DC: Year One-- IC Thread.

[Andy C.]

DC: YEAR ONE​

How to Play:

This game is based off of a player-created continuity, playing off the first days of the heroes and villains of the DC Universe. Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, and all of the rest have just begun their careers as costumed vigilantes, and are only beginning to discover the incredible wonders and world-threatening dangers that await them. As such, there is no pre-established continuity; players are free to take characters and customize them in more or less whatever way they want.

To apply for a character, fill out the application in the OOC/Sign-Up Thread. Applications will be reviewed by the GM and either Approved or Denied after 24 hours, to allow for competing Apps. If your application is Denied, fear not! You can re-write and revise your application based on the GM's and other players' feedback; however, if multiple people are vying for the same character and someone else gets it, you'll have to apply for a different character. All players are welcome, regardless of membership status or post-count.


Rules:

ROSTER:


HEROES

The Atom
MST3K4Ever

Batgirl
Supergirl

Batman
Batman

Diana of Themyscira
Andy C.

The Flash
Carnage27


Green Lantern (Kai-Ro)
Bounce

The Sandman
GreyGhost

Superman
Andy C.

VILLAINS


The Penguin
MST3K4Ever

Scarecrow
Carnage27

WALKING THE LINE

The Question
Hound55

Slam Bradley
Byrd Man​

 

[Andy C.]

Story of the Century
Part I​

Like any good story, it begins on a dark and stormy night.

This, however, is no ordinary storm. It's a hurricane-- a Category 3, to be specific, and the first one of its kind to make landfall on the Eastern Seaboard in over seventy-five years. The great New England Hurricane of 1938 destroyed thousands of homes, and killed hundreds of people. Tonight's storm looks like it may be even bigger.

Evacuations haven't been going well. Traffic along the freeways is practically at a standstill, not helped by the soaking wet roads and almost zero visibility from the sheets of rain that hammer down from the blackened skies. The bridges and tunnels that connect the island of New Troy to the mainland are clogged to capacity, either with hundreds of thousands trying to get out of the city, or National Guard members trying to get in to help with damage control and disaster relief.

Millions more are simply battoning down the hatches, hoping that the sea-wall will hold the storm back. But the sea-wall's integrity hasn't been up to standard in years. The rivers on either side of the islands are swelling, and already looking to spill over into the city.

Metropolis simply wasn't built to handle a storm of this magnitude.

Blue-white lightning splits the darkness above, the booming thunder barely audible over the roaring wind. Anything that isn't nailed down, and several things that are, are being pulled up and thrown about by the fury of nature.

Even so, I stand unmoved. I look out on a city on the verge of iminent crisis...



.....and I get ready for a long night's work.

"It's just terrible, isn't it?"

I'm ten years old, and the family has settled in to watch the evening news in the living room. Most kids my age hate watching the news, because it's all dry and boring and doesn't contain enough explosions. I like it, though-- it makes me feel, I don't know........connected, to the world outside of Smallville.

Tonight, though, the news isn't good. They had been talking about it all day on the radio, on the internet, interrupting shows with updates and bulletins. Now they're talking about 'what this means for Corporate America,' or how it's a 'sign of the decay of our society.' Most of it's a little over my head, but they repeatedly show two images that break my heart when I see them:

A boy about my age, with his mother and father, happy as they could be.......and then the same boy, alone, his eyes red from tears.

"It's hard to believe," Pa says. "Reminds me of second grade. They pulled us out of class and had everyone sit in the gym to watch the news about the President being shot."

"Jonathan," Ma chides him. "Clark doesn't need to hear about that."

"Sorry," he apologizes.

"Still, I can see what you mean," my mother admits. "It makes you think. You take things for granted, and suddenly they're gone. God, that poor boy....."

Reporters are interviewing a police officer with a red moustache, and I close my eyes. My hands ball up into fists, and I feel the heat building up inside me. It's not anger, at least not at anyone in particular.

It's one of those feelings I can't put a word to. Frustration, maybe, or guilt, or somewhere in between.

"Clark? Are you all right, honey?"

I'd been feeling little pangs of it all day, ever since the news broke out last night. Now, I'm just bursting with it. A thought, over and over, five words that are burning me up.

".....I could have saved them....."

A million voices are buzzing around me, all at once. It can be difficult to sort through them all.

A family of four is trapped inside their car, pinned underneath a fallen tree, as a wall of water surges towards them.

A few dozen homeless people are cramped in the basement of a condemned tenament house, unaware that the structure is already beginning to buckle.

A little boy is reaching out towards his puppy, the little dog paddling furiously to keep his head above water as the flooding swells.

High above, a cargo plane from the National Guard has been caught up in the winds, its engines flaming out as the plane goes into a spin.

The news would call each of these a tragedy, small or large. Each one ends in lives being ruined, or ended altogether.



Not tonight. Not while I'm around.

"That's six this month, Clark," Pa says, dropping a newspaper on the kitchen table as I eat my breakfast.

"GUARDIAN ANGEL" SIGHTED AGAIN
Eyewitnesses Claim Mystery Man Holds Up Collapsing Roof, Saves Dozens

"We've talked about this, son," he says, frustrated. "You have to be careful about doing this sort of thing. If someone gets a picture, or recognizes your face, if they traced you back here...."

"Well, what was I supposed to do, Dad? Just let those people die?"

Pa turns his head away.

"I didn't say that," he answers. "I'm just saying that if you keep going on like this, people will find out. And then there's a panic on our hands. The police, hell, the military, might come and take you away."

"They could try," I say with a grin.

"Clark, I'm serious," Pa says. "I want you to be able to help people, I do. But the more you go out there, the more you put yourself at risk. And not just yourself, but your mother and me. Pete and Lana. All of Smallville, potentially. You don't remember the night that.....that we found you, or the days after it. But I do. Black helicopters, men in suits pulling people away from their homes and asking questions...."

"Then what do you want me to do, Pa?" I say, throwing up my hands. "I can do all of these amazing things, impossible things....but if I do them, I put my family and friends in danger. If I can't help people, then what's the point?"

There's a long silence before I speak again. This time, it's something I've been thinking about ever since I was old enough to realize I wasn't like other kids. It's something that I've been afraid to say out loud....five words that have been turning over and over and over....

"Dad......why am I here?"

A blur of blue and red streaks across the city of Metropolis, weaving in and out of the labyrinth of steel and concrete faster than the eye can see.

A family of four, trapped inside their car, suddenly find themselves lifted into the air before a massive wave would have drowned them. Gently set down on higher ground, they only see their rescuer in the form of a brightly-colored flash.

A group of homeless people cramped in the basement of an abandoned tenament building scream in terror as the building begins to crumble......only to be awestruck by the sight of what appeared to be a young man in a T-shirt holding up several tons of concrete, just long enough for them to escape the falling wreckage before speeding away into the dark.

A little boy cries out for his puppy, watching the little dog disappear under the water.....only to suddenly find the dog in his arms, shivering and licking his face.

"So far, so good, Clark," I mutter to myself as I catch my breath for a moment.

Usually I can only keep this sort of thing up for a few minutes, at least if I'm going at it full throttle. At this rate, I'm going to be fighting this storm for hours. Need to pace myself if I'm going to make it through the night....

"Holy God, that plane's coming down!"

.....then again, if I don't give it everything, a lot of other folks aren't going to make it through the night.

I take a few breaths, stretch my legs.....



.....then I go to see what I can do about that airplane.

"'Why do you do this?' That is what you came to ask, isn't it?"

I'm twenty-four, and I'm covering a potentially volatile situation in Zimbabwe. The man I'm interviewing is Kobe Asuru, a local political leader who has been leading vocal opposition to the government in response to several years of abuses against the people. Despite there being no outbreaks of violence from Asuru's protests, arrests have been made, local journalists have been silenced, and Kobe's faction have been branded as 'terrorists' by the authorities.

"Well, it's hard not to wonder, when you consider the recent crackdowns. Aren't you concerned for your safety?"

Kobe chuckles.

"Of course I am," he says. "Believe me, I would much rather not die or be imprisoned, if I can avoid it. But people are suffering needlessly, under an authority that is uncaring, if not openly cruel. Their voices must be heard-- I'm sure that you, as a reporter, can sympathize with that."

He gives a sly grin, one that is glad to be talking to a kindred spirit.

"Things cannot continue the way they are going," Kobe continues. "If one person stands and says 'no,' then perhaps others will stand with him. If enough people make themselves heard, then change will have to occur. If it should come to me dying or being taken away, then others will be outraged enough to stand and speak as well. I hope that never has to happen, but if it does, then I am not afraid of it. Sadly, that seems to be where we differ."

"Excuse me?"

"I like you, Mister Kent," Asuru says, patting me on the shoulder. "I can see you are a good man, and you wish to do good things. But you are afraid. You hold yourself back. You are afraid of accepting yourself, of finding your role and playing it to its fullest. The world has too many men who are hesitant to be as good as they can be, for fear of not fitting in. But if you want to see the kind of change we need, you cannot afford to fit in. I stand in the face of people who want me dead, and I don't regret it for a second, because I know in my heart that it is my best possible self who does it."

The hot African sun looms high over the horizon as he chuckles again.

"So why do I do this? Because it is who I am."

A month later, Kobe Asuru would be killed by the government's military police. However, the outrage sparked by his assassination would cause a massive outbreak of political upheaval, resulting in the ruling party's complete ousting from office, and the holding of new elections.

I would never forget Kobe's parting words that day as we concluded the interview.

"Be yourself, and everything changes."

"Really hope you're getting this, Jimmy," she says, one hand cupped over her eyes in a failed attempt to keep the rain out of her face.

While millions of people seek shelter, she is out in the heart of the storm, capturing moments. She's seen acts of incredible bravery, and heartbreaking loss. She has seen the best and worst of her fellow man, and has made it her life's work to show the truth of the world around her, even when it all comes crashing down.

Her name is Lois Lane.

"It's hard to focus," Jimmy says, snapping shot after shot of the crashing airplane. "I don't think they're gonna make it!"

"They'd better," Lois says, crossing her fingers. "I'm tired of writing tragedy pieces."

"Hang on, it looks like....." Jimmy blinks, trying to make sense of what he's seeing in the camera. "Lois, take a look at this."

Looking at the camera's display, what they see is something unreal. It has to be a trick of the mind, an optical illusion. Maybe something's just wrong with that damn camera.

As they squint and frown at the image in the display, they hear five words from a passerby. Five words that confirm what their eyes are telling them, and shake their world to the core.

"LOOK! UP IN THE SKY!"




"Jimmy," says Lois, "tell me you can upload that to the Planet from here. Because I think we're about to turn the world upside-down."

 

[Byrd Man]

PROLOGUE​

Dothan, AL


"Do you believe?"

"YES!"

The sweaty, overweight man in the white linen suit stomped across the stage with a chubby hand covered in golden rings raised to the sky. The tent revival crowd looked on in awe as the red faced preacher let out a howl.

"I believe my Lord has a place for me saved in Heaven, and I believe that those who do not accept His gospel are bound for the fires of Hell! Can I get an amen?!"

"AMEN!"

"The way to Heaven does not rest in the trappings of the desire. You will not find salvation in coin, you will not find victory in the flesh, and you will not find it in the false idols that plague this world. The only way to true victory is through His only begotton son Jesus Christ, amen?!"

"AMEN!"

The preacher shook a fat fist at the crowd, now whipped up into frenzy by his words.

"I know that the fires of Hell are real friends, I can feel them even now here in this place. Satan is watching you, he is testing you, he wants your soul. The fires of Hell... The heat... the heat... so..."

Sweat poured off the preacher's face as he clutched his scarlet red face and fell backwards. His eyes rolled into the back of his head when his head slammed against the stage. His body rocked with spasms and steam poured from his face while the crowd watched on in horror. A few moments later the reverend's entire body burst into flames, his body crumbling into soot before the panicked congregation's very eyes.



Albany, GA


"Let's stop and pick up that fella."

"No. Hell no, I ain't giving nobody a goddamn lift this time a night."

"Look at him... there's something about him. Just stop."

"If it'll stop yer *****in', I'll do it."

The pickup truck pulled off the highway, the bright headlights illuminating the hitchhiker. He wore a trenchcoat which stood out as odd in the thick southern summer. He had a duffle bag slung around his back and he smiled wide when he saw the pickup.

"Good evening," John Constantine said as he leaned into the truck window. "You blokes headed to Dothan?"

John Constantine

in

Old Tyme Religion​

 

[GreyGhost]

Sandman: The Dreamer Revealed
Part 1​

The window slid open without a sound. Not a single slippery squeak or whimpering whine was heard as the window fully opened, with smooth motion the safety of a home was exposed to the ills of the world. Thick soled boots were whispers of decay upon the once happy hardwood. The man moved with the easy—casual--grace of a hunting animal, his gloved hand reached to his belt and withdrew a shimmering blade. The knife would have belonged to only the greatest of chefs and butchers, the edge was a razor rippling in the midnight light. A knob turned, a door swung, and he watched as she laid in her bed. Her chest heaved with each breath, slowly she rolled to her side, and he neck stretched out. His steps were swift, and his grasp was iron around her throat. She didn't even have a chance to scream. Under his thumb her heart pounded with an increasing fast—musical—beat. Her jugular expanded and grew taught as her eyes fluttered and slid backwards. The knife drove easily, steady, sure-fire, and quick as he severed the artery, and drained her as a pig to slaughter would be drained. Then his most gruesome work would begin, with experienced hands he took the best cuts for himself.

Wesley Dodds' eyes flew open, as a trickle of sweat ran along his eyelid before it ran down his cheek. He was reclined in the large chair as it slowly folded in, and allowed him to stand. His pulled the sleep from his muscles and and rolled his neck as the dream repeated in his mind. He watched over the dream, slowed it, turned it, moved it, and explored it. Finally a clock and a calendar.

“Only five hours to find her, and stop him.”

He moved through the open room to a massive desk that took up the corner of the loft. His fingers tapped along the keyboard as screens started to flicker to life. The screens shown with the stories of various newspaper from the city: Sandman Vigilante or Mythology?, Witnesses Come Forward: Sandman is REAL!, Ghosts of the City: The Sandman Poltergeist... The stories were about him, the media had named him (after a little girl had called him the Sandman during a police interview.) The stories were from all types of press, and even the respected journalists were grasping at straws. He meant to see that they would stay that way, the less interest in him the better.

He changed the screens to a personal search program. He started with lands marks, placement of the moon, floor style, apartment style, and everything that he had scene to find out where the woman was going to be the next victim of the cities most recent serial killer—The Butcher. He was slaughtering a different woman each week, and the police couldn't figure out the pattern. But, Wesley Dodds had information they didn't have and he was closing in. He was getting close to finding him, tonight he would find them, and stop him. Wesley crossed to a large metal cabinet and gripped the handles, first he needed to prepare.

 

[Bounce]

| TIBET
| Gongkar Choide Monastery

The Himalayan mountains visible through the large, open windows of the Fifteenth Century monastic temple were evidence of just how cold, and yet still beautiful, that life could be.

The child woke to the sound of a gong. The sun had not yet risen, so he could not the snow-capped horizon beyond the gates, but he could feel the chill seeping into his bones. Around him, dozens of other children – each of them either orphans or simply abandoned – stirred and began moving around the temple to prepare for the morning rituals. Picking up the coarse, red-dyed wool blanket, the boy wrapped it as a shawl around his small form to protect against the cold.

Nothing here was taken for granted. Their clothes doubled as bedding, and each had only what he needed to survive. Nothing more.

The boys, novices taken into the care of the temple, joined the monks in the halls of the temple proper for the first prayers and meditations of the day. His body cold, his stomach yearning for want to eat, each providing a lesson to the young Buddhist as he pushed aside the desire for comfort and tempered his craving with patience.

He wasn’t an angel, and he certainly wasn’t a saint, but he was the master of his own being. Not at first, and not without struggle – overcoming doubts, anxieties, and fears that had only been exacerbated by the fact that, when he had come to be in the care of the monastery, the boy had not wanted to be there.

He wanted his family. He wanted his mother. He wanted his father. But, life was a series of lessons and the first universal truth that the boy had come to understand was this: Suffering exists.

His family had suffered, at times because of their labors to ease his suffering and other times because of him. He had never met his mother. He was told that she died from infection shortly after giving birth to him. Tears and injuries during childbirth were common, most of which healed in days. But nothing was ever certain, beyond the reality that she was gone from the very world that she had born him into.

He’d been six years old when his father had taken to bed with illness, old enough to remember well his face, and young enough as to be unable to recall clearly details of their time together. Just brief glimpses in dreams of a man he loved, who seemed happy and lonely at the same time.

The boy felt now as though he understood how his father must have felt, living with the company of others... and yet, without the company of the ones you wanted.

When the gong sounded again, the boy got up from his meditations and picked up one of the alms bowls, proceeding outside with several other boys who had done the same. Beyond the doors of the temple, people had begun to visit, bringing with them gifts – donations of food which would become part of the monk’s breakfast. The monastery did not survive on its own. Rather, it relied on the community to help sustain it. In return, the monastery housed a school. Colleges. Places for people to learn and to experience their religion. It was a symbiotic circle, in which everything and everyone played a part.

Such was the nature of karma.

Fate, however, was a different concept entirely.

As the boy exited the temple, he had only a fleeting glimpse of something flashing green before he felt the wind knocked out of him. The alms bowl shattered as it hit the frozen earth beneath his feet, the snow seeping through the woolen robes as it melted under the warmth of his body as the boy was laid out on the ground.

“Go se,” the child swore under his breath, feeling a soreness from where it seemed he had been tackled to the ground, and still having sense enough to keep his voice down so that the monks would not hear him repeating such words in Chinese. As he opened his brown eyes, the boy reached a hand up to rub at the back of his head where he’d impacted against the ground. It was then that he realized...

...there was something on his hand.

Pulling the arm away, the boy’s brown eyes stared in awe and wonder at the sight of a ring on the second finger of his right hand. It looked as though it were made of jade, but it had a kind of glimmer to it – an emerald shimmer that almost seemed... out of this world.

Kai-ro of Earth, you have the ability to overcome great fear.

The boy winced as the words echoed in his head, louder than anything he ever heard before, and yet he knew that he hadn’t heard them at all. They had been spoken in silence, and still he heard them more clearly than anything uttered aloud.

The child gave a cry in surprise as he suddenly felt as though he were falling, but not down – instead he was going up. Rising off the ground in a sphere of green energy.

Energy radiating from the ring on his hand.

Tugging and pulling at the ring, the boy struggled with the realization that it seemed to have affixed itself to him. <“Uh, Mister Ring?”> the boy exclaimed in Tibetan, feeling vertigo wash over him as the temple grounds fell away, giving him a bird’s eye view of the surrounding provence. <“About that whole fear thing. I’m kinda feeling... Ring, wait!”>

Feeling a sudden weight on his chest, the boy winced at the acceleration in gravity, as the green energy shot upward until the world itself began to fade from view. The sky thinned until an explosion of stars filled the boy’d vision, as he broke through the clouds and found himself adrift between worlds.

“Wo... cao...” the boy swore, as he found himself floating out of the moon’s shadow to see the very sun itself burning within a sea of space. The rings of Saturn were only made more impressive by the realization of the size of the planet, with Jupiter being nearly beyond comprehension. As though one could comprehend such a thing as the size of a planet until they found themselves in it’s shadow.

And, one by one, the worlds and their satellites fell away, as the boy found himself pulled deeper and deeper among the stars. The awe overwhelmed him, his mind screaming at him that this must be madness, while he was perched on the edge of consciousness as vertigo seized hold of a rational mind trying to cope with no horizons, no skies, no ground.

A pulse from the ring sent a flash out from the energy around his body, something like heat searing against the back of his hand. Looking down at the ring for a moment, a sudden feeling of intense dread overwhelmed him as he turned back to look ahead.

A hole in space was opening.

He opened his mouth to scream, but even the sound was sucked in to the vortex.

 

[Carnage27]

Central City, MS​

Barry Allen paced back and forth in the alley next to his apartment building talkiing to himself, "Am I really going to do this? Yea, I'm really going to do this. Of course, I'm not trained at all. I could be seen or recognized. They'd lock me up and probably dissect me or something. Hell, I could kill someone. But the dissection, that'd really suck. No. No, they can't catch me. I'm too fast. Yea...I'm doing this."​

Ever since Barry had been granted the gift of superspeed thanks to a freak lab accident, he had struggled with what to do with it. All the childish and immature thoughts flooded in first of course. He had friends he'd like to prank. But none of them felt worthy of the powers. None of them were worthy of the gift.​

Allen was a scientist, but wasn't adept at physics like he was in chemistry. Still, he was pretty sure a human being running over the speed of sound shouldn't be alive afterwards, nevermind the impossibility of it all. Jet pilots and astronauts need years of specialized training and equipment just to travel at that speed, let alone run at it. But Barry was able to do it with ease. His shoes weren't even worn down afterwards. He didn't understand it, but he certainly liked it. He was finally on time.​

Mostly, at least.​

What brought him to the alley today, though, was the man and the plane. He had seen the images from a hurricane-bombarded Metropolis of the mystery man catching a plane from the sky and carrying it to safety. The whispers from the great city also said the mysterious man had saved dozens of others with his fantastic abilities. If he did all that, how could Barry do any less? He was already helping to catch bad guys during his day job, why not during his time off, too?​

He could just hear what Jay Garrick, his adoptive father, would say if he was here, "You're a damn fool, Barry. But I'm proud of you."​

At least, that's what Barry hoped he would say.​

Pulling the hood of the red hoodie over his head, and pulling a pair of goggles over it to ensure it stayed put, not to mention keep bugs out of his eyes, Barry crouched down into a runner's starting position. He took a glance at his shoes, ensuring they were tied tight. The first time he tried out his powers, his shows shot off his feet and put a hole in the wall. Well, they put a hole in several walls.​

As he prepared to take off, Barry felt a slight charge run through his muscles, almost as if he had electricity running through his veins. It made him think of the dreams he had after the accident. In them a giant bird of lightning ran next to him, almost showing him the way. He had no idea if it meant something more, or was just a creation of his subconcious. It was inspiring none the less.​

Then, in flash, he was off. In him, it happened as it was normal. He could see everything as if he was taking a leisurely stroll through the city, but everyone else could barely register him at the speed he was going. Newspapers and magazines fluttered off the news stand as he went by. People's hair was blown up, and he had to make sure he didn't knock anyone over with the force of his wake.​

It didn't take long for him to spot his first target. A mugger had snatched a lady's purse, and she was calling for help. Barry ran up beside the theif, easily snatching the stolen goods, and tripping the man in the process. Barry quickly tied the bad guy's shoes together, ensuring the cops would get him before he managed to escape.​

With ease, he tossed the purse back to the woman, but instantly remembered he had forgotten to do it at normal speed. The impact sent the lady falling down to the pavement on her behind. Allen winced and ran to her, explaining, "I'mSoSorry.TotallyDidn'tMeanToDoThat.HaveANiceDay!"​

As he raced off, Barry thought about what had become of the Twin Cities of Central and Keystone. Ever since the mysterious gang leader known only as Grodd showed up, crime had been on the rise. Barry and Jay's police precinct had been overwhelmed by the rise in crime. They were losing this fight badly.

Maybe now, with his powers, Barry would finally be able to change all that.

In the next hour, Barry stopped four muggings, apprehended three drug dealers, and even managed to save a cat from a tree. Sure it was cliched, but it was what heroes did. He was supremely pleased with himself, and was planning on calling it quits for the day, before the sound of sirens drew his attention. Following them to the source, he found the cops in a chase with an armored car that had clearly been stollen. As it passed by him, he saw the mask the driver was wearing was branded with a spade.

"The Royal Flush gang," Barry muttered to himself before taking off towards the robbers. The Royal Flush were a group of highly skilled bank robbers that had set up shop in the city not long after Grodd. Barry was sure the two events were connected, as was nearly everyone else. Taking them down today would be icing on the cake.

He sped up alongside the truck and knocked on the window. As it slid down, he called up, "Hey! PullOverOrI'llMakeYouPullOver!"

The response was a hail of buckshot from the criminal's shotgun. Barry easily dodged the incoming fire, snagging some of the pellets out of the air.

"IWarnedYou!"

He circled around the truck, throwing the catpured projectiles at the wheels, blowing them out instantly. Barry flung open the doors, disarming all the gang members inside before speeding off. He looked over his shoulder and saw the police cruisers now surrounding the helpless criminals.

"Good job, Barry," he thought to himself before looking down at his watch. "Oh crap. I'm late for work."

 

[MST3K 4ever]

Meet Rhiannon Palmer​

Dr. Rhiannon Palmer had been enjoying a quiet night at home talking to her mom Alice on the phone while watching the Central City Spirit take on the Yankees. Rhiannon was passionate about two things her work and sports. When you're the daughter of Edward Palmer, Hall of Fame QB and four time Super Bowl Champion of the Metropolis Stallions, sports is something you get into at a young age. As a general rule the conversations with her mom were usually pleasant and not too long. This one though was pretty painful Alice told Rhiannon that Edward's cancer was back and this time it was there wasn't going to be a miracle recover like Edward had over the last 15 years. This time the cancer was in his pancreas and traces of it were in his spine as well. Rhiannon thought it was painfully ironic that Edward was being betrayed by the very body he worked so hard to perform at such a high level for so many years. Rhiannon listened as Alice told her that Edward had already planned out the liturgy of his service. Ray Harrison his greatest rival from the Gotham Knights and a man who later became like a brother to Edward, as they got to know one another during a commercial shoot, would do the eulogy, and the Metropolis Stallions organization was already taking of the public aspects of the service. Rhiannon had agreed to go back to Metropolis in late September for the Monday Night game against Star City when the Stallions would retire Edward's number 18 jersey. It would probably be Edward's last public appearance and Rhiannon felt she owed it to her father and to the Stallions for all they meant to her.

The conversation with Alice was interrupted by a phone call from the office. It seemed that there had been a meteorite crashed about four miles outside the city limits. It readings that were off the scale, had actual active Dwarf Star elements attached to it, and the initial analysis revealed that it was still in an active phase. Most nights this would've sent Rhiannon into cartwheels down the hall at work, but after the conversation she had with Alice Rhiannon was understandably subdued as she made her way into the control center.

Rhiannon entered the center where there were five other scientists working. She walked over to the monitors and said, "Status."

Dr. Helms replied, "No status change as of yet Dr. Palmer. We are waiting for word to enter the holding chamber from Dr. Williamson."

Rhiannon asked, "How long before he gets here?"

Helms replied, "We're still trying to reach him."

Rhiannon shook her head and said, "A year's pay he's got his phone off, and seeing how many drinks it'll take to get his secretary out of her dress."

Just then an alarm went off and another scientist said, "The fragment is going out of active phase gradually and the Dwarf Star elements are losing integrity. Estimated fifteen minutes before we have a hunk of space rock and that's all."

Rhiannon looked at a monitor and saw a fragment the size of a football. She just stared at it for a moment and Helms said, "Well looks like we get all worked up over nothing. Even if Williamson hauls all the way now it'll still be too late."

Rhiannon shook her head and said, "Like hell." She ran over to an isolation room and began to change into a Haz-Mat suit while grabbing a scanner. Helms asked, "Dr. Palmer what are you doing?"

Rhiannon replied, "My job start monitoring and recording now! That's an order! I'm assuming command of this situation in light of Dr. Williamson being absent and us unable to reach him. Under rule 5 section 20 paragraph C if you want a rule to cite in any reports. "

Helms looked over at the other lab members and said, "You heard her. She's the ranking official. Make it happen."

Within seconds Rhiannon was in her suit and opened the hatch to containment chamber. She approached the meteorite as though she were a nervous child around a dog. Rhiannon said, "This is one for the books guys. Fragment X-K 236 is unlike anything else we've ever known. Kelly get a reading on..."

Just then there were several light flashes and a sound as though a large hunk of metal slammed against the floor.

Rhiannon said, "Talk to me."

Helms replied, "Power surge Dr. Palmer. It's knocked everything offline it's going to take a few moments for everything to get back online. In fact you should get out of there."

Rhiannon walked over to the hatch but it wouldn't open. She tried again and said, "Helms the surge has disabled the door on my side. Try and open it from your side."

She could hear the sound of the latch trying to move, but nothing was happening. Suddenly an alarm began blaring and Rhiannon knew she was in trouble as she said, "Helms! I know that sound! It means the containment field has failed! Get me out of here!"

Helms replied, "We're doing everything we can Dr. Palmer!"

Rhiannon kept trying to open the hatch manually, and entering the access code over and over frantically. Suddenly the room was bathed in a light that alternated between blue and red. Rhiannon tried to stay on her feet but eventually collapsed. The last thing she remembered were a voices saying, "Containment re-established..." "Get in there..." "She's been exposed for over five minutes..." "Get her to the med center...."

Rhiannon could feel herself being carried onto a stretcher and then any and all conscious thought or sounds ceased.

 

[Bounce]

| THE PLANET OA
| Sector 0

&#8220;Abin Sur is dead.&#8221;

The Slyggian did not look up. He did, however, pause as the news was announced. Or re-iterated perhaps, as the stoic expression on the alien administrator's face was unchanged by either the announcement or sudden interruption into the inner sanctum of the Citadel in which the Slyggian worked. Working methodically, the multi-armed creature finished the report that it had been laboring at, finally turning his elongated cranium to face the violet faced Korugaran that had marched into his office.

"You knew," the purple skinned humanoid uttered with a sneer, bristling at the audacity of having not been told.

Four elbows were propped upon the desktop, the various hands forming a pair of steeples as the Slyggian maintained his nonplussed appearance. &#8220;Alisand&#8217;r and the Green Man recovered the body,&#8221; the alien stated in a matter of fact tone. When the Korugaran bristled a second time, the Slyggian interjected before the purple hued man could speak. "He will be returned to Korugar for burial," the Slyggian stated, silencing the anticipated protest.

Many years before, in happier times the way that all years of yore and memory are recalled, the Slyggian had been inducted into the Corps alongside a philologist from the planet Korugar named Abin Sur. They had even been friends, once.

In time, their careers diverged. The Slyggian went on to become the chief of their corps, while Abin Sur went on to sponsor a new recruit from his homeworld.

That recruit, no longer new, was the veteran soldier standing before him with thinly veiled contempt. "And his ring?" the man demanded, a cold anger - quiet and yet distinct - masking behind the words.

The Slyggian said nothing, merely holding the Korugaran's gaze, as though challenging that anger or refusing to be challenged by it. The silence passed into awkwardness, as the violet hued man's jaw clenched noticeably, while a hand tensed into a fist.

&#8220;Clarissi, a wormhole opens,&#8221; a voice shouted from outside of the administrator's office.

Without a word, the Slyggian stood and walked out from behind his desk, not even sparing a glance at the Korugaran as he stepped past and out into the operations hub of the organization. Holograms and monitors filled the vaulted chamber, putting up a status of the known cosmos that stretched through the whole room. At the center, a bird-like alien looked over at the Slyggian and began to speak. &#8220;It is...&#8221;

&#8220;It&#8217;s his, isn&#8217;t it?&#8221;

The Slyggian's head tilted back just slightly in faintest acknowledgement of the Korugaran's words. Turning his attention to the holographic image of the dark anomaly forming over Oa, the Slyggian's eyes narrowed on the unfamiliar sight of a small alien encased in green energy.

"Walk with me," the Slyggian remarked, speaking back to the Korugaran even as he began to step through the Citadel.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
​

The young monk woke in brief flashes of consciousness, tenuous fibers of reality that blended with the images of an unconscious mind so that it was not immediately clear where the dream began or ended.

He was laying on his back, but it did not feel as though he were resting on anything. His arms outstretched, his body relaxed as though he were floating on an ocean. But he felt no water against his skin. Neither did he feel the coarse fibers of his woolen robes. It was as though he had been laid bare before an altar of the gods, glimpses of strange, otherworldly creatures moving in shadow and light around him. Drifting in and out, he caught bits and pieces of sound with no comprehensible meaning to it. Unrecognizable. Unearthly.

And then it hit him.

It came on suddenly. A sensation like that of a spike being driven between the two halves of his brain. Snapped awake by the pain, the child was stunned breathless by a burning in his mind, before a numbing feeling began spreading throughout his body, traveling down from his neck and spreading like cooling water through his arms and legs.

Except for a warmth, a heat which blossomed into real heat, as though a blazing coal were pressed against his hand where the ring rested on his finger.

"Synaptic re-sequencing initiated."

The boy's eyes snapped open.

He had heard that. Not heard as in some indistinguishable noise, but he had understood it. And, yet, he was just as certain that it hadn't been said in any language he was familiar with.

...but he was familiar with it now.

"It is small,&#8221; another voice said, again in a language he didn't know and yet understood. A different language this time. Squinting through the haze, the child fought to raise his head to see who was speaking. A woman with gold skin and brilliant red hair stood over him. &#8220;If it were Tamaranian, I would say it was a child,&#8221; the woman remarked.

&#8220;He,&#8221; the first voice interjected, the boy turning his head to see the not-quite-in-focus image of a woman with violet skin. She turned away from him, addressing a tall, reedy creature that was like a demon. A massive head on a body with four arms. &#8220;And agreed. I do not believe this is a mature specimen for his species,&#8221; the woman stated.

&#8220;Remove the ring and send it back,&#8221; a third voice, cold and masculine, demanded, though the boy could not see this alien.

The four-armed creature's arms moved, folding down over it's lean torso. "What is the status of the integration?" the boy heard it ask, hearing a fourth, masculine voice.

The violet woman stepped over to a display that seem constructed only of light, with no physical or mechanical components. "The ring has mapped eighty percent of his neural pathways. Universal education and translation engrams are being programmed directly into the memory centers of his brain," the boy heard her offer.

"This means nothing," the third voice spat.

"This means everything," the four-armed demon retorted flatly. "The ring has accepted him, and he has accepted the ring."

&#8220;The ring made a mistake,&#8221; the third man growled, with such a palpable anger that the boy's body jerked with a tremor of fear in reaction.

&#8220;Has yours?&#8221; the second voice asked pointedly, as the red haired woman directed her attention toward the man that could not be seen.

&#8220;That... thing... will never be Abin Sur,&#8221; the third man uttered with such contempt that the very words radiated a hatred more intense than anything the child had ever encountered in his brief life.

&#8220;No. He will not,&#8221; the demon agreed in a matter-of-fact statement, turning to face the person the boy couldn't see. &#8220;But he will be Green Lantern.&#8221;

The child's head rolled back as the haze of light and shadow grew more intense, prompting him to wince against what seemed a bright flash... as he lay unconscious once again.

 

[Hound55]

​

&#8220;We the jury, find the defendant Not Guilty.&#8221;

My client got to his feet and hugged me. His parents reach over the bench and shake my hand. It&#8217;s taken a while, and quite some expense on their end to pay his bail bond to keep him out of lockup pre-trial, but finally the burden is removed.

A middle aged man in a fine suit with a gold rolex smiles as he waits for me to collect my belongings, and leans into the aisle as I make my way out of the court.

&#8220;Nice work, kid.&#8221; He says, and stuffs a card in my hand before I have a chance to respond. With all of the rigmarole of the end of the trial, the small crowd&#8217;s exodus, it takes me a while to get out of the courtroom and in enough space to look at what was given to me.

It&#8217;s a simple, elegantly created business card:

SOULE, GUGGENHEIM, LIU AND ASSOCIATES
Martin Banks, Attorney at Law

I turn it over and there&#8217;s writing in blue pen:

&#8220;We could use someone like you.If you&#8217;re looking for something a little more stable, come in - 9 on Monday. Bring this card.&#8221;

Considering I&#8217;d been scrapping in the Public Defender&#8217;s Office for some months now and SGL is one of the most prestigious firms in this fair city I wouldn&#8217;t miss it for the world&#8230;

* * * * *​

Monday, 08:50

I step into the building, located on the questionably named Spruce Street, in my best suit (which meant running it straight to the dry cleaners after the previous trial&#8230; but hey, you only get one chance at a first impression), I walk up to the receptionist with a smile usually reserved for judge or jury.

&#8220;Hello, I&#8217;m here to see Mr Banks. He gave me this card.&#8221;

I passed it with a casual gesture between fingers which didn&#8217;t adequately express just how much I valued the card. If she dropped it, I couldn&#8217;t say for certain I wouldn&#8217;t have dived over the desk to recover it. This opportunity, SGL, these don&#8217;t come along often.

The receptionist looked at the card, then looked up at me with a face that seemed to show pity, and plainly informed me he was out, but that he would be back soon.

Strange. She seemed to pity me for having the card, but had no sympathy to her tone in telling me I&#8217;d have to wait. Almost, like the pitiable point was that I was here to see him in the first place.

I&#8217;d find out later why that wasn&#8217;t strange at all.

It is 20 minutes later and I&#8217;m inside his office. The desk itself is made from heavily varnished, pristine wood that probably costs more than my car. The walls adorned with qualifications. A gold clerical reading lamp, an antique, is perched on it. I don&#8217;t know if the extravagance of this room is overcompensation, a status thing or just a result of expensive tastes, but the quality of his suit does nothing to disprove any of those theories.

The man closed the door and suddenly, the gentle tone he had greeted me with was dispensed and he gave a more coarse casual appearance.

He walks around his desk and pulls out a box of cigars from his top drawer, offers me one with just a hand gesture an then side-eyes me when I decline. As if sizing me up by this choice.

&#8220;So what&#8217;s y&#8217;r name.&#8221; he asks, sitting down with a fat cigar between his teeth.

&#8220;Charles Szasz, sir.&#8221;I respond, and pull out a clean CV from a file and put it on my desk.

Banks glimpses at the paper and gets back to his feet, waving it off as if I&#8217;d made a mistake and strolling around the table.

&#8220;Szasz, huh. Pollack name.&#8221;

&#8220;It&#8217;s Hungarian.&#8221;

&#8220;Sounds Pollack to me. And if it sounds Pollack to me it&#8217;ll probably sound Pollack to jurors. You miss a juror who has an issue with Pollacks in jury selection&#8230; you got yourself a problem.&#8221;

&#8220;There&#8217;s black and Asian lawyers who do perfectly fine for themselves&#8212;&#8220;

The older man cuts me off.&#8220;Yeah. And you think blacks and Asians wouldn&#8217;t like to not have to worry about it as an issue? Trust me. Marty Banks&#8217; Sage Words o&#8217; Wisdom: Lose the name.&#8221;

I looked on with contemplation. I think he thought I was merely considering his notion, in retrospect I believe I was thinking more along the lines of &#8220;No way this guy uses &#8216;blacks and Asians&#8217; if I hadn&#8217;t set those terms first." The man&#8217;s cynicism already rubbing off on me.

He circles the desk and picks up my CV, handing it back to me.

&#8220;I don&#8217;t give a **** about that. I saw you work a courtroom, the only thing that&#8217;s going to tell me is what paper accreditations you got. I can find that much out anytime. Hate those things. They tell you nothing.&#8221;

&#8220;Why&#8217;d you become a lawyer?&#8221;

&#8220;Because I believe that everybody is entitled to a defence. It&#8217;s our right as citizens to&#8230;&#8221; I began reciting my memorized interview line, albeit in a colourful impassioned fashion.

&#8220;Oh f*** off.&#8221; He spat back.

&#8220;Don&#8217;t give me any recited ******** that your damn law teacher told you to give way back when you were kissing ass for extra credit. Kindly go f*** yourself with that bulls***.&#8221;

He sat back down at the desk, teeth digging into the cigar stem, eyes looking directly into mine.

&#8220;Why. Did YOU. Become a lawyer?&#8221;

And so I told him. Told him everything from the orphanage, to my being made a ward of the state. The impossibility of finding an adoptive home. A young kid chewed up and spat out by a system who decided he was going to work his way up and be a bigger part of it. Make things right. And that it wasn&#8217;t just bulls*** in my case, having been a neglected case myself the notion of every citizen&#8217;s entitlement to competent defence rang true in my case. He sat there and listened to it all, not saying a word til I&#8217;d finished my outpouring of sentiment.

&#8220;Huh&#8230; You&#8217;re a Vic.&#8221;

&#8220;What?&#8221;

&#8220;A Vic. V.I.C. Stands for Victim In Court. Lot of times those guys actually turn out to be true believers. Not just in the profession &#8216;cos Mummy and Daddy wanted them to have a good money career.&#8221;

&#8220;I wouldn&#8217;t know what &#8216;Mummy and Daddy&#8217; want me to be&#8230;&#8221; I returned a cold gaze. This Marty Banks guy had pissed me off. My gaze held an animosity I hadn&#8217;t allowed to peek through in my professional life ever, a side tucked away. Something I&#8217;d kept hidden for a long time. A side which scared me just by knowing it existed.

Banks held my gaze for a few seconds then laughed, breaking the tension.

&#8220;Yeah. I think you&#8217;ll do fine, kid. How&#8217;s your schedule?&#8221;

&#8220;Last week&#8217;s trial was the last case I had in the calendar. Was going back to the grinder to look for more today.&#8221;

&#8220;Don&#8217;t bother. Take the rest of the day off and you start here tomorrow at 9. You can give Alice your details on the way out.&#8221;

I get to my feet, wanting to shake his hand and head for the door as quickly as possible so as to not give Banks a chance to reconsider, but he said one more thing as I shook his hand.

&#8220;Bring a suit.&#8221;

&#8220;I have a suit.&#8221;

He laughed and stuck two bills in my hand. &#8220;Bring a GOOD suit. You look like you&#8217;re stuck in the 50s.&#8221;

And that was how it all began.

 

[Byrd Man]

Part 1: The Specialist​

Isbell's Bar
Central City, Missouri


"Missy had them go-go boots; they did something for him. Made him think his wife at home was homely and boring..."

Country music pumped loud from the jukebox speakers that night. Isbell's was your classic idea of a dive bar, near the river and in a bad neighborhood and sketchy clientele right down to the two bikers playing pool near the back door. That night I opted for jeans and a flannel shirt instead of the usual parka, although with this crowd everyone would have too busy watching their drinks instead of me. The anonymity and atmosphere are two reasons why I picked Isbell's for a meet.

He stood out like a sore thumb the minute he walked in. I told him over email to dress casual and he did... casual for him. A hundred dollar pair of jeans, a black polo shirt and a silver Rolex on his wrist. One of the bikers playing pool stopped to watch him get a corner booth near the back. If he weren't meeting me, I'd have to put even odds on him getting mugged within five minutes. I gave it a few minutes before standing from the bar and walking over to his booth. His eyes lit up as soon as he saw me coming towards him.

"Are you the man I'm supposed to meet?"

"That's me," I said as I sat down across from him.

"You're... the specialist?"

"I sure as hell ain't the plumber. Now before we get into this, I need to know you aren't a cop. If you were a cop, you'd have to tell me if I asked. So are you a cop?"

"What? No?! I'm not a cop... I... I'm not a cop."

The line about a cop saying he's a cop is bull. I learned that a hard way six years ago when I got busted by an undercover acting as a fence. I tried that on him and he lied his ass off. I know exactly who he is and how much he's worth.

"So, what do you want from me?"

He stammered a bit and tries to put in words what he had been thinking about for a long time, he just never said.

"Well... it's my wife, you see."

"Ain't it always?"

"Well, we've been together for nearly fifteen years now. She was with me when I started my business and was by my side when my company made its first million. Things change, you understand? People change. I'm not the man she married, and she's not the woman I married."

I almost asked what his mistress's name was, but decided against it. Best not to antagonize him this early into things. Instead I went with the role I had to play, that of the blase hitman.

"Yeah, I know how this works. You want a divorce, but you made too much money for her to get half of it. You want me to bump her off, it's gonna cost fifty grand, half now and half after it's done."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

I held up a hand and waved for a few drinks. A waitress brought two shot glasses with whiskey in them and put them in front of us. I grabbed one and passed him the other.

"Drink on it. To success."

We clinked glasses and downed the shots. He coughed after swallowing the shot. I smirked and watched him rub his chest.

"Just give me the details of your wife's schedule and I'll come up with a plan, Mr. Smith."

"Okay, I'll be sure to-- wait... how do you know my name?"

"Oh, I know a good deal about you. Mike Smith, owner of Smith Telecomm. Smith Telecomm is the third largest cable and phone company in Missouri, and your net worth is about sixty million. Not bad. Want to know my secret? Look in the glass..."

He looked into the shotglass, right into the reflection of McCulloch.

"Hiya."

McCulloch's hands reached through the reflective glass and grabbed Smith by his collar. Smith let out a small cry of protest before he was pulled through the shotglass's reflection into McCulloch's mirror world. The glass fell against the table. I picked it up and ordered two more shots. Those finished, I left the bar and walked a few blocks before pulling out a pre-paid cell and dialing the number.

"Mrs. Smith? We have your husband, Eric. He's fine, but not for long. We want ten million dollars for his safe return. Do not involve the cops or anyone else. I'll call back with further instructions."

She began to respond, but I hung up before she could get a word out. I iced over the phone until it was frozen solid. I squeezed and let the brittle phone smash into a thousand pieces. That accomplished, I put my hands into my pockets and headed off into the night.

Captain Cold and the Rouges

In

On The Rocks​

 

[Carnage27]

Arkham Asylum
Gotham City

The patient trashed against the binds holding him to the examination table as he babbled on about rotting flesh or something of the like. Crane had to admit he was barely paying attention to the man. Doctor Jonathan Crane knew his Fear Toxin worked. He knew he finally had the correct levels of chemicals. He knew how much it took to incapacitate, and knew how much it took to kill. Now it was time to use it.

The screams of the man on the table were like music to Crane's ears. Fear was the great equalizer. It made the richest, most powerful man panic and make mistakes, and made the lowliest of the world strike out. Crane had watched as the world became chaos ripe for the taking. He would take what was his, and would do it through fear.

It would all start tonight.

"Doctor Crane?" one of the nurses asked, sticking her head into the examination room. "Your session is over. Shall I take him back to his room?"

Crane looked up and nodded, "Yes. Nothing more I can do today. Thank you."

The doctor followed his patient out of the room and headed back to his office. The halls of Arkham Asylum were not a happy place. They were the thing of nightmares. One of the few insane asylums left in the country, it was a location reserved for only the most criminally insane. The asylum's dark walls and corridors, filled with Gothic inspirations, seemed to swallow everyone who stepped into the castle-like building. There were hushed rumors and old wives tales that the place had a mind of its own. After nearly a year working here, Crane didn't doubt it. Arkham was an eater of souls.

Crane entered his office and took a seat at his desk. He slid open a secret panel in his desk, revealing the hat and mask sitting inside. The Scarecrow was a symbol of fear for centuries, especially in America. Crane had adopted the symbol as his own, and tonight, Gotham would bare witness to his true face for the first time.

**********

Gotham Docks

A nervous collection of low and mid level drug pushers sat around a large, rotted-wood table in a random warehouse on the Gotham docks. They all came from different crime families in the city, and they eyed each other suspiciously. Each of them had received an invitation to come to this meeting promising to make them rich beyond their wildest dreams and bearing the mark of a scarecrow. None of them knew what to expect, but they came anyway.

Crane new these were weak men. The promise of money would be all it took to have them join him. It would be the small, first step in his conquest of the city.

Once all were seated, Crane stepped out of the shadows and into the light in his full scarecrow garb. The mask fit snugly on his face, the eye slits glowing red and a voice modulator masking his voice. Under the raggedy looking exterior, Crane wore kevlar for protection, not to mention hid many different methods of delivering the fear toxin. Around his neck, to top off the illusion, was a broken noose.

"Gentlemen," the Scarecrow said to his audience. "Welcome. I am so pleased you were able to make it tonight."

"What the hell is this, man!?" one of the Falcone family middlemen yelled in surprise.

"This, my good man," Crane responded, "is an opportunity. You know, as well as I, that none of you have much of a chance at rising farther above your current stations in your respective organizations. I'm here to give you the chance at greatness."

"Oh yea, freak? And how do you expect to do that?" the same man spat back at the costumed criminal in front of him.

"With this," Scarecrow tossed a large bag of crystals onto the table. "This is the most pure meth you have ever seen. The highest quality you could ever hope for. This makes Bryan Cranston's batch look like dog crap. With this, we take over the Narrows. Once we have a power base established, we work our way through the city."

"Yea, sure, pal," the thug interrupts for the third time. "I'm gonna laugh when Flacone caps your ass."

"Carmine Falcone and the other bosses won't find out about me until it is too late," the Scarecrow moved over to the man. "And if he did, you certainly wouldn't be telling him."

In a flash, Scarecrow produced a syringe, driving it into the neck of the man, who instantly began screaming in terror. He backed away from the table, screaming how spiders were tearing away his flesh. He began scratching his own skin, drawing blood. Before long, his heart gave out and he collapsed to the floor.

To the stunned and silent remaining thugs, Scarecrow said, "Gentlemen, you have just seen the effects of my patented Fear Toxin. Using this weapon, and the money you will make us selling these drugs, we will control Gotham through the iron vice of fear. None will be able to stand in our way. Now, will you join me?"

None declined.
​

 

[MST3K 4ever]

The first cut is the deepest​

It wasn't a usual day for Oswald Cobblepot as he sat in his office at the Iceberg Lounge. The L-Pad Platinum which wasn't due to hit the open market for another 6 months was what his secretary Brenda was typing on as Oswald dictated a letter for the Gotham Globe. It was a full page AD to the director of the local the Boys & Girls Club of Gotham expressing his cooperation during their annual charity drive.

Oswald oversaw one of the, (if not THE largest one) largest nightclubs in the country. His office had a view of the city to die for, and only the finest items comprised his office. Real marble, an real antique oak desk, and a perch for his beloved vulture Titan. Titan was at another part of the club

He took a sip from his scotch on the rocks and said, "It is my sincerest hope that my contemporaries in the business community and I will put aside any petty rivalries, or biases against one another, and that we will come together as one in community and in hope. That we will do all that we can to assist your wonderful organization and the work that it does in our magnificent city. Paragraph."

Oswald stood up and took another sip and said, "My organization, and myself personally, are ready to assist you with any and all resources that you may need. Feel free to call upon me day or night, and as always thank you for the wonderful work that you have done time and again in giving our youth a brighter tomorrow."

Oswald finished his drink and said, "Sincerely, best wishes, which ever one you think works best my dear. Type it up I'll sign it and then e-mail it over to Ben Clark at the Globe as soon as possible. He's waiting for it and it's going to run this weekend and into Monday."

Brenda nodded and said, "I'll have it ready in 20 minutes Mr. Cobblepot."

Oswald nodded and said, "Thank you as always my dear."

Brenda left as Oswald turned and faced out the window. He smiled and said, "A brighter tomorrow indeed. I almost believed it myself."

Just then his L-Phone vibrated. Oswald took a look at the phone and saw it was a special encoded message on an independent network.

The message stated: Shipment arriving tomorrow night pier 42.

Oswald typed: Distribute asap --Penguin.

 

[Bounce]

| THE PLANET OA
| Sector 0

In brightest day, in darkest night, no evil will escape my sight. Let those who worship evil's might beware my power...

Green Lantern's light.

The child's eyes snapped open, a gasp catching in his throat as he bolted upright with the memory of four aliens standing over him. But he found himself in a room, of sorts, and alone. It was like a crystalline chamber, walls of something which shimmered and sparkled with multifaceted stones, like the inside of a geode, spreading like a spiderweb of fibrous columns that formed everything around him.

And then a series of green lights suddenly sprang into his field of vision. With a cry of surprise, the boy jerked back reflexively as he shut his eyes, blinking as one would to try and clear the 'stars' that lingered in the vision after looking at a bright light.

But the light didn't fade, didn't move, and stayed even when he had shut his eyes. And the lights took on lines, which expanded in circles to highlight portions of the crystalline walls.

Carbonate mineral construction detected:
--69.903% quartz components
--17.765% feldspar
--12.332% strontium sulfate
--Artificial construction likely
​

He wasn't certain whether he read the explanation or not. The words appeared, almost like in a video game, but it was almost like having them spoken... but without words.

Was he... going mad?

The boy's shoulder's slumped as he drew his legs up and hunched over where he sat up on the table on which he had awoken. He started to cradle his head in his hand, but stopped when he saw that his hand was encased in green.

It was then that he looked over his body. Gone were any vestments that he would recognize. Instead, he was girded in a seamless bodysuit of green and black, a small white circle shimmering in the center of the chest. And there, on the second finger of his right hand, was the ring.

Too many questions. His mind was consumed with doubt and anxiety. One cannot find answers until they are prepared to accept them. Drawing in a deep breath, the young monk collected himself so that he was seated upright in lotus position. And he meditated, working to quiet his mind and set aside the distractions of materialism.

He was. Where he was did not matter.

His body was clothed. The manner of clothing was immaterial.

There was no madness, but control.

The boy breathed. Slow, controlled breaths in and out, each repetition another mental exercise in awareness. Self-awareness. Body awareness. Spiritual awareness. And then, when he was ready, he opened his eyes again. This time, the lights were gone.

Sliding off of the polished crystal table, the boy stood in the center of the chamber and looked around the interior of the vaulted chamber in which he found himself. The sight of his reflection was initially disconcerting for the alien clothing in which he was now dressed, or even the fact that he was not certain that it was clothing - in the sense of the word as he knew it - at all. But he dismissed it and started to look away...

When, instead, he moved to the wall in order to get a closer look at something. Something strange, staring back at him from his own reflection.

Green eyes.

A Tibetan, of Tibetan ancestry, the boy had brown eyes. Had brown eyes. He had heard stories of people with different color eyes, blue eyes and blond hair that was like straw, but no one that he knew looked like that. And, yet, now he saw himself in the mirror-like reflection of the polished gemstone wall. And he saw green eyes on his own face, staring back at him.

It sent a shiver up his spine.

Reaching up a hand, the boy felt prickly stubble of small hairs standing out from the shaven scalp. He must have been asleep for awhile, the boy realized, taking another glance at the eerie, glowing green eyes that stared back at him from out of his own face, and then turned away from the reflection.

Taking a few steps around the room, the boy peered around the open columns in search of some exit from out of where he was. As he walked in a slow circle around the chamber, he passed by a tall plant.

Or... was it?

Taking two steps back, the child pivoted back to regard the plant a second time. As he did, the lights in his vision returned, circling and highlighting various portions of the plant's anatomy as information began feeding into his mind. As it did, the child's face took on a look of surprise, then horror, as an involuntary step was taken back before he could stop himself as he digested the information now present in his mind.

Straightening himself up, the boy bowed formally to the stalk-like plant. "My apologies," the child stated, keeping his head bowed and his eyes down even as he straightened himself back up. "You have been waiting on me."

You are adjusting to a great many changes, small one.

The words were not in any language, nor were they even words. The boy merely knew precisely what the plant wanted to convey as meaning. As the mere thought of that exchange crossed his mind, the child saw another flash of information.

Green Lantern 3.1
--Homeworld 7PI, Sector 3
--Chlorophyll-Algae based physiology
--Telepathic and Psychokinetic abilities

Welcome to Oa, the sapient plant conveyed, as the tendril-like stalks moved tenuously while the pumpkin-like body levitated through the air, circling around the child. And then seemed to beckon the boy to follow. As he was led out of the chamber, an alien horizon appeared beyond an open archway that revealed a terrace that looked out on a purple hued sky with an alien landscape below. This is a seperate planet from your own, many light-years from where you come from, little human.

"Twenty-two point one eight three seven lightyears," the child supplied, pausing in surprise even after he'd said what he did.

You trust the ring, the plant-like creature remarked, giving the boy a sense of approval. Turning back toward the boy -- or, at least, giving the child the impression of such attention, the alien stated, I am called Apros. What are you called on your world?

"Kai-ro," the young monk answered simply, bowing his head to the plant but finding his attention stolen away from the multitude of unfamiliar lights shining above in the cosmic sky like no other he had ever envisioned.

Kai-ro, the stars that you see above were charted in the earliest days of this cosmos by beings we call the Guardians of the Galaxy, Apros remarked, providing explanation as the plant-like alien began to lecture, They divided the universe into 3,600 sectors and selected from each...

"...Two beings," the child supplied, completing the statement. Even while he felt uncertain about how he had known that, he continued. "Assembling a team of 7,200 individuals who constitute the Green Lantern Corps, an intergalactic peacekeeping mission. The first of which was... you." Blinking, as realization of what he was saying sank in, the young monk now forced his attention away from the stars and looked back at the pumpkin-like monster-creature. Images and snippets of neigh mythological stories suddenly sprang to the forefront of his mind, and he realized that he knew the tales as the earliest adventures of the Green Lanterns. "You and Garl Rathbone were the original Green Lanterns. But why... how do I know this?"

Your ring is connected to the Citadel on this world, which contains within it knowledge taken from the Book of Oa. Apros stated, even as the words sparked to mind a deluge of information about the terms he had used. The Guardians, who they were. The Citadel, its function. The Book of Oa, it's history and repository for knowledge and information. As the boy began to become distracted by the overload of stimuli, Apros' touched his mind and brought him back to the here and now. Your ring knows your thoughts, your questions - even when you do not ask them aloud - and supplies you with information it believes relevant.

The young monk fell silent, turning his gaze away from both the plant-like veteran and the alien landscape around them, as he pondering the possibility of a question which the ring had not answered. And, when he had found it, the boy turned his head back up toward the pumpkin. "Why am I here, Apros?"

What is the name of your world?

"Earth," the boy answered easily.

You are here because you are now Earth's Green Lantern.

There was much honor in what the plant offered, but the boy held his gaze on the plant as he asked a question that went to the other part of what that statement meant. "But, only two exist..."

Yes. One is lost to us, Apros answered evenly. You now fill that void.

"Who was he?"

In time, you will know. First, you must learn to use the ring before you can appreciate it's history.

 

[MST3K 4ever]

A first step into a new world​

Rhiannon could hear the sounds of machines whirring, she could feel the heat of lamps overtop of her, the material of a hospital gown, and several stings of IVs in her hands.

She slowly opened her eyes and the light of the lamps was almost blinding and Rhiannon groaned in displeasure as she said in a hoarse voice, "Hello? Anybody there? Hello?"

Rhiannon turned her head slowly and saw that the only lights in there were from the lamps, and that she was in the isolation chamber. It appeared to be a retro-fitted X-Ray room, but this was the one place in the world that if you were infected with something of unknown origin that you wanted to be.

She heard a voice say, "Just try to relax Dr. Palmer. you're gonna be fine. I'll page Dr. Helms that you've woken up."

Rhiannon kept looking around for a few more minutes and Dr. Helms finally entered the room along with two other doctors that she wasn't sure of. He said, "Welcome back Dr. Palmer. Glad to see you finally woke up."

Rhiannon said, "How long have I been out? The last thing I remember was the chamber door jamming and being exposed to the meteorite."

Helms replied, "Well you've been out for two weeks. During which time we ran every test we could think and even a few new ones at least three times. All signs are that you suffered no ill side-effects while your body processed the effects of your radiation sickness." In fact it appears that when you're finally able to get out of the bed you're gonna be in great shape. It's almost like the meteorite had a cleansing effect on you. Never seen anything like it your body is basically a clean slate."

Rhiannon nodded and said, "I'm looking forward to getting out of here, because right now I feel like the morning after the night Gotham State beat Duke in Basketball."

Helms chuckled and said, "Great you had to remind me of that. I went to Duke and my grandson goes there too. Try to get some more rest and we'll talk later."

Rhiannon asked, "Is this incident going to count against my vacation time?"

Helms chuckled and shook his head as he walked away.

___________________________________________________________

Two weeks later

Rhiannon sat in her apartment watching the Streaks take on the A's. She had been home for a week, and was in the middle of a mandatory two medical leave. All the test had shown that Rhiannon was fine, but she still had the feeling something was off about her.

Maybe it's a case of cabin fever. They told me to take some time off, but they never said where. Maybe it's time to go out and have some fun.

With that Rhiannon got dressed in a pair of black jeans with a red oxford cloth shirt accented with a black suede jacket. She put one diamond earring into her left ear, and went to put the right one in but she dropped it under her dresser.

Rhiannon got down to look under the dresser. She saw where it rolled under the dresser and Rhiannon shook her head and said, "Of course you roll under the middle of the dresser." She stretched out to reach the earring, but was unable to. Rhiannon said, "I couldn't get it once maybe stretching for it again will be different." She shook her head and said, "Yeah right."

Rhiannon stretched again, but this time something strange happened. This time her hand slipped under the dresser, but she noticed that the earring was getting bigger and further away. All the while the room seemed to be turning blue and red all around her and was getting bigger. Rhiannon looked around and suddenly realized that she was able to walk under her dresser. The opening under the dresser was the size of a hanger doorway, and the earring was the size of the statue of honoring Mayor Lindsey in Gotham.

Rhiannon felt her pulse racing out of control as she looked around a new world that was very familiar and yet very different. Her nightstand was towering over her. The double sized bed was now bigger than an aircraft carrier. Rhiannon began walking around and was terrified and yet fascinated all at the same time. Rhiannon had shrunk to a height of six inches tall.

Rhiannon said, "Oh I would say that this goes under the ill side effect heading very nicely."

 

[Bounce]

| THE PLANET OA
| Sector 0

"If I die in the ol' warzone..."

The barren terrain of Oa crunched underfoot, as the troop of four recruits of varying species pounded through a formation run. It had been two weeks since the human from Earth had joined the Green Lantern Corps, still chasing after Apros' charge to learn how to master the ring on his hand.

"If I die in... ol' war..." the young monk stammered in reply, having long ago lost track of just how far they had been running. When they had started, he had tried to use a metered pace to help keep track of time but now it was taking every fiber of his being to not merely keel over. And die. Death would be nice actually.

"Box me up and send me home!"

"Box me... send me home..." the boy struggled to repeat back the words through ragged breaths that choked on the thin atmosphere of Oa. For this physical training exercise there were no rings worn. Instead, the green gemstone rings dangled from retainer cords around each of their necks - or equivalent appendage - as the troop pounded through mile after mile of desolate terrain.

"Pin my medals upon my chest..."

"Seriously?" a female voice asked in hushed tones, prompting the monk's eyes to glance over at the beautiful, butterfly-like Papilloxian running beside the much smaller youth. "Are we there yet?" the young woman quipped dryly.

"Tell them Guardians I done my best!"

The continued cadence was a guarantee that the answer to the delicate flyer's question was... no. "He's a machine..." the boy uttered under his breath.

"Are you kidding?" a male recruit questioned from behind where the monk and the butterfly ran at the head of the formation. "Chaselon fell out more than a click back."

So he was worse than a machine. That prospect was hardly inspiring, the monk thought to himself, as he turned his eyes over to the drill sergeant taking them through their paces.

And then some.

From what Kai-ro had been told, the porcine-like monstrosity was known as a Bolovaxian. Tusks protruded out from a broad, strong jaw, as the sergeant's footfall seemed to shake the earth as the barrel-chested Lantern plowed across the landscape without so much as breaking a sweat.

They'd been out here for miles. And Kilowog didn't even look like he had broken a sweat.

"Heart of gold and suit of green," the drill sergeant barked, switching cadence without any break in the rhythm as the massive creature maintained the brutal pace across the terrain. "Meanest poozer you ever seen!"

It may have been another three miles before they'd stopped, or even five or seven. As Kai-ro's legs crossed the invisible finish line, he found himself incapable of walking. Instead, his knees buckled and the boy face-planted in the Oan dirt, never so grateful to simply collapse. Around him, the four other recruits similarly crashed beside where the monk had found solace in near unconsciousness.

"Form up!"

Struggling to their feet, the four recruits still standing fought to remain upright as they made every effort at standing at attention while their knees wobbled like jell-o in an earthquake. The boy wasn't certain their was any part of his body that wasn't in pain.

The Bolovaxian started down the line, pausing in front of Markot Five. Pivoting sharply, the sergeant was suddenly in the orange-skinned recruit's face. "Two-five-seven, how many recruits are in this line?"

"Sir, four, sir!"

"And how many recruits are in my division?" the sergeant growled.

"Sir, five, sir!"

Pressing his boar-like maw into the recruit's face, the Bolovaxian roared, "Did you sad sacks of Slyggian **** just leave a man behind!?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Are you proud of that, poozer?" Kilowog barked hoarsely, rearing his head back as he looked over the remaining recruits with a palpable contempt. "You motherless, monkey-****ing, jack-wads can't yell cadence, but you sound off when you leave a man behind?" the sergeant demanded, ducking down to get into the monk's face. The Bolovaxian's hot breath blasted the youth in the face as the sergeant shouted, "You are the lowest forms of life on this planet!"

"Sir, yes, sir!"
"Sir, yes, sir!"

"THEN WHAT ARE YOU STILL STANDING FOR!?" Kilowog demanded, drawing back to his full height as he jabbed a finger down at the ground and ordered, "Down!"

All four of the recruits dropped into the ready-position for an exercise that was something of a cross between a push-up and a burpee. In the down position, the weight of the body was in the shoulder and bicep muscles, causing pain as it rested there over time.

Which, for the sergeant's purpose, was precisely the effect that he intended.

"This is the GREEN LANTERN CORPS. We do NOT leave a man behind," the Bolovaxian lectured, taking his time to pace up and down the line before he ordered, "Up!"

A collective sigh of relief pass up and down the line as the recruits popped up from out of the down position, shifting the muscle groups now supporting their weight.

"If one of you fails, YOU ALL FAIL," Kilowog barked. "Down!"

This time, he left them there. One by one, their arms began to wobble as badly as their knees had earlier. Kai-ro was the first to collapse under the exhaustion, joined shortly after by Larvox and Markot Five. R'amey actually managed a minute longer, but then she hit the dirt.

"Seventeen," Kilowog's voice snapped, prompting the larval-like recruit to immediately pop tall. "Ring up and go recover one-four-one-six," the Bolovaxian ordered in a quiet rumble, his voice cracking like thunder as the recruit donned his Green Lantern uniform and started to fly away. "Double-time, seventeen, double-time!"

And then there were three.

Helping one another get their faces out of the dirt was a struggle. Getting to their feet was a neigh impossible task. But they managed. And, still, Kilowog demanded more.

"All right, poozers, now that you're warmed up it's time for combatives," the sergeant announced, pacing in front of the line before stopping square in the center of where the three recruits stood. R'amey to the left of him, Markot to the right. And Kai-ro right underneath the Bolovaxian's snout. "And your opponent for today's dance will be me," Kilowog added, his mouth contorting into a disconcerting visage that might have been the Bolovaxian equivalent of a smile. Pounding his right fist into his left palm, the sergeant asked, "So who's first?"

He saw the motion and his weary brain hadn't been fast enough to realize what was happening. R'amey moved, the boy's head turning to the left and then to the right as reality sunk in. R'amey and Markot had both taken a step back, leaving Kai-ro standing before Kilowog as his very unwitting volunteer. "Wa cao," the monk swore under his breath, shoulders slumping in defeat.

A thousand reincarnations as a dung beetle would have been better than this.

"Two-eight-one-four!"

2814. The sector as mapped by the Guardians in which Earth resided. It had become Kai-ro's name, as if he hadn't already had one. Knees still wobbling, the young monk did his best to snap to. Chest out, head high. "Sir!"

Reaching up, the boy took hold of the ring suspended around his neck and prepared to remove it so that he could slip it on.

"Did I say you could ring up, two-eight-one-four?"

A gasp of surprise choked in the monk's throat, as he stared up at the massive Bolovaxian with his jaw agape at what the sergeant was suggesting. Letting go of the ring, the boy took a deep breath and merely stood, waiting.

He didn't have to wait long. "Don't like offense much, do ya, poozer?" the sergeant growled, moving to bridge the gap between the two.

The sergeant was pulling his punches. Even wearies, the monk was still more than capable of avoiding the sergeant's initial swing, the boy's movements blending the energy of the sergeant's attacks so that he was nimbly avoiding confrontation. It worked for the first punch, Kai-ro getting behind the larger creature and staying there as best he could, before a fast sweep of the Bolovaxian's short legs put the monk flat on his back, shortly before a club-like green construct propelled the youth into the air.

A green line shot through the air, wrapping itself around the child and yanking him back, delivering him into the waiting hand of the sergeant as the Bolovaxian lifted him effortlessly in one hand and then let the boy drop to the ground, spilling him onto his backside.

"Why didn't you ring up!?"

Sitting up, internally remarking at how now even his pain had pain, the boy stared up at the sergeant in complete confusion. "You said..."

A sharply raised, fat finger silenced the youth. "Rule number one: Never let the enemy dictate the terms of the engagement," Kilowog barked hoarsely. "You got an ace up your hole? You decide when to use it."

The boy scowled up at the boar-like warrior, staggering to his feet as he pulled the Oan ring off from around his neck. Looking down at it for a moment, the youth slipped it onto his middle finger and was again startled as the transformation swept across his body in a jolt of green energy.

It was... a rush.

Taken off step, the transfigured boy Lantern looked up.

...and saw a large Bolovaxian fist.

Again, the monk went sailing through the air. And, again, a green construct line snapped out, seizing him and yanking him hard back to the earth.

"Rule number two: Never take your eyes off your opponent."

 

[Andy C.]

​

"Diana? Are you all right?"

Gazing out over the cliffs to the sea, seated with my feet dangling over the edge, I have been lost in thought. The salt air from the ocean tinges every breath I take, as the waves roll against our island's shores, in and out like the breath of Poseidon himself.

It is summer, and the forest is vibrant and lush. The creatures of the woods will have begun birthing their young, the trees sounding with a hundred bird songs. Philippus and Aella are likely leading hunting parties as we speak, while Oeone and her sisters tend to the gardens to keep Demeter's bounty fruitful for the coming harvest months.

I know every inch of Themyscira, from the peak of the highest mountain to the darkest depths of the caves below. I know every daughter of our tribe, their duties, and their alliances. I know everything there is to know about the Amazons and our world.....

.....but I long to know about the world beyond the sea.

"Diana?" A hand on my shoulder breaks my entranced view of the waters. "Is something wrong?"

Mala has been a companion of mine since we were children. When I was younger, my mother rarely ever let me leave the palace grounds, but Mala and I would always find ways to run off together. We would sneak past the royal guards in increasingly ingenious ways, then go in search of adventure, looking for monsters or villains to fight in our imaginations, or secret places that we were sure no one had ever ventured before. My mother has always made sure to surround me with supportive aides, teachers, and counselors, but Mala is still my closest and truest friend.

"Nothing is wrong, Mala," I say, standing. "I've just been thinking a lot lately."

"About your coronation?"

I shake my head.

In three days, I turn twenty-one years of age, and will undergo the ceremonial coronation as Heiress to the throne of Themyscira. It is in many ways a coming-out to the tribe, shedding the girl I once was, to become the Amazon I will be for the rest of my days. More importantly, as it is a declaration of my intent to rule should the day come that my mother is no longer able, it is a statement of the Amazons' future.

"It is not the coronation that's on my mind, Mala," I say. "It's the games."

The annual War Games, a contest of the strongest and most skillful of our tribe. While the Amazons long ago gave up the life of warfare for the pursuit of enlightenment and peace, the War Games connect us to the Amazon heritage as the most revered warriors on Earth, a testament to the heroics and accomplishments of our ancestors....

.....or, at least, of their ancestors.

"Why do you care about the games so much?" Mala asks, puzzled. "I understand their symbolism, but being the Heiress isn't about how well you swing a sword or shoot a bow."

"Artemis has won the tournament three times in a row," I say, with a tinge of hurt in my voice.

Mala pauses for a moment, before nodding in understanding.

I have lived in Themyscira my entire life, I have known only the Amazon ways.....yet this is not where I was born. I was a foundling, washed ashore in a shipwreck and adopted by Queen Hippolyta. Because of this, there are some who scoff at my title of Princess, who are infuriated by my coronation as Heiress. While they would never say it to my face, Mala and I have heard more than one whispering voice while sneaking out to adventure, who mutter that I am no true Amazon, that Themyscira is no home to me.

Artemis has always been the worst of them. A member of my mother's royal guard, she looks at me like one would look at vermin. The look in her eyes, the tone in her voice, all tell me that she considers it an insult to protect me, to have to guard an outsider....

"I'm going to tell Mother tonight," I say with conviction. "I will not ascend to the throne of a people who reject me. I will gain the acceptance of Artemis, of Philippus, of everyone who has ever doubted me. I will enter the War Games....and I will win."

Mala opens her mouth to argue, but sees the fire in my eyes and decides against it. More than anyone, she knows that when my mind is set, there is no changing it.

"Your mother isn't going to be happy," she says. "And of course, you know that I've already entered the Games myself. Don't expect me to take it easy on you, Princess."

I grin.

"Take it easy on me? If anything, I should be worried about having to ease up on you in order for it to be convincing."

Mala laughs, before looking back to our city.

"If you're going to be in the contest, you'd best be every bit the athlete as you are a fighter," she says. "I'll race you back to the palace!"

Before I can respond, she breaks into a hard sprint, bounding down the rocks and towards the forest.

"Oh, no you don't!" I call out before chasing after her.

Not all of the Amazons have accepted me, true. But there are plenty that have, and I am eternally grateful for that. My mother, my teachers, my friends.....

They are what I will fight for in the coming Games.

They are why I must win.

....and once I have won, they are why I must do what I have in store next, a secret that I have not told even my closest of friends.

 

[Carnage27]

"You're late," Jay sighed as Barry slid into the station with his lab coat hanging off his shoulders. Garrick had tried to change Barry's tardy ways his entire life, but nothing ever stuck. Heck, even as the fastest man alive Barry couldn't show up on time. As he headed out the door to go on patrol, he added, "Can you just for once show up on time?"

"It wouldn't be me if I did, Jay," Allen smiled and shrugged.

He made his way toward his lab, but not before officer Iris West called out to him from her desk, "Allen, if I got as much sleep as you, they'd bury me."

"You don't look as good as I do without plenty of beauty rest, West," he smiled back. He had a crush on the young officer since he started at the precinct. The girl was gorgeous, with auburn hair and chocolate brown eyes. She was his age, but graduated from the academy quickly with the highest marks possible. She'd be a super cop in no time. "When are you gonna go out with me?"

Her eyebrows arched. He had been asking her out nearly every day in a joking manner, but this morning, there was a hint of confidence in his voice. Maybe it was because of the morning he had. It even surprised him. Barry had never been very good with women. His laid back demeanor and forgetful nature weren't conducive to dating, it seemed.

"I don't date cops, Barry," she responded flippantly.

"Luckily, I don't have a badge," Barry kept moving towards the lab. "I'll see you at eight."

"Yea, keep telling yourself that, Allen," she shook her head and went back to her paperwork.

Barry entered the lab and found his partner Jeff hovering over a microscope. Jeff was weird.

"Sup Jeff, sorry I'm-"

"Late," Jeff cut him off, not looking up. "It's fine. This blood from a murder last night is fascinating."

Yea. Jeff was weird.

"Yea, I'm sure it is buddy," Barry chuckled awkwardly. Not that he didn't find his work fascinating. It was. But Jeff often seemed a bit detached from the human side of things. It was a bit uncomfortable.

Barry got to work writing up a DNA Analysis report he had been finishing up the day before, but his mind was on the eventful morning he had just had. His super speed was even more potent and helpful than he would have figured. Barry never would have figured he'd put away the Royal Flush on his first morning trying them out.

A commotion went up out in the bullpen, and Barry went to go investigate. He found the officers sitting around watching the news, which was covering Barry's exploits that morning. Many of the cops seemed annoyed at the vigilante taking things into his own hands, but many were cheering that the bank robbers had been taken off the streets.

"How bout that, Allen?" Iris nudged him. "We got ourselves our own superman in the Twin Cities."

"I dunno," Barry smirked. "We can't see him. For all we know the Royal Flush did that to themselves."

"You really are delusional, aren't you?" Iris rolled her eyes.

"It's a gift," Barry laughed, getting up off her desk and heading back to the lab, but not before noticing Iris trying to hide a smile.
​

 

[Andy C.]

Story of the Century
Part II​

"I'm telling you, he's up to something down there!" Lana says insistently, grabbing me by the hand and dragging me down the road away from town, out to Old Man Sutton's farm. "Like, a dead body, or an alien spaceship, like the one you said your daddy's hiding in the old barn!"

I'm ten years old, and my best friend is sneaking me out of the house in the middle of the night for another adventure.

"So what are we gonna do, spy on him?" I say, hesitantly. "What if he catches us? What if he calls our parents?"

"He'll never catch us," she says with a defiant grin, "He'll never even know we were there. After all, you can look through walls, right?"

"Well.....I mean....."

Lana's the only person I've ever told about....about the things I can do. She doesn't believe them, of course-- she thinks that I've just got a wild imagination, like hers. She loves to make up stories about going on wild journeys to other worlds, or becoming The Indomitable Insect Queen. I could never outdo the stories she tells me.....

....not unless I tell her the truth.

"Still, though," I mutter, "It's trespassing...."

"We're not going to hurt him or steal anything, Clark," she reassures me. "But I've seen him go out to that barn in the middle of the night all the time, and I wanna know what he does out there...."

"Okay, but-- Lana, LOOK OUT!"

Tires squeal on uneven pavement as a 4x4 comes flying around the corner. The driver slams the brakes, but the car's already skidding....heading right towards us......

*CRAAAASSSSHHHHHHHH!!!!!*


............and it stops dead in its tracks, the front bumper wrapped around my outstretched hand.

"Lana! Are you okay?!"

"I'm fine, just......how are you that strong?"

The average C-130 Hercules cargo plane has an average operating weight of roughly 80,000 pounds, with a carrying capacity of another 65,000 or so.

Which means that I just spent the last several minutes trying to steer over 70 metric tons, about 10,000 feet in the air, in 150 miles per hour wind.....with my bare hands. Thankfully, the pilots were able to regain control of the plane to land safely, meaning I can focus back on fighting the storm itself.

I'm not the type to brag about the things I can do-- they're gifts of my birth, not accomplishments that I worked to achieve. And I'm not boasting about how much I had to do to bring that plane in safely......I'm thinking about how much energy I had to spend in order to do it.....and how much left I've got left in the tank.

Every muscle in my body is burning, like my heart is pumping acid. Every breath I take is ragged and raw. Winds that can blow down houses batter me from all sides, while torrents of rain crash across me. I watch as Hurricane Zack (as the World Meteorological Organization has named it) bears down on Metropolis with the capability to obliterate half of New Troy in minutes....

.....and I realize I don't have it in me to keep this up. I can't fight this thing all night. So if I'm going to save the city, I'm going to have to do something big.

I start scanning the city for something I can use. Big struts to reinforce the sea-wall, maybe. Some kind of large but stable platform that I could load civilians onto to help evacuate more quickly.

Down towards the docks on the East Side of St. Martin's Island, I see something that suits my needs just about perfectly.



Leave it to the man I came to Metropolis to confront for his actions, to give me exactly what I need to break the hurricane's back before it can make landfall.

"Smallville. Couldn't have picked a more appropriate name for this place."

I'm fifteen years old, sitting in detention after being caught watching the radio in Coach Bates' history class. Everybody else I know can only hear the radio when it's picked up by a receiver. Me, though? I can see the waves travel across the air. Sometimes I like to try and figure out what the waves mean, what signals are being sent through the sky and bouncing back and forth around us. Of course I never tell anyone about this-- even if I did, they'd think it was just Clark being a shut-in weirdo again, "watching the radio." So I let Coach Bates think I was daydreaming, and that was enough to get me in after-school detention.

"Small town," the kid next to me continues, a tall, skinny kid with slicked-back red hair, "filled with small people, living out small lives, only open to small ideas."

He's been muttering like this for a while now, and while I'd rather not start an argument, I've had a little more than my fill of him badmouthing my home town.

"Y'know, I don't think you're giving people enough credit," I finally say. "People around here might surprise you."

He gives me an appraising look, like he's sizing me up. More accurately, it's like he's trying to figure out just what thing to say in order to shut me down.

"How long would it take for astronauts to reach the nearest star with conventional propulsion?"

I think for a moment, then answer.

"Well, the Space Shuttle has a maximum speed of about 17,600 miles per hour, and given that the distance from Earth to Alpha Centauri is 4.3 light years or 26 trillion miles, given some miracle exemption where these hypothetical astronauts are somehow immortal, it would be something along the lines of 465,000 years....."

The kid snorts derisively and begins to answer, but I stop him.

"But you didn't mean Alpha Centauri," I say. "You meant Sol, which is only about 92 million miles or one Astronomical Unit away. So given the same miracle exemption of infinite resources where the Shuttle could maintain top speed....about 221 days."

Taken aback a bit, the kid actually seems to shrink a little.

"Name's Clark, by the way," I say. "Clark Kent."

He takes a few moments, before resigning and introducing himself.

"Lex Luthor."

I was already tired from having to move 70-some-odd tons of airplane.....



......so why not try to lift a couple hundred thousand tons while I'm at it?

The ship is the Miss Kitty 5, a supertanker owned by LexCorp. It's one of the largest oil transport ships ever built, and nearly fully automated, needing only a handful of people to run. This one was in dry-dock when I found it, but thankfully the cargo has yet to be unloaded.

I don't know how much longer I can keep this up....the tanker is more massive than anything I've ever tried to move before, and I'm nearly spent as it is. I can barely keep my head above the water, let alone fly anymore. Now it's not just the wind and the rain that are battering me, but brutal walls of water as the waves crash down, trying to knock me off of the ship.

Can't start doubting myself now, though. Not when there are this many lives at stake. Just grit your teeth and push through it, you can hurt when it's over.

I'm near the center of Hurricane Zack now, a gray and black fury of chaos and destruction. Just a little further now......

"Okay," I say out loud, spitting out a mouthful of salt water. "Let's hope I'm right about this."

It's unlikely that an explosion-- even a multiple-megaton nuclear explosion-- would be enough to break a hurricane.

Thankfully, though, I've been following LexCorp's activities for years now. Most of it is disturbing, often outright appalling. Tonight, though, it's an incredibly lucky break.

Because Lex Luthor doesn't transport oil in these tankers.....



Pushing as much energy as I can out through my eyes, I start to torch through the thick, reinforced hull of the Miss Kitty 5. Deep in the hold, there's something else inside, and if I can just reach it.......

Piercing the hull, I start to cut into my target, and grit my teeth.

"Get ready, Clark," I say to myself. "This is really going to--"




".........hurt."

"Clark? Hey, what are you thinking about?"

The night sky over Kansas is really something. It's like an ocean of stars, infinitely deep and wide. There's no light pollution from big city lights, no airplanes flying overhead.....it's just me and the universe.

Well, me, the universe, and Lana Lang. I'm seventeen years old, and Lana and I are sneaking out late at night again. Though this time, if her dad found out what we were doing, he'd kill me.

"Lana, there's.....there's something I want to ask you," I say.

She bites her lip to hold back an ear-to-ear smile, her eyes wide with anticipation. We'd been planning it for a while now. As soon as we graduated, we'd both just pack up and run off together, join the Peace Corps, travel the world and help people along the way. Just the two of us against the world.

Neither of us ever talked about marriage-- no, we're far too modern and intellectually progressive for such an outdated institution-- but privately, I've been thinking an awful lot about it. And I'm positive she has, too.

Which is why I have to know something, tonight.

"What if....I wasn't normal?"

She blinks for a second, confused.

"What do you mean?" she asks. "Of course you're not normal, Clark. That's why I love you."

"That's not what I mean," I shake my head. "I want us to be together, like this, for the rest of our lives, but......well, there's a lot I haven't really told you. Or, I mean, I have told you, but--"

"Slow it down, baby," she says. "You're tripping all over yourself again. Just take a breath, and say what's on your mind."

I take her hand, and pull her in close.

"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath. "Do you remember all those stories I used to tell you when we were kids?"

Lana nods, her bright green eyes flashing with her favorite memories.

"Like the one about the invisible dog that only you could see?"

"Right. Or how I could see right through the walls to see your little brother stealing from your piggy bank?"

"Or the one about the pudgy little magician in a purple derby hat? Or your gang of friends from a thousand years in the future?"

".....hmm, I don't actually remember those...."

"Well, I do," she says. "It used to drive me nuts. I'd spend all day thinking up stories that would impress you, but I could never out-do the things you came up with."

"Well, that's just it, Lana," I say, uneasily. "What if.....well, what if they weren't just stories? Like when I stopped that car back when we were ten?"

"Clark, come on, that's not funny," she says. "It was the middle of the night, we were really tired, the driver was drunk, and we were always making things up like that. We could have just seen something and then told ourselves that--"

"Lana," I say. "Look down."

When I started holding her closely, I had also begun to take off from the ground, slowly. By the time she notices, we're about fifty feet up.

"Oh my God!" she gasps. "Clark, what's--"

"Like I said," I say, smiling to try and reassure her, "what if I wasn't normal?"

I look into her eyes, at the girl who's been there as long as I can remember. I look at the girl I've loved my whole life.....

.....and I can see something's changed. Everything she thought she knew about me has just been turned upside down, and she doesn't know if she can deal with it.

All these years, she thought I was something I'm not, something I never was.....normal. Average. Human.

I let her down gently. She looks at me, eyes filled with tears.....

.....and she runs away.

I watch her run all the way back to her house, all the way up to her room. She locks the doors, and throws the curtains shut. I could keep watching, but I turn away. She doesn't want me to see her anymore.

Lana and I never speak again.

Well, I was right.

It did hurt. A lot.

It takes a minute for my senses to stop screaming at me all at once, but once they do, I see I'm back on the shore. Caked with sand, I stand up, and I notice the wind has died down.

The rain has let up.

The Hob's River isn't swelling onto the island.

Hurricane Zack is apparently nowhere to be found.



"Well, I'll be," I say, pulling myself to my feet. "It actually worked."

LexCorp has been experimenting with gravity wells, an incredibly advanced device that generates high concentrations of gravitons, in order to alter one of the fundamental forces of reality itself. In the wrong hands, these gravity wells could be used to create weapons of apocalyptic destruction.....

.....weapons like the ones he was storing inside the Miss Kitty 5, to ship to some unknown buyer.

Overloading one, however, caused a massive gravity spike that plunged down to the ocean floor, before imploding on itself. The implosion sent a gargantuan column of frigid water from the bottom of the ocean high up into the heart of the storm, and the sudden drastic change in temperature altered the barometric pressure in the sky enough to dissipate the hurricane almost entirely.

Lex Luthor is a genius. Far beyond that, in fact-- calling him merely a "genius" would be insulting him. He knows he has the kind of technology to do what I just did, and do it with far greater ease.

....so why didn't he take out the storm like I just did?

"Holy crap, you're real."

"Wha--?"

Vision's still blurry and my ears are still ringing-- being caught in a catastrophic graviton implosion will do that-- but I see two figures running towards me. I'm pretty sure I recognize them, but.....

....oh, no way.

"Excuse me," a voice says, the voice of someone whose work I've been reading for years, but have always been careful enough to avoid meeting in person. "Guy who just blew up a hurricane?"



"Lois Lane. Daily Planet. And you, sir, are about to make the headline of every news organization on Earth. Care to comment?"

 

[Carnage27]

​

Arkham Asylum

Across from Crane sat Doctor Jeremiah Arkham, the owner and head of Arkham. His family had started the asylum in the early stages of Gotham, and it was a family tradition to study the mind and run the hospital when the time came. Unfortunately for their patients, as time wore on the Arkham family's skills and smarts diminished, and Jeremiah was borderline incompetent in the field. On top of that, he had fallen victim to Gotham's great vice, corruption. Arkham housed quite a few of the mob's men who were dumb enough to be convicted by the Gotham justice system. Still, if you were that dumb, you probably belonged here slightly, Crane thought.

"What can I do for you, Dr. Arkham?" Jonathan asked with a hint of annoyance in his voice. He had no time to deal with Arkham's buffoonery. Crane tolerated the man because he turned a blind eye to the doctor's experiments. Other than that, he had no need to interact with him.

"Mister Falcone has been calling," Arkham shifted uneasily in his chair.

Crane didn't need to know any more. Carmine Falcone's son Alberto was under Crane's care at the Asylum. The crime prince of Gotham had strangled his girlfriend to death after she dumped him. He got off on a temporary insanity plea. Alberto, of course, had private accommodations paid for and renovated by his father.

Arkham wanted to know when the boy could be released. In all honesty, he was perfectly sane. There was no shred of insanity in Alberto Falcone. He murdered his girlfriend while completely coherent. He could leave today if Crane said so. But Jonathan had also learned more than he could have hoped about Falcone's operation from his son. The boy told Crane everything. He may be a gangster, but he was a damn fool.

"I told you before, Jeremiah," Crane sighed, "the boy needs a large amount of help."

"Yes, but Carmine-"

"Certainly doesn't want to have to go through all this again, does he?" Jonathan smiled. "Let the boy stay a while longer, and Falcone won't ever have to worry about him again."

"Fine, fine. I'll explain it to him."

**********

In the same warehouse where he had recruited his first followers mere days ago, Scarecrow waited for his appointed lieutenant Stephen Capello. He had been one of Falcone's best pushers in the city, but stood no chance of moving forward do to the fact that he wasn't related to Falcone by blood or marriage. He saw Scarecrow's offer as the only chance he had, just as Crane had hoped.

The well dressed gangster strolled into the warehouse and took a seat across from the costumed crime lord. He put a large dufflebag full of money in front of the Scarecrow, "This is from the past three days. You're right. The scum in the Narrows is eating this stuff up."

"The men took their appropriate cuts?" Crane asked, inspecting the sum inside the bag, which easily would equal five hundred thousand. Scarecrow, after his demonstration with the Fear Toxin, had his men on the honor system for now. They knew what he could do, and with such a small group, they couldn't run from him. That would change as his organization grew, but it instilled loyalty for now.

"Yea," Capello smiled. "Ya know, when I first saw you, I never thought you'd be better than Falcone. But I'll be damned if you don't treat us guys good."

Behind the mask, Scarecrow smiled, "My friend, you cannot change the world without the loyalty of your flock. In time, this city will fear us, and we will have it in the palm of our hand."
​

 

[Bounce]

In the greater cosmos, the people are protected by two sides in the interstellar justice system; the Green Lanterns who investigate crimes and the local authorities who prosecute the offenders. The call came in at seventeen forty-seven, Oa Standard Time. A domestic disturbance on an asteroid base out on the edge of space in Sector 2814. That makes it my problem. My name is Kai-ro. I carry a ring.

| ASTEROID BLUE HEAVEN
| Sector 2814.9G

The small spacecraft exited out of the singularity, a blue glow radiating from the ion drives as power was diverted to the sublight engines, the kinetic force combining with the resulting inertial to propel the pristine vessel toward the massive rock which hung like a rogue planet against the backdrop of space. Inside the space craft, a feminine voice echoed and said, "We have entered Sector 2814, quadrant Gamma-9. Adjusting vector for approach to space station Blue Heaven."

"Domestic disturbance?" the squirrel-like creature growled, blowing smoke from a distinctly non-regulation cigar. "What are we now, marriage counselors?"

Bringing a hand up to his face, the young Tibetan boy waved the smoke away from his face despite knowing all-too-well the futility of his actions. In such a confined environment, even with Aya's carbon scrubbers working at maximum efficiency to recycle the air quality, the noxious odors continued to burn at his nostrils everywhere in the ship. As though anticipating the rhetorical question as part of his training, the young monk supplied a text book answer. "Blue Heaven is a private enterprise. Without local government law enforcement, it is necessary for the Corps to provide for community police protection in order to prevent this quadrant becoming a..."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm not the poozer here, kid," Br'r growled, interrupting the young Green Lantern before blowing smoke in his face. "This is, what, the third time we've been out?"

"Fourth," Kai-ro corrected, coughing as the smoke choked the back of his throat.

"Well, maybe if you'd busted some heads the first, second, or third time, we wouldn't be out here again," the H'lven chipmunk snapped.

"There was no criminal complaint alleged and therefore it would be unconscionable to impose..."

"I'll show you 'unconscionable' if you don't shut up and arrest something," the grizzled Lantern barked, waving with his cigar toward the back of the cockpit. "Now hit the beat, kid."

There were creatures in this world - in this universe - who tested the patience of even the most virtuous monk. With a sigh, the young Green Lantern hung his head as he resigned himself to the fact that Clarissi Salaak had, for whatever karmic slight Kai-ro may have caused in a prior life, partnered him with just such a creature. "Cao yao," the youth muttered in Chinese as he started toward the airlock.

"Yeah, moo goo gai pan to you too, kid."

The comment from the H'lven reached Kai-ro's ears just as he started through the exit of the cockpit, drawing his shoulders up in the only tangible display of irritation. Peace. Compassion. Peace... the boy repeated to himself, drawing in a deep breath which he let out slowly as he did the right thing and just walked away. As he stepped into the airlock, the boy brought his right hand up, adjusting the distinctive ring on his middle finger. A green aura enveloped his small form, as the exterior hatch was pulled away like a curtain to reveal the naked cosmos outside. Gently, the boy's foot drifted from off the deck as he floated freely into the vacuum awaiting him.

Space could be frightening the first time. There was no concept of up or down. No compass points with which to orient the mind. Some never overcame the vertigo. But Kai-ro? Kai-ro felt like this was true freedom. Putting his arms by his side, the child ducked and then pushed himself out through the void like a dolphin sliding through the sea. Gliding across the emptiness, the youth arced upward to arrive at an airlock that would give entry to the asteroid base. A pulse from his ring and the door parted for him, and Kai-ro stepped inside.

A century before, the asteroid had been cored out by a mining corporation. Left an empty shell, the remains of the mining station had been hastily converted into a port of call for people out on the fringe of this part of space. Pirates. Smugglers. Drug runners. The Green Lanterns knew that Blue Heaven, as it had come to be called, was nothing more than a waypoint from criminal elements drifting through the sector. But suspicion didn't amount to evidence, and so the Green Lanterns could do little more than keep an eye on the station. Still, it remained a lawless wonderland. A ghetto in space. Trash crunched under foot, along with something squishy that Kai-ro immediately tried not to think about as he made his way inside of the shoddy asteroid port.

B37T4-A, or Big Bertha, had originally been programmed as a lab assistant for a chemical company. Later advances in robotics and artificial intelligence design had led to Bertha being thrown out with the trash, but instead of being resigning herself to being reduced to scrap, the rusted automaton had wound up opening a bar out on Blue Heaven. There, she'd met up with a waste disposal unit that everyone called 'Marty' and the two had mixed like oil and water. Their passions for one another were, perhaps, impressive given the limitations of their designs, but that passion led to destructive behavior - usually by Bertha - which was of increasing concern to the residents of Blue Heaven.

That alone was concerning. It took a great deal for someone who lived on Blue Heaven to want to call the Lanterns.

As the young Green Lantern walked through the doors of the bar, an ion bolt buried itself into the wall about three feet to the left and two heads higher than he stood. The smell of residual gas coolant gave credence to the notion that such hadn't been the first shot fired, which would explain why someone would have been willing, if not eager, to call the Lanterns. In space, with the risk of the hull being compromised, no one won a gun fight.

Bertha was behind the bar, plugged into a voltage converted that had obviously made her onboard components drunk from the power surge. In one of her reedy, articulate limbs was a relic of the Trandoshan Civil War, a gas-powered ion bolt caster that was little more than a high-tech slug thrower. "You ****e," the robotic bar tender managed, loudly slurring her words as her servos were unable to precisely calibrate for motion. The rifle waved wildly toward a squat, dirty-looking robot. "I... I kill you and... and that automated hussy!"

"Perhaps we could begin by placing the weapon on the..."

"Bertha, my love! My binary blossom, it was nothing!" Marty's roughly synthesized voice interjected, as the squat box-like robot seemed to dance from side to side. "A thirty second upload in a parallel connection, I swear! She means nothing to me!"

Turning toward the squat machine, Kai-ro looked sternly over at the waste robot and offered, "I do not believe such protests will be effect..."

"Upload!?" Bertha echoed, drawing both Marty and Kai-ro's attention to the chemist-turned-barmaid at the distinctive sound of the caster bolt being drawn back. "UPLOAD!?"

"Upload? No, I didn't upload in her..." Marty uttered weakly.

This was, in the boy's mind, exactly what a train wreck in slow motion must look like. "Go se," the child swore under his breath, as a large green shield appeared between himself, Marty, and the bar as several ion bolts slammed into the willpower construct. This was not what he'd envisioned when he'd been chosen as Green Lantern.

"I had reconstructive surgery for you!" Bertha barked, pausing her barrage as she gestured toward what were obviously a new set of oscillating processor tubes across the front of her torso.

"Yes'm, those are nice," Kai-ro quipped vapidly, not entirely certain that made sense, and less so just what he was saying, but it made sense to say something as he gestured with both hands for her to put the caster down. "We can talk about this rationally and without the need for viol..."

"B***h, you best recognize that's my man!"

There were very few times that Kai-ro would have offered the opinion that discussion was a useless endeavor. As the automated food processor came wheeling into the bar, however, the Buddhist monk had to resign himself to the fact that this was one of those times.

"Oh, hell no!"

As Bertha roared and snapped up the rifle, the spry, young Green Lantern was already in motion. Quick as a snake, a sweep of the boy's leg had sent the Trandoshan rifle skidding across the bar top, as a series of green handcuffs snapped onto her reedy limbs. "Weapons discharge in an enclosed space environment is a class five misdemeanor," the youth asserted in a matter-of-fact tone. "I believe some time apart on Oa will help in alleviating this conflic..."

"GET YUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE!"

As he turned, Kai-ro saw Marty lunging for him, as the food processor came wheeling after. "That's my man!"

Had he mentioned that he hadn't signed up for this?

 

[MST3K 4ever]

It was two weeks away from the opening of The Iceberg Lounge. Oswald strolled around making sure everything was just so right. From the imported dance floor from England, the marble from Italy, the China made in China of course, an aquarium separating the band stand from the dance floor and so on. There was no expense spared in the creating of this club. Every square inch said luxury and style just like the owner himself.

Oswald had various holdings throughout Gotham, and he was very well off but this was the jewel in his personal crown. The Iceberg Lounge would be nothing like anything anyone had ever seen, and it would also be the place where Oswald would spend most of his time. That was because anyone who wanted to be noticed and was anyone at all wanted to be at this place. The hype and mystery were already starting to reach a level that Gotham hadn't seen in years.

As Oswald continued to walk around and bask in all that was happening he of course took the time to talk with those who were doing the actual physical labor. Oswald took pictures, signed autographs, joked with the crews, and asked questions that made it sound like he was interested in the angle of a cross-beam.

Then there was the one area that Oswald had a special crew working on secretly three months ago. Oswald quietly and discretely slipped away to a secret passage. He entered a special code on a keypad and without even so much as a creak a door opened and closed in a matter of seconds. Oswald was sitting at a cache of monitors with several speakers as well. He studied each one and nodded ever so slightly.

Oswald said, "My father was right knowledge is power, and once the lounge opens in a couple of weeks I will be the most powerful man in all of Gotham."

Oswald leaned back and said, "The Penguin will soon show all of Gotham what real power is all about."

 

[MST3K 4ever]

Rhiannon looked around as she walked through her bedroom which was now the size of football stadium to her. She couldn't even begin to grasp or make sense of what was going on around her. One moment she was getting ready for a night on the town and then suddenly she's walking around in her bedroom at six inches tall. Rhiannon walked under her dresser, nightstand, and her bed. Once she was done she reached one inescapable conclusion as she looked around.

Rhiannon said, "Okay I so have to do a better job of dusting under these areas. The dust-bunny situation has got to be improved."

It was gallows humor at the moment, but it was the only way that Rhiannon found of dealing with what was happening to her.

Finally she closed her eyes and upon reopening them said, "Okay I can't spend the rest of my life like this. I gotta find a way to get back to a normal size, or hope that I'm able to suddenly develop some really excellent climbing skills of some kind."

Just then Rhiannon looked around again, and started to wish she hadn't. As she turned around Rhiannon found herself face to face with a spider. As a general rule Rhiannon could handle Spiders, but in this case there was no rule for how to deal with one when you're only slightly taller than the spider you're dealing with. Yes Rhiannon had the size advantage but she wasn't able to just stomp on the spider, and it was clear to Rhiannon that the spider and seen her and it was not going to just let her walk away.

With that the spider shot a webbing line at Rhiannon as she tried to run away. Rhiannon felt the web nail her on the left foot. She tried to move but only fell down and began to realize that the spider was drawing her closer.

She said, "Okay having watched the 1950's version of 'The Fly' I'm not about to start yelling help me. It just won't end pretty."

Rhiannon struggled and then suddenly the movement towards the spider stopped. Rhiannon not only could stand up, but she removed the webbing from her leg. She then held the webbing over head and began turning it over and over again. Rhiannon finally let the webbing go and the spider slammed against the base boards of her room.

Rhiannon said, "Somehow trying to cut it as exterminator just isn't gonna do it."

Rhiannon began to concentrate more and more and then saw the familiar red/blue flashing lights around her. Rhiannon realized she was now back to normal size by all appearances.

Rhiannon said, "Okay so much for going out to the club. Time to take a drop into work and see if the testing gear there can help me figure out what's happened to me."

 

[Morden Man]

[YT]WbTnC30foRw[/YT]​

Somewhere in Central City

It is three in the afternoon. Almost three months have passed since Michael John Carter arrived in the twenty-first century and since then he was no closer to the fame that he had left his own time to pursue. The money that Carter had made selling LexCorp broken household utilities from the twenty-fifth century had begun to run low and the small one bedroom apartment in Central City his earnings had afforded him laid in complete disrepair. For the time being Carter busied himself by attempting to familiarise himself with twenty-first century culture, the security robot Carter had commandeered from the Space Museum, who he had dubbed Skeets, had suggested that he do so to make his integration into his new surroundings more comfortable. It was a suggestion that Skeets had soon regretted.

The next few weeks had seen Carter box himself in his apartment, surviving on pizza and the countless six packs of beer that made up the entirety of his fridge, whilst watching what seemed like thousands of hours of television. The movies of a certain Jean-Claude Van Damme had appealed to him the most, Kickboxer chief amongst them, and through them a love of Stan Bush had had burrowed deep in Carter&#8217;s heart and found a home.

Carter sauntered around his tiny front room, stepping over half-eaten slices of pizza and empty beer cans, whilst singing along at the top of his voice to &#8220;Streets of Siam&#8221; by Stan Bush in only a pair of stained underwear. The sight alone was enough to make Skeets thankful that Kord Industries hadn&#8217;t fitted the BX9 with smell receptors. For the past few minutes Skeets had been hovering in the doorway to the front room, waiting patiently for Carter to finish. Skeets let out a metallic grumble upon seeing Carter hit the repeat button that caught the blonde-haired man&#8217;s attention.

&#8220;<Sir, there is a gentleman from LexCorp on the phone for you. From the tone of his voice I think it&#8217;s fair to say that he&#8217;s figured out the &#8220;temporal space distributor&#8221; you sold him was little more than a broken remote.>&#8221;

Skeets had warned Carter that it wouldn&#8217;t be long before LexCorp figured out that they had been duped. As usual Carter had brushed aside his robotic companion&#8217;s worries without so much as a second thought.

&#8220;Tell him I&#8217;ll call them back.&#8221;

Carter batted Skeets away with a hand and continued to dance around the room.

&#8220;<I would, sir, but he insists upon being put through. Something about this being the fifth time he&#8217;s called.>&#8221;

&#8220;For the love of God, Skeets, can&#8217;t you see I&#8217;m busy here?&#8221;

The look on Michael Carter&#8217;s face told Skeets that he was being serious, as difficult as it was to believe. The robot had tried and failed on several occasions to motivate his companion into action, part of the reason that Skeets had accompanied Carter to the twenty-first century was because he had faith in the young man, though of late that faith was beginning to wane.

&#8220;<Busy, sir? I&#8217;ll be sure to remember that dancing in your underwear constitutes busyness going forward.>&#8221;

&#8220;Of course I'm busy, this is pop-rock legend Stan Bush we're talking about,&#8221; Carter shot him a look of disdain mid-dance, stopping only for a second to point an accusatory finger at Skeets. &#8220;So unless you've got a young Molly Ringwald on the phone, they can wait.&#8221;

&#8220;<Very well,>&#8221; Skeets said, attempting to muster up a sound that Carter might recognise as a sigh. &#8220;<I&#8217;ll tell LexCorp that you are indisposed again then, sir.>&#8221;

&#8220;Good. Now go do whatever the hell it is robots do somewhere else, would you? I&#8217;m going to need all my energy for the chorus and you&#8217;re seriously harshing my vibe.&#8221;

&#8220;<Of course, sir.>"

With that Skeets scuttled out of the room and left Carter to his own devices. Carter smiled, as if liberated by the robot leaving the room, and sucked in a deep breath of air in preparation for the coming chorus. He took a step backwards and began to pound on an imaginary snare drum. Carter&#8217;s foot landed squarely in a piece of cold pizza, which he kicked underneath the couch nonchalantly, and began to sing at the top of his voice.

&#8220;Doesn't matter where I go now,
You know what they say about me,
Everybody loves a winner,
Everyone can see that I am,
Everybody follows the leader, baby,
Cruising down the streets of Siam.&#8221;

As the song ended Carter smiled triumphantly to himself and placed his hands on his hips. He kicked aside a pizza box to reveal the gold and blue uniform that lay underneath. It was strewn with red smudges that Carter deduced was dried tomato sauce; at least he hoped it was dried tomato sauce. He licked his finger and rubbed at the smudges until they disappeared, slid into the uniform and zipped it up, which took a little more effort than he cared to admit. Carter glanced around for a moment and spotted his forcefield belt in the corner, which he fastened around his waist, before making his way out of the room towards the kitchen.

&#8220;Skeets?&#8221; Carter called out. &#8220;Skeets? Where the hell are you? Get out here so I can do my big reveal.&#8221;

Carter waited for several moments whilst striking a heroic pose. After thirty seconds passed, he broke from the pose and huffed. Half a second afterwards Skeets whirred into the kitchen, causing Carter to mutter an obscenity under his breath and unconvincingly attempt to strike his pose again.

&#8220;<You... You have your uniform on, sir,>&#8221; Skeets said, his tone noticeably more cheerful. &#8220;<Does this mean today is finally the day?>&#8221;

&#8220;That's right, humble robotic servant, today is the day the world is introduced to&#8230; Goldstar!&#8221;

Skeets had lost count of the number of times he had tried to talk his companion out of naming himself Goldstar. After three months of sitting on his laurels, eating pizza, swilling back cheap beer, and watching Jean-Claude Van Damme films on a loop, Carter had finally taken his first step towards becoming the man he swore he would be upon leaving the twenty-fifth century. No more sitting around, no more doing nothing, Carter would become the greatest superhero the world had ever seen.

At least, Skeets hoped so. The fate of the universe rested on it.

&#8220;This is going to be so fricking awesome.&#8221;

 

[Hound55]

It’s now 8 months later, and I haven’t uttered a word on the record in a court room since that day. I’m currently typing out an affidavit for a client, 15 pages and counting so far, and I’m not happy.

Not by a long shot.

A Question Of Loyalty - Part 1​

I knock on the door.

“Come in!” Marty says, but he needn't bother. I’m already in the room. The knock merely courtesy.

A stack of paper gets unceremoniously dumped on his desk, with the lead page blowing off the pile and onto the floor. I’m already headed back out the door.

“Come back here…” he says, not raising his voice.

“’S’all there.” I reply, not turning back.

“I said ‘Come back here’.” Still not raising his voice, but firmer now.

I sneak a peek at Alice, enough to see the sympathetic gaze she offers, before turning back to his office, closing the door behind me.

“Am I to take it you’re upset about something?”

My eyes double in size. “’UPSET about something’?!? I’m a goddamn trial attorney! A good one! And ever since I started here I’ve been reduced to… to a paralegal… hell, a secretary. A goddamn gofer.”

It’s true. Not even a little embellishment there. The most I’d done was provided courtroom strategy FOR Marty. He’d handled every case that came our way. Been cherrypicking them at that.

“Everyone’s got to earn their stripes.” He replied, still not raising his voice, but with clear irritation.

“Which I wouldn’t have a problem with… if it weren’t for the fact Trent just finished closing arguments on his first case today, despite starting 5 months after me.”

Again, true. Trent being his surname, not a given—you know what. Doesn’t make a difference. Let’s just listen to this play out…

“And I’m not in charge of his development. I brought YOU in. I’m responsible for YOUR development. Everyone works at their own pace. Take boxing, no one comes out of the amateurs and looks to fight a contender in their first 2 or 3 bouts. You EASE them in.”

I notice that he’s not speaking to me in the regular coarse tone he uses around the office. He’s hitting me with his courtroom tone.

“That would be all well and good if I were actually getting given ‘bouts’. Generally no one comes out of amateurs and then… doesn’t fight whatsoever… and then fights a contender, either. This is not a gentle pace that I’m being brought along at. It’s a glacial pace.”

I stop short of mentioning that I’m being taken advantage of. I’ll throw this out there first and then measure the response before I do something that bold, to start throwing accusations. See how serious he’s taking me. He looks up at me as if he’s taking my measure, it almost feels like he’s looking through me to see if I’ve already thought that. And I’m not certain that he hasn’t, but…

“Fine… sift through the slush pile. Pick something out you think you can sink your teeth into. You’ll still be coming with me on my cases, and I’ll reserve the right to take over if I don’t feel confident you can… provide the best possible defence for the client. And you’ll still be with me while I walk you through case management on my scheduled trials…”

I bite my tongue and choose to not respond angrily to this. Fact is, I've been running most of his cases from the sidelines. I suspect that I see his angle on these comments, but I keep my cynicism to myself.

“Thank you, sir.” I quickly respond and show myself out, closing the door behind me.

I allow myself a full grin to Alice behind the secretary’s desk, who seems suitably warmed by my improved demeanour, before hurrying off to hit the files.

 

[Carnage27]

Garrick Residence
Keystone, KS

Barry rapped on the door lightly, and Joan Garrick opened it, her aging face smiling broadly at her adopted son, "Well, well. Look who's on time!"

"I like to keep everyone on the edge of their seat, Joan," Barry responded, leaning in and planting a kiss on her cheek. Aside from his mother, Joan was the best caretaker he could have ever hoped for when he was a kid. Kind, patient, and considerate, she was always tollerant of his more impetuous side. Still, she pushed him to be the best he could be. He wouldn't be here without her. "Besides, I wouldn't miss your meatloaf for the world."

"That's why he's on time, Jo," Jay came to the door. "There's food involved."

"You sayin' I'm getting fat, old man?" Barry ribbed. He came home once a week for dinner since he moved out and into Central City.

"No, I'm saying you're cheap," Jay shot back.

Barry pondered the statement then smiled, "That is true."

Joan headed back to the kitchen while Barry and Jay sat down in front of the TV. Before either of them could get into a deep conversation, the news appeared of his exploits from earlier. The pundits on the screen began discussing whether he and the so-called "Superman of Metropolis" were the same people, and if not, were they in cahoots? It was an interesting thought. The two of them together could probably do some damage.

"You think the charges on all the people he rounded up will stick?" Allen asked with interest. He honestly didn't know. Vigilantism was never looked upon well in the law enforcement spheres. Jay probably hated the idea of a super-powered guy doing his job, and without a true arrest, the perps may walk.

"I think so," Jay nodded. "Especially the Flush Gang. They've done to much to allow them to walk. Yea, I think our Flash scored a big win today."

Barry had to admit to himself that he was surprised at Jay's tone. He had always been a by-the-book officer, and this rare show of support for someone who was clearly breaking the law made him feel a lot better about what he was doing. The media dubbing him "The Flash" was icing on the cake. I mean, that's awesome.

Of course, it could just be wishful thinking on Jay's part. The gang had been a hassle for months, and the ever looming threat of Grodd hung over the twin cities. The police forces had been stretched thin, and Garrick may have just been hoping to get a group of dangerous criminals off the street.

Once they were all seated for dinner, Joan inquired, "How's work going, Barry?"

"Not bad, I secured some important evidence today, gonna make sure someone stays behind bars where he belongs," Barry says, not looking up from his plate. He had been tasked with determining whether a husband's DNA was on the weapon used to murder his wife. He did indeed find it. It made him happy he'd helped to keep the man behind bars, but the wife was still dead. Another family torn apart by crime. But now he had the opportunity to change things like this, and he'd use it.

"Good job, boy," Jay smiled. "Us on the other hand, we're up the creek without a paddle. I dunno what we're gonna do about these gangs."

"Still no idea who Grodd is?"

"None at all," Jay shook his head. "At this point I'm questioning whether he's even real or not."

"Too much has been going on for that, dear," Joan interjected. "You'll find him. You guys always do."

"Yea, we'll-" Jay's phone rang. He looked down at the screen before apologetically saying, "I have to take this."

Before long, Jay returned, "I have to go in."

"Everything okay?" Joan asked with worry in her voice.

"Nothing major," he shook his head. "Captain just needs me."

"Be careful," Barry called out to him as he headed towards the car. "I'll be right behind you..."
​