Singular Universe: Brave New World -- IC Thread

[Byrd Man]

Chinatown
6:31 PM

Two car convoy rolling through Chinatown. Flass drove the unmarked cop car in the lead. Two-Gun Jack Grogan rode shotgun. Burke and Harris sat in the back. Simpson drove the car filled with mob squad goons. They were headed to a Tong summit to act as muscle. One Tong family swore vengeance on another Tong family. A Chinatown war loomed on the horizon. It defied Grogan's mandate for the mobster squad. They kept the peace at all costs.

Flass' thoughts drifted during the ride. Grogan spent all day in confabs with Commissioner Loeb and other brass. HE was the topic of said confabs. Porter promised payback for Scotty Lees' dive. Grogan contracted to make it copacetic. He said hard-on Whiskey Jim Gordon had the case. The hush-hush huddles made Flass nervous. A sellout could be in store.

The convoy pulled up to a fish factory. They got out with pump-action shotguns and automatic pistols. Flass had his big .45 on his hand. Grogan stuck a plug of tobacco in his mouth and strutted into the factory with a bullhorn in his hands.

The factory floor: Wall to wall to Chinese men yelling in their heathen language. Six Nation Tong on one side in red, the Yellow Dragon Tong on one side in yellow. They jabbered at each other, flashed knives and guns and threatened to go to war right then and there.

Two-Gun Jack held the bullhorn to his mouth. His voice amplified across the din. The bullhorn made it screech weird. Grogan's voice sounded inhuman. Flass realized he was speaking Chinese. He gave the ****s the spiel in fluent Mandarin. The speech: Calm down right now or we will send in the riot squad and bash all your heathen brains in.

The panic subsided. Grogan grinned. He motioned the rest of the squad to flank out. They covered exits and corners with their guns. Grogan and Flass walked towards a card table in the middle of the mob. Fat Ricky Fat of the Six Nation sat on an opposite side from Hau Song and the Yellow Dragons. A third chair for Grogan sat between them. Two-Gun Jack sprawled into the chair. Flass stood behind him as muscle. Hundreds of eyes fell on Flass. He winked en masse to the crowd.

The negotiations began. The two old men spoke through Grogan. They talked to him and he talked to the other. All eyes fell on the negotiations. No noise from the crowd. You could hear a pin drop. Ricky Fat said something in his gobbledygook. He pounded the card table. A buzz filtered through the crowd. Ricky Fat made the throat slash sign.

Hau Song shook his head and rattled off gibberish. Grogan held both hands up. He talked, talked, talked in their heathen tongue. He pointed to both men. He expounded on some theory that made both men's heads nod. He finished. They both agreed. The crowd clapped. Wolf-whistles broke out.

Grogan got up smiling. He pulled Flass close and whispered in his ear. "I give you peace. Peace for our time, son. Go find Burke. We've got some more work to do."

--

Burke drove and Flass rode shotgun. Grogan and the head of Six Nation Tong sat in the back. Fat Ricky Fat spoke in Chinese to Grogan, Grogan gave it right back. They laughed. Flass looked in the rearview mirror. He saw a pistol and hatchet in Ricky Fat's lap.

Grogan switched to English. He said, "GCPD caught a dead body two days ago. A Chinese girl stabbed to death in a Chinatown motel room. The victim was Ricky Fat's niece. Her murderer is Yellow Dragon. Some punk she was ****ing is the fiend. He saw her with some Six Nation boys and got jealous and stabbed her sixteen times. A real Romeo and Juliet story. I learned all this at our summit just a few moments earlier. Knowing Homicide like I do, they will give the killing a cursory investigation and drop it. If it's not white, they don't care. This degenerate who killed Ricky Fat's niece has tarnished his family honor. Old world customs dictate that he must regain that honor with vigorous bloodletting."

Flass saw the hatchet blade glint in the sparse light. Ricky Fat held it up swung it around the backseat gracefully. Grogan laughed.

"To advert full on war, Yellow Dragon has agreed that this heinous crime must be avenged. Take a left here, Thomas."

Burke pulled up to an apartment. They got out. Flass and Burke walked point, Grogan and Ricky Fat behind them. They hit the fourth floor. Apartment six. Flass had his .45 out, Burke gripped his nine mil. Grogan pulled his six-shooters. Ricky Fat had a hatchet in one hand, his pistol in the other.

Grogan said, "Go!"

Burke kicked the door. Once, twice, three times. It snapped on the third kick. It fell to the floor. They walked over it. They walked in on five Chinese junkies geezing up on Big H. Flass and Burke aimed at the same man. They blew holes through his chest. Two-Gun Jack opened fire with both six-shooters. He turned two men into swiss cheese. Six shots a piece center mass. Ricky Fat charged the one man left alive. He screeched something in Chinese and hacked at the man with his hatchet. The man screamed and fell to the floor. Ricky Fat kept hacking. Grogan nodded, he spun his guns like a cowboy and holstered them. Burke went green. Flass holstered his piece. Grogan put a hand on his shoulder and lead him and Burke out.

"Let Ricky Fat have his fun. We need to talk since we have a moment."

Grogan spat tobacco on the floor and shook his head. He talked over Ricky Fat's screams/the killer's moans.

"Tonight's your last night working with me for some time, boys. I did what I could, but you both gotta pay something for that mess with the boxer. Thomas, you're going to the Eastern District flexsquad to work drugs. Arnold, they're packing you to Homicide. It's supposed to be temporary. How long it'll last, we'll see."

More screaming inside. Choked and phlegm filled death rattle. Blood ran out the door and pooled at their shoes. Burke dry-heaved. Flass saw a severed eyeball float by.

*****​

Gotham Central
1:12 AM


Jim sucked on his flask and paced in the conference room. On the wall, the Scotty Lees case tacked to a corkboard. Form and void. Thought and theory. Implication and assumption. It was there. It was sketchy. It was enough. Crime scene pix laid out his findings. It was threadbare. The crack in the wall and the angles of height. The ME did not check Scotty's interior muscles and skull for signs of head trauma. His face got cut up by the fall. No obvious bruising on the skin. Threadbare, but enough for extortion. They were meeting in a half hour for Flass' interview. Grogan called and said they were on the way.

He walked through the Homicide pen towards his desk. The office was a ghost town. The rest of the squad hauled ass to Chinatown. Multiple 187's. He begged off, using his meeting with Flass as an excuse. Slam called him from the scene. A ****ing quintuple homicide. Five Chinese men were shot and hacked to death. Brutal stuff. That mass snuff and a stabbing from a two days ago made it six opened murders in Chinatown. He saw crime scene pix of the dead girl. She reminded him of Barbara.

Barbara. He did what he had to do at the crime scene and picked her up from school. They exchanged pleasantries, talked about their day without saying really saying anything. They ate greasy fast food for dinner. She had a milkshake. He drank cut-rate bourbon. She excused herself and went to do homework. He passed out on the couch. Barabra woke him up two hours before he had to be at work. He saw the sadness in her eyes. Those eyes said, what the **** are you doing? Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you do it to me? He ignored all of it and downed a pot of coffee to wake up. The babysitter showed up to stay with her through the night and Jim came to work.

The door to Homicide opened. Jim saw Grogan's stetson above cubicle walls. He killed what was left in his flask. Liquid courage steadied him. Grogan and Flass stopped by his cubicle. Grogan snagged a GCPD mug off Slam's desk and spat tobacco in it.

Two-Gun Jack said, "Sergeant Gordon. Sorry if we're late. We were on a case and it got a little rough. Someone was eyeballing me."

A look passed between the two cops. Private joke. Jim ignored it. Flass stifled his giggles and held his hand out.

"Jimbo."

Jim stood. He looked at the hand. He let it linger there in front of him. "Call me James, Jim, or just Gordon. We are both sergeants, so there is no need for establishing rank or hierarchy."

Flass prickled. He withdrew his hand. Grogan narrowed his eyes. Jim motioned towards the conference room.

"Shall we?"

--

"It was getting late. We were watching TV and Scotty was sleeping and I started to nod off."

Flass sat at the conference room table. Gordon up close. Grogan halfway down from him and watching everything. Flass smoked. Gordon smoked. Two-Gun Jack chewed chaw. Gordon's eyes were distorted behind thick-framed glasses, they looked huge and all encompassing. He wrote down notes while Flass told the story. Grogan spat into a coffee mug and kept watching.

Gordon said, "The television was off when police arrived. Did you turn it off before or after Scotty jumped?"

No hesitation. "After. It seemed so loud and with everything going on, I turned it off."

"The sound of Scotty jumping is what woke you up?"

"Yes."

Gordon nodded. He held up a crime scene photo of the room. Two cheap, saggy beds. One on the left was unmade. The one on the right was immaculate.

"Sleep above the covers, sergeant?"

"I did."

Flass felt Grogan stir. He could feel Two-Gun Jack's eyes on him. He heard another loud spit into the coffee mug. Gordon nodded. He reached across the table and got the recorder.

"I think I have enough here."

He killed the recording. Flass felt relief. Gordon rummaged through a pile of files. He pulled out a photo and laid it front of Flass.

"You left an indent in the wall when you bashed Scotty Lees head into it."

Flass looked down. It was small. But sure as ****, it was there. Flass' head snapped up. Grogan's face was frozen. Gordon looked at Flass then at Two-Gun Jack, then back to him.

"The medical examiner's report missed any kind of exterior bruising due to all the lacerations on Scotty's head, but I bet a search underneath the skin will reveal a contusion he suffered moments before he died. I got a DNA swabbing of that indent this afternoon. Skin flakes in the dent were a perfect match for Scotty's DNA. You smashed his head into a wall and you threw him out the window, you goddamn thug."

Flass saw red. He raised up and went over the table. He grabbed at Gordon. Gordon backed up faaast. He dodged Flass' mitts. Grogan's big hands pulled him back to the chair. He got him back down and steady. Gordon looked white. His hands were shaking.

Grogan put his hands on Flass' shoulder. He fumed at Gordon. He said, "Boy, I bet you are just talking bull****. I bet you hadn't even raised that issue with Eckhart or anybody else you work with. I bet you're waiting on a ****ing payoff."

Gordon straightened his glasses. His fixed his tie. He took deep breaths to calm himself. He beaded sweat. Flass fantasized about ringing his goddamn neck.

Gordon said, "I want a promotion to lieutenant. I consistently get passed over for promotion despite attaining the highest scores on all tests and exams. Furthermore, I want my promotion to come within the detective bureau. I want to run either Robbery or Homicide. You have juice with Commissioner Loeb, Captain. Make it happen and I will write a final summation that pushes Flass' narrative that Scotty Lees committed suicide. Failure to comply with my wishes and I send my findings to Porter. She's already riled at you, Captain. All she needs is proof that your men and squad are dirty and she will not hesitate to burn both you and Flass."

Flass felt Grogan's hands tighten on his shoulders. Grogan breathed heavily. Flass couldn't see his face, but the man irradiated anger. Murderous anger. He saw Grogan's hands turning white from the grip on Flass' shoulders.

Two-Gun Jack said, "You have a deal, you mother****er. I'll talk to Loeb and have you set up to take over for Hughes when he retires, or Eckhart when he finally kicks the bucket."

Gordon lit a fresh cig. He inhaled deeply and nodded. He blew out smoke when he said, "That sounds reasonable to me, Captain. I'll file my final report tonight, but I will hold on to the evidence I've suppressed. Insurance, you see? I need to protect myself."

Grogan walked out without another word. Flass stood. He stared down at Gordon. Gordon stared back. He saw sweat rolling down Gordon's face. Flass laughed and walked out after Grogan. He caught up to him by the elevator. Two-Gun Jack fumed. He spat his wad out in a trash can by the elevator and looked at Flass. The goofy cowboy shtick was gone. All Flass saw was raw anger and hate.

"If you want to make it out of your new Homicide assignment and come back to the mob squad, I have but one simple request: Kill James Gordon."

 

[Keyser Soze]

​

Harley's heart sank. What could upset her puddin' so much?

She placed two gentle hands on his shoudlers.

[BLACKOUT]"What is it, snookie-poo? What's the matter?"[/BLACKOUT]

"I suppose I'm just... mourning the loss of Harleen Quinzel."

The Joker got up out of bed and paced across his hideout, bare-ass naked. making a grand show of being deeply upset and troubled.

"Don't get me wrong, I adore Harley Quinn, I can see that this is the true you and I want you to be that way forever. But old Harleen, as hollow a shell as she may have been... she did have poor souls who relied on her."

Walking over to a clothes rack, The Joker started looking through a variety of clothes, trying to decide what to wear. Purple suits, black suits, white suits and leather trenchcoats were lifted and lowered. Eventually, he picked out a nice flowery summer dress and pulled it on.

"Think of all the inmates in Arkham who you've formed a bond with. Especially Killer Croc, Man-Bat, the ones who are truly alone in the world with no one else. They would feel so... abandoned, if they never saw you again. Maybe Harleen Quinzel needs to pay one last visit to Arkham City to set them free."

The Joker ran back over to Harley, took her hands in his.

"I know we've only known each other a day, but... I think we should start a family. A family of mad, broken souls just like us."

 

[Spider-Man9X17]

​

*The air was dank, musty. The smell of gunpowder and rotting fish wafted into Dick Grayson's nostrils. He felt like he might gag, if he could stop sobbing long enough.

His father had never come back to the funeral. A hundred or so people had gathered at the cemetary after the service, yet as he watched his mother lowered into the cold, unforgiving ground, Dick was alone. He wandered, alone, through Gotham City in the hours after he had buried his mother. And he returned, alone, to the circus ground as the sun set on the solemn day.

He quickly found out, as he entered the trailer set up for his family, that he was no longer alone.

He only managed a quick glance when he noticed the shape shifting in the shadows. He didn't have time to react, even yell for help, before he felt the searing pain of something striking the back of his head.

That was the last thing he remembered until this moment. A solitary lightbulb assualted his eyes and he tried to lift his eye lids. Even through the blurred vision, he could tell he was in a warehouse.

"The lil b@$t@rd's finally awake, is he?"



He knew the face from the news. It was plastered all over the front page and on TV screens everywhere. The Penguin was quickly cementing his footing in the Gotham underworld, and carving out a place for himself in the city.

What he wanted with a 15 year old acrobat who had just buried his mother was beyond Dick's comprehension.

The squat man blew a puff of cigarette smoke in Dick's face.

"I don't--why am I here?"

"Yer old man, he tried to f*%k over my associates and I. Tried to scare him straight with yer mummy's little 'accident'. Dumb ass was a slow learner, so my friend here taught him his final lesson tonight."

Dick peered behind The Penguin to a mancooly polishing the slide of his gun while insincerely smiling at the youth.

Zucco.

"Now, if you don't want your $h*t family name to end with you, yer gonna tell me where my g0dd@mn money is."

She was murdered? His dad let her die? Why would he--it couldn't be true.

"I don't know about any money."

"Awww, too bad fer you, ya lil twit."

The Penguin motioned back to Zucco

"I actually believe ya, but I can't be having any loose ends running around in this $h*t hole of a city, so--"

Dick her the click of a slide being pulled and a hammer dropping into place. He couldn't catch his breath, he had no idea how he got here, or how he was even going to get out. Was he going to get out.

The shattering of glass overhead drew a volley of gunfire to the ceiling. Dick turned his head away from the falling shrapnel for a moment before craning his neck back to view the avenging spirit descending from the heavens above.*



-



He dropped from the rafter in a burst of smoke, a vengful guardian prepared to bring the underbelly of Gotham to justice. The scream of a dislocated shoulder. The tearing of a hyperextended elbow. The scream of blinded mass confusion. Two sets of headlights piercing the billowing smoke screen and the roar of motors coming to life.

"You brought us right into a trap, you Frankenstein freak."

Robin followed the voice. The form of The Penguin groping around for the handle of a car door was unmistakable.

"Not this time, you murderous b@$t@rd!"

The Boy Wonder let a batarang fly. It lodged in the villians shoulder just as he grasped the door lock.

"Waugh!! It's the Bat-Brat. Blow his f*%king brains out."

The Penguin jumoed into the back of the SUV as the wheels began to peel out. Robin readied three more batarangs, but the sounds of clasps opening diverted his attention. The Midnight Sons were going for the guns.

In a split second, he had substituted the batarangs for four small discs. Two short of what he needed, but they were better than nothing. Scanning through the disapating cloud, he tossed the discs onto four of the arsenal lockers. An incapacitating electric shock would surge through anyone who tried to open the cases.

The distraction was enough for The Penguin and his crew to make their getaway, plowing through two of the bikers and out the double sliding doors. The batarangs were back in his hand, and a second later the tires of Dollmaker's sedan were devoid of air, stranding the grotesque kidnapper.

The culprit himself had made a mad dash toward the room at the far end of the warehouse were the girls were being stored. A quick flick of his wrist, and a bolo went flying around his ankles. He fell the the ground hard, his head bouncing off of the concrete.

"That outta do it for him for awhile."

And then the gunfire started. His booby-traps had managed to thin the herd, but a handful of the bike gang had remained unphased and finally accessed the two unmolested crates. Robin fired his grapnel gun and flew upwards towards the rafters, zig-zagging through steel beams as he tried to stay ahead of the gunfire. He needed to keep the focus on him, but at the same time knew he was going to need Barbara's help to take on the 4 or 5 gunman below. The area was too confined, too bright and open. The usual stealth tricks weren't going to work. How he was going to free her, get her changed, and keep the other victims safe was beyond him at this point.

That was something he was sure Batman would have taken into account. He always had every contingency planned. He thought of scenarios that were one-in-a-million shots. It was still one of Robin's weaknesses.

The wooden beam he was aiming for suddenly disintegrated in a hail of bullets. Robin didn't have enough time to redirect and slammed off of a steel girder, spiraling awkwardly toward the ground.



He felt the white hot pain in his shoulder and realized he had been hit. The re-enforcement of the costume had slowed the slug so that it didn't penetrate fully, but it had partly hit a seam and lodged nearly halfway in his shoulder. He hit the ground hard and rolled, the air being forced from his lungs. He tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn't cooperate.

"Boy Wonder Screws The Pooch, Gets Self and Mayor's Daughter Killed," he mocked himself.

He waited for the gunfire to start again. At least the certain death would spare him from the inevitable "I Told You So".

Instead, he heard the rushing of air, and caught a blast of thick foam rocketing toward the remaining bikers.

A fire extinguisher.

He finally managed to roll over and get look at who had pulled his a$$ out of the fire.



"You certainly have gotten us into a mess."

 

[Spider-Man9X17]

​

"I suppose I'm just... mourning the loss of Harleen Quinzel."

The Joker got up out of bed and paced across his hideout, bare-ass naked. making a grand show of being deeply upset and troubled.

"Don't get me wrong, I adore Harley Quinn, I can see that this is the true you and I want you to be that way forever. But old Harleen, as hollow a shell as she may have been... she did have poor souls who relied on her."

Walking over to a clothes rack, The Joker started looking through a variety of clothes, trying to decide what to wear. Purple suits, black suits, white suits and leather trenchcoats were lifted and lowered. Eventually, he picked out a nice flowery summer dress and pulled it on.

"Think of all the inmates in Arkham who you've formed a bond with. Especially Killer Croc, Man-Bat, the ones who are truly alone in the world with no one else. They would feel so... abandoned, if they never saw you again. Maybe Harleen Quinzel needs to pay one last visit to Arkham City to set them free."

The Joker ran back over to Harley, took her hands in his.

"I know we've only known each other a day, but... I think we should start a family. A family of mad, broken souls just like us."

[BLACKOUT]"BABIES! OOOHHHH, I LOVE BABIES!"[/BLACKOUT]

Harley squealed with joy, jumping up and down and rapidly clapping her hands, letting the sheet slip from around her ample curves.
[BLACKOUT]
"We can take them to the zoo, and go get ice cream together. We can play catch in the park and braid their hair."[/BLACKOUT]

She bounced backwards onto the bed, seductively rubbing her chest, and naughty school girl grin framing her face.

[BLACKOUT]"Let's do it, Puddin'. Let's go get some babies."[/BLACKOUT]

 

[Spider-Man9X17]

​

Malefic was temporarily struck speechless by the depth of the wound created by the Ranger's blade. The sword actually hurt him, and he wasn't sure if he liked that or not. Either way, he knows he'll have fun peeling the white-clad man's skin off. Sprouting four extra arms, the Martian gives all fifty of his fingertips a razor-sharp edge.

"Let's see how you like being cut."

-----

Meanwhile, J'onn drags himself along the ground to where his daughter lies motionless. She is comatose, and due to the flames, reduced to a mostly fluid form. Straining against the pain, J'onn touches his daughter, connecting to her in body and mind, trying his hardest to be soothing to the girl. J'onn had entertained notions of forgiving his twin, restoring Ma'alefa'ak's telepathy, and forging forward with renewed life. Now, those hopes were dashed.

Silently invoking the name of H'ronmeer, Martian god of fire and death, J'onn swears to kill his brother for this.

The fibers of the suit hold up to the attack, but The White Ranger can still feel the stinging pain of the razor sharp nails. He twisted out of the way, wincing in pain underneath his helmet. This definitely wasn't anything like one of Rita and Zedd's mindless behemoths. This Martian was cold, calculating. It had a keen intellect. It didn't destroy mindlessly under the orders of a high master. It had a plan and an endgame, which made it exponentially more dangerous. The White Ranger would need his mind, not just his powers, to defeat this foe.

He didn't know much about the Martian race, but he was aware of one that fought with The Justice League. The Martian Manhunter. He wondered where he may be now, if he could count on some assistance coming to his aid.

Still stinging, the Ranger brought Saba foward again and dash forward, the blade of his friend glowing bright with White Energy.

 

[SuperFerret]

Sirens. Crackling flames. Weak moans of dying people. The fire department seems to have just arrived, along with other help. Thank the gods for New York City and its endless supply of superheroes. J'onn does not know who was engaging his brother, but that doesn't matter at the moment. All that mattered was M'gann.

Straining against his increasing weakness, J'onn began to absorb his daughter's form into his own. By the standards of Martian society, this was taboo, though there were always stories of parents doing so in extreme circumstances. Those taboos were like the Martian race now: extinct, and if this was not an extreme circumstance, J'onn did not know what is.

Absorbing her completely lent J'onn some renewed strength, allowing him to pull himself from the burning café and onto the street.

"It's the Martian Manhunter!"

Two emergency workers are at his side immediately, lifting him onto a stretcher. Out of the fire, he feels the weakness leave him. Unfortunately, the part of him that was M'gann was not recovering. He gets off of the stretcher, leaving his daughter behind to the shock of the crowd that had gathered.

"Did he just give birth?" "Who is that?" "Did he have a sidekick like the Flash?" "Kid Martian?" "It's a girl. Miss Martian."

"G..get her to Reed Richards," he said. "Only he can heal her."

"What about you?"

"Give me a hose."

The fibers of the suit hold up to the attack, but The White Ranger can still feel the stinging pain of the razor sharp nails. He twisted out of the way, wincing in pain underneath his helmet. This definitely wasn't anything like one of Rita and Zedd's mindless behemoths. This Martian was cold, calculating. It had a keen intellect. It didn't destroy mindlessly under the orders of a high master. It had a plan and an endgame, which made it exponentially more dangerous. The White Ranger would need his mind, not just his powers, to defeat this foe.

He didn't know much about the Martian race, but he was aware of one that fought with The Justice League. The Martian Manhunter. He wondered where he may be now, if he could count on some assistance coming to his aid.

Still stinging, the Ranger brought Saba foward again and dash forward, the blade of his friend glowing bright with White Energy.

Saba makes contact, searing a path through Malefic's flesh. It makes him scream. It makes him giggle. Maybe he was going about this all wrong. He had killed his brother and niece so quickly, but this human gave Malefic a chance to redeem himself. The White Ranger must have friends and family. He's connected to Zordon and the legacy of Eltar. The burning pain from the slash gave Malefic new purpose.

Phasing out of synch with physical reality, Malefic passed into the White Ranger and resolidified with his arms still within the human. The attack was swift and brutal, designed to cause as much agony as possible without killing, and he knew the Ranger had no real defense against it.

~MA'ALEFA'AK!~

The sudden telepathic shock caused Malefic to release his prey, and it stunned him long enough for a powerful stream of water to knock him prone.

The Martian Manhunter was by the White Ranger's side immediately. "I hope you are still able to fight, Mr. Oliver, as I've exhausted myself opening my brother up to mental assault," he says, wiping away the blood pouring from his nose. "This fight just got even more dangerous, but fear not, you are not alone in this anymore."

 

[Carnage27]

​

"What do you think of our inhibitor collars?" he asks. "We developed them to tame the more... unruly test subjects, but today you've given us new use for them." To make his point, he presses a button on his remote, and I feel the surge of electricity through my body again. From the looks of it, Wally's getting a dose, too. "When the little one infiltrated our perimeter, I knew you wouldn't be far behind," the scientist continues. "Normally, we don't welcome visitors, but in your case, we'll make an exception."

The creature grabs me and forces me to my feet.

"Welcome to Project: Blockbuster."

So this is the worst.

I look around as the behemoth carries me down a hall behind the leader of Project: Blockbuster. I can see workers loading crates filled with, what I have to assume, is the substance that creates the monsters. There's enough of it to make an army of Blockbuster fueled creatures. It's clear they've been at this for a while, and the guy we ran into in Central City must have been one of the first buyers.

One other thing is certain: Whoever this guy is, he's got rich backers. There's no way some random scientist would have the means to start something like this without some major capital. This was a mission given to him, not something he came up with.

We have to do something about this, but the damn collar is keeping my powers suppressed.

"As you can see," the scientist continues, "our operation is impressive. We've created enough Blockbuster formula to make millions, and to create havoc across the world. We distributed vials across all cities where superpowered heroes reside in order to give a live demonstration. You were the first ones to activate one of our units. I also have to say I'm impressed you found us here so quick."

"Quick is how we do things," I sneer at the man. "And what good was your field test? We kicked his butt and sent him to jail."

He laughs condescendingly, "Yes, the two of you did. But before that, he drove you off. You needed help to win. The Blockbuster formula will allow normal criminals the ability to escape from one of you. That chance alone is what will drive our sales. And that's before the militaries and mercenaries come calling."

We all step out onto the production floor, and the monster carrying me puts me on my feet. I look out over the floor, which takes my breath away. Huge vats and chemical mixers work like clockwork making more and more of the substance. There's enough of this stuff to destabilize the world, let alone a few cities.

I look over to Barry, who looks just as worried as I am. But we need to get that remote control from the scientist. That's the only way we're getting out of here. I give Barry a look, and hope he understands what I'm about to do. This guy loves to talk almost as much as I do. If I can distract him, maybe Barry can catch him off guard.

Moving up to look over the production floor, pretending to be defeated, I shake my head, "You're not going to get away with this. Someone will stop you."

"Getting away with it is the whole point," he snarls. "Before you all showed up, crime was easy. Escalation made sense. The cops got armor. Criminals got better guns. The cops used computers. Criminals got hackers. But now? Now we live in a world of gods and monsters, and the lowly criminal doesn't stand a chance. We have that chance now. And Doctor Mark Desmond is the one who created it. A perfect steroid that grants the user vast amounts of strength and agility. Finally leveling the playing field."

He waves his arms as if presenting his work to God, and I yell, "Flash now!"

I throw myself into the scientist, throwing him off balance. The remote is tossed into the air as the two of us fall to the ground.

 

[Spider-Man9X17]

​

"Wow, she's better than I thought."

Robin didn't know how she got out, and right now he didn't care. That would be a question he'd address if they made it out of this mess alive.

"Where are the girls?"

"Still locked up. I figure that's the lesser of two evils right now."

He was finally able to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. The five remaining gunman were still choking on the fire suppressant foam. It was probably the last best chance he was going to get.

An open palm to a larynx. A well placed heel to a knee cap. Two more heads went crashing involuntarily into each other.

Just one more.

Robin spun around, and barely had the chance to duck out of the way as the butt of a semi-automatic flailed out in desperation. Batgirl wasn't as lucky, being caught by a glancing blow to the temple and cheek area that knocked her straight to the ground.

"That's not very chivalrous."

A hard elbow to the chin eliminated the final threat, and Robin was quickly kneeling down beside Batgirl.



"You ok?"

He gingerly touched her cheek. It was already starting to swell.

"This eye is kinda fuzzy."

"It may be a mild concussion. I think we have a second here, just try a couple of deep breaths."

Batgirl nodded, shifting to lean her upper body against The Boy Wonder. In any normal situation, it may have been a sweet moment. Robin didn't think he even remembered what a normal situation felt like anymore.

The serenity, normal or not, was to be short lived. Robin saw the flashes of red and blue through the upper row of windows before he heard the sirens, or the squealing of countless tires coming to a sudden stop outside. He felt Batgirl tense up, her eyes darting nervously around. He was worried the gun fire might draw some unwanted attention, but he never imagined the response would be this quick.

"OK, OK. On your feet. Quick and steady. Don't panic. Please, don't panic."

Robin helped pull his accomplice to her feet. She had barely steady herself when the doors burst open.

"GCPD! HANDS IN THE AIR, NOW!"



"Oh crap! What the hell is Essen doing here?!"

A regular squad would have been bad enough, but there were still a good many cops on the force that still looked the other way for Batman and Robin. He may have been able to slide out without a second look. Commissioner Essen, on the other hand--landing the Dynamic Duo in one of her jail cells would be the ultimate trophy on her mantle. Even if there were some sympathetic officers amongst the group, they weren't going to cut him any breaks with Essen leading the charge.

Batgirl seemed irritated by her appearance as well. Even through the fog in her head, Robin could see her staring ice cold daggers through the police commissioner. The term "cat-fight" came to mind.

If Robin could be confident of one thing in this situation, it was that Essen would want him alive. She had made it clear that she wanted to make an example of him and Batman; unmask them to the world, parade them around, send a message to any other would be vigilante in Gotham.

"Hold on tight," Robin whispered to Batgirl, tightening the grip he had around her waist. His free hand, cloaked under his cape, was gripped firmly around the handle of the grapnel gun.

"I SAID HAND IN THE AIR!"

"Yes. Yes you did."



Robin lifted his arm into the air and fire the steel cable through the overhead skylight, hooking the claw around an air duct on the rooftop.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" Essen yelled as Robin and Batgirl took flight upwards through the rafters.

"How far out in air support?"

"Thirty seconds, ma'am."

"They have fifteen."

-

"Helicopter."

Robin looked around, listening to the thumping of rotor blades and trying to discern which direction it was coming from.

"From the north."

"Which way is your bike parked?"

"With the way the last fifteen minutes have transpired, I think you can answer that question yourself."

"I'm not letting that ***** catch me."

Robin was taken aback by the venom in her voice. Their was definitely a history there that he didn't want to be on the wrong side of.

"Yes, that would be a preferable outcome."

By this point, Robin could see the search light of the helicopter coming over the rooftop.

"This way. I have an idea."

Batgirl led Robin to an air conditioning unit on the rooftop and pulled him behind it. She unclasped her cape, and let it billow out from behind the steel box.

-

"I have visual. They just jumped from the roof, gliding out over the river."

"You let them out of your sight, I want your badge on my desk tomorrow morning."

-

Robin watched as the police chopper changed course and headed after the cape floating away in the breeze. They had actually fallen for it.

"It's not going to take them long to figure out what's going on. Let's go."

Robin stood up and took Batgirl by the hand, leading her across the roof back towards the Redbird.

Beauty and brains.

"I think I'm in love."

 

[Spider-Man9X17]

​

The Martian Manhunter was by the White Ranger's side immediately. "I hope you are still able to fight, Mr. Oliver, as I've exhausted myself opening my brother up to mental assault," he says, wiping away the blood pouring from his nose. "This fight just got even more dangerous, but fear not, you are not alone in this anymore."

[BLACKOUT]"My insides are on fire."[/BLACKOUT]

The White Ranger hunched over, his head between his knees. He had to force himself not to vomit in his helmet.

[BLACKOUT]"I'm sorry, but I'm going to need a second here."[/BLACKOUT]

 

[SuperFerret]

​

[BLACKOUT]"My insides are on fire."[/BLACKOUT]

The White Ranger hunched over, his head between his knees. He had to force himself not to vomit in his helmet.

[BLACKOUT]"I'm sorry, but I'm going to need a second here."[/BLACKOUT]

J'onn sighs. Both he and the White Ranger are winded and wounded, and Malefic was gathering himself up off the ground. The evil Martian had also taken the brunt of some powerful attacks, but unfortunately for the heroes, he still had quite a bit left in the proverbial tank. J'onn pats Tommy on the shoulder.

"I'll buy you some time, then," he says. "Just... hurry, please."

J'onn flies at Malefic, catching his brother just as he gets to his feet. The barrage of punches are weak and slow by the Martian Manhunter's usual standards, but they do the trick of keeping Malefic off-balance... for a time.

Backhanding his noble twin away, Malefic laughs maniacally. "J'onn, you fool. You've given me the one thing I need to make your suffering even worse!"

To emphasize his words, the crowd that had gathered began to brawl, viciously attacking each other at the mad Martian's telepathic command.

 

[Eddie Brock]

For Jason Lee Scott, the hardest part about transitioning back to civilian life had to be learning to let go and simply relax. When he was a Power Ranger, Jason needed to remain ever vigilant. One never knew when the evil Rita Repulsa or the wicked Lord Zedd might strike. A quiet day was often cause for concern; it usually meant that those two were planning something particularly cruel and terrible for the Rangers and the good people of Angel Grove. So Jason had trained himself to look for the evil lurking in the shadows, to be prepared for the storm waiting behind the stillness. These habits had served him well as a Power Ranger, but he now needed to learn to simply accept the peace and quiet.

Even on days like today, when he knew nothing was out of place, Jason still struggled to shake that sense of uneasiness and tension.

"Jason, are you alright?"

The sound of his name brought Jason out of his thoughts. He snapped his head around to see his co-worker Emily looking on, concerned. Feeling sheepish for being caught in such a state, Jason rubbed the back of his neck as he replied, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." He could hear the uncertainty in his own voice; even he wasn't convinced by that response.

"You sure?" Emily asked, her eyes briefly darting to the computer screen in front of Jason. "Because you've been re-writing the first sentence of that email over and over for ten minutes now," she explained as she leaned back against the desk. Jason looked to the screen. Sure enough, the email he began ten minutes ago still remained blank.

Jason closed his eyes and let his head dip forward. His hand moved up from his neck to his scalp, and he pulled at the roots of his jet black hair. "I guess my mind just isn't where it needs to be today," he offered, giving a small smile to ease Emily's concerns that it might be something serious. "Just a little burnt out, that's all."

Emily returned the smile. "Well, why don't you take off early?" She motioned around at the empty office. "As you can see, it's a slow day here. I can manage anything that comes up."

It was true. The two worked together at a small nonprofit dedicated to forest and wildlife conservation. The company boasted a workforce of seven individuals, so even on the "busy" days the building was hardly occupied. On a day like today -- at the end of a long week -- Jason and Emily were the only two holding down the fort. Jason turned to consider the email once more. Even if he tried, he knew he wouldn't be able to find his productivity again. "Maybe you're right. I just need to clear my head," he agreed. "Thanks, Em."

Feeling foolish for having let his paranoia get the best of him, Jason gathered his things and made for the gym down the street. A good workout was the surest way to settle his thoughts. As he stepped towards the building, a group of teenagers passed by, laughing and giving each other playful shoves. They reminded Jason a lot of a group he used to know. He felt himself smiling as he made his way into the locker room to change. Like the office, the gym was mostly abandoned. Jason almost preferred it that way. While he loved the sense of community and commitment to self-improvement that the gym often brought, there were times -- much like today -- when he simply wanted to lose himself to the exercise.

A little over an hour later, Jason finished his workout. Sweaty but satisfied, he collected his belongings from the locker and made the decision to walk home in his workout clothes. It wouldn't be a long walk, and he didn't feel like getting changed without showering, anyway. The trip to the gym had worked like a charm, though; already Jason felt much more relaxed, more at peace. As he stepped outside, he took a deep breath and felt the crisp alpine air filling his lungs. This is why you chose this place,he reminded himself, To get away from all the hustle and bustle.

Jason turned to cut through the park towards his apartment complex. Initially, he thought it weird that he hadn't passed any joggers or children playing, but he allowed himself to brush it off. The afternoon was growing late, and with the chill in the air signifying fall's impending arrival it was possible that folks had simply elected to stay inside. There was no need to assume anything was out of place; after all, he had just gotten over his pointless nervousness, hadn't he? Still, even as he tried to convince himself, Jason shouldered his bag a little more closely as he reached the midpoint of the park.

Somewhere to Jason's right, a twig snapped. A harmless noise, yet Jason turned suddenly all the same. As he did, he found himself facing an unusual sight.

There were ten, maybe fifteen, of the unusual creatures. They moved jerkily, waving their enormous bladed weapons threateningly and mumbling in synthesized voices. They clearly had hostile intent. Jason felt his hands clap to his belt until he remembered that he no longer wore his Morpher as he once did. Still, he was far from defenseless; a lifetime of martial arts training made him a formidable foe, Ranger powers or not. Striking a defensive stance, Jason prepared himself for an attack.

Though these things surely weren't Putties, they utilized similar tactics. The mechanical beings rushed in all at once, completely devoid of any formation or strategy. Jason ducked under the blade of the first to arrive, meeting the second with a sharp elbow to the chest. He jerked his head around to see a third rushing from behind and quickly spun to meet the attacker. As the robot thrust his weapon forward, Jason caught the flat end of the blade with his palm and pushed it aside. He chopped at the robot's neck, knocking it back a step.

By this point, the creatures had encircled Jason. They danced around, fainting forward and falling back. Three or four at a time always remained in striking distance. When the next attack came, Jason diagnosed it right away. The attacker lunged forward with a sweeping downward swing, which Jason easily sidestepped. He delivered a standing kick to the being's abdomen, sending it backward into the robot directly behind it. The counterattack came even swifter this time; Jason barely spun away from the blade as it caught the edge of his shirt and put a tear through the fabric.

Jason dodged a bull-rushing attacker and laughed as he collided with his friends. Another creature stepped forward, and Jason threw another high kick. This time, the creature was ready, and he caught Jason's leg. Losing his balance, Jason used his other leg to propel himself into a backflip, freeing himself from the robot's grip. The attackers were coming lightning fast now, evidently getting stronger the more observing they did. Jason's hits landed less frequently; one of the beings finally caught him in the back with that blade, sending him sprawling to the ground. He looked up from the dirt as the attackers closed in around him. I can't keep this up. There's too many of them!

One of the robots stepped forward and raised its blade high for the finishing stroke. Before it could begin its swing, however, the bot was struck with a beam of energy and obliterated. The others began to mumble more loudly as they stepped backwards. Jason flipped over onto his back and looked in the direction of the blast. What he saw was even harder to comprehend than his strange attackers.

"A Gold Ranger?"

The Ranger raised a staff high overhead and unleashed another beam of energy at a group of attackers. Thrown back by the force, the beings materialized and vanished, evidently defeated. The remaining forces bum-rushed the Gold Ranger. He turned away their attacks effortlessly with his staff, occasionally lashing out for a devastating strike with his free hand. Jason watched in awe as this solitary Ranger parried and danced around the attacks. It was like watching a master at work; dealing with these attackers appeared no more than child's play. Was this how others viewed Jason and his team?

When the Gold Ranger drove the butt of his staff into the last attacker's chest, the creature erupted in a shower of sparks and broke apart. It was only then that the Ranger turned his attention to Jason, offering him a hand up. "You really saved my skin back there," Jason said as he got to his feet. "I thought those... things... had me dead-to-rights. What were they, anyway? They didn't look like any Putties I've ever seen."

"They're called 'Quantrons.' They're the foot soldiers of Astronema, Princess of Darkness," the Gold Ranger explained, his voice muffled inside his helmet. If the name "Astronema" was supposed to mean something to Jason, it certainly didn't. The confusion must've been evident on his face because the Gold Ranger continued, "I promise all will be explained in time, but for now we have to move. Our time is short."

Jason nodded. "Let me go get my Morpher. Something tells me I'm going to need it."

"I'll come with you. Then, we must see Zordon. I have urgent news to deliver."
​

 

[Byrd Man]

BANNER: Gotham Globe, 06/30/09
DA FILES NO CHARGES IN BOXING PROBE

BANNER: Gotham Herald, 08/21/09
DA PORTER DECLINES SENATE BID

EXTRACT: Gotham Herald, 10/10/09

FOURTH WOMAN KILLED, SNAPSHOTS FOUND ON BODY

The body of a woman found yesterday morning is the latest in a string of murders on Gotham City's west side. The victim, identified as twenty-eight-year-old Jane Lewis of a Dutch Hill address, was found just after three in the morning near a west side nightclub. Like previous victims, Ms. Lewis was killed by gunshot wound.

"There is no way all these murders are connected," said Sgt. James Gordon, squad sergeant in GCPD's Homicide unit and lead investigator of the case. "The similarities are too vague. Despite similar methods of murder, there's nothing else that connects these crimes."

Despite denial from Gordon, sources say that Ms. Lewis' body was found with photos on her person. The photos in question are of the victim in the last moments before her death. This matches three other murders that have occurred on the west side over the last month, all of them of young women. When pressed about the possibility of a connection, Sgt. Gordon remained placid. "Despite everyone's tendency to assume the worse, there is no way the same killer committed these murders."


BANNER: Gotham Globe, 11/3/09
THORNE ELECTED TO SENATE IN LANDSLIDE

BANNER: Gotham Herald, 11/14/09
SIXTH BODY FOUND, POLICE ADMIT LINK TO OTHER MURDERS

BANNER: Gotham Gabberr, 11/20/09
IS YOUR HUBBIE A SERIAL KILLER? FIVE WAYS TO FIND OUT INSIDE!

BANNER: Gotham Globe, 12/19/09
SNAPSHOT KILLER CLAIMS SEVENTH VICTIM, GCPD WARN WOMEN OF DANGERS


*****​

December 21st, 2009
Western Gotham City
3:29 AM


Detective Harvey Bullock cruised the strip towards county territory on a shakedown sortie. Shakedown Harvey Bullock, the Narco Nightshift Ne'er-do-well. He was the scourge of sycophantic scum and stimulant selling stooges. He'd pop pill peddlers and pilfer their prescription pile. He popped pills with aplomb. He dug the delirious dope high. Big Bad Bullock beats beaucoup bad bums and breaks the bones of bandits.

Harvey rode a righteous rapture of speed and painkillers. A killer combo created crazy creations of the cranium. He cruised and saw Christmas trees melting and molting. Nobody out tonight. No ****es walking the beat, no pimps plying their pugilistic power. No drug dealers digging on the diabolical dichotomy of their dreary lives.

Nobody out tonight because a serial killer sought out senoritas to slash. Said serial killer slaughtered with skill. Seven bodies stacked up in the moldy municipal morgue. Snapshot shooter seriously spooked slum squatters. Nix on that. Big Bad Bullock bounced through blocks of blight to bag his blow.

Near the county line he pulled into a side alley. Nobody on the street, nobody on the corners. Nobody out to shakedown. A wasted night. Harvey prepared to turn around. Headlights flashed on something in the road. A dead body. Bullock parked. He lumbered out. He saw a dead girl. He saw photos on her body. He freaked. He ran back to the car and got on the radio.

*****​

Western Gotham City
4:05 AM

Blue lights and arc lights illuminated the crime scene. A dead woman, face down in the cold mud. Two entry wounds to the back of the head. Disheveled clothing. Harness bulls in coats smoked cigarettes and drank coffee and mulled around. Shakedown Harv smoking with them. CSI en route, ditto on the brass.

Flass squatted by the body. Steam poured from his mouth. Just below freezing outside. Narco dick Bullock stumbled upon her while chasing down a lead. Flass caught the squeal. He saw the photos on the back. Polaroid shots of the vic. She's squinting. She has her hand up to her face. She looks scared ****less. Last moments of her life before two bullets blow her brains out. The Snapshot Killer strikes again. Flass reported it back to Gotham Central. Jim ****ing Gordon was on the way.

The dead girl on the ground made it murder number eight of the spree. Gordon caught the first murder back in September. Homicide's first man up rule dictated he got stuck with any subsequent murders. Whiskey Jim stuck with eight unsolved stiffs made Flass smile. **** him, the blackmailing prick. Flass stood. His knees popped. He bummed a smoke from a uniformed cop. He lit up and stared at the dead girl.

Six months in, Homicide was the pits. It was either unsolvable drug murders or too-easy domestic stabbings. Dead-eyed corner boys telling him to go **** himself, or sob sisters crying over their dead wives. This was something interesting, but still **** work. He pined for the street. He kept in touch with Two-Gun Jack Grogan. His order was still good: Kill Jim Gordon. Kill the ****er outright and come out of the cold and back to warming embrace of the mob squad. His hatred for Gordon burned as strong as Flass'. Flass did not want to kill Gordon outright. That was too easy. Flass wanted him to suffer. He wanted him to beg for mercy before he killed him.

*****​

Jim got out the car. He pulled his coat close. Slam drove and served as secondary on the case. Jim lugged his crime scene equipment, still tasting the bourbon in his mouth. A few shots to steady himself before he went out in the cold. Slam lit up a stogie and blew smoke. They passed under crime scene tape. Reporters already dogged the scene. And why not? A goddamn maniac was on the loose and they needed copy.

Three uniforms stood around a body. Arnold Flass off to the side smoking. Jim felt prickles on the back of his neck. They worked together for sixth months now and didn't say more than two words to each other. They stayed out of each others way and liked it like that. Any conversation would be laced with rancor. Any discussions would devolve into hostility. Flass: A thug who outright murdered a state's witness, yet Jim was the bad guy in this particular narrative. He sold his silence for rank. He bought a lieutenancy with extortion. Maybe there was something to Flass' hatred.

Flass wore a smirk. Jim pegged it: He's getting a kick out of watching you flail. He likes seeing you with seven -- now eight -- murders on your cart. He wants you to **** up and fail. Save for Slam, they all want you to fail. They know you're next in line for promotion. They know when Eckhart finally dies you'll be their boss. They're envious. They want what you have. They despise you because of all you have and will soon have.

Slam talked to Flass while Jim examined the body. He popped on rubber gloves and went to work. The victim matched the basic description of the previous seven. White female, somewhere in her twenties or thirties. Two bullet wounds in the back of the head. Bullet wounds were the basic shape and hole of a Nine, the killer's weapon of choice. Jim glommed the pix on the body. Cheap polaroids, washed out exposure. The victim crying, trying to resist. Her hands flailing and fighting back. Mark it as number eight on the Snapshot Killer's victim scorecard.

Slam walked over and said, "One of ours discovered the body. Bullock out of Central Narco."

Jim stood and said, "Shakedown Harvey? Hopefully he's not high. The man is a disgrace."

"I wouldn't be too quick to judge if I were you, Whiskey Jim."

Jim scowled. He pushed past Slam. The gaggle of cops gossiping like schoolgirls. They passed around a flask and snickered when they saw him approach.

One cop said, "Whiskey Jim is here."

Another cop said, "He must have smelled he hooch from clear across the street."

Flass shook the flask and said, "I think his mouth is watering."

Jim said, "Cut the crap before I have you all written up and suspended. A woman is dead over there, the eighth victim of a serial killer. This is no time for jokes. Detective Bullock, follow me to my car. I want your statement on your discovery of the body. I want everyone else canvassing the area right now to find out who saw her before her death, and if they saw anything else. If you have anything to report, find Sergeant Bradley. Failure to comply with my orders will result in suspension and a potential trial board. Get to it."

Most of the cops hight-tailed it. They amscrayed to get to work. Flass drug his feet. He sulked and took his time. Jim locked eyes with him.

"That means you too, Sergeant Flass. Do not make me repeat myself. You will find that it perturbs me."

Flass stalked off. Bullock and Slam traded looks that said what the hell was that all about? Jim ignored them. He motioned for Bullock to follow him. Slam headed out to canvass. They stopped at the dead body.

Jim said, "Eight women are dead, Detective."

Bullock said, "The sick **** is running roughshod over the goddamn city."

"Not for much longer."

Jim said a silent prayer. A prayer for the dead girl's soul. A prayer for the previous seven dead girls' souls. He prayed for safe passage of their souls. He prayed for divine retribution. He prayed for justice. He prayed for his own soul. His own divine intervention. He prayed for the strength to stop drinking.

He prayed to break the case wide open. Catching a serial killer would cement him in the PD, make his career, and make him nigh untouchable to demons like Flass and Grogan. Jim looked across the street. Flass watched. He smiled. He mimed shooting a gun with his finger. He blew on his fingertip. Steam from his breath aped gunsmoke.

 

[Spider-Man9X17]

​

"I am pleased to report that through the diligence and dedication of the men and women of the GCPD, tonight we were able to apprehend Barton Mathis, who has been responsible for the recent string of kidnappings throughout the city. Mr. Mathis, known also as The Dollmaker, and several members of The Midnight Sons motorcycle gang who had been working with him, were rounded up in a raid of a Northern Gotham warehouse complex. Batman and Robin were also seen fleeing the scene, and are suspected of also being accomplices of Mr Mathis."



Dick slumped over the desk and groaned as Essen's press conference played on the bank of monitors in The Batcave. Not getting the credit was one thing. When you lived and worked in the shadows, it was part of the job description. The completely unsubstantied smear campaign, that riled him up a bit.

"Stupid cow."



Dick slumped down into a chair and kicked his foot off the ground, spinning it around. Alfred was tending to Barbara's cheek. It had swelled the the size of a tennis ball, complete with a few unflattering shades of blue and purple. He had tended to his shoulder himself, and now that his adreniline levels had settled to normal, the pain was flaring up severely.

Alfred had been a bit shocked to see Robin show up back at the cave with company, but the loyal butler always carried himself gracefully and stoicly, and went right to work administering some quick first aid.

"I don't mean to pry, but, um, rowr."

Barbara winced as Alfred placed a cold compress on her face.

"My dad would rather go sniffing around the used up old hussy that be any kind of a father to me."



Dick didn't know what to say, and figured it was best not to have a response anyway. Instead, he ran his hands through his hair before letting out a deep breath and looking to Alfred.

"Sooooo, one-to-ten, how much fun is this going to be when he gets home?"

"I would suspect, Master Grayson, that the coming lecture is going to require an intermission and restroom break."

"Break out the caffine."

"It was a rather foolish thing the two of you pulled tonight. I am just rather relieved you were able to make it back alive and well. Though I must say, neither one of you are the first person who I have attended to in this cave after suffering a substantial beating, even against the advice and an older, dare I say wiser, guardian."

Dick smiled. Alfred always saw a silver lining in everything, and had played the buffer between he and Bruce more times than Dick could even count anymore.

"Is that a life sized stuffed Tyranosaurus?" Barbara was peering down to a lower platform in the cavern.



"Yeah. There's a three-story penny around here somewhere too. Don't ask."

"Hmm," Barbara mumbled, a bit impressed. For everything she had been through tonight, ending with being treated by Bruce Wayne's butler in a giant underground high tech cave, she was handling it all pretty well.

Hopefully, she held up just as well when Batman himself arrived home.

 

[Sentarous]

Red Hood & The Outlaws
Debut

Gotham City, The Narrows​

“It sure has seen better days, huh?”

Jason Todd stood outside of what used to be a prominent department store-- Shreck’s. Though Jason had never shopped in the department store chain in his life considering it went defunct ages ago, before he had even been born. He however was quite familiar with the building considering it was where he had been raised, where the black biker jackets of the Red Hood Gang were king. In other words… home.

At least, it used to be. Jason Todd was surprised that other members of the gang hadn’t taken charge and kept flying the colors, but after his father got gunned down shortly following the Ace Chemicals incident nobody wanted to call themselves a Red Hood. It was weird how fast people forgot about it and how fast they ran away from it. It made him angrier the more he thought about it and it almost made him want to blow the building up; but that would’ve meant that he truly wanted people to forget the Red Hood Gang and what his father stood for. He didn’t want that. He would never want that. He’d refuse the sentiment, it was too important to him… it was all he had of his childhood outside of his father’s jacket.

“Tch.” Jason grumbled under his breath.

“So fearless leader, this is it?” The voice of his friend and the first recruit of his new gang, Lonnie Machin, chimed in. Lonnie could sense Jason’s discomfort and while it made him a bit nervous he did feel it was the right kind of icebreaker. Humor was a great deflection device, after all.

Crossing his arms, Jason nodded. “Yeah. This is the headquarters for The Outlaws.”

“Haven’t had a home to call my own in a while.” A female voice commented as the blonde-haired figure of Yvette Brawner looked on with a confident grin. “Lonnie, do you think we can get the electrical working soon?”

Lonnie shrugged, “Probably, I mean you’ve got electrical powers and I’ve got a brain, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Killer. Awesome.”

Jason chuckled, “Let’s get started then.” The leader of the group of teenagers looked back to the rest of his ‘team’ who hadn’t spoken yet. A thief, a brawler, another mutant, and a sort-of tracker; he had a good group and they trusted him. He would waste no time taking back his neighborhood and sending a message- in a few hours he had a plan to take action already and it would be a real eye-opener to the scum that thought they could do what they wanted without consequence.

“Watch out Gotham, there’s a new gang in town.” Jason thought as he finally began to think that things were going to get better. He knew it wouldn’t be a cakewalk, but it would be better than what he and his new friends had and that was enough to make it feel like it was worth it.

 

[Saved]

Part IV – Enter the Cat-Men

I travel down the corridors of the large freighter silently. I move like a spirit through the dark halls.

I instructed Jan and Jayce to head for the docked vessel while I head for the control room. I don't intend for these thieves to escape.

As I make my way to the target, I notice how oddly quiet and empty the vessel is. The normal freighter has a crew of nearly 200. Where could these workers be? The control room is a 20 foot square box; not nearly enough space to house the workers. I wonder what-

Something catches my eye. A cold shiver runs through my spine. The feelings of eyes focusing me within their gaze. I turn, shapeless in the void, to confront the force, but ... there is nothing there.

Strange. A soldier such as myself wasn't trained to fall victim to the paranoia of the average civilian. My instinct has driven me since the day I entered the academy. Something had to be there.

A vibration in my responder pulls me from my search. I open the private channel, keeping my voice as hushed as I can manage.

"What did you find?"
-"Two pirates were guarding the docked ship, Space Ghost."-
"Who are they?"
-"Felicians."-

A frown forms over my face. Jayce can tell my displeasure by the silence.
-"Do you want to wait for us to meet you for reinforcements?"-
"No. Hold your position. I'll take care of them."
I go to silence the transmission, -"Be careful, Space Ghost."- Jan tells me.
"Wait for further instruction." I cut the transmission.

Felicians ... a dangerous race of hybrid aliens - Chimeras. Before the Galactic Alliance united the systems in our galaxy, planets had their own localized governments. Some of them were less ethical than others. One such Coalition decided that one of the less developed worlds in their system yielded prime candidates for experimentation. They planned to develop a method to create hybridization between a species and it's indigenous fauna to create beings that are better suited to their environment. They succeeded.

But the Felician race became too strong. The Chimeran experiments of their race out competed the others. Half a century later, the Galactic Alliance was formed. In order to prevent war, the Coalition had to cover their tracks. They destroyed the Felician homeworld, calling it a mining accident. As a result, the surviving Felicians became a nomadic space race - mating with natives from other worlds and creating a genetic melting pot. They pillage and rob any group too weak to defend themselves in order to sustain their dwindling numbers.

To put it bluntly, they're the most ruthless unaffiliated group to encounter in space.
My transponder buzzes again. I open the channel.

-"Space Ghost, Alliance cruisers just exited hyperspace and are approaching the ship."-
"Open channel."
"-Attention Alliance Cargo Freighter 45-BT7, this is Commander Carson of the Galactic Alliance. We are preparing to board your vessel."-

="NO,"= an alien voice growls. His voice is feral. A clicking of his teeth every time he speaks. ="You and your dogs shall do no such thing..."=
-"Who am I speaking to?"-
= “You will refer to me as God-warrior Brak, you double helixed relic. This is my vessel now.”=
-“And what makes you think we’re going to let you do that?”-
He laughs. A malicious cackle. =“We still have 20 hostages, Commander Carson. Isn’t that right, Captain Antares Cole?”=
-“I-it’s true.”- I recognize the voice – the captain from the distress call. -“P-please, back off. Don’t board the ship! P-Please!”-
=“Groveling in fear, hahak hahak. Do you understand, Commander?”=

-“What do you want,”- he asks reluctantly.
=“Safe passage. Like I said, this vessel is mine now. From my understanding, this mining operation is illegal, anyway. Moltar isn’t within your jurisdiction. Every millicycle you don’t fall back so we can enter hyperspace, I will eliminate one of the hostages. As a show of my authenticity, my first in command, Sisto, will make an example of Lieutenant Anderson.”=

Screams suddenly fill the radio channel. I hear what sounds like a beast biting into the Lieutenant’s body. He screams in agony until a loud snap is heard, followed by snarling.
=“Clock is ticking, Commander.”=

The comlink goes dead.
-“Space Ghost?”-
“Detach their ship. Then head to the engine room and stop this vessel from going into hyperspace.”
-“Understood.”-

I close the comlink and sprint toward the control room. Looks like I’m on the clock. And time has never been a friend of mine.

 

[Carnage27]

The monstrous, clawed hand of the mutated alligator snapped out and grabbed Michelangelo by the face, lifting him off the ground with ease. Leo and Raph looked at one another and nodded before rushing at the creature with their weapons drawn. The only thing they got in return, however, was Mikey. The mutant tossed him like he was nothing at his brothers, and the three of them crumpled into a heap. This thing was crazy strong, which wasn't surprising since it stood a few feet taller than the Turtles did.

Leo could hear its heavy footfalls as it stalked them. Once it was close enough, Leonardo sprung into action. He leapt over the snapping jaws off the creature and landed directly on its back. He quickly threw his arms around the gator's jaw. The creature struggled against him, and Leo called to his brothers, "Could you do something!?"

"What are you doing!?" Raph yelled at him in astonishment.

"Gators have huge crushing power!" Leo yelled as the mutant thrashed about. "But they can't open up their mouths if you keep them closed!"

"Donnie's rubbin off on you, bro!" Mikey laughed as he ran at the monster. He threw his shoulder into it. The gator mutant took a few steps back, but Mikey bounced off him like he was a tennis ball. "Major ouch."

"I like the Discovery Channel okay!" Leo defended his animal kingdom knowledge.

"I live with so many nerds!" Raph growled. He was the only one in this situation that might stand a chance at hurting this thing. Raphael was the biggest and strongest of his brothers, and while he was often reckless in a fight, his brute strength was perfect for a situation like this.

Raphael twirled his sai around so the butt of the handle was poking through the gaps in his fingers, creating a form of brass knuckles. He ducked under the flailing arm of the gator before delivering a haymaker to the kidney area of the creature, who recoiled in pain. Raph followed it up with a jumping strike across its chin. The gator reeled and fell backwards.

As it was going down, Leo flipped back over it, and kicked off its chest to reach his brothers, "We need to go. Now! Donnie, we need some way to get out of this!"

The three of them turned and fled from the creature as Donnie gave them a plan, "About a hundred and fifty yards from here I've got a booby trap set up. It can give you some room."

"Got it!" Leo said. He took a glance over his shoulder, where he saw the gator had regained its footings and was thrashing after them. "This is not cool."

"Definitely not my ideal morning!" Raph added in.

"Remember when we were little and Master Splinter said there were no alligators in the sewer?" Mikey asked in a panicky voice. "He's got a lot of explaining to do!"

"Guys, swing a right!" Donnie guided.

They did as he said, and the gator couldn't turn quickly enough. Its feet slid out from underneath it, and it skidded in the sewer muck. Donnie then set off the trap, and the sewer wall collapsed behind them, cutting them off from their enemy. They could hear the gator roar on the other side of the rubble, "Must kill Turtles!"

"Whoa, Leatherhead can talk."

"Leatherhead?"

"Yea, I'm taking over villain naming rights."

"I like it," Leo nodded. "Now let's get back to the lair. We need to figure out what to do about this."
​

 

[Spider-Man9X17]

​

J'onn sighs. Both he and the White Ranger are winded and wounded, and Malefic was gathering himself up off the ground. The evil Martian had also taken the brunt of some powerful attacks, but unfortunately for the heroes, he still had quite a bit left in the proverbial tank. J'onn pats Tommy on the shoulder.

"I'll buy you some time, then," he says. "Just... hurry, please."

J'onn flies at Malefic, catching his brother just as he gets to his feet. The barrage of punches are weak and slow by the Martian Manhunter's usual standards, but they do the trick of keeping Malefic off-balance... for a time.

Backhanding his noble twin away, Malefic laughs maniacally. "J'onn, you fool. You've given me the one thing I need to make your suffering even worse!"

To emphasize his words, the crowd that had gathered began to brawl, viciously attacking each other at the mad Martian's telepathic command.

[BLACKOUT]"This is crazy."[/BLACKOUT]

The White Ranger looked around at the chaos on the street. The riot was escalating quickly, and people who weren't under the possession on the malevolant martian were starting to be pulled into the fray.

He couldn't deal with that mass of humanity at once, and he couldn't risk hurting civilians either.

Finally feeling his second wind, the Ranger gripped the handle of his sword and charged again. A swift roundhouse kick met the attacking alien in the temple. Tommy let his momentum carry him through and came back around, this time a sweeping kick taking the martians legs out.

 

[MST3K 4ever]

As Luthor strolled through the halls of the North LexCorp tower he did so with a smile on his face. As a general rule Lex didn't care to rub elbows with the common workers of his vast empire, but just in case there was a stray photographer or reporter nearby well far be it for him to not keep up his image of the day. That of High Society Do-Gooder an image he despised but one that he knew he had to have to keep the press on his side and the politicians at bay.He posed for pictures, shook hands, and things of that nature all the while he wanted nothing more than to get out of sight for a while.

Once he made it to an elevator and the door closed Lex leaned against the wall and just closed his eyes. He took a bottle of Purell and gave it two squeezes as he attempted to feel as though he were getting the germs of the commoners off of him.

As the elevator stopped at his penthouse office the fake smile was once again back on his face as he walked off the elevator. He looked at his secretary Brenda and said, "No phone calls or interruptions or anything of that nature at this time Miss Moore. I have some vital paperwork to catch up on."

She nodded politely as Lex closed his office door and locked it with a keypad from the inside. He said, "Alexis I have returned."

A female voice with an electronic accent said, "Good Morning Mr. Luthor. Care for your morning updates now?"

Lex shook his head as he fixed himself an ice water and said, "Not now. I want you to begin monitoring the children's hospital that I was at this morning. Specifically the patient databases keyword: Mutant. Put in a classified file called Army 1. Passcode: Alpha 1 Gamma B2."

 

[Dblade26]

Enter the Iron Fist​

New York City,
The School of Thunder​

My name is Danny Rand-Kai, and I am the Immortal Iron Fist.

It sounds impressive, but if I were to go outside and ask the average person on the street what they thought of Iron Fist their response would probably be 'Who?' or maybe 'Are You sure you don't mean Iron Man, kid?' and for the most part they'd be totally justified. I'm not usually one of those big flashy 'save the world from complete destruction' heroes and my beat is about the size of a couple of Chinatown neighborhoods, occasionally the whole city if the day's going really well...or really poorly. I'm a small-picture kind of hero and usually that picture involves less stopping giant monsters and more foiling a mugging or three and busting Triads and/or Tongs over the head if they get too rowdy. Not that it's always that simple

I'm small picture, but that picture's the Jianghu, The World of Lakes and Rivers. It's part secret society, part underground subculture and all weird even by some superhero standards. It's a world that runs by its own rules where the line between magic and martial arts blurs where it exists at all and that friendly defense attorney you chat with at the deli might spend his nights and weekends in a tiger mask killing people with electric nun-chucks and magic mind-control. The Jianghu's been around for a few thousand years now and I'm one of and handful of heroes in New York who deals with it regularly. So when grandma hops out of her grave as a jiang-shi and starts sucking down souls, or the literal, fire-breathing dragon who runs half the city's triads starts selling drugs that open the Third Eye to kids I'm the man people turn to. When you're raised in a mythical inter-dimensional city of immortals and inherit the title and skills of one of the world's greatest martial artists by killing a dragon in a fistfight you get a certain amount of responsibility.

So basically, in my short time since coming to New York I've faced ghost ninjas, kung-fu killers, karate androids, Qi Wizards and demons of all shapes and sizes. But none of that comes close to the difficulty of what I'm doing today. None of the horrors and dangers of the jianghu prepared me for-

"U-um, Sensei Danny, I gotta go to the bathroom!"

The urgent request breaks me out of my daydreaming monologue. I'm groaning inwardly, but I hide it behind a smile.

"It's in the back, past the sword racks and to the left!"

After a year or so of running the Thunder Dojo I think I definitely understand what my masters Yu-Ti and Lei-Kung the Thunderer meant by 'to teach is to try and perfectly fill a teacup from a raging waterfall'. It's frustrating, it's messy and you just have to keep trying your best and hope for a decent result. Even so I can't help but feel pleased with the School of Thunder. The kids aren't exactly ready to learn the ancient and mythical secrets of K'un-L'un, but even without that I've been teaching them enough to deal with the average mugger. More importantly, I can teach them honor, compassion, respect, self-discipline, maybe even just give them a small window of time where they feel safe. None of the kids who initially came to the school were from healthy environments, that's kind of the point of a youth outreach program. But if I'd known I might be able to make even a small difference like this in their lives then I would've suggested the idea myself.

instead it started as a Rand Incorporated PR stunt, because when I'm not flying dragon kicking thugs through walls in a mask I'm still Daniel Rand, one of the younger billionaire CEOs in the U.S., a pretty weird situation for someone raised to value the immaterial. I know the PR team and my board of directors didn't exactly have teaching martial arts to kids in mind when they suggested I get personally involved in my charities but at least I'm doing what I know. Besides, the warm and fuzzy feelings I get from these kids' smiles as I teach them how to flip a grown man into a wall doesn't hurt my own mental health either.

Once the lessons resume it's back through a series of forms that would be less than basic in K'un-L'un but more than adequate for self-defense in New York, with me mostly stopping to correct posture and placement or demonstrate a particular block or strike with one of the older kids. It's different, having to explain the fundamentals of something I'd been doing since I was nine, but all of us learn something from it. After that it's more complex lessons, takedowns, disabling techniques, submission holds, plus knife and gun disarms I hope they'll never have to use but know they shouldn't go without. All with an emphasis that violence is an absolute last resort, that it's about safety and self-mastery, not vengeance or pain. It's a lesson I guess I'm still learning, too.

Because after I bow the kids out the door it's not a suit and tie of billionaire philanthropist Danny Rand I swap into from my training clothes, it's the traditional gold and green of the Iron Fist. I know that despite what I tell those kids, despite the good I feel like I accomplish with them I'll be spending the rest of the day and maybe long into the night embracing violence, vengeance, pain. I tell myself I'm doing it for the good of my community, that the world needs me to be Iron Fist, the Living Weapon.

But sometimes I'm worried that I need to be Iron Fist even more than that.

 

[Byrd Man]

December 22nd, 2009
Kavanaugh's Pub
8:13 AM


The cop bar was decorated with Christmas crap. Bartenders wore goofy Santa hats. Red and green tinsel strung up around the bar. A drunk cop wore a red Rudolph nose and puked beer on the floor. Christmas music played on a speaker. In a corner booth, Harvey Bullock chopped up lines of coke with a credit card. One, two, three neat little lines on the table.

Harvey got the coke from a drug dealer who peddled out of a nightclub. He walked through half-naked college kids gyrating under a blacklight. He found the dealer in a bathroom stall, geezing up with Big H. Harvey kicked the needle away and shoved him against the stall door. He gave the ****bird the spiel: Your coke or your life, which is it gonna be?

He snorted the lines quick-like. The coke hit his system like rocket fuel. His eyes pinned, his pulse raced. His mind went zoooom up and out into space. Coke mingled with whiskey and beer and sent him off into the stratosphere. He left earth behind and slouched in the booth. The dope was to help him forget the dead girl's face. A day since he found that body and it spooked him fierce. He saw her dead body every time he closed his eyes. It made no sense. He was fifteen years a cop, he'd seen scores of DB's.

THIS was different. SHE was a serial killer's victim. Number eight with a bullet. SHE was still just a she. Officially Jane Doe #29 at the city morgue. Canvassing around the area of the crime scene revealed no eyewitnesses. Nobody in the neighborhood recognized her. They deadpanned Harvey when he showed photos. Nobody gave a ****. Another dead girl? So the hell what? As long as it ain't me, now keep moving, cop. He was out of his zone on this one. He was a Narco dick, this was a Homicide. Jim Gordon didn't care. He coopted him to work canvass around the scene. He told Harvey, you found the body so you're involved now. The entire PD wanted it solved bad, Whiskey Jim wanted it solved even worse. He salivated for a silver LT bar. He coveted rank almost as much as he coveted hooch.

Harvey jumped from the booth. He ran out the bar and to his car. The coke did not kill his thoughts on Jane Doe #29. He hauled ass down side streets. He sweated through his clothing. The coke made his thoughts race. They raced around in a circle and came back to Jane Doe #29. He hauled Code 3 down the freeway. He tried to outrace his thoughts. He failed.

His phone rang. Incoming call from Gotham Central.

"Bullock."

"It's Jim Gordon. The PD brass is holding a meeting in an hour to discuss these Snapshot Killer murders. I want you there."

Harvey said, "I'm Narcotics, Sarge. I discovered the body, but what--."

"I have my reasons. Let's leave it at that. Be there in an hour."

*****​

O'Neil Heights
8:13 AM


Flass rolled ghettoside towards a rendezvous. Corner boys and drug dealers were up and at it even this early in the AM. They wore big, puffy jackets and fought the cold. They spat at Flass' car as he passed. They flipped him off and waggled their ***** as he passed. Flass ignored it and kept on driving. The natives acted like natives, Flass acted like a good white man and ignored native behavior.

The Finger Housing Project loomed ahead. The Finger, six twelve story firetraps filled with felonious activities. A mini Sodom and Gomorrah rolled up into a half dozen rickety buildings. Pushers pushed product outside the entrances, dealers dealt drugs from stairwells on every floor. If you were ghettoside, this was THE place to be. It was très slum chic.

Flass got hard looks from the boys outside the Finger's A building. They smelled cop from a mile away. They saw the shape of his .45 underneath his jacket and got scarce. He rode a rickety elevator up to the top floor. He lit a cigarette on the ride up.

A big brouhaha at Gotham Central loomed in an hour. Eckhart gave him the details. The gist: This serial killer **** is from hunger. Close the goddamn case by new year's or else. All of Homicide and some additional muscle would be there.

Elevator doors slid open. Flass walked down a shadowy corridor. Concrete walls, graffiti on the walls and apartment doors. 12F near the end of hallway. Flass rapped hard and fast. That cop knock.

The door yanked open. Two black men pulled Flass inside. A small living room and two more armed men. A goon plucked the cigarette from Flass' hand and stubbed it out. Flass took in the digs. Fading paint on the walls, crappy furniture. An eight thousand dollar stereo, a ten thousand dollar LCD TV. On a couch: Dope kingpin Jefferson Skeevers. Jeff works for Carmine Falcone. He runs drug crews and dealers all through the city. If you got it Gotham and it got you ****ed up, then you got it from Skeevers. Skeevers Coke and Dope: Accept no substitute.

Skeevers held out a mirror with lines of coke and said, "Mr. Flass. Thank you for coming, want a bump?"

"Nix on that. I don't have time. Tell me what you want, and why you called me instead of Grogan."

One of Skeevers' bodyguards popped a switchblade and scratched his neck with it. He got hard stares from the rest while Skeevers snorted lines. He came up from the mirror, rubbing his nose and snorting.

"I say goddamn..."

Flass cracked his knuckles. "Today, Skeevers. I got somewhere else I need to be."

"Alright, alright. A cop is ****ing with my business. This mother****er is shaking down dealers and taking their ****. He took pills and coke from two of my guys last night and he is becoming a righteous pain in my ass. His name is Bullock."

Shakedown Harv. Who the **** else? He saw Bullock earlier at the latest Snapshot Killer snuff scene. He thought Bullock looked ****ed up. Now he knew whose supply he was getting high on.

Skeevers blew snot from his nose and said, "I call you up because I know you will take care of the matter without getting out of hand. Your boy, Two-Gun Jack, the same can't be said about him. ****er is playing fast and loose lately. I asked him to just scare a crew of independents operating out of Bennett Beach and he killed half of them! The word is he owes Falcone a lot of ****ing money. I think that redneck ****er is chafing under the pressure."

"I'm on it. Is that all?"

"Yeah, amscray."

The goons tittered. Skeevers grinned. Flass took it and walked out. He hit the elevator and back down to his car. He blew through O'Neil Heights and beelined towards Gotham Central.

Skeevers' reading hit true. Flass noticed something off about Grogan the last few times they talked. He talked too much about philosophical ********. The nature of man, the nature of murder, greed, darkness. Way out there. he talked up Jim Gordon just as much. He hated Whiskey Jim. He wanted him crushed post ****ing haste. It unnerved Flass. Killing a fellow cop could not be rushed. Two-Gun Jack's impatience rankled. It made him worry he was getting sloppy.

There was no room for sloppiness in what they did. These ****ing animals they dealt with could smell weakness. One misstep destroyed perceptions of strength. One mistake would create challenges. Flass needed time to think and confirm what Skeevers said for sure. But right now it appeared Grogan's blood was in the water, and the sharks were restless.

*****​

Gotham Central
9:15 AM


Jim sipped coffee laced with booze. Too much profile on him to outright chug from the bottle so he opted for the subtle route. In his cubicle, the particulars of the Snapshot Killer case strung around the partition walls. Eight young women all murdered on the city's west side. They all had the basic appearance. White, dark-haired and thin. All of them were late night habituates of the west side club/drug scene. Hookers, cocktail waitresses, and bartenders all. Outside of the looks and jobs, no common links. The killer patroled until he found a potential victim that fit the description. Pre-meditated, the victims chosen by chance. Jim looked at the polaroid photos of the eight girls. The killer took pix of them in their last moments. Some of them cried, some of them fought, some of them accepted it. He zeroed in on victim number eight. She did a bit of all three.

Shakedown Harv found her. No ID found on her body to identify her with. A Jane Doe for now. Slam and a bunch of uniforms were on the streets canvassing in the area around where the body was found. All the previous canvasses turned up jack and ****. Nobody wanted to talk to cops about the dead girls. Jim polished the rest of the Irish coffee and stood. He walked and worked out leg cramps. His phone beeped. Text from Slam. They hadn't turned up anything in the immediate area around the crime scene so they expanded the search. A text from last night. His lawyer. The custody fight over Barbara stalled. He paid the lawyer to stall it out until after the first of the year so he could have a chance to solve this case. Daddy Jim, the serial killer catching LT Gordon, would look golden compared to abandoning Barbara Kean.

The Homicide conference room packed. All of Homicide, save Slam, crowded in the room and mingled. Twenty detectives along with GCPD high brass and other detectives Jim recognized. There's Bullock, there's Flass looking at Bullock. There's Two-Gun Jack Grogan and his goon squad near the corner. Grogan talked with Deputy Commissioner Parker. Lieutenant Eckhart pulled drags off a cigar. He looked like he was circling the drain. Super-thin and sunken eyes. Yellowed skin. Less cop and more holocaust victim. Commissioner Loeb polished off a paper cup of coffee and walked to the head of the conference table.

Loeb said, "Settle down now. For the eighth time in the last few months, some sick **** killed a woman on the west side. The same **** taunts our police department with pictures of his victims. These jerk-offs in the press are calling him the Snapshot Killer. I don't care what the **** they call him, I want him caught. I've let you run the thread out on this one, but now the heat is on. The FBI has informed me that they're bootjacking the case after new year's. I am here to tell you it won't come to that. It won't come to that because we are solving this goddamn case before the first of the year."

Deputy Parker stepped up and said, "Homicide will continue to investigate the case normally. To help supplement their investigation, Captain Grogan's squad will comb through sex offender roles and interview any potential sex offenders who could be culpable for the crime. Those that do not have alibis for the dates of the murders will be brought in for interrogation."

Jim felt his stomach go cold. Couched in bureaucratic speak was the truth. FRAME JOB. GCPD's specialty. Grogan and his thugs would find a pervert or depraved mind that would fit the bill. They would then beat a confession out the man and pin the murders on him. They would have him declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. The case would be solved, but the killer would not be caught.

His phone beeped. Another text from Slam.

CALL ME ASAP. CANVASS TURNED UP POTENTIAL LEAD.

 

[Eddie Brock]

​

We all step out onto the production floor, and the monster carrying me puts me on my feet. I look out over the floor, which takes my breath away. Huge vats and chemical mixers work like clockwork making more and more of the substance. There's enough of this stuff to destabilize the world, let alone a few cities.

I look over to Barry, who looks just as worried as I am. But we need to get that remote control from the scientist. That's the only way we're getting out of here. I give Barry a look, and hope he understands what I'm about to do. This guy loves to talk almost as much as I do. If I can distract him, maybe Barry can catch him off guard.

Moving up to look over the production floor, pretending to be defeated, I shake my head, "You're not going to get away with this. Someone will stop you."

"Getting away with it is the whole point," he snarls. "Before you all showed up, crime was easy. Escalation made sense. The cops got armor. Criminals got better guns. The cops used computers. Criminals got hackers. But now? Now we live in a world of gods and monsters, and the lowly criminal doesn't stand a chance. We have that chance now. And Doctor Mark Desmond is the one who created it. A perfect steroid that grants the user vast amounts of strength and agility. Finally leveling the playing field."

He waves his arms as if presenting his work to God, and I yell, "Flash now!"

I throw myself into the scientist, throwing him off balance. The remote is tossed into the air as the two of us fall to the ground.

Without the use of my speed, I feel positively sluggish as I break for the discarded remote. Did I always used to be this slow? It's a wonder I ever got anywhere! But no time to reflect on that now; as dull as these... Blockbuster... creatures seem to be, they still have keen awareness and quick instincts. One of them gives a roar and lumbers forward -- setting the ground to quake -- in pursuit of the remote. Luckily, it seems so fixated on the remote that I don't even think it sees me. That's gotta be my chance! I duck into a slide, hoping I can slip beneath the creature's legs before it can grab the remote...

... and I'm promptly batted across the room by a wild swing from a second Blockbuster. I hang through the air long enough to wonder if I'll ever touch ground when a steel mixing tank rises up to meet me. My back slams against it so hard that I feel the metal caving in around me. I feel the wind get knocked out of my chest, and I barely have the wherewithal to brace myself for a second impact with the ground. As soon as I've caught my breath, I look up to see that the remote has skittered across the production floor; evidently, the Blockbuster who hit me also kicked it by accident.

Kid Flash is in dire straits as well. He and Dr. Desmond wrestle and grapple for control as they both scramble across the floor. Another behemoth looks on, wanting to help but seemingly afraid of hurting Desmond by accident. I stare at the scene a moment too long, until something flashes in my peripheral vision. I look up to see a blue plastic barrel hurtling at my head. I duck and roll, and the barrel erupts in a spray of liquid as it hits the spot where I once lay. The Blockbuster who threw it locks eyes. He follows my line of sight to the remote and snarls.

"Race ya for it?" I offer cheekily.

This time -- even hamstrung as I am -- there's no doubt. I reach the remote before the behemoth has even cleared half the distance. I bend down to pick it up but don't stop running. The Blockbuster throws a haymaker which I easily duck as I find the power button on the remote. With a soft 'beep,' the collar blinks out. The Speed Force rushes back into my cells, a river with an unstoppable current. I grab the collar with both hands and vibrate them until the metal shatters.

The Blockbuster bull rushes me with outstretched arms, and I launch myself over his misshapen head with one quick jump. As I land, I twist on my toes and spin to face the creature. The expression on its face -- what little it's able to have, anyway -- is a mixture of confusion and anger. I can't help but smirk. "My turn." I burst ahead and throw myself knee-first at the Blockbuster.

The mass of muscle and bone hits the floor with a 'thud.' He's not getting up anytime soon. I look around to see that six or seven other Blockbusters have circled around, each uglier and nastier-looking than the last. There's a rush of air, and suddenly Wally is standing at my side. I look at him and say, "Together?"
​

 

[Keyser Soze]

​

[BLACKOUT]"BABIES! OOOHHHH, I LOVE BABIES!"[/BLACKOUT]

Harley squealed with joy, jumping up and down and rapidly clapping her hands, letting the sheet slip from around her ample curves.
[BLACKOUT]
"We can take them to the zoo, and go get ice cream together. We can play catch in the park and braid their hair."[/BLACKOUT]

She bounced backwards onto the bed, seductively rubbing her chest, and naughty school girl grin framing her face.

[BLACKOUT]"Let's do it, Puddin'. Let's go get some babies."[/BLACKOUT]

"Darling, honey-pie, this one you'll have to do on your own. We can't just go in all guns blazing here. Arkham is a big complex. You need to go in undercover, let the buffoons who work there think you're still one of the sheeple like them. And once you're in, you can let our babies free."

The Joker picked up a duffel bag, and opened it up to reveal several plastic, remote-detonated explosives inside.

"Of course, once you're out, you can go from being quiet to being very, very loud. Leave something to remember you by! HAHAHA!"

 

[SuperFerret]

​

[BLACKOUT]"This is crazy."[/BLACKOUT]

The White Ranger looked around at the chaos on the street. The riot was escalating quickly, and people who weren't under the possession on the malevolent martian were starting to be pulled into the fray.

He couldn't deal with that mass of humanity at once, and he couldn't risk hurting civilians either.

Finally feeling his second wind, the Ranger gripped the handle of his sword and charged again. A swift roundhouse kick met the attacking alien in the temple. Tommy let his momentum carry him through and came back around, this time a sweeping kick taking the martians legs out.

Malefic falls to the ground, still laughing weakly. "You'll never win now..." he groaned. "Never!"

"Ranger," J'onn says, "if you would like to shut my lunatic of brother up further, his telepathy makes him vulnerable to fire again."

"I will disrupt his hold on these people in the meantime."

Once again flexing his tired, but prodigious psionic might, J'onn reaches out across the rioting crowd telepathically, sending a calming feeling to placate them.

 

[SuperFerret]

April, 2006. Somewhere else.

...And then I begin to fall. All four miles to the pavement, I'm trying to get the armor's auxilliary power supply online...

...I hit the ground with the sound of a car accident, leaving a man-shaped crater in the asphalt...

..."We've got to get that helmet off him." It's not like I wasn't planning on revealing my identity, but I hoped to do it on Letterman or something, not lying in a street bleeding...

...I begin to black out...

...Of course, I didn't know this at the time, so I went down to the flower shop to apologize for what happened. And that's when I first laid eyes on her...

...With that, I knew I was in love, and as they say, the rest was history...

..."Holy crap! Tony Stark's Iron Man!?"...

..."Hey there sleepy-head, get up, it's time for your suppository."...

Now. The Watchtower.

"Tina, it's time. Call them."

"Okay... boss."

"Attention Justice League, this is Platinum on the Watchtower. I regret to inform you that Iron Man has abandoned his Monitor Duty post for some unknown reason. He is currently in London and is not responding to his comms."

 

[Andy C.]

​

"So then Superman just walks right through the Final Form Kamehameha, like it's nothing, and he grabs him and gives him a Heat Vision lobotomy! It was epic, Clark, I gotta send you the link!"

"Sounds, um, really interesting, Jimmy," I say, clicking through browser tabs while Jimmy leans in over the wall to my cubicle. I don't mean to sound like I'm ignoring him, but jeez....some people put way too much time into those "who would win in a fight between these two guys" videos on Youtube.

"Anyway," he changes the subject, "Got any leads on that kaiju outbreak story?"

"Well, that's what I'm working on," I say. "Kumonga's outbreak on Madripoor coincided with a brief power failure on Lagos Island, and while G-Force is still denying potential foul play, it has all the markings of a cyber-attack."

"So somebody let a monster off of Monster Island on purpose? Who'd want to do that?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," I say. "There are a lot of organizations that could benefit from a massive destabilizing event like a kaiju outbreak-- Cobra, maybe, or HYDRA-- but cyber-terrorism really isn't their M.O. And there's really no precedent for someone willingly causing a catastrophe like this....."

"That's where you're wrong, Smallville," Lois says, striding proudly towards the cubicle, a tablet in one hand and a latté in the other. "Just have to do a little more digging. All the way back to 1993."

She places the tablet on my desk, pulling up a picture of a lush tropical jungle. In the center is an overturned jeep, painted in bright greens and yellows, crushed and torn to pieces. The steel is riddled with punctures from immensely powerful teeth.

"The Isla Nublar incident...."

"That's the one," she says. "The now-defunct InGen corporation attempted to create a tourist attraction using cloned dinosaurs, but thanks to a cyber-attack from a corporate spy, the power grids went down all across the island and all the animals broke loose. Dozens were killed by the time they evacuated the place, and InGen's reputation was ruined forever. And wouldn't you know it, G-Force uses a lot of the same paddock designs on Monster Island as they did back in Isla Nublar. Bigger and stronger, sure, with newer technology, but it's essentially the same scenario."

"Only this time with creatures powerful enough to consider walking natural disasters," I say. "The hacker who brought it down in the 90s, whatever happened to him?"

"Never made it off the island," she says sadly, "But I've been doing my homework on who he was working for."

"And?"

"And you'll get to read about it like everyone else," she says with a self-satisfied smile.

I can bench-press planets, shrug off weapons that could annihilate worlds, see into the micro-infinite and out into the far reaches of reality....

....but for the life of me, I can't beat Lois to a headline.

I'm about to answer, when I receive a message on my comm.

"Attention Justice League, this is Platinum on the Watchtower. I regret to inform you that Iron Man has abandoned his Monitor Duty post for some unknown reason. He is currently in London and is not responding to his comms."

My eyes widen, and I put a hand on my stomach, lurching forward a bit.

"Ooof, if you'll, um, excuse me, guys," I say with embarrassment, "I think my breakfast burrito had some gluten in it. I, erm, I'll be right back."

Getting up from my desk, I stumble from the cubicle towards the bathroom. Jimmy glances at Lois, who rolls her eyes.

Even if I hadn't told Lois everything before we started dating, she would have figured it out soon enough anyway. Honestly, she'd come close to putting two and two together several times, but could never convince herself that the man who once fought a sentient star across seven millennia was the same guy who couldn't get the coffee stain out of his tie.

Jimmy.....well, I'm sure he'll put it together sooner or later.

Making sure the coast is clear, I turn from the bathroom to the window at the end of the hall, and get changed in mid-flight.

Unless it's an immediate emergency, I try not to go too far into ultrasonic speeds--traveling at transluminal velocities drains my energy stores quickly, and the whole business of time dilation can be tricky, potentially adding seconds onto my flight rather than subtracting them if I'm not careful. Generally speaking, I keep it somewhere in the range of Mach 50 when I'm over the open ocean.

The flight across the Atlantic takes just under eight minutes, and I see the blaze that the Watchtower caught on its monitors. Finding Tony once I reach London, though, barely takes a second-- it's not as if his Iron Man suits are known for being subtle or stealthy, even the ones that are made for it.

"You know, if you wanted to take a holiday, you could have just asked," I say, annoyed that Tony appears to be slacking off on the job. "Something up?"