'lven to the deepening, purple hue of the Slyggian. "Analysis of the crime scene on Graxion indicates that the person of interest to our investigation is a current prisoner here," the monk supplied succinctly.

All things being even, Kai-ro thought that was some pretty impressive police work for a boy who'd been living in a Tibetan monastery not a month earlier.

The Slyggian looked at him as though he were a complete idiot. "That's impossible," Salaak stated shortly, walking away as his long gait quickly bridged the gap between the group and the H'lven.

"Improbable," Aya corrected in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, as the robot body housing the artificial intelligence spoke up for the first time. "The statistical liklihood of such an event is precisely..."

"...not the point," Br'r interjected firmly.

"And what is the point, Green Lantern?" Salaak demanded.

Without looking over his shoulder, the H'lven just uttered, "Kid."

"If the murderer was here, then either evidence of escape or evidence of assistance to that effect will be here," Kai-ro noted.

And, again, his superior turned to regard him with a look reserved for drunkards, village idiots, and fools. "Impossible," the Slyggian uttered in disbelief.

Which was a shame for the fact that the monk wasn't quite finished yet. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a...

"...and if the murderer was not here, then the evidence of whoever planted a false entry in the Book of Oa will be," the monk concluded, finishing the hypothesis behind their current investigation. "In either case, what we are looking for is here, Clarissi."

As the H'lven reached the entryway to the sciencells, the Slyggian hit a panel on the wall that stopped the door from opening for the diminutive Lantern. "I'll not hear another word," Salaak snapped. "What you propose is simply preposterous. Impossible."

"You keep using that word. I do not believe it means what you think it means," Aya stated evenly.

"If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

A green whip lashed up from the ground, as a construct from the H'lven swatted the Slyggian's hand away from the control. As the door to the Oan sciencells opened, Br'r turned toward his partner to ask, "Confucius?"

"Spock," the monk noted.

And, why not? This certainly had to count for boldly going where no one had gone before.

 

[Hound55]

Vic Sage, formerly Charles Szasz, a prodigious young trial attorney, has secured a job at legal juggernaut Soule, Guggenheim, Liu and Associates. After 8 months of menial paperwork his mentor – a highly reputable, yet somewhat unlikeable man named Martin Banks – has allowed him to go through the company “Slush pile” for his own work.​

​

A Question of Loyalty – Part 2​

Scanning through cover sheets and pouring over files, I hear a knock on the door and look up, startled.

“Can I come in? Have a word?”

It’s an elderly gentleman wearing a bow tie and a warm smile. Marty Banks told me his name earlier; Bill Soule. As in the company title, Soule. Which means the question was purely rhetorical.

“It’s your company, sir. I’d imagine you could come and go and talk with whomever you please.” I lift my head and return a smile, before returning to the files.

Maybe seems a tad sycophantic, but hey, I’m a full paid lawyer who hasn’t worked a case in the eight months I’ve been here. It’s not really good business to keep people around who suck up salary and return no revenue. I can’t really afford to do anything but treat the higher ups with respect.

Hell, for all I know this could be “The talk”…

The older man closes the door behind him and breaks the silence. “So word around the office is that you had a bit of a disagreement with Banks…”

Oh ****… This is why doors exist, Charl-- Vic. Vic. From what I hear Marty’s on the verge of being a minor partner. One of the “Associates”. Name not mentioned, but a vote on the board and share of the profits. He’s no small fry. They’re going to fire me without even consulting with him, just to “keep him happy”.

“Uhh… a small one, sir. It- it’s been resolved now though.”

The smile on his face turned into a wry grin. “An issue with the workload?”

“Just a small disagreement. It’s been resolved now though, sir.”

“How long have you been herrrrrre..?” he hangs on the last word, as if waiting for me to produce the name.

“Vic.” I oblige. “Eight months.”

“Just a momentary lack of reason, sir. A rush of blood to the head. Sorted out now, though.”

The older man chuckles and nods knowingly. “Good.” He declares. More to the general air around us, than to me specifically.

“I’d hope there would be a disagreement after eight months, Sage.”

I look at him with surprise. “A quality trial lawyer, remarkable record if I may say so, trapped doing his gruntwork for eight months. I’d hope you would have enough pride to take issue with it.”

The wry grin comes back again as Soule watches me piece together the direction of the conversation. This wasn’t a brow-beating. He has another purpose.

“It was hard to find your record. If Banks hadn’t done this to countless lawyers before you, we wouldn’t have put the effort in to researching you.”

“We..?” Once again I’m not entirely sure where this conversation is going.

“A few, not all, of the partners. We’re more than familiar with how Marty Banks works. He’ll take a young protégé from either the grinder or the Public Defender’s office. Use the name of the practice to pull them, play off the mentor relationship and use them up until they quit.”

He reads my face, and can see me working the possibility of his claim in my head.

“He’s the one who said you should change your name, isn’t he?”

It clicked in my head like tumblers falling perfectly around a fitted key. Soule exhaled suddenly and rocked his head back with a snort.

“Why are you telling me this, sir?”

“I’m telling you, son, because a few of us have been looking into Banks. While many of the partners don’t seem to care, on paper he brings in a lot of money. But there are a few of us who know the Banks of this world and know what he is up to. Some who don’t want to see him rewarded for his cynical exploitation.”

He walks around the table and snorts again, realizing I’m flicking through the “slush pile”. The colloquial name for non-urgent low priority cases. Not a term the clients would much care for, I’m sure, but what it gets called nonetheless. Doubtless realizing I’ve allowed myself to be “bought off” by Banks with scraps, for my previous complaint.

“I’m telling you this because the consultants that a few of us have organized to look into the matter stumbled upon you in their investigation, Szasz. And we…” he rethinks his phrasing and corrects himself “…I, would rather not see a promising young career get caught in a mess he didn’t ask for.”

He walks back to the door, and before opening it he closes the conversation like any good trial attorney. With a dramatic flair that pulls at emotion.

“He’s going down. Hard and soon. I’m telling you because I want you to have patience until that day. Because Sage or Szasz, you’ve got a hell of a future here if you want it.”

He closes the door behind him and as much as I try to keep the warmth out of the cheeks I feel myself getting flustered over the new flow of information. I’m normally very good at keeping a straight face, but this has hit me at my core. I go back to work, pouring through the files. Head down in the papers.

Then I saw it. The familiar name. A name which would set my course, a destiny found.

I pull the file and scan every page. I have my case.

* * * * * ​

It’s a pleasant afternoon, or as pleasant afternoon as it gets in Hub City’s outer suburbs. My car pulls up to the house, I open the door and smile. Woven wire fence and a neatly kept garden, it’s as close to a Norman Rockwell dream that this city could hope to produce. I walk up the front path and ring the bell.

A man whom middle age has long since passed opens the door, a look of recognition and surprise on his face as he sees me.

“Mr Rodor? Vi-- Charlie Szasz, I’m from Soule, Guggenheim, Liu and Associates. I’m here to talk to you about your case.”

 

[Andy C.]

​

"Okay, I think that's the last of it," Jimmy Olsen says with a heavy sigh as he puts down the last of dozens of cardboard boxes, having spent the entire day making the arduous trip from the U-Haul to the cramped quarters of our two-bed one-bath, fifth-floor walk-up apartment on 344 Clinton Street, over and over and over and over and over.

"Are you sure there's going to be room for all of it?" I ask, carefully navigating the labyrinth of boxes as I make my way from my bedroom to the living room/kitchenette.

"Ah, we'll make it work," he shrugs.

My own belongings weren't all that difficult to load and unload-- after all, having spent the last seven years living out of a backpack, you don't pick up a whole lot of material things along the way. Still, it's nice to have my own bed now, rather than whatever accommodations are temporarily available to me. Bed, dresser, a few changes of clothes, a box or two of pictures and knicknacks from Smallville to make it feel like home, and I was more or less settled in within an hour or two from moving in.

Jimmy, though.....he's got a full wardrobe for every season, stacks and stacks of DVDs and videogames, expensive and wildly unnecessary kitchen appliances, a whole box full of nothing but various hair products, memorabilia from movies he's too young to have possibly seen when they were new, huge scrapbooks of photos he's taken over the years..... I'm frankly amazed he's able to get anything done living in the center of all this, well, clutter.

Still, having spent a few days in Metropolis looking for a place to hang my hat, I can see why it's so easy for people to be pulled into a materialistic lifestyle so easily. Everywhere you look, you're bombarded by advertisements, promises of a better, cooler, sexier existence if you'll just wear these clothes, drive that car, put this stuff in your hair. Spend enough time being told something, and sooner or later you'll believe it.

"Well, I'm pretty much done unpacking," I say, looking at Jimmy's vast collection of stuff. "If you want a hand with your things...."

"Thanks, but I'm just....kinda particular about where I'm going to put everything," he says. "Still, thanks again for the help with the flat-screen and the sofas."

"Not a problem," I say, pretending to favor sore muscles-- well, not entirely pretending, since I'm still sore from fighting the hurricane days ago, and in helping with the reconstruction since then.

"Hell of a week so far, huh?" Jimmy says as he opens up the first of his boxes and begins sorting out kitchenware. "I mean, what are the odds that this place comes on the market the same day you show up in the city looking for a place to stay? And that I move out of my parents' house and start looking for a roommate the same day you show up at the Planet? And that Mrs. Nyxly, without even asking, sets us up with rent that's exactly within our price range?"

"I know," I nod. "It's pretty crazy, isn't it?"

"Well, these are crazy times we're living in, Clark," he says, stacking dishes up in one of the cabinets. "That's not even thinking of the fact that all this is happening the same time that you-know-who comes onto the screen."

"What, the 'Superman?' I dunno, I still find that pretty hard to believe."

"You're tellin' me, man. I was there when it happened, and I still have a hard time believing it. But man, it was so freaking epic! Dude even knew my name!"

Instinctively, I start slumping over a little bit more, shrinking my figure a bit, and crane my neck out. The oversized shirt I'm wearing does a good job of concealing my muscles, but big frumpy clothes and a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses aren't going to be nearly enough if I want the "costume" of Clark Kent to be any good at hiding who and what I am. I have to be especially careful when people start talking about the 'Superman,' lest somebody put two and two together.

"And the really crazy thing?" Jimmy continues. "I don't think he's the only one out there."

That gets my attention.

"What do you mean? You think there's more Supermen out there?"

"Well, maybe not the same thing as our guy, but check it out," he says, pulling up news headlines on his smart-watch. "Gotham Gazette ran a whole bunch of stories the same night that the Superman showed up-- dozens of gangsters being brutally attacked by a mysterious creature. They're even saying Carmine Falcone himself was haunted by some kind of huge 'Bat-Man.'"

I haven't had a whole lot of time off since the hurricane to catch up on the world outside of Metropolis, but this one catches my attention. If there's someone else out there who can do the same kind of things that I do......

"And it's not just here," he says, swiping the screen to pull up a different set of headlines. "Out in the Mid-west, they're talking about a 'red flash' that's popped up right around the same time, taking out the Royal Flush Gang. I'm telling you, Clark, this is the start of something huge!"

He could be right. If these stories turn out to be true, then there's all sorts of questions I need to ask. Maybe I can track these people down and--

*BZZZT!-BZZZT!-BZZZT*

"Oh! Geez, that's my alarm," I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket and fumbling around with it. "A little reminder to myself to call home, let the folks know I'm okay and everything. I'll be on the rooftop for a little while if you need me."

"Thanks, I'll be down here getting everything sorted away," Jimmy waves me off as he gets started on another box.

Heading back into my room, I close the door, then open the window and climb out onto the fire escape, and from there climbing onto the roof. I turn my cell phone off, and place my glasses and my big turtleneck neatly folded on an air-conditioning unit.

I don't have any friends in Metropolis outside of Jimmy Olsen, but I do have a contact-- an anonymous information broker who goes by the name of "Icarus." He first contacted me a year ago, when I was working a story in Pokolistan, providing me with information linking the ultra-nationalist insurgents there with the larger terrorist organization Kobra. I can't say I trust him, but so far all of his information has turned out to be accurate.

Tonight, according to Icarus, there's an arms deal going down in the docks just east of the suburbs of Oaktown. Something that might possibly lead to what those gravity-well weapons were doing on board the Miss Kitty 5.

Technically, I wasn't lying to Jimmy about needing to call home, but Ma and Pa can wait a little bit.



....in the meantime, I've got an appointment to keep with Metropolis' underworld.

 

[Byrd Man]

Prologue
Sooie!​

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”
-- Ernest Hemingway ​

Parts Unknown


Slam saw darkness. His head rang from the tune-up he'd been given, his legs cramped from the rope, the zip-ties gouged his wrists. The car bounced and rocked down a road. Slam recounted the journey and figured they were well out of town by now. Sweat rolled down his face, the black bag made him smell his own breath. It reeked of vomit and hooch.

Feature: Slam left his apartment still hungover from the night before. Three men jump him, beat the s*** out of him and black bag him. They tie him up and toss him into the trunk of a car. Slam struggles. Slam gets sapped. Slam becomes docile through threat of further sapping.

He tried to count turns and figure out where he was. He lost count and started counting up the number of people who wanted him dead. He lost count and started counting the minutes. At twenty-two the car stopped. Rough hands pulled him from the trunk and pushed him down a road. Slam felt dirt scrapping his shoes. He heard nature. Call it: the countryside at least an hour out of Gotham. Hands guided him down the road, pushed him in the right direction. Smell that. Pig s*** coming on stroooong. Hands on his head, the bag came off.

Dig that countryside. Dig that farmhouse and pig pen. There's a farmer in overalls, très Green Acres chic. Dig the man beside him. Black suit with no tie, goatee and looking as Slavic as the pierogi chow at Abramowicz's Deli in Bennett Beach. The Chechen they called him. Dig the rumors around town: the Chechen was former Russian Intelligence turned Russian Mafiya. No, he fought the Russians in Chechnya. No, Ruskies raped his mother and he slaughtered an entire battalion in the name of revenge. Putin had a six figure bounty on his head.

"You owe me money."

He talked to Slam while looking in the pig pen. One of the Chechen's goons pushed Slam forward. His knees got weak, he nearly fell.

"You're right. I owe you a lot of money."

"You do not know when to say no when my bookies offer you another shot? You do not know when to walk away?"

"No... walking away, doing the sane thing. That ain't me."

The Chechen looked back at him. He sized him up. Slam sized him up. The Chechen was older, but Slam was hurt. Odds on beating the man to death if he had to: 50/50. Odds he would get that far: Too goddamn long to count.

"I know about you. Boxer turned cop turned--" he said something in his gobbledygook language. "-- what is word? F*** up. Yes, you are big time f*** up."

"That's me. Born f*** up."

The Chechen snapped his fingers. Slam was pushed up against the pig pen. Hogs swarmed, hogs squealed and snapped. The Chechen laughed. He told jokes in Russian. His men whooped and laughed too hard. Slam got the gist. He was the punchline. How many hogs does it take to eat an ***hole? We're about to find out. Hands pulled him away from the pen. They forced him on his knees.

"This farm is where I get rid of problems. You are problem, but not for long. I wipe away your debt, but there is catch."

The Chechen pulled something from his coat. He tossed it at Slam's feet. Slam scoped a photo. Dig the big man with the two hookers on his arm. Faux fur and fake **** abound.

"This son of a ***** steal from me. He run away with my money. You find him and tell me where he is. I feed him to pigs."

"That's it?"

The Chechen smiled. Slam saw yellow teeth stained with a life of smoking Polish cigarettes.

"You not find him, my pigs still eat. Either they eat this son of a *****, or you. Choice is yours."

"Well how can I refuse?"

"You have two days, f***-up. Tick-tock."

Mayday
A Slam Bradley Mystery​

 

[Carnage27]

~Pay the Piper~​

"Iris," Barry picked up his phone and rang the detective, "you might want to come in here. I think I may have found something."​

Allen got his ducks in a row while Iris made her way to the lab. His findings were surprising to say the least, and he had no idea how to make heads or tails of the two victims' autopsies.​

"You find something?" West took a seat across from him.​

"I think," he nodded, displaying his data on a large screen in the room. "These two scans on the top are from our victims. They show their hormone levels, dopamine levels, and other things that could tell us their mood at their time of death. And these two, are what normal scans look like when someone is asleep."​

Iris scrunched her face, "They're nearly identical."​

"Yea, in fact, the sleeping scans show an average of higher emotional signs than our victims," Barry explained.​

"So what does that mean? Our victims slept killed themselves?" she was perplexed.​

"It sounds ridiculous, but that's what the data tells me," Barry shrugged. "I don't know how, though. Maybe some advanced form of hypnosis? But that would at least require some compliance by the victims. Do we have any connection between the two?"​

Iris sighed, "All I managed to dig up was the two owned businesses in gang territory. Grodd territory."​

"Maybe he was looking for protection money and they didn't agree?" Barry theorized.​

"That's what I thought, but we've never seen him be so brazen about something so trivial."​

"Then there's something we're missing," the forensic scientist shook his head.​

"I've got someone else combing through their records to see if they find anything. In the mean time, I'm heading to see if camera footage of anything in their area gives me anything," she stood and put on a coat.​

"Mind if I join you?" Barry asked. He was supremely intruiged by this case. With no scientific reason for the victims' conditions, Barry was beginning to suspect he wasn't the only special individual in the city. "I mean you drug me out of a fun night of sitting at home. The least you can do is let me figure out what the hell is going on."​

"Fine, but don't tell anyone I let you tag along," she smiled jokingly. "It'd kill my reputation."​

**********​

The two sat in a darkened office with the man who had been charged with combing through the film. It was all very boring to Barry and he had wished he hadn't decided to come with. It didn't help that he was beginning to see the normal world as moving in slow motion. It worried him that he might not be able to control the abilities that he had been given. But what worried him more is how freaking boring life became every time the man controling the film speed dialed it back to point out similarities in people outside both the two places of business in question. Barry reallized his legs had been shaking at near super human speed, shaking the room.​

He stopped himself before he noticed something interesting in both shots, "What about that guy?"​

Barry pointed to a hooded man playing the flute outside the stores. He didn't seem to have a case out asking for money like most street performers. He just seemed to be playing and waiting. Even stranger was no one seemed to even notice him. The man sped the tape up to the hours the stores closed, finding the streets outside empty save for the flute player. The two men both left their stores and headed for their cars. But as they did, they froze momentarily, almost as if they were entering a trance before continuing what they were doing.​

"What the hell was that?" Iris pondered.​

"It looked like the music put them in some kind of trance."​

"That's impossible," the video guy scoffed.​

"Is it? There's a guy in Metropolis who can catch planes," Barry shot back. "Impossible is a moving goalpost now."​

"We need to find this guy," Iris promted.​

"Let's move," Barry agreed.​

 

[MST3K 4ever]

Oswald had just finished feeding his birds and looked at his watch. Seeing that he still had time Oswald decided to enjoy a morning stroll around Sky Land. He enjoyed seeing the sun reflecting off of the morning dew, and the morning mist rising off of the grass. Oswald especially enjoyed seeing the wild birds take flight. They looked so unorganized to an outsider but Oswald knew there was a pattern and a way to their way of moving through the air.

He smiled but the the smile was actually somewhat tempered though. The storm had delayed the shipment of Syntox Nerve Gas to Eastern LaSerna from the night before, but the weather was perfect today and the shipment should've be underway by now. Just then his black cell phone vibrated. This was a call for The Penguin, and a call this early in the day was rarely a good thing.

Why do I have the feeling this is about a certain Nerve Gas?

The smile faded as he answered his phone, "Yes."

An almost frantic voice said, "Sir, I don't know how it happened but it wasn't my fault. We followed procedures as usual, but....but "

Penguin recognized the voice of Patrick one of his lieutenants. He replied, "Patrick get ahold of yourself man. Tell me straight what is wrong."

Patrick stated, "Sir one of the canisters of Syntox Nerve Gas is missing. We are supposed to ship within the hour. We've spent the last four hour searching the warehouses and the inventory, but there is no doubt the canister designated for Eastern LaSerna is gone sir."

Penguin took a deep breath. A canister of Syntox Nerve Gas doesn't simply go missing. Someone had it and if it were to be used within Gotham City pending upon where it was released three-fourths of the city's population could be wiped out in a matter of minutes.

Oswald nodded and said, "Go to the underdeck. Get out a replacement canister so General Borbon has his full order. Once the shipment is underway. Tear this city to shreds find that canister. You had better pray you find it Patrick. Your life is riding on it."

Oswald shook his head and closed his eyes. He knew what needed to be done and being at the lounge wasn't going to make it possible. Oswald then fell on his left leg and let out a scream of pain.

"AHHHHHHH!"

Within a matter of a minute Coleman arrived on the golf cart to see Oswald on the ground in agony.

Coleman rushed to his side and said, "Mr. Cobblepot sir what happened?"

Oswald replied, "I was enjoying a casual stroll when I hit a wet patch and slipped."

Coleman helped him into the cart and asked, "Do you require a doctor sir?"

Oswald shook his head and replied, "No my friend get me back to the house, and get me back into bed. Some elevation, ice, and rest will be fine. The usual treatments."

Coleman nodded as they began to drive off and said, "As you wish sir."

Oswald said, "Once I'm settled in call the lounge tell Heather I'll be out for a couple of days because of my leg. She is in charge for the time being."

Coleman nodded and replied, "Yes sir.

Oswald hated using his leg like this, but he would need to devote his time to helping tracking down the missing canister. Being at the lounge would make that impossible. Oswald knew there was no possible way they could trace the canister to him, but knowing there was a canister like that out there was very unsettling.