Singular Universe: Brave New World -- IC Thread

I tell myself not to let him in. That his words mean nothing to me. He's a sociopathic degenerate who prides himself with every life he's taken, there's no reason for me to have even paid attention to a single damned thing he's saying. The Joker is good at nothing else if not trying to utilize a person's percieved morality as a weapon - he seems obsessed with the very concept of the human psyche's darkest desires. He proved as much whenever he tried to bomb a ferry full of hostages and another full of convicts, giving both the detonator to eachother's ship. I still remember how Jim and I were barely able to contain the chaos after that particular incident threatened to unleash chaos on a citywide scale. But Gotham survived - even if Joker escaped again that night. His supposed theory about the fragility of human ethics remains unproven.

Yet there's apart of me that can't deny the weight his accusations carry. For the briefest moment, knowing that turning my back on the clown for any length of time could be disastrous, I glance back at Robin - at Dick, as he violently subdues "Harley Quinn". In truth, I did catch a glimpse of the beating he'd given her as it was still happening. I saw what was there, and knew it wasn't anything I'd normally condone. Yet it didn't phase me for an instant. I was so preoccupied with rectifying my own failure to capture The Joker for all this time that I allowed the boy to give into his rage. Rage that I never even knew he was capable of.

I've known about Dick's struggle to come to terms with who his father was for some time. Even deeper than that is the shame he carries, and the idolization of his mother as a direct result. At Alfred's behest, I've even attempted to utilize it as a means of bonding with him on an emotional level, given the stark contrast to how I lost my parents. But to see him go that far - and worse yet, knowing that it isn't even his fault. It's startling. He's done nothing but obediently follow my command, and I taught him exactly what to do with rage.

Look at where it's gotten me.

Nowhere that doesn't end with my hands around the throat of a maniac who might very well understand what this entire charade is more than I do.

I know I can do better than that. For Dick's sake, I need to do better than that.

"You're wrong, Joker."



Before he knows it, I'm on him once again, grabbing him by the throat and tossing him off balance. His back hits the wooden ground and splinters a plank, and I forcefully step ontop of his shoulder. But this time, I forgo any of my basic survivalist instincts. As a result, I feel more in control of myself. More serene, as if my mind's forced itself into approaching the situation from an entirely different angle. I need to subdue him, yes, but sheer brutality won't cut it. He needs to learn something. He needs to know that as long as he's there to terrorize Gotham, he'll never escape from me. And that whatever point he's trying to prove is never going to strike a chord.

"It isn't the violence that gives me any satisfaction. Unlike you, I don't need to take any pleasure out of this. That's far too easy.", I angrily retort, applying force to his shoulder until it pops. Then cracks. "You're not as hard to figure out as you think. You're diseased. Uncontrollable. Nothing more than a rabid dog that needs to be caged. But I think what scares you is the idea that there's no one in the world sharing the kennel."

I think, to his surprise, a small smirk creases across my lips as I look upon him.

"What gives me satisfaction is the idea of you going to the cage."

 

The Kree warrior approaches the building. No weapons. Which is weird. Kree aren't particularly powerful without them. A little stronger than humans, but not much. And definitely will be in for a surprise when he tries to tangle with me. Maybe he won't be violent though... maybe he's a diplomat. Sigh. Yeah, right. Keep dreaming Kara.

"Computer. Lockdown procedure Alpha Bravo."

"Need two tier verification."

"Mom, dad, quick!"

As my parents verified their presence to initiate the lockdown of STAR Labs building, they did so just a moment too late, as the Kree wedged his arm in the door, preventing the steel shutters from slamming shut. I can tell that it didn't feel good however, as I see the bones in that arm shatter and the cringe overtake the man's face. His left arm is useless now, so that's a plus.

I hear words come out of his mouth, a language I've never heard outside of news recordings. It takes a moment before the universal translator that he's wearing kicks in.

"...Have something that belongs to me. Give it back and I shall not kill you."

"I'd like to see you try. Go back to Hala, and leave this planet. It is protected."

"By who? You? You are not more than an adolescent girl." The way he says girl shows the contempt he has for my gender.

"I'm sure you'll find me a bit more than the average girl."

"Fool. You likely know not what you are guarding. Your arrogance will be the downfall of this planet. After I retrieve the Psyche-Magnitron, I will summon the Kree battle fleet and we will lay waste to your precious planet."

"Wouldn't be the first time my people have sent you imperialist jerks packing."

At that I can see a confused look on his face, and he looks me over.

"...A Kryptonian?! But how? Their planet was destroyed decades ago."

"Just call me lucky."

"No matter. I will reunite you with the rest of your backwater race soon enough."

So much for diplomacy.

 

​

"--repeat, we have the female suspect in custody--"

Harley's eyes fluttered open. Her vision was still a black swirl of stars--no, after a second, she realized she was on her back, staring at the evening sky.

She couldn't feel her nose, but she was all but certain it hurt like hell.

[BLACKOUT]"G**[email protected] kid."[/BLACKOUT]

"On your feet, lady. Now!"

Harley was pulled violently to her feet by a solid arm wrapped under her armpit. She felt herself being shoved forward, and took a glance backward to see two GCPD officers escorting her down the boardwalk.

"Murdering psycopath b*^ch."

Her head was throbbing. Maybe a concussion. She'd have to remeber to rip the kid's head off when she caught up with him.

She just needed a second to figure out how she was going to ditch the pigs.

"Let's move."

[BLACKOUT]"Of course, officer. Whatever you say."[/BLACKOUT]

In a flash, Harley was in the air, pulling her legs up into her chest and swinging her handcuffed arms from behind her back to the front of her chest. The officers didn't know what was happening before each received a well placed heel to the groin.

[BLACKOUT]"Collegiate gymnastics scholarship. World class agility and flexibility. Come in very handy in the bedroom as well."[/BLACKOUT]

Harley grabbed a key loop off of one of the belts and freed her hands. She reached back down and removed the officer's pistol from it's holster.

[BLACKOUT]"You boys won't have that pleasure, though."[/BLACKOUT]

*BLAM* *BLAM*

-

Robin surveyed the outlying streets from the nearby rooftops. All remaining civilians had been cleared, and the boy he had picked up early had been reunited with his mother and father. He recognized the parents as the police led them to a private escort away from the area. Drake was their name, another well to do Gotham family. He seemed like a level headed youngster though. Calm and cool as he was under pressure, the kid could really go places in life if he wanted to.

Satisfied that everyone had been moved to safety, Robin scanned the area from Batman and his advesary. He had cleared his head, and needed to get back into the fight. If he dwelled on what had just happened, he would start second guessing himself. If he started that, he would hesitate in a fight. Any hesitation could mean certain death. The best thing to do was to keep going, and evaluate it later.

The squeal of car tires and the wailing of police sirens drew his attention several blocks away. A lone squad car was careening at top speed toward two figures, locked in hand to hand combat.

"Bingo."

It would take him a moment or two longer to make the run down the rooftops. Maybe Batman had an extra grapnel gun on him. He paused though, before he made the leap to the next rooftop. The cop car wasn't slowing down. It was still going full blast towards the two, and even seemed to be aiming for the figure jumping around in the cape.

He glanced back at where he had left Harley Quinn. He had seen two officers approaching, and given the testy relationship Batman had had with the police before his falling out with Gordon, he had always taught Dick to stay to the shadows. He had high-tailed it to the rooftop, trusting the police to take her into custody.

Now though, as he glanced back, he saw two uniformed bodies lying face down in a pool of blood, and the jester woman nowhere to be found.

"Ahhhh, I am so grounded."

-

The Batman leapt clear seconds before the police car plowed into him. The driver slammed on the brakes hard, but was only fully stopped when the car slammed head on into a shuttered up ring toss game, sending brightly colored stuffed monkeys flying through the air, like some kind of scene out of The Wizard of Oz. A second later, the Wicked Witch stepped from the car.

[BLACKOUT]"Your little pet birdy messed up my pretty face, Bats. I gonna make yas both pay."[/BLACKOUT]

 

Gotham Central
4:12 PM

Top floor. Harvey Bullock's office. Maggie sat and watched. Her old partner "Shakedown Harv" now wore three silver stars on his collar as Chief of Detectives. He read the MCU's final report on the diamond heist and its fallout.

In summation:

Former Marine Marcus Mueller and three other Marines go in on a heist plan with Russian diamond smuggler Alexi Abramhoff. Abramhoff has connections, he knows rocks are coming through Gotham but he doesn't know when. Abramhoff needs an inside man. He takes wino former cop Daniel Gallagher and has his piss-poor service jacket beefed up enough to get hired by the armored car company that's transporting the diamonds.

Gallagher gets word to Abramhoff that the rocks are en route to the GC Diamond Exchange. Abramhoff gives Mueller's Marines the skinny and sics them on the armored car. He does not tell them Gallagher is a friendly. He lets them eliminate his inside man during the heist. Abramhoff clips the four Jarheads along with the forger who rigged up Gallagher's personnel file. Abramhoff and the workers at his pawnshop end up ventilated by Flass' Surveillance Unit. Their entire final report: Conjecture and speculation. No corroboration from corpses. They recovered half of the diamonds in the pawnshop's back room.

Bullock put the file down. He cracked his knuckles and scowled.

"There's enough here to declare the case officially closed. You recovered half of the stolen diamonds, the rest should be covered by insurance. You and your detectives solved the case to my satisfaction. There's a lot I don't like about it, namely Flass' involvement."

Maggie said, "He's responsible for the missing diamonds, Harvey, I know it. He winked at me when I asked about the rest of them. He got away with it and he ****ing knows it."

"After this stunt, I've recommended to Commissioner Essen that she launch a full Internal Affairs investigation into Flass and his unit. Their movements, activities, personal and financial histories, the works. I have no idea why the hell Gordon didn't sack him the minute he took over as commissioner."

"Have you spoke to him recently? He was at the crime scene yesterday. He seemed more excited about the scene than he did when he was inaugurated."

Bullock rapped his knuckles on the desk and nodded. He looked at Maggie for a long second before answering.

"I was in a meeting today with him, Essen, and a few city councilmen. I did not like the way he acted with the commish. They were too formal. Too polite and rigid. Something's up between the two of them."

Maggie cursed. It always came back to the two of them. Gordon and Essen. Throw in Bullock and Flass for good measure. Their collective history ran deep and muddled. Events, motives, and secrets all overlapped. It all transpired before Maggie became police. It confused her. It made her head hurt.

She said, "How serious do you think it is?"

"I have no idea, Mags. But what I do know is that Jim Gordon has two major weaknesses: Whiskey and Sarah Essen."

*****​

Gotham Ritz
8:21 PM


Elevator doors opened. Flass stepped out into the penthouse party in full swing. Old men chased naked call girls around the room. Old men got BJ's from two naked girls at a time. Old men ****ed naked girls on leather couches. A full spread of party favors on the coffee table: Coke, weed, MDMA, rubbers, and viagra. Breakfast of champions.

Feature: A fortune 500 CEO double-teaming a girl with DA Carl Hull. Gotham Sheriff Scott Andrews getting paddled by a dominatrix. County exec Hubert Perkins with a... clown? A hooker made up with Joker makeup. She laughed as he did her. Part of it was in-character, part of it was due to Hubert's teeny weenie.

Flass walked through the party to the balcony. The man waiting outside on the balcony. Senator Rupert Thorne at a patio table. His eyes were pinned. Riding out a coke-high.

"Arnold, my son. Have a seat."

Flass sat down. He pulled a package from his coat. A white envelope stuffed. He slid it across the table towards Thorne. Thorne pawed at it, ripped it open, tipped it. Diamonds scattered across the table.

Flass said, "That's probably half a million in hot rocks right there."

Thorne picked a diamond up. He stared at it through the dark.

"I had heard you'd been a very busy boy over the last day or two. Now I see why. To what do I owe this generous payment, Arnold?"

"This is a down payment on a couple of favors, Senator. The **** my squad got into recovering those rocks got us in hot with Internal Affairs. We're going to have to go quiet for a little while and play by the rules. Those diamonds should cover your patronage fees as well as by me some clout with you."

"Finish your thought, Arnold. I do not want to be led."

"I am in serious trouble with an outfit known as Intergang. As you know, one of my mandates is to discourage further mob encroachment into the city. Intergang sent a few men to set up shop here. I got word and I got carried away in the discouragement process. Two of the Intergang men went back to Metropolis in full body casts, the third was buried in Slaughter Swamp. I have drawn Intergangs ire and am in need a powerful friend to smooth things over."

Thorne waved his hand. "Say no more. I will do all that I can to help you, as I am sure you will do all that you can to help me."

"Now who is leading who?"

"James Worthing Gordon." It came out like a hiss. Just the name made Flass' skin break out into goosebumps. "Tell me, Arnold, do you hate him?"

Six years ago. Gordon's hands on his throat. Eight murdered people. Shotgun Jim. Flass digging a grave out in the woods.

"More than anything."

"Then help me destroy him."

Thorne got in close. Flass could see the coke on his upper lip.

"He has something in his possession that is very valuable to me. A collection of sensitive material on many prominent Gothamites, you and I included. Blackmail files compiled by Loeb but never recovered after his arrest. If Gordon has them, I suspect he does not have the resolve to properly use them."

Six years ago. A shallow grave. Silencer screwed on a service pistol. Two shots to the back of the head. Jim Gordon's glasses flecked with blood. Their secret pact.

"I think you'll be surprised at what Jim Gordon is capable of."

Thorne's jaw twitched classic cokehead style. He drummed his fingers on the table. Coke always made him antsy. It always made him spiel philosophical. He's winding up.

"Do you know what's wrong with this city, Arnold? Why it's so twisted and violent and corrupt? It's an American city, built by humans. Over two hundred years ago a bunch of Dutch bastards stole this city from savages for trinkets. Thieves and murderers have dictated its course of events ever since. James Gordon temporarily disrupts that narrative, but he does not upend it. The only thing people love more than reform is the idea of reform. They want to think that things are changing for the better, that they are good and decent people who want the world to be just as good and as decent. As long as they believe that, they allow me and those depraved men inside the hotel suite to run roughshod over them. Like all reformers, Jim Gordon will either assimilate and be become part of the system he defies, or he will be shattered against the rocks. The former district attorney, Mr. Dent, serves as an exemplar of that theory."

Thorne scooped the diamonds up and dumped them into the envelope.

"Find those files, Arnold. I am supposed to meet with Gordon tonight and speak with him privately to gauge how much of a team player he actually his. How he responds will decide my course of action. I need dirt on him, son, anything you might know would be helpful."

Six years ago. A dead body. Eight murders necessitate it. Absolute justice prevails. A meteoric rise and career built upon a bright and shining lie. Mutually assured destruction. Gordon's demise precipitates his own. Their relationship is spiteful and it is venomous, but six years on the truce still held.

"I know what you know and nothing more."

Thorne said, "Find me something while you find those files. I have some connections in Metropolis that can square your Intergang problem away. I'll be sure to mention you when my wife and girlfriends thank me for their new diamond jewelry."

******​

Gotham Gardens
10:47 PM


Smoke filled the casino floor. Old ladies chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes and worked slot machines with dead eyes. Dolled up ex-strippers wobbled across the floor on too tall heels, dishing out chips and cigarettes. The heavy make-up couldn't hide the miles and the years. Drunk businessmen played blackjack. Geeks in Hawaiian shirts and Shriner fez hats played roulette. Jim walked through the cut-rate casino in jeans and a t-shirt, a ballcap down low to obscure his face. Melvin Brown stayed out in the car. He wanted privacy for this convo.

There. At the bar. Close to eleven, he's on his lunch break. "Lunch": Six shots of rye and three beers. Liquid lunch. That's how he was taking all his meals now. Jim slid up beside him. He caught his eye.

"Jim ****ing Gordon," Slam Bradley said. "As I live and ****ing breath."

Slam's eyes were glassy. There's booze stains on his tie. His salt and pepper hair had gone full white. He'd dropped twenty pounds since Jim saw him last. Drinking himself to death. Even with the warning signs, seeing Slam down those shots made Jim drool.

They ran together in Homicide back before Jim started his rise. Unlikely allies, the hotshot ex-boxer and the lush boy scout. They put down murders left and right. They rode the same brainwaves. They were simpatico. They were both climbers who wanted to climb higher still. They were both stalled as sergeants. Six years ago that all changed. Jim's glory case anointed him the GCPD's great hope. Jim's glory case ruffled feathers and pissed off the powers that be. Too much heat to **** him over, they settled on Slam. Jim jumped two ranks to captain, Slam got run out of the PD on a chicken-**** charge. More blood on his conscience.

He asked. "How's the work here?"

Slam shrugged. "It's work. I get to work over drunks who get handsy with the girls. Any cheaters I break their arms. People still recognize me from time to time. This one card counter asked for my autograph after I knocked out three of his teeth. Said he had something in common with Goodnight Garcia, both got their asses handed to them by Slam Bradley."

Slam downed two shots. Jim felt sweat on the back of his neck. Cold sweat. The voice inside begged him for a taste. The Thirst pitched a fit. He pushed it back down.

"Slam, I have something in my possession. Something that can be used for great good or great evil. It's leverage to finally clean this city up right."

"What's the problem?"

"I'm afraid to use it. Afraid of what it'll turn me into."

Slam gulped down a beer in two chugs. He wiped foam from his lip. He ordered another one.

"That was always your problem, Jim. All the deals you've made, all the lies and the moral compromise. All of that and at your heart, you're still a good man. And that is the ****ing problem. This city is not for good men, nor is it for decent men. Right now you're sitting here talking to some drunk stumblebum about the moral consequences of what you're doing. Do you think that the people standing in your way would hesitate for one second to do the same to you? Like all that **** with Flass, you calling for fair fight. There's no such thing as a fair fight, never has been and there never will be. They ****ed me, so **** them. **** them over good and **** them over hard, Jim."

******​

Gotham Ritz
1:30 AM


Big time party aftermath. Sleeping hookers and sleeping johns. Wrecked furniture and drugs everywhere. Hubert Perkins laying on the carpet bare ass with white makeup around his mouth. Jim passed through the wreckage towards the balcony. Thorne still out there, smoking a cigarette. A bottle of Jack and a glass, an ashtray with butts beside him, a manila folder beside the ashtray. Red eyes and a haggard-looking face. Comedown face. Probable coke high comedown.

"Mr. Mayor."

"Senator Thorne."

Thorne smiled. The aw shucks. "We threw quite a shindig tonight. The boys threw it for me, a little going away party. I'm headed back to DC tomorrow and I expect I'll be there until the holidays. I wanted us to talk in private before I leave."

Thorne stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray. He rubbed his eyes. Jim sat and waited.

"I want an assurance from you. A guarantee that you are fully playing on the right side."

"Sides? I didn't know there were sides."

Thorne smirked condescending. It said. oh-child. "The little breakfast meeting from the other morning and the party tonight is a taste of what we do, Jim. We are the stewards of public interest, Jim. Cooperation is key. As is containment. Graft and corruption are inevitable, so we maintain it at a small but steady rate to ensure it does not become widescale. As mayor of the city now, you have a duty to do likewise. If you are uncomfortable in partaking, I understand. We are men of fierce appetites and it is not for everyone. But what I ask is for your silent consent. To... play the game, as it were."

His answer rested on his tongue. Subservience or defiance. A fork in the road. One held open conflict with the establishment, the other held inner turmoil for his sanity and conscience.

He said, "Or what?"

Thorne tossed Jim the folder on the table. Shots. High-quality pix of him entering and leaving Sarah's apartment. Time stamps confirmed he stayed overnight.

"People find out you're ****ing the police commissioner, then it comes out that the commissioner is the same woman you cheated on your wife with. Maybe people start to speculate how it is she became commissioner, since her paramour became mayor it seems only logical to assume dirty knees led to that fourth star on her shoulder."

Jim's face twitched. He went red. His career destruction he could handle. Destroying Sarah's he could not. Slam's warning played true. They would not bat an eyelash if he stood in their way. Thorne's punch had some power. He saw something out the corner of his eye. The bottle of Jack. He grabbed it and drank straight from the bottle. Whiskey hit his system fast. It coursed, it burned, it made him feel alive. One year's sobriety down the ****ing drain. He chugged the entire bottle and tossed it to the ground. It shattered into pieces. Jim leaned forward and prepared for his counter-punch.

"I have a USB drive filled to the brim with secrets on you, your little gang of perverts, and anyone else in this city who has something to lose. You threaten me again, you make implications, you take anything to the press that will harm me or Sarah, and I will ****ing set your world ablaze. I will suffer the consequences and inflict a mortal wound upon myself to see the whole rotten city fall apart and you go down with it."

Thorne snarled. Jim grinned wide.

Shotgun Jim was back in the driver's seat.

END
PART I​

 

​

Matthew Murdock. The name itself isn't terribly familiar, but I know I've heard of a blind lawyer operating out of Hell's Kitchen. Probably from Ben Urich, now that he mentions it. On my patrols, I'll occasionally swing by that neighborhood, but I don't like to dawdle. Hell's Kitchen is... rough, even by New York standards. Unlike the surrounding areas -- which have more or less gentrified over the years -- a persistent criminal element in that part of town has kept Hell's Kitchen from completely smoothing out its rough edges. Ben's always going on about underground criminal syndicates, but our boss, editor-in-chief J. Jonah Jameson, tends to laugh him off as a conspiracy theorist. Jolly Jonah hasn't seen what I've seen.

Though I know he's blind, I can't help but stare directly into the red lenses of Mr. Murdock's sunglasses as I profess, "No, I didn't steal the xeno-virus. What would I do with it, anyway? Expose myself to it and take a sick day from Professor Stein's physics class?" I take a deep breath to calm myself. Now's not the time to be facetious, Pete. This isn't your nightly patrol, and you don't have a mask over your face. You're facing serious charges and a mountain of evidence that looks pretty damn... well... damning.

I look down at table as I place my palms flat against it. The cooling sensation of the metal on skin helps me relax as I begin to tell the tale of yesterday afternoon. I explain how I went to the biology building to put in a few hours in lab, and how I was unable to find my key card. I even go off on a tangent about Deb's treatment of me before I catch myself and get back to the story. That's when a detail pops up in memory.

"A skateboarder ran into me!" I blurt out. It's clear from the look on Mr. Murdock's face that I should explain myself. "On my way to the biology building. I took my eyes off the path for a moment, and then some kid on a skateboard ran into me. We fell into the grass, and he ran off. He could've pocketed my key card!" I feel instantly proud of myself for thinking of it. A small smile even starts to creep across my face.

"Can you describe the skateboarder?"

And with that, the smile's gone. "Well, he had... hair," is the best I can do. "I don't know. He looked like a college student, I guess! I couldn't really get a good look because he ran off so fast." Well done, Peter. The lone lifesaver in this sea of awfulness, and you let it slip away. Might as well confess to the crime you didn't commit because I don't see any other way out of this. Maybe they'll be lenient with the sentencing.

The questioning turns to night, and I find myself completely hamstrung. Even if I wasn't worried about the officers eavesdropping, it's still not like I could tell Mr. Murdock what I was actually doing. I know there's, like, attorney-client privilege or whatever, but that doesn't give me enough peace of mind to drop my secret identity like that. Besides, at this point, it'd probably just sound like a Hail Mary from a desperate kid.

"I stayed in last night," I tell Mr. Murdock. It's the lie I told the interrogating officers, so I should at least be consistent. For all the good it's gonna do me. Murdock asks if anyone can corroborate that alibi; perhaps a roommate. Harry would probably bite the bullet and lie for me, but I'd rather not rope him into this. "Not really. I spent most of the night in my room." Well, it's official. I'm screwed. I hang my head between my hands.

 

The Joker made no reply. Just smiled back at Batman, even through the pain of his shoulder cracking and popping. While Batman was focused on his moral victory over The Joker, and on the arm he was damaging, he wasn't paying attention to what the other arm was doing. When he'd been slammed into the boardwalk, the large plank splintered underneath him. And his free hand, pinned behind his torso, had taken a grip of one large, jagged strip, and was ever so slowly working it loose, waiting for the right moment to strike...

The arrival of Harley Quinn was all the distraction The Joker needed. It had forced Batman to move off of The Joker, and drawn his attention to the new arrival, giving him an opening to strike, putting all his body weight behind one huge upward thrust.

"RRRAAAAAAAAAAA!"

The jagged end of the strip of wood he had was plunged into Batman's side. The armor deflected most of it, breaking it off in so many shards. But there was a wet piercing sound that suggested something had broken through, confirmed when The Joker pulled back to reveal some red on the plank's tip.

"You're so wrong, Batman. I'm not going in any cage I don't want to be in..."

Flipping the plank round so that he gripped onto the bloodied jagged end, The Joker swung the plank with as much weight as he could muster with one arm, his arm with the dislocated shoulder dangling limply by his side. The plank connected hard with the side of Batman's head, cracking in two at the point of impact.

"...it's me that has had you in a cage since the beginning. All of you. You just don't see it yet."

The Joker drew up the fragment of the plank that remained in his hand, including the jagged, bloody edge. He licked the blood off the tip.

"Mmm... that certainly gave me some satisfaction."

 

​

*"You ditched your own kid at your wife's funeral?"

"If I waited around any longer, I'd be in the plot beside her before the night was over."

John Grayson zipped up the 3rd duffel bag of money and placed it with the others among a pile of luggage beside the hotel room door. The young blonde, barely in her first year of college, leaned back on the bed, seductively crossing her long legs hanging out of the tiny black cocktail dress, dangling a stiletto off of her foot.

"The kid'll be fine. Plenty of people at the circus to look after him. I left him some cash, and the shows will bring in more than enough to get him by."

Grayson knelt down and ran a hand through the long, golden silky curls on her head.

"By this time tomorrow, Felicia, we'll be living a life that even Bruce Wayne himself could only dream of. I never wanted to see Mary hurt but--but, it's less messy this way."

John hurried into the bathroom.

"I just have to take a leak, and the cab should be waiting for us downstair in about five minutes."

There was a slight knock on the door.

"That's probably the bell boy, darling. Let him in so he can get the bags loaded up."

John finished up and shook himself off, hurrying back out to he main room.

His heart stopped, and his blood ran cold in his veins.



"Zucco!"

Tony Zucco walked into the hotel room like he was greeting an old friend. Near the door, Felicia nonchalantly checked the polish on her nails, flanked by two of Zucco's enforcers. She looked up and smiled coyley at Grayson.

"I--I don't understand."

"Oh, please, 'darling.' Bad men don't find good girls. Especially middle age men who are ditching their wife and child to run away to Europe with their barely legal socialite girlfriend. I was gonna have some fun for a while, case a few nice art galleries in Paris maybe, before sucking you dry, but these nice gentlemen offered me a lot more money a lot sooner. My family didn't get where we are in life by passing up a sure fire deal."

"And you played your part beautifully, Miss Hardy. If you'll check your bank account, I believe you'll find it substantially healthier."

Felicia made a few quick taps on her smart phone.

"Well, look at that. I believe you're right."

She grinned coldly at John.

"I think I'll be taking that European vacation after all. Maybe I'll find myself a young pool boy with a little more stamina."

She picked up her bag and blew a kiss back at Grayson.

"See you around."

Zucco waited until her heard her boarding the elevator at the end of the hall, and then turned back to Grayson.

"She won't be seeing you around," he shook his head curtly. "She's a very talented young girl, a bit niaeve though. She fancies herself some kind of do-good vigalante cat burglar. You have something like that here in Gotham as well, don't you? Anyway, she thinks she's sending an adulterous crook to the fate he deserves. Had to promise we wouldn't hurt the kid, though. Sad, there still might be a small accident that befalls the youngster tonight. I hope that doesn't sour any future business arraingments between her and I."

John lunged at Zucco, but was met with a silenced bullet to the shoulder, dropping him mid-leap.

"So valiant now, are we? You sign your wife's death warrant, you abandon your only son at her funeral--that was cold, by the way. I kind of admired it. But now, you're going to try to defend him?"

Zucco walked behind Grayson as he hunched over on his knees, applying pressure to his wounded shoulder.

"It's gonna be ok, though."

He placed the end of the silencer against the base of Grayson's skull.

"If there is an after life, your boy will be going to a much better place than you."

*BLAM* *BLAMBLAM*

"Now that, that is some prime satisfaction."*

-

The Joker's sternum was a perfect target for the heel of Robin's boot. It wasn't as square a kick as he would have liked, so he didn't here the crunch of any ribs, but did detect the very distinctive gasp of lungs being forcibly emptied. A quick batarang disabled Harley Quinn's gun, and two more found the front tires of the squad car. It wouldn't be being used as a weapon anytime soon.

"And THAT gave ME some satisfaction."



Before the Joker could regroup, Robin leapt into a full back flip, and his elbow found the clown's family jewels.

"And that was for earlier."

 

​

Weeks ago...

“You've heard the tale of Cain and Abel, correct? It is supposedly the first story about brothers, and the first story about murder, two subjects that I know can sometimes go hand in hand. Cain was jealous of his brother Abel, for much of the same reasons that humans become jealous of each other now; because Abel was more loved than Cain. Thus, Cain murders Abel, and he is punished for it. I’m not telling it right, but it’s not important really. What is important is my story, another story about brothers and murder. A story about genocide.

On the red planet that the Earthlings call Mars, there were two brothers; J’onn and Ma'alefa'ak. As with Cain and his brother; one was beloved, the other, cast out. This fundamental difference between them was so ingrained that it was even within their very names. J’onn, the beloved one, was the “light to the light”, while Ma’alefa’ak meant “darkness in the heart”. J’onn became a Manhunter, and Ma’alefa’ak became an outcast, cut off from all other Martians by severing his tie to the Great Voice of our people. His memories were altered so that he did not even remember ever being a part of the Great Voice. Cut off from the most basic form of communication that Martians had, Ma’alefa’ak became the first lone Martian in millenia. Ironic, considering the fate of the beloved J’onn.”

The martian pauses, collecting his thoughts, while the figure sitting across from him looks on intently.

“Continue.” the figure says, gesturing to the chess board in front of them. “and it’s your turn.”

The martian lifts his arm, moving his knight into position, removing one of his opponent’s pawns from the game.

“Outraged by his life as an outcast, Ma’alefa’ak’s heart was filled with hate and evil plotted his revenge. He created a telepathic plague, H'ronmeer's Curse, which would fill the martian mind with thoughts of fire until the body too was consumed by flame. To survive, J’onn the beloved hero to his people was forced to abandon them and sever his link to the Great Voice. J’onn confronted Ma’alefa’ak, and each brother thought the other killed. Each believed themselves to be the last Martian.

They would meet again, on Earth. There they would clash time and again. And each time, J’onn, the light to the light, would defeat his brother, Ma’alefa’ak, the darkness in the heart, the slayer of the martian race.” The martian sighs heavily, “I want to make things right.”

“An interesting tale,” the figure says, “and truly a noble desire.” The figure moves their bishop, threatening the martian’s king. “Check.”

“Take this victory, my friend. I am needed elsewhere, and I have dawdled long enough.” The Martian smiles warmly. "Thank you, for listening. Much has been weighting on my mind of late." He stands and leaves, walking through the solid wall and heading for the Justice League's orbiting Watchtower.

“Farewell, J’onn.”

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

Today...

J'onn J'onzz has been on Earth for six decades. In that time, he has met hundreds of human beings. He found them all remarkable in their own way. Anthony Edward Stark is no different. The man is a genius inventor, and likely one of the more driven individuals J'onn knows. However, Stark's ambitions exceed even his prodigious grasp, and the Iron Man seldom seems to truly learn from his mistakes.

His latest idea, the "Brother Eye" Artificial Intelligence linking the Justice League's Watchtower to an Earth-based high tech defense force, may prove to be an example of such.

"Seeing as how you're here to relieve me of said duty," he replies, I'm ready to not have it for another week at least." His form shifts, becoming that of a nondescript man in casual clothing. Remember, Tony, you said you would consult with the entire team before going forward with this."

"I am. I will," Stark replied, waving the Martian's concerns away. ""Where is everyone right now anyway?"

"Clark is in Malaysia. Pietro and Wanda were in Istanbul last time I checked, but you know how they move. Diana is in Africa, investigating a woman who seems to be able to summon storms. And Bruce..."

"...is in Gotham," Stark finished. "As usual."

"According to the police scanner, the Joker has returned."

"And BATMAN obviously won't want help, even though either of us could take the clown out in less than a minute." He mocked the voice Batman affected while wearing the cowl.

"The Joker is a threat even to those of us who have greater power than the Batman. Don't underestimate him." J'onn turned towards the teleporters, inputting his home address in Manhattan. "We'll call a meeting to discuss your plan, Tony. I'm sorry that you must suffer through monitor duty today, but this involves all of us."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, M'gann should be home from school soon, and I'd like to spend time with my daughter."

With that, he activated the teleporter and disappeared.

 

​

I smile. He's telling the truth. He didn't do it. But, still, he's nervous. And that's understandable. The kid--and that's really all he is--is in jail. I nod in agreement. "Very good, Peter. I believe you. Tell me more."

Again, he's telling the truth. He didn't get a good look at the guy. But looks aren't everything. "What about sounds? Scents? Any sensations that could help us at all? Think, Peter. So you didn't get a good look at him. I don't ever get a good look at people, but I can still recognize them."

Interesting. The rapid heartbeat, the faster breathing, the slight rise in body temperature...he's lying. But why? Why tell the truth about not committing a crime and then lie about something else?

"I'm not gonna lie, Peter. The evidence against you is sufficient to press charges. But I believe you didn't do it. That's good enough for me to take the case. I'm going to try and get your hearing fast tracked until hopefully this afternoon. I'm going to petition the judge to release you. I can't prove you didn't do this--not yet, anyway--but I can prove that you're not a flight risk. You'd be free, but you'd be my responsibility. If you missed your court date, it would be my ass."

Suddenly, the Devil is in me, fighting to get out. As a lawyer, I'm concerned with facts. Because facts can be proven. I know in the movies I've heard, lawyers like to give these big, grand speeches that all have to do with hearsay and speculation. A judge doesn't care about that. He just wants facts. Because, as I said, facts can be proven. And that's my job: to prove this kid's innocence. But there are a couple of questions the Devil wants answered.

"Help me out here, Peter," I say."What is this xeno-virus? Why would someone want it? What could it do if it fell into the wrong hands?"

Peter explains things to me a little clearer, and when he's done I throw in the curve ball, hoping to catch him off balance. "Uh huh, and where were you again last night?"

He repeats his story and, same as before, I am 100% confident he is lying about it. Whatever he was up to last night, he doesn't want anyone to know about it. And that's just what the Devil wants to find out. That, and exactly who took the xeno-virus and what they're planning to do with it.

I pull out my phone and ask Siri to "call Foggy."

"Fog, it's Matt."

"Oh, Matt! Thank God! I've got the woman--"

"Drop everything you're doing and call judge Haig. See if we can get Peter Parker's hearing fast tracked for this afternoon. When you do, meet me at the courthouse."

"Matt, the woman suing the chemical company is on her way! Big corporation! You know what big corporations have? Money, Matt. Lots and lots of money. You know what we don't have any of?"

I sigh. Foggy's a good guy, but he's got bills to pay. We all do. I just tend to make integrity the one I pay first. "I know, Foggy. Listen, I'm not giving up on that case. I just have something...interesting going on here. Just reschedule for tomorrow and take some petty cash and send her a fruit basket or something to make up for the inconvenience."

Foggy laughs. "Petty cash? Matt, I couldn't buy a clue with what's in petty cash right now."

"Okay. Fine. Whatever. I'll figure it out. Just meet me at the courthouse."

Foggy reluctantly agrees, but he agrees. See? A good guy.

I hang up and fight the urge to "read" the case files in front of me with the hyper sensitivity of my finger tips. Instead, I push them across the table to Peter.

"No one's mentioned anything to me about fingerprints. I find it odd that your fingerprints weren't at the scene considering you're in that place three times a week. Read to me. What does it say about fingerprints?"

******

A few hours later, Peter, Foggy and I are before Judge Haig. He had onions for lunch. I hate onions.

Both Connors and ESU are refusing to press charges, certain Peter didn't commit the crime, so the case is being prosecuted by assistant DA Buck Bukowski. He's worse than onions.

Jessica Jones and Luke Cage sit behind us.

The judge grumbles. "Case number 32489732 city of New York vs. Peter Parker. Prosecuting attorney Buck Bukowski from the DA's office and the defense, Matthew Murdock and Franklin Nelson of Nelson & Murdock. Mr. Bukowski? What is your recommendation?"

"We'd like bail set at $20,000, Your Honor."

There's a hint of satisfaction in Bukowski's voice. He's basically a good person. I mean, he's not crooked or anything, but he's a hotshot and he's young. He's over eager and out to make a name for himself. And he can't ever accept the fact that he is wrong. Peter Parker is going to have to pay for Bukowski's ego.

I try and stifle a laugh and I fail.

"Something you'd like to add to the proceedings, Mr. Murdock?"

"Your Honor, we feel that my client's bail and incarceration are unfair."

"Unfair?" Despite Bukowski being 30 feet away, his voice is so loud and tangible, I can almost brush it aside. "With the evidence against him? Two counts of criminal trespassing? Breaking and entering? Theft? Come on, Murdock..."

"Permission to approach the bench?"

"Granted."

Foggy escorts me around the table and then Bukowski and I walk up to Judge Haig's bench.

Bukowski's talking before we even get there. "Murdock, I know you're blind, but even you can see this kid's guilty. Get it? 'See' this kid's guilty? See what I did there?"

Judge Haig intervenes. "Mr. Bukowski, this is not an elementary school playground. Please keep your nonsensical remarks to yourself."

"It's okay, Judge. It's just--" I stop and sniff. I lean in toward Bukowski and sniff more.

"Oh what?" asks Bukowski. "You gonna use your nose to tell me what I had for lunch?"

"Egg salad. But that's not it. It's--sniff, sniff--it reeks of...desperation in here."

"Mr. Murdock!" bellows Judge Haig. "This is not an alley in Hell's Kitchen somewhere. You're not settling an old score. If you two can't put a lid on this juvenile malarkey you'll both be in contempt! Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"All right. What do you want?"

"We pulled Parker's bank records. The kid's an A plus student, lives in a studio apartment in the city and helps support his aunt out in Queens, all while earning money as a freelance photographer for the Bugle. Keep all that in mind when you look at these bank statements and I'm sure you'll deduce, as I have, that he's hardly a flight risk."

"Mmm," the judge groans.

"I'd like you to release him under my supervision. Ms. Jones and Mr. Cage work for me. They'd be looking after him. They're bonafide superheroes, Your Honor."

"Yes, I know." Haig pauses, thinking for a moment. I made my case and I made it well. Bukowski knows this. His heart is practically jumping from his chest. "Okay. I'll allow it."

"Objection!"

"Your objection is dully noted, Mr. Bukowski. And overruled. Return to your benches."

I take a few steps and call out to Bukowski. "Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"You see what I did there?"

 

Part II:

Shotgun Jim​

“The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.”
-- W.B. Yeats

“There's a beast in me. I destroy those I cannot control. I must be certain that those close to me share my identical interests. I'm benevolent within that construction. I'm ghastly outside of it.”
-- James Ellroy



*****​

EXTRACT: Gotham Globe, 06/02/09

DISTRICT ATTORNEY'S OFFICE LAUNCH PROBE INTO SOUTHSIDE BOXING​

After much speculation, the Gotham City District Attorney's office announced it is investigating the city's boxing and prizefighting scene for gangland connections. District Attorney Janice Porter held a press conference for reporters today, laying out the details of the investigation.

"For far too long the professional fighting scene in this city has been controlled by bookmakers," said Porter. "Fans of the sport, people who pay to see honest and fair fights, are instead often treated to fixed fights that the gamblers control. This investigation is the first step in a battle to wrestle control from the criminal elements of this city."

Porter herself will serve as the lead counsel on the investigation. Her four attorney counsel team features Senior Assistant District Attorney Randolf Wilkins, Assistant District Attorneys Jonathan O'Riley and Kate Wallace, and Associate District Attorney Harvey Dent. Heading up the team of investigators will be the colorful Captain John "Two-Gun Jack" Grogan, commanding officer of the GCPD's Major Case Squad. Grogan's six man taskforce will provide the brunt of the investigation, as their investigative mandate lies in organized crime.

"Ain't nobody [sic] better at policing organized hoods than me and my boys," Grogan said during the press conference. "If there's anything worth finding, we'll find it."

While forthcoming with details of the investigation, District Attorney Porter remained mum on her political future. She is among a small handful of candidates who have been rumored to seek the US Senate seat recently vacated by the sudden death of long-time senator Charles Henderson. When asked if this probe is a stepping stone to a possible campaign run, Porter discouraged any such talk and only offered a no comment on the subject.

BANNER: Gotham Herald, 06/11/09

CONGRESSMAN THORNE ANNOUNCES SENATE CAMPAIGN


BANNER: Gotham Globe, 06/22/09

FOURTH WOULD-BE CRIMINAL ASSAULTED; COPS DECRY VIGILANTE WORK​

*****​

Western Gotham
1:13 AM

Detective Sergeant Arnold Flass rode shotgun in the unmarked car. Captain Grogan sped through the city at **** traffic laws I'm a cop speed. Flass smoked and saw the sights. Open-air drug markets. Fiends scuttling across streets like cockroaches. Hookers peddled their stuff by the curb. Corner boys trading blowjobs for blow. Flass cracked the window, blew smoke.

Flass smiled. He felt alive. He felt jazzed. Grogan's squad worked the streets. They ran the streets. They were the landlords out here, and everybody paid their rent or they got hit. Two-Gun Jack was a hick from somewhere out west, Oklahoma or Texas or something, and he had that southern twang prairie accent. The hump wore two six-shooters on both hips, the hump wore ****-kicker boots and a white stetson with a goddamn bolo tie. He chewed tobacco and thought he was Jonah Hex reincarnated. He looked like a clown on the surface. Beneath it, he was all killer.

Grogan spat tobacco juice in a coffee cup. He wiped his mouth and said, "Arnold, how you been liking these past six months?"

Flass beamed. "Fantastic. Anything to get me out of Gotham Central and Vice."

Vice straight bored him. It was either hooker rousts or gambling busts. He had a good enough face to pose as both johns and male hookers. Vice required him to roust prosties and break bookies. It was straight ****work. His brain was wired for the street. He needed to be out here in the thick of it. This was his element. Grogan picked him because he was big and intimidating. The captain promised muscle work and he made good on the promise. Anybody he wanted worked over Flass worked. Fist work, brass knucks work, rubber hose work, followed by dental and surgical work.

Flass flicked his cigarette out a window. The butt hit a passing wino in the forehead. The wino flipped it away and shook his fist at the car. Flass laughed. Gorgan roared.

Grogan wiped his eyes and said, "And what do you make of our current assignment?"

Flass made the jack-off sign. "Interviewing punchy ex-boxers isn't my idea of an assignment."

They had two ex-boxers under lock and key. Key witnesses for the State, working with ADAs to present testimony to the county grand jury. Their star witnesses: heavyweight Robert "Scotty" Lees and light heavyweight Manuel "Goodnight" Garcia. Lees took one too many pops to the dome and couldn't remember who he was half the time. Goodnight Garcia had a taste for young stuff and was in hot water. Testifying would quash a stach rape beef.

Grogan said, "The good District Attorney wants her pound of flesh, so we give it to her. But I suspect her investigation will be coming to an end shortly."

They hit county territory. The burbs, middle-class and upper-middle-class homes. White flight's landing spot after urban decay drove them out of the city. Flass chained three cigs while Grogan spat tobacco and sung George Strait. He pulled up to a three-story home sprawled over four lots. It ate up half a block. A bronze R.T. plaque on the mailbox.

They got out. Grogan led, Flass followed. They walked around the house and to the backyard. Floodlights on: A pool, patio, pool house. A fat man with gray hair did laps in the water. Flass checked his watch. Two in the morning. The fat man flopped out the pool. Butt ass naked. Thorne dried his hair on a towel and walked over to them. Still sans clothing.

Grogan shook hands with the man and said, "Congressman."

"Captain Grogan."

Grogan looked to Flass. "Congressman, this is Sergeant Flass. Arnold, this is Congressman Rupert Thorne."

They shook hands. Flass kept his eyes from drifting downward. Thorne guided them to the patio. He flopped on a chair. They followed suit. Thorne sprawled and smiled at Flass.

"Captain Grogan has been telling me an awful lot about you, son. He says you have potential."

Two-Gun Jack spat juice in his coffee cup. He winked at Flass, "Arnold here was originally recruited because he looked every bit the part of the mean sum***** he actually is. Turns out he is very adept at reading the streets and playing angles. I think he's ready."

Thorne reached for a wooden box on the table. He pulled out a Cuban cigar and lit it. A looked passed between the two older men. Grogan nodded. His nod mean GO.

Thorne said, "Arnold, do you believe that certain aspects of crime, vices like gambling and prostitution and drugs, are unavoidable and should be allowed to exist in a contained form?"

Flass nodded and shrugged. "Yeah. We can't stop people from doing what they want to do. As long as nobody gets hurt, it's all good."

Thorne and Two-Gun Jack traded looks. Grogan took off his stetson and placed it on the table. He leaned forward. Flass caught whiffs of tobacco. Grogan's tie was tobacco spritzed. His teeth were brown with tobacco juice.

He said, "The three of us are riding the same wavelength. People like the DA see it like we do, but they're worse. They act like they want to change things, but they just want to make cosmetic changes and seek higher office."

Flass picked up brainwaves. He rode a hunch into speculation. DA Porter, "higher office." He implied: The boxing probe. His implication confirmed.

Thorne said, "This investigation Porter is carrying out has the potential to damage a lot of important people who share our common outlook on this city. These people are your gateway to a whole new world, son. If you hitch yourself up to the captain and I, you'll be police commissioner within ten years. After that? Who knows. But before that destination can manifest, the journey must begin. If you share our common interest, Arnold, then we expect you to step up and see that this investigation ends before it can go before a grand jury. Do this for us, Arnold, and you'll be one of us."

Flass scratched his neck. "How?"

Thorne opened up the wooden box. He laid a stack of bills down on the table. C-notes bundled together in five thousand groups. Fifty thousand dollars in cold, hard cash.

Grogan spat tobacco into his cup and said, "Be creative."

*****​

The Gotham Arms
3:50 AM


Scotty Lees dug into his nose and watched cartoons. He sat on the bed and gaped at the TV. Flass sat on the other bed and chained-smoked. Night work here, guarding Scotty from anybody who would do him harm. Fifty grand stashed in the truck of his car assured he would be the one doing the harm. Thorne laid out the details. Goodnight Garcia would play ball once Scotty Lees was dealt with. Robert "Scotty" Lees, a pale as **** heavyweight with bright red hair. The Glasgow Gouger had a record of 46-5-2. He had mush for brains and brayed like a donkey.

Bugs Bunny walked across the screen in drag. Scotty hee-hawed and ate the boogers from his nose. Flass stubbed his fifth cigarette out and stood. He peaked into the room next door. There's Goodbye Garcia sleeping his ass off. His bodyguard Officer Tommy Burke ditto. They snored in sync. Flass closed the door softly and turned off the television.

Lees said, "Aww... why'd ye stop it?"

"We need to talk, Scotty. Answer a few questions for me?"

"I can try, Mr. Flass."

"What year is it, Scotty?"

Scotty made a face. It looked like somebody asked him to do advanced trig.

"I... 200... 2005?"

"What did you have for dinner tonight?"

"I... I don't remember."

"Who won when you boxed Chilli Rodriguez?"

His eyes lit up. He said, "I did. It was by majority decision. Chilli had a hell of a left cross, but I got underneath it and managed to go the distance with him. Nobody can beat me when I get my jabs working."

"Quick, Scotty, what's twenty-four times twelve?"

His eyes stayed bright. "Two hundred and eighty-eighty. See, some stuff I don't know good... but I got a talent for names and numbers. It's why I used to run bets for Frankie Momo and Mr. Thorne."

Flass cursed. He shook his head. He sighed and cracked his knuckles.

"Come here, Scotty. I need to show you something."

Scotty stood and walked over. Flass guided him to the window. Sixth story looking down. Flass pushed him hard against the wall. He banged Scotty's forehead into the plaster. His eyes went cross. He went loopy. He babbled incoherently. Flass shoved him hard into the window. Scotty broke glass. He fell out the window screaming. Two seconds and then a loud crash. Flass looked out. Scotty's broken body on top of a parked car.

*****​

Dutch Hill
4:23 AM

Jim polished off his bottle of gin on the way to the crime scene. He swilled Listerine to help cover up the smell. He chewed gum to hide his booze breath. Rolling to the southside of the city in an unmarked. His notebook and crime scene equipment in the passenger seat.

Second straight month working the graveyard shift. Nights tapped him out. The work tapped him out. His career stalled out at sergeant. Five straight lieutenant's exams, five straight times scoring at the top of the list, five straight times he was passed over. He had a reputation as a lush and someone with a hard-on for the rules. They could handle promoting a drunk to LT, but not a tight ass. He worked midnight to eight and paid a sitter to watch Barbara while she slept. He was getting grief from his ex-wife. She'd left him years ago and never looked back. Now she was talking with him through a lawyer conduit, threatening to challenge him for full custody of Barbara. Just one more problem on the pile.

The current call he was on came into the Homicide pen twenty minutes earlier. He and Slam played rock paper scissors to decide who went. Jim pulled scissors, Slam pulled rock. Jim flipped him off and got his gear. He drove at a steady pace and no lights. It was a code 7, probable jumper. No rush on a suicide. He hit the brakes when he saw blue lights.

Three prowl cars parked in a semi-circle around the Gotham Arms. Flashing lights and crime scene tape. Jim got his gear and notebook and walked towards the tape. He flashed his badge to the uniform on sentry duty and identified himself: Sergeant Gordon, Homicide.

Jim stepped on the scene and went to work with the layout and details. The DB: sprawled out on top of a car. A broken window six stories up. The body a white man, his pale skin all cut up and bloody from the impact with the car. Someone loomed close by. Jim turned. A big man with blonde hair eye-balled him. He had a good five inches on Jim.

"You the homicide dick?"

Jim said, "Yeah." They shook hands. "Sergeant Jim Gordon."

"Sergeant Arnold Flass. I'm with the gang squad."

Flass shook his head and looked down at Jim.

"I did this..."

Jim looked at Flass. "What's that?"

Flass' hands shook. He swallowed loudly. "I was supposed to be protecting him and... I... he... just jumped."

Jim scowled. He sat his case down. He opened his notebook and got out a pen.

"Who exactly was he?"

 

​

[BLACKOUT]

Marc Spector - Blade of Vengeance ​

[/BLACKOUT]

Spector downed another glass - ironically neat, since it was his intention to get to a state where he was anything but - and dropped the glass on the bar a little harder than expected.

He looked around the bar and spied the mens room across the way. Could have been on the other side of town for the state that he was in. But when you consume as much as he had, it was no longer something you could put off. Nature calls, as is natural.

Spector pushed himself up off the stool and staggered across the floor. His legs getting increasingly steady underneath him as he started moving. He leant against the door and let his weight swing it open.

He'd been in war zones in no less than a dozen countries. Witness carnage and bodies strewn battered and bleeding in the most unflattering of positions and witnessed war atrocities himself... still, few things compared to the heinous nature of that bathroom. Two urinals, three stalls, and a god foresaken mess of waste that offended both the eyes and nose (so pungent was it, that it could even haunt taste). Fecal matter smeared above the urinal wall, and a stream of piss running between the two. Presumedly some drunk walked in seeing double, saw 4 piss-pots and picked the wrong one.

Spector walked past the urinals and checked the first stall.

Nope. Just no. I know things have seemed overly descriptive so far, so we'll spare you these gruesome details and just move on...

The third stall had it's door ajar, Spector peeked inside and whilst it was an improvement from what he'd seen so far, he swiftly decided to try his luck with door number 2.

...and that was when the man pushed past him.

Early-thirties. Well-built. Carried himself with a sense of confidence, if not completely indecent in manner. The man pushed past Spector and hurried into the free stall 2.

Spector stood in stunned silence, trying to gather himself and control his temper. He paced the bathroom for a few metres, part in agitation, part to hold back the stream. He looked in the mirror, risking countless disease by laying his hands on the bathroom counter-top, a crease had appeared on his forehead. Tension given physical form. He sucked it up. Took control. And looked at the stall through the mirror.

Shoe soles. He could see shoe soles facing out towards the door.

The guy's a coke head. He thought to himself. He pushed through just to do a line or two off the damn seat.

Calm down. Control yourself. OK, the guy's an *******. When he comes out, you just mention how he cut in, guy's probably so hopped up he didn't even realize what he did...

The stall swung open.

[BLACKOUT]"Hey!"[/BLACKOUT] called Spector.

He saw a flash of terror cross the man's eyes. Not fear of a physical threat, rather, like he'd just been exposed. The man gathered himself quickly and through a heavy right hand at Marc.

Marc was drunk... but not that drunk. With increased focus from the adrenaline rush (along with the numerous chemical and other properties that flowed through him from past "handlers") enough booze to fell a dozen men burnt through him in seconds. He caught the man's right, and seeing a curved blade flash towards his throat booted the man in the chest.

The back of the man's head cracked against the bathroom tiles next to the blow dryer, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Spector had effectively caved the man's chest in, shattering several ribs with the initial kick.

Spector stood back in shock from the adrenaline surge. He checked the entrance; nothing. No one could hear what happened over the noise in the bar. He looked back at the crumpled mass under the hand dryer.

[BLACKOUT]"Why!?"[/BLACKOUT] he barked, with a hoarse voice that was barely his. [BLACKOUT]"Why did you swing at me!?! Why did you make me do this?!?"[/BLACKOUT]

Again. He'd have to run, again.

But first... no use running with a full bladder.

Spector stepped into the clean second stall and closed the door behind himself. He sat on the seat with his head in his hands in exasperation. His eyes looked out as his open hand raked down his face.

And that's when he saw it.

A flicker of light reflecting off the metal of the door's hinge.

Marc turned around and looked at the cause. A reflection... of a small holographic light show that was taking place just behind him.

A man in distinctive uniform was talking. Short, clipped, muted sentence segments. He was an officer of some kind, delivering orders... a briefing, perhaps? Marc knelt down in the stall to get a better look and the damp on his knees left him instantly regretting not thinking it through.

The soles of the man's shoes under the door now made sense. But how the hell did he listen to the message?

Spector started to tap the sides of the toilet in desperation. There couldn't be long left to the message. Finally, he found it; a pair of earbuds on a retracting cable from behind the toilet bowl. From the general state of the bathroom, didn't look like there'd have been any threat of a cleaner uncovering anything they shouldn't. He hurriedly thrust the headphones in his ears.

"...the Basilisk Fang! To hear this message again, please half-flush. To destroy the message, please full-flush."

Spector beathed deep and hit the half-flush, beneath the lid the water gurgled and spiralled.

Down the rabbit hole Spector went.

 

"Ngh."

The armor in the cowl holds, but the impact of Joker's attack hits me hard enough to knock my body off balance. Whether he noticed the open seam in the costume or not, the clown managed to re-open my knife wound from earlier in the evening. He confirmed as much whenever he withdrew the plank tipped with blood. I tried to reach out and grab him before he could take his second swing, but the shock of the wound gushing out left me too disoriented. The force of the second strike leaves me dazed, struggling to maintain my composure. It's all but outright evidence to the fact that I was a fool to come straight here in my condition. Should've called in one of my contacts in GCPD, the League - anyone to assist Robin. But no, I had to go it alone. Wouldn't let my damn pride let it go, and now the fight's left me considerably worse off than I was before.

"Robin..."

I try and warn him not to attack, but the words don't come out. He wouldn't have heard me regardless. So he takes Joker on himself - and yet to my surprise, he actually manages to hold his own for the moment. I hadn't counted on Dick's natural acrobatic prowess to be too much for The Joker to handle. Truth be told, I'd never even considered utilizing Robin's strengths as a fighter to give me an advantage against him. I was too blinded by my desire to see Joker finally apprehended to ever even factor my own partner into any countermeasures for the clown's eventual return. Not that any of them would have mattered, tonight, given all that's happened.

Need to figure out how to put a stop to this. Robin's a capable fighter, but he still wasn't able to put down the accomplice to all this...

[BLACKOUT]"Look alive, Batso!"[/BLACKOUT]

Before I can react, the woman calling herself Harley Quinn lunges herself atop my shoulders, wrapping her legs around my throat and beating several wild haymakers directly into my skull. Even with all I've learned, it takes me off guard enough to extend her the advantage. She starts screaming at me in words I can barely make out, given the ringing in my ears. Something about "leaving her guy alone" and "messing with her"... pudding?

[BLACKOUT]"Ya think ya can just come in here and start wreckin' our big homecomin'?! This was a'posed be mine and Mistah J's big moment in the spotlight, and you two bozos weren't invited! Now get outta here and take your mini-me with ya, you big ugly Dracula fetishist piece'a..."[/BLACKOUT]

Before she can finish, I finally manage to get ahold of my bearings long enough to reach up and grab her, violently, by the throat. She tries to struggle, but it's in vain, as I tumble forward and launch her directly into a nearby Whack-A-Flash gaming stand. As she recovers upon my approach, it suddenly occurs to me that I'd never even considered what demented sort of brainwashing must have occurred to get her to follow Joker so loyally. He's employed henchmen before with a variety of clown motifs, but never anything like this.

"Miss, I don't know what he's done to convince you of any of this, but you have to know he's manipulating you. I'm giving you one chance to surrender."

She looks at me, practically insulted by my insinuation. Then grits her teeth with a combination of anger and hysteria that I've never even seen. Unbeknownst to me, in her attempts to recuperate, she had managed to grab ahold of the oversized prop mallet used to bash in the toy likenesses of the Scarlet Avenger. With a ferocity that I can only guess is fueled by a misguided sense of passion for the maniac, she comes at me with the mallet flailing directly upwards and over her head.

Somehow, I knew it wasn't going to be that simple. A simple lopsided crane kick is enough to knock her completely off momentum - and use it against her in the process.



"Your choice."

With Harley Quinn momentarily incapacitated, I turn back towards the fight between Joker and Robin. The boy's still doing admirably, but I dread what's to come. I can already see the gears turning in that deranged mind of Gotham's self-proclaimed Clown Prince. If I don't intervene soon and end this madness once and for all, they're either going to escape or the police are going to intervene - and despite my standing with a few, nothing would make Commissioner Essen happier than to be able to claim she captured The Joker and The Batman on the same night.

"Robin, brace yourself!", I call out, preparing two smoke pellets from my belt. "Attack formation seven-zero!"

He knows what that means. Gas-masks at the ready, nightvision on. Crowd dispersal tactics that would be particularly useful in giving us the edge.

We're ending this now.

 

The pain shoots through The Joker's body and up into his chest. He groans and feels it coming in waves, rolling over onto his side. He's going to be...

"BLEEEEEUUUURGHHH!"

The Joker threw up, splashing vomit over Robin's boots and tights.

"HAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh... don't make me laugh. Hurts when I laugh... HAHAHAHAHA!"

The Joker looked up and saw Batman readying some smoke pellets.

"Oh goodie, I have a couple of those, too..."

From the inside of his sleeve, The Joker produced a couple of pellets containing his laughing gas, and smashed them on the ground. He was immune, but he withdrew a gas mask from his pocket and clamped it over Harley Quinn's face, dragging to her feet. It was time to make a getaway. With the gas headed towards the crowd of police and onlookers, he pulled Harley in the opposite direction.

 

​

Harley's heart fluttered as The Joker's arms picked her up with ease.

[BLACKOUT]"So masculine, so chilvarious."[/BLACKOUT]

His simple touch made her warm in her panties. This was a real man, this was the man she was going to change the world with.

She stuck both her thumbs in her ears, and stuck her tongue out at Batman and Robin as her Knight in Purple Cotton dragged her away.

[BLACKOUT]"Smell ya later, saps."[/BLACKOUT]

 

​

Robin secured his gas mask to his face, making sure it fit perfectly snug. He was all but certain whatever it was the Joker had just unleashed wasn't as harmless as the simple smoke pellet he held in his hand.

He took a few quick glances around. The GCPD had secured the immediate area and set up a barricade, but of course there were the rubber necks that stuck around trying to get whatever view they could of the action. If sex did indeed sell, then death and destruction was money in the bank.

The wind was always unusually active coming off the Gotham River, and it was carrying the purple cloud at a very good pace toward the police line. And of course, everyone was more curious to see what was rolling their way rather than worrying about getting out of the way.

A hundred or so innocents, or two crazy clowns?

The Boy Wonder took off toward the line of police cars.

"Everyone get outta here! Get out of the way! GO! GO!"

"Look, it's Robin!"

"He's actually coming over here!"

"Can I get your autograph!"

"Are you people crazy! That's a poison cloud coming your way."

In all honesty, he had no idea if it was poisonous or not. But, judging by Batman's reaction to the Joker, along with the dead bodies on the news sporting near identical grins, he was pretty confident making the assumption.

"On the ground now! Hands in the air."

Three of Gotham's finest approached the young sidekick, weapons raised. He took a split second to glance at the light haze dispersing in their direction. A minute tops, maybe.

"Seriously guys? These people are in danger."

"I said on the ground! The only danger I see right now--"

*POP* *POP* *HHHHHSSSSSSSSSSS*

Robin burst the two capsules that had been in his hand against the ground, sending up a burst of thick, gray smoke. With the night vision in his lenses, he could still see the world around him perfectly. The officers had pulled their guns back, covering their faces with their sleeves. He could sense a mild panic wash over the crowd gathered behind the parked squad cars.

"He's attacking us?!"

"Freaking costumed nutball."

"Gettin' outta here."

It wasn't going to do anything for his public image, but it got the job done. Such a close, direct attack instilled enough fear to get people moving out of the way.

He turned and moved the opposite direction through the smoke, lest some hot shot cop decide to take matters into his own hands and open fire.

"So, I uh, bought us a little breathing room. No pun intented. Now what is this purple crap?"

 

The Vibranium Mines, Wakanda

Under the merciless African sun, the grass was drying to a crisp, the men were sweating as pigs, the pigs sweat as rivers. What few human footprints could be seen were immortalized in the dried clay, solidifying as though it were cement.

Crouching in the grasses of Wakanda's savanna, a hunter watched his prey. Beyond the savage boars and the ferocious lions, the natives were blocking the entrance to the caves holding the country's most natural resource: vibranium. Getting as far as he had was a tactical nightmare, the squad was almost emptied at several points while getting into the most technologically advanced, yet ironically undeveloped, country in the world. But Floyd supposed that is why the Squad was so valuable, it was completely expendable.

"Everyone present?"

"Indeed," the chilling voice of Count Vertigo invaded their listening ears, remaining in their attention as a vampire's would.

"Boomerang, comin' atcha," Fred Myers, the deadly outback assassin chimed in.

"Good, let's go," Deadshot finalized as he maneuvered his cursor over the heart of a statuesque guard.

The African fell back, his companion shocked to see his blood hanging in the air before puddling on top of him. At once, the second guard ducked, placing his finger on his ear as he hid behind the tall dry grasses to radio for help, his dying companion did the same but could not produce the least intelligible word, instead he gurgled into his headset. The living guard had been too slow in choosing his words, all the listeners heard was a cartoonish 'donk' as a boomerang bounced off his skull.

Count Vertigo spread his cape and soared across the grasses, entering through the narrow mouth of the cave. Vertigo saw a purple glow emenating from deep within, shining against the cave walls. Turning from the temptation to weigh himself down, Vertigo instead emptied his load against the walls, setting bricks of remote activated explosives against the walls at several depths, intending to cause a huge, compounded cave-in.

"On my way out," he announced as his magnetically powered boots swept him along.

"Prepare for company," Deadshot warned, he and Boomerang facing an incoming troop of Wakandan soldiers arriving on the back of a domesticated rhinocerous, trained to act as transport in the highwayless country. As the Count emerged, Floyd clicked a button that activated the explosive's reciever, flooding the mine's entrance with stone, also removing it as an option for retreat.

"Waller wants no witnesses on this job."

The national guardsman dismounted the rhinocerous, hiding behind it as it reflexively turned sideways, transforming into a wall to provide instant cover as the guardsmen readied themselves. One, wearing dreadlocks, brandished his spear and rolled out from behind the beast, drawing Deadshot's fire while Boomerang wildly pitched his weapons to make contact with, or smoke out, the guardsmen on the other side. The Wakandans were too well oriented to be eliminated that way. Not one of the ranged attacks met their mark, not until the Vertigo factor derailed their coordination. Then it took three seconds for the mighty to fall, the rhinocerous toppled over and crushed its masters.

Finally, the decoy had been dealt death by the mechanically perfect arm of Floyd Lawton.

*******​

The Throne Room
Ten Minutes Later

The personal quarters for the head of Wakandan state were simply designed, as they had been for centuries. Large, stone-etched panther shaped pillars stood sentinel while supporting the weight of the African palace. With its back facing a shrine dedicated to Bast, the throne of the Black Panther faced the entry hall to the royal chambers. All along the entryway, the deadly dora milaje had the ability, and the authority, to behead almost any forbidden ones intent on seeing the king.

"Lord T'Challa," huffed a messenger approaching the throne, swiping the sweat off of his forehead as he gathered his composure. "There has been a breach of security, two national guardsmen were found dead at their posts outside the mines. The tunnels themselves are collapsed and the rhinocerous reinforcement deployments were executed as well."

"And who are the instigators?" the king asked, immediately reaching for his spear and standing upright.

The messenger was technically silent initially. But the Markovian signet ring presented in a case howled a declaration of war. The king's sour face motivated the courier to relay the verbal message.

"T'Challa T'Chaka of Wakanda," he began, taking a deep and heavy gulp, finding it strenuous to breath in for the next line, "the sovereign nation of Markovia has..." He mumbled through the phrase "every intention of conquering Wakanda.." before catching his breath. "..in retaliation for the assistance you offered to the invading forces destroying Markopolis. This is an informal warning issued as a means of signifying the last favor born of our friendship."

"Very well, then this is war. Were there any workers inside the mines?"

"Not today, sir. However, several other mine entrances have been collapsed, all but one actually, with similar slaughters at every turn."

"Then order a full retreat! I will investigate and put a stop to this. Not a single man more should step foot toward the mines. You, see to it that our Markovian ambassador has audience with Brion Markov at once. Make it clear Wakanda had no sanctioned involvement in such an invasion!"

Rising out of the throne, King T'Challa summoned his personal jet to deliver him to the vicinity of the mines.

*******​

Not a single living being stood in the fields outside the mines. Several dozen dead servicemen lay bloodied in the foliage, but no one alive. No one claimed responsibility for the attack.

On the spot, T'Challa found bullet wounds and several small blunt injuries as cause of most deaths. Only so many agencies would dare perform such a strike against Wakanda, and only a select few of them would not digitally document even highly encrypted records. But only one of those agencies had a motive.

Task Force X.

The reasoning was sound, America wanted to cripple Wakanda as punishment for the Outsiders continued unity. Despite the fact that this would still not affect Wakanda in the long term, thanks to ultra effective ways to reopen the mines that Americans would likely not discover or be able to counteract, they would not succeed. Closing the vibranium mines was like a child biting an adult. Painful? A bit. Lethal? Highly unlikely.

 

The Joker's arm still dangled lifelessly by his side, after being popped out of its socket by Batman.

"Harley, dear, I need a favor."

With his good arm, he gripped onto a lamppost.

"Grab onto my arm, and pull as hard as you can until you hear a click and I start screaming."

 

"In a word? Trouble."



Over the years, The Joker's employed a variety of different toxins, vaporized chemicals, and experimental irritants to dissuade law enforcement - not to mention me - whenever they get too close. He's taken to calling it his "happy gas", though the media has decidedly chosen to credit it as a Joker Toxin. Not exactly a subtle description, but far from inaccurate. In some of the more extreme cases of exposure, the victim was left in a state of induced hysterics just before their system eventually shut down. From what I've been able to study, it acts as a nerve gas in the way that it seethes it's way into the pores of the skin, altering the brain's natural chemical output to suppress fits of laughter in order to amplify the opposite result while all other motor function altogether ceases - the victim literally laughs themselves to death.

It's an especially sick method of attack, and one that The Joker's seemingly perfected. Whether that makes him a brilliant chemist or someone who's very good at intimidating one into producing such a chemical is beyond me. What I do know is that the longer it remains airborne in a crowded area, the risk of another innocent's death remains frighteningly high. Even though it takes every part of my mind to focus on the gas and not the fact that Joker obviously used it as a means of a quick escape - again - I fire my grapnel line towards a nearby rooftop and prompt Robin to follow.

"We need to clear the area. That means us, too. You're not dressed for hazmat proceedures."

Once we ascend past the fog of purple currently coating the entire fairgrounds in a twisted smog, I immediately re-open the communications line back to The Batcave. I've dealt with situations like these before - notably, when the GCPD used to try and employ tear gas against me in the early days. There's a method of dispersal that always seemed to prove at least somewhat effective, if not a bit unusual.

"Alfred. I assume you've been watching the news."

"As engaging as your usual exploits are, sir, I have indeed. You'll be delighted to know that I've rerouted satellite coverage over the area to prevent any news cameras or helicopters from getting a clear shot of either you or Master Richard in action."

"We have a more immediate problem,", I begin. "Joker's set off a chemical attack in the middle of the Riverwalk. We're fine, but it's heading directly for a crowd of onlookers. It needs to be contained."

"My word. Perhaps now would be a good time to employ some method of high-powered suction?"

A small smirk arises beneath the gas mask. "You read my mind. I need you to remotely guide the car to us. And Robin's Batcycle, if it's still in the area."

"Consider it done, Master Bruce."

Within seconds, the crowd - not to mention Robin and I - hear the distinct roar of an oncoming vehicle tear down a nearby alleyway. Most of them start running at the sound of that alone, given how primal and non-mechanical it seems. But eventually they all start running in several directions once they get a look at the giant black missile barreling towards them, smashing it's way through police barricades over the area with ease. Even after all these years and constant, painstaking upgrades implemented on the original design, it's still never quite something I can get used to seeing. In terms of automotive ingenuity, The Batmobile is truly one of a kind.

​

"I believe both vehicles are now in the suitable range for active voice commands. Good luck, sir."

Spotting The Batcycle as it assumes position at the other end of the pier, I raise my gauntlet and activate the topside tablet navigation control. The touchscreen flickers to life immediately, allowing me to choose the voice command function. Both The Batmobile and Dick's cycle are now directly on the opposite ends of the containment area.

"90-degree turn. Batmobile, northeast. Batcycle, southwest."

All six tires screech across the pavement as their onboard systems comply with the request and drift into the corresponding positions. Maneuvering through the list of commands being fed to me through the Batcomputer, I select the afterburner controls for both vehicles, carefully making sure I haven't chosen The Batwing or Batboat by mistake.

"Engage atomic batteries to power. On my command, turbines to speed."

Once I see both afterburners engage, I manually select the robotics inside to revert - effectively reversing the blast. As everything comes into place, I remove several tear gas pellets from the back of my utility belt and hold them at the ready. Need something to counteract the toxin's cloud so that there's no trace of it to interact with the channels leading into Dini Reservoir.

"Emergency brakes, engage! Divert power to thrust!"

​

To my relief, the effect of this unravels exactly as intended. With both The Batmobile and The Batcycle firing out a reverse thrust of air on opposite ends of the Riverwalk at full blast, the force of the air tunnel creates a makeshift vacuum of suction to redirect the trajectory of the gas. As the suction forces the cloud to become centered, I toss out the tear gas pellets and watch as they explode inside, overtaking the residual Joker Toxin.

"Now to dissipate the cloud..."

Circulating through the commands I just implemented, I now re-activate the standard afterburners on both vehicles. The robotics shift the pulse in the opposite direction and fire off a large blast of controlled flames on each side of the Riverwalk, burning through the now mixed combination of my tear gas with Joker's toxin with relative ease. What isn't immediately rendered flammable - therefore, useless to The Joker's means - quickly disappears into the air above us.

"Power down."

I breathe a heavy sigh of relief, removing the rebreather over my face. Robin does the same, per my nod to give him the go-ahead. We've effectively just avoided a potential catastrophe that would have killed nearly fifty or more innocent bystanders, not to mention a few police officers along the way. And yet despite all this, I keep scanning the crowd in vain for any sign - any sign whatsoever - of The Joker or Harley Quinn.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Damn him.

"Alfred, send an anonymous tip to GCPD. They're going to need to send a hazmat crew and EMTs to see to the individuals in the crowd."

I turn towards Dick, who's smartly covering his exposed arms with the protective lining inside his costume's cape. He's going to need a chemical shower whenever we get back to The Batcave, but I think he'll be fine.

"You're with me. Place the Batcycle in the trunk of the car."

Leaping off the building, I spread my cape and land with a glide, heading to The Batmobile.

"We need to talk."

 

​

Part III –

“Approaching Planet Moltar,” Jayce announces.

​

The Phantom Cruiser glides through space. It moves so delicately for a craft as deadly as it is. I keep the ship cloaked when I travel through space. The void gives a guise of anonymity to anything passing through it already. Couple that with the capability for invisibility and the chances of anyone noticing my presence is almost a statistical impossibility.

I have Jan to thank for this. I was stranded on a distant world by Tower, my former commander in the Eidolon Police force for trying to report the illegal activities of his special ops group, the Wraith, to government officials. While he left me for dead on that floating rock, neither of us knew there was a mechanism of redemption for me there. I met a man, a tinkerer, known as Solomon. A skilled technician and engineer with a knack for inventing the widest array of advanced technology I’ve ever seen. He saved me. Rehabilitated me. Gave me hope.

I wish I could’ve done the same for him.

But time is a cruel beast, and death an impatient one. Before his death he gave me the gauntlets, the source of my power, I wear proudly on my arms. While he gave me the basics, it took me years to learn the diversity of their capabilities. It wasn’t until I found Jan that I truly began to learn how incredible they really were.

Her home world bred a powerful advanced race of humanoids. She had an intellect I’d never witnessed before – even at only 12 years of age. I showed her the gauntlets and she took them apart. Analyzing every circuit and component thoroughly. Not only was she able to explain to me their potential, but she reverse engineered the cloaking technology. She helped me build a larger version of the machinery and install it into the Phantom Cruiser. She even developed a smaller, more compact version of my gauntlet for her own use; a single bracelet no wider than two finger’s width. She’s an incredible person.

Jayce has his own gifts as well. Enhanced strength and stamina – I hate to admit, but I think he’s stronger than I am now.

​

“Tad, look!” Out the windshield we see the stranded vessel floating within Moltar’s gravitational field. “Do we make contact?”

I examine the side of the ship – it’s unmarked. How odd.

“You said the vessel is a registered freighter of the Alliance, right?”
“Yes. Cargo for raw materials and volatile chemicals.”
“Why would a registered Alliance ship be unmarked?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” I ponder, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. “Jan, hack into their communication channel. Check the log and find out their last known communication.” She nods and gets to work on the console in front of her.

The Alliance – a united community consisting of most worlds in our galaxy. Formed for the purpose of perpetuating peace and friendly relations with neighboring systems. Now it’s little more than a bureaucratic market of self-interest. Despite the problems, I recognize the necessity. With dangerous warlord conquers like Zorak, planets must remain united to maintain order and repel would-be dictators. Not to mention the expanse of space is a breeding ground for Space pirates and thieves.

While the Alliance doesn’t approve of vigilantism, they do little to enforce it.

A lucky break for people like me. Still, I prefer to remain as anonymous as possible. A spirit lost in the void; little more than a rumor to the public, and a legend among the evil.

“Why would a cargo ship be out this far anyway?”
“Moltar is rich with fuels and ore. It requires heavy mining under extremely hostile conditions. It’s why the Alliance continually votes down any operations there.”

“What do you suspect, Space Ghost?”
“Seems like someone within the Alliance decided they’d mine Moltar anyway. That would explain why the vessel is unmarked. But judging by the distress call, I’d say things didn’t go as planned.”
“A distress call from a vessel working incognito? Wouldn’t that blow their cover?”
“That’s how we found out about it,” Jan says as her fingers scurry across the visual array.
“I wonder what could’ve happened that was so bad they took the risk of outing themselves?”
“We’re about to find out.” Jan displays the hacked recording on the holograph.
“Play it.”

“zxkz This is Captain Antares Cole of Alliance Cargo Freighter 45-BT7. We were boarded by an unrecognized vessel 2 cycles ago. All attempts to contain the situation have failed. Attendants in the cargo bay haven’t responded to communication attempts since we were boarded. The engine room went dark a half a cyle ago. We suspect the intruders are making their way through the ship with intent to seize. All other staff members have held up here in the cock pit as we wait for assistance. zkxz”

“zxkz Our vessel is carrying large quantities of the highly combustible substance Beta-4-Oxtoanocyclene. If our vessel is taken hostage, it is imperative that no one fires upon our hull. zkxz” A loud bang is heard in the background. A second follows it. The Captain turns his head to the side. Men armed with Sulfonic rifles frantically run behind him out of frame. His head turns back to the screen. “zxkz We will try to repel the intruders for as long as we can. To anyone receiving this message, we require rescue. Repeat – we require rescue. Immediat- zkxz“

The signal cuts off, then ends. Jan turns to me with a look of concern. “I’m going to guess we should expect the worst.”
“Space pirates,” Jayce replies. He slams his fist into his palm excitedly. “This should be fun.”
“Prepare to dock”

​

 

​

Harley nodded. She had had a bit of medical training, mostly first aid, when she first signed on at the old Asylum. Resetting shoulders was tops among that traning.

She grabbed, took a deep breath, and pulled with all her might.

Nothing.

One more time...

And there was the pop, and the scream. Harley's heart ached for this man. His brilliance was misunderstood, and he paid for it by being beat to a pulp by a nut dressed as a bat and his tween ***** in leggings.

The adrenaline was still running high, but the danger had passed. Harley took the opportunity to make a move of her own. She grabbed a handul of the Joker's crotch and leaned in close, her lips mere millimeters from his.

[BLACKOUT]"Would you like me to make this feel better too, Puddin'?"[/BLACKOUT]

 

​

"Redbird."

Batman looked at Robin inquisitively as they landed.

"I renamed it The Redbird. I think it suits me better."

Batman glanced at the trunk of the Batmobile before he turned and headed to the cockpit.

"Yeah, yeah," Robin grumbled, loading the motorcycle into the back before jumping into the passenger seat of the car.

"Yeah I figured we might."

Robin knew he was most likely in for a lecture, and probably rightfully so. He really screwed the pooch, taking his eyes off that Quinn chick, and two cops had paid the price.

Still, he did have a little bit of good news to report. Maybe he could get his side in first and soften the blow a little.

"I got a name on the guy snatching up the young girls. Or, at least, an alias. Some psycho calling himself 'Dollmaker'. And, well, I think I might have a way to find him."

The Boy Wonder glanced at The Dark Knight out of the corner of his eye. Batman didn't try to jump right in, so Robin continued.

"I had a little help tonight roughing up a few of those biker weenies. Kind of a female version of you. Only curvier. Kinda cuter, but not much."

Batman cleared his throat. He was running out of time.

"Sorry. She, uh, well this girl, it turns out that she just so happens being the same girl who I went out on a date with tonight. Barbara Gordon."

He didn't know how Batman would react to the news, or the name Gordon. Only the slightest shifting of his eyes under the lenses.

"I was thinking, maybe, well, she was pretty good tonight. Lot of talent. Maybe, maybe if we bring her in, work together, give her a little bit of training, she's just about the right age, right fit, for the girls being targeted. We get her on the inside, track her to this guy's hideout or whatever, and then the three of us take him out for good."

In all honesty, Robin had just thought of the plan on the fly, but he had impressed himself. He really wanted a way to bring up bringing Barbara into the fold, and having an endgame, using it to do some good, well maybe the old softy occupying the seat beside him would be receptive.

"So--?"

"And the lecture starts in 3--2--1--"

 

James Bond​

Jakarta
2311 Local Time


James Bond walked through the large, smoke filled gambling den and cast a thorough gaze across the room. This was not his first venture into a gaming establishment, but this place was a far cry from the casinos of Monte Carlo. There were plain wooden tables were the games were played, nearly a dozen seats at each table. Roulette, dice, and various card games were being played in a cacophony of foreign tounges and shouts.

Rough looking men stood near the tables and along the edges of the walls. They hadn't searched Bond when he arrived, his Walther P99 still in its holster and tucked down into the small of his back. He thought it curious, but with the security looming everywhere it made sense. As a white man in the room, he didn't necessarily stand out. Men of all skin tones and nationalities were crammed in this room, playing their games of chance. He was just one of many.

FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH

The warning flashed across Bond's left eye. Q's latest toy. A contact lens that held a micro-computer in its thin film. It could act as a heads-up display if Bond activated it. The most interesting thing was the software that was constantly running, matching faces to mugshots and ID photos in the databases of MI6, NATO, Interpol, and some US agencies. Almost anyone with a big enough criminal past would be caught by the software.

The computer caught the side profile of a man playing pai gow poker. He wore a pageboy cap and kept his head down, but enough of his face lay open for the computer to tag him and relay the information to Bond.

NAME: O'BRIEN, JOHN aka JACK
WANTED BY: MI6, MI5, INTERPOL, CIA
CRIMES: MURDER (20), TERRORISM (4), CONSPIRACY (2)

Bond knew the name very well. Jack O'Brien fought for one of the IRA splinter groups in the 90's. He killed twelve people when he bombed a bus in Belfast, another eight when he set a bomb up in London. The man--

FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH

Another one. The man beside him. He--

FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH
FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH
FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH
FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH
FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH
FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH
FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH
FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH
FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH
FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH

The computer kept pinging faces and names to Bond. No matter where he turned his head, he saw men who were wanted across the world. Criminals, terrorists, and murderers all of them. He kept his composure and dismissed all the notifications for now. They were beginning to block his view. He found an empty seat at a table where men played blackjack. Bond bought into the game and collected his thoughts.

There was now no doubt to Six's intelligence on this gambling den. It was not a gambling den, it was a snake's nest filled with some of the most dangerous men on the planet. And Bond had just walked into it willingly.

 

​

A weathered hand lowers the phone onto the receiver. A shaking hand which managed to hold steady even under heavy fire in the great war. Janos Prohaska had seen more than his share of fair scrapes in his 63 years on this earth.

The maths on that statement may not sound right, but they were hardly the most implausible aspect of his life. In a world of Supermen, Starks and spacemonsters a man with a few "lost decades" slipped relatively under the radar for many, and the years removed from the threat of Hitler and his Nazi breathren meant few of the youth today could even relate to a man who'd thrown himself into the line of fire against the greatest evil of the past several generations.

Still, it didn't buy him much when it came to getting balled out by Carol Ferris - the newly crowned Princess of Ferris Air. It probably wouldn't leave such a bad taste in his mouth if it wasn't over a piece of s*** like Andrew Lincoln. Little snot nosed punk was so ignorant he'd even taken Janos' old "Blackhawk" nickname from the war.

Prohaska remembered the day Lincoln announced himself as such in front of all the other pilots and Janos himself. Janos' bristled at the insolence and growled out a "Why?" which he immediately regretted. Lincoln said he was from Chicago and thought the name of their pro-hockey team was - quote - "cool" - end quote. Staring into the face of complete ignorance Prohaska found himself so flustered and angered by the disrespect he couldn't even formulate a coherent response.

And now this little peckerwood had gone and lost one of the most expensive and progressive experimental jets the company had created in the last decade; the X-77. He'd taken it over "dark" airspace over Bangalla against traffic control orders and hadn't been heard from since.

He'd probably crashed the god damned thing too. GPS had hung up near that radio dark spot and had only provided patchy response at best. Janos had raised concerns about letting someone like Lincoln test the jet in the first place - he'd suggested calling in a specialist pilot from back at Ferris main center in Coast City. Carrol Ferris had refused to let the local hotshot test pilot go though and suggested Lincoln, who like Jordan had the reputation of being brash and fearless, but with an ego that far surpassed his abilities and an attitude that was caustic at best.

The problem with being renowned in your field and only taking orders from the very top, as Prohaska did? You can never give an "I told you so". Your career has built up too much to piss it away from some words out of place to a little girl who's over-her-head running Daddy's company, as Prohaska was sure Ms Carol was. God forbid you ever suggest it, let alone say it, in this feminist era though. The wolves would eat you alive. He'd be told the world had left him behind. Called a relic.

And the scary thing was... he wasn't sure they'd be wrong. So much of this world had seemed strange or outright wrong ever since he'd come back.

He looked up at his wall, where his replica of Captain America's shield, made of Pittsburgh steel and shaped like an actual shield - not that round Wakandium thing he flings around - gave him the confidence to swallow his pride and keep the phone on it's receiver. He wouldn't gave Carl Ferris' little girl a piece of his mind today.

He had a jet to find and a man down somewhere.

Even if that man was a dips***. Blackhawk's code. No man left behind.

He spat in the small office bin in disgust in realization that he referred to Lincoln as a Blackhawk.

* * * * *​

The Beach of Keela Wee

The Phantom dropped from the saddle, Hero brayed and Devil looked up at his master from the side of the body that had washed ashore. Not entirely dissimilar from how his great ancestor, the first Phantom, had washed ashore, the victim of pirates... albeit with considerably less holes in his person.

With keen eyes the 21st Phantom spied the jet resting out on the coral wall and looked grim.

Here was a situation that would take a deft touch.

The local couple who had sent the original message, a pair who were awaiting their upcoming wedding on this very beach rushed to the Phantom's side.

<"Strange bird sounded hurt, flew around in circle. We sent for you in fear that foreign devils were looking to thieve from the sacred beach. It doesn't seem he could steal now. No love in his heart?"> the young local said, referring to the old jungle saying.

The Phantom was deep in thought. <"Phantom can't do anything for foreign devil now."> He used the same term the locals were familiar with. <"I need word sent back to Bandar. Find the drummers and send this...">

The Phantom thoughtfully described his message and the couple listened on attentively. It would take perfect execution and quick work, but if those closest to him could be trusted to play their part perfectly this worrying situation could be resolved.

As the couple ran back along the beach to deliver his message to the drummers once more, The Phantom removed his boots and gun belt and tied Hero's reins to his saddle.

If this place would remain sacred and protected, it would take perfect faith in those closest to him. Hero would doubtless faithfully remain on the beach, here's hoping everyone else could be as faithful.

The Phantom waded into the surf and started to swim to the jet and the coral wall.