World Of Legends: The New DC RPG -- Season I

[Hound55]

Money - Part 2​

​

...So it's around this time I should probably get to explaining the good ol' Synchronicity highway. Followed by that time where the person I'm explaining it to accuses me of taking the piss and that I should sod off or some profane equivalent.

First of all, let me give you a crash course in the way the world works, magick, the physical world, whatever...

"Nothing comes free."

Crash course over.

You learn that one and you're ahead of the game over about 95 percent of the people in my line of work. Incredibly simple rule, but you'd be surprised how many get tripped up over it.

A charm, an amulet, curses, just basic ancient mystic disciplines... any and all of it. There's a cost for all of it. In physics - action / equal and opposite reaction. Just how things go. And just like financial investments the bigger the reward... generally the risk is a hefty kick in the bollocks. Then you have smaller magick, tends to have a lesser price or cost.

It's part of the reason I take the airliner and the 8 hour hit of Silk cut deprivation over... other means.

Doesn't mean I don't question my decision to do so each and every time. My lungs are bastards and don't deserve fresh air. If you knew me better you wouldn't disagree.

But anyway, synchronicity... Imagine the whole universe is attuned to a frequency. Actions, consequences, the lot. There are certain people in this world - and many of them aren't even consciously aware of it - who have a subconscious attachment to that frequency. And as such, their subconscious (many of whom mistake with their "instincts" or "gut", but a rose by any other name I guess...) will occasionally kick in and steer them out of horrible situations and towards better outcomes.

Know that one lucky guy who seems to just always land on his feet and tends to unexplainably have good things happen to him.

Then you have me. I can tap into that consciously. Comes in handy for a guy like me without a steady job, also comes in handy for being in the right place at the right time to meet the right person.

Lot of people call me a lucky bastard, but frankly it ceases to be luck when you have a say in the matter...

...what was that? "Well how does that tie in to what you just said about 'Nothing comes free' if you can just make your own luck?"

Oh mate, out of every kind of magick out there that one's about the least free that you could imagine.

The biggest tragedy of 'em all. For that one, you gotta be me.

But I digress...

* * * * *​

The cab rolls out of the traffic in the Novick Tunnel to the relatively light traffic of inner city Gotham as we rumble through the City Hall District. Long time ago this whole city was rocked to the core by an earthquake, reportedly the whole city descended into anarchy. Frankly, to someone who'd never visited this city before, you might suspect it never improved.

John Constantine was not one such person. This city had it's share of masked protectors, and while it may not have a Superman or even a Green Lantern, when night fell most of the more questionable citizens got off the streets pretty quick, particularly when the police commissioner liked to play with his torch on the top of Gotham P.D. headquarters. The one with the cracked lens which they had just never seemed to get repaired.

The cab crept on and finally hit the park.

"This'll do." John called from the back.

The man in the tan trenchcoat handed over the readies and the "extra twenty" in the form of a folded over ten and stepped out into the balmy Gotham air. Simple con, not really necessary but it never hurts to keep your hand in. He started his leisurely stroll through the park, and it wasn't long before...

"Hold it there, f*****!"

John slowly turned around and came face to face with three muggers, a man with a small handgun, another with a switchblade and a third with a hand inside his jacket pocket.

"Oh, wonderful. The local colour. No idea you were such fans of the three stooges. Clearly we have Moe here with the gun. Larry; and your fetching switchblade. And Curly... what've you got in there, Curly? Not saying? Well aren't you just the wild card?"

"Shut the f*** up! Put your wallet on the ground and walk away old man."

A dark smirk crossed John's face.

"Not until Curly tells me what he's got under there."

"Enough of this 'Curly' ****. Put your wallet on the ground or bleed out." 'Larry' growled, thrusting his switchblade through the air.

"Hey, Chief. No need for rudeness. I just asked politely. I just want to know what Curly's got under there."

"Who gives a f***." 'Moe growled. "I've got a piece, and he's got a blade and you're about to have a bunch of holes..."

"See, now I was asking politely for my benefit, but something tells me she's more assertive with her interrogation techniques..."

"Wha--"

Just then a woman in black tie, jacket and fedora burst out of the shadows of greenery and kicked the gun clear from 'Moe's hand. A clenched fist dropped 'Larry' like a bag of potatoes, before a spinning kick sent 'Curly' into the bushes. With the gun out of the picture, she now had time to take care of 'Moe' more thoroughly.

John Constantine took the opportunity to sort out 'Curly' on the ground.

"Huh. So, a steel bar. Next time you should probably just come out with it. You're lucky she popped you one instead. Me... I'm a nasty piece of work, chief, ask anybody." He knocked Curly out himself with a solid punch and then stretched his fingers out and shook his fist, wincing from the pain.

"Is that so?" the woman said, having rendered 'Moe' unconscious on the park lane.

"Bloody hell!" John stepped back, shocked. "What happened to your face?"

Renee Montoya, smirked back from behind her pseudoderm mask.

"I didn't feel like making it up today."

With a chuckle, John clarified himself.

"I wasn't talking about what's not on your face. I'm more interested in that bloody great scar. And now I'm wondering what you went and did to get yourself branded with the Mark of Cain."

This time it was The Question's turn to be shocked. He felt her face, unable to believe that the mark had somehow shone through. It shouldn't be, she'd long learned a technique from Richard Dragon himself to ward the mark's visual effect off. While it took concentration, she'd long since mastered it to a point where she could hide the mark with little effort.

Which meant the reason why this man could see the mark - and the fact that he recognized what it was - was something else entirely...

"Good question..."

 

[Byrd Man]

Fortunate Son
Part II:
The Bowery Boys


“Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

-- Emma Lazarus​

Gotham City
July 2nd, 1888



Jonah Hex smoked a cigarillo while he and Eliot Kane rode in the back of the rich man's personal coach and buggy, pulled by a great big cart-horse. Hex blew smoke out the open window and watched the street as they passed by. There were plenty of people out and about in the early evening. The hot July night was humid to the point of being unbearable, and being inside made it worse. At least outside there was the faint hope of a wayward breeze. Hex had only been in Gotham for a little over a day and he was already tired of seeing so many people all together. They looked like cattle herded up in a pen, all waiting to head to the slaughterhouse. He exhaled smoke and ruminated on that last part, figuring that all life was a long wait for the inevitable slaughter.

"Tonight begins the hunt," Kane said vigorously. "I am not embarrassed to admit, Mr. Hex, that I am as excited as a child await St. Nicholas' arrival. Somewhere out there is a man, or men, who are preying on the less fortunate of the world. It is our duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves, Mr. Hex!"

Hex grunted neutrally. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of Kane. The man talked like a jackass and loved to hear the sound of his own voice. He was definitely the picture-perfect definition of an Eastern Dude with his immaculate clothes that cost more than everything Hex owned or had ever owned. Still, underneath all that, there was something that intrigued Hex. Yes, his constant yammering was annoying, but underneath it seemed a genuine desire to help the people of this hellhole of a city. Like employing Jonah Hex himself to help him find a man abducting prostitutes. Hex wasn't coming cheap and he was paying for it out of his own pocket. That may mean Kane had more money than sense, but he was at least trying.

"On the topic of Shanghaiing, there is a particular street gang here in the city that is rumored to use kidnapping as one of their methods of terror. They take anyone they can get their hands on and sell them to whoever is interested. There are stories of women being sold to Siamese princes, men being impressed into working as little more than slaves for the Russian Imperial Navy."

"Sounds like a good place to start."

"They call themselves the Bowery Boys, a motley group of Polish and Italians who intermingle in the name of criminal enterprise. Jews and Catholics mixing together, you can hardly be surprised that crime is where they would turn to. Those hyphenated Americans, the German-Americans or the Italian-Americans or the Jewish-Americans, are where this country will find its downfall."

Hex grunted again and flicked what was left of his cigarillo out the window. He leaned forward and looked at Kane, his hands on his knees as he spoke.

"I don't give a good goddamn about any of that, just take me to where we gotta go."

"We shall," Kane said with a grin. "We are going to meet one of my allies in the police force. He runs a special strong arm squad that works the Bowery's street gangs and polices vice. You'll like him, Hex, he's a lot of like you. A rough man who has to do rough work, but all for the greater good. I see you two getting on smashingly."

*****​

Hex and Kane climbed out of his coach in a back alley and approached a loading bay hidden by shadows in the early evening. A man stood waiting for them.

"Jonah Hex, Lieutenant Worthington Smythe."

A big, beefy man with a thick mustache and pince-nez glasses looked Hex over while the bounty hunter did the same with him. He was almost as tall as Hex, and at least fifty pounds heavier. Not all the weight appeared to be fat, Hex noticed. While he wore a crisp suit with a flat cap and a snapped brim, a gold GCPD badge pinned to the chest, he carried himself like a brawler. Hex confirmed that when they shook hands and he saw the scar tissue along the man's knuckles.

"The name rings a bell," said Smythe. "Aren't you some kind of gunslinger or something?"

"Or something."

"I have brought Hex into the city to show him a taste of city life, Lieutenant. I would like him present with us on tonight's raid."

Smythe raised his eyebrows at the commissioner before he looked at Hex. The lieutenant wore a look of passive annoyance that Hex could only speculate on. With Kane's nature, there was no way this was the first time he had asked to tag along on a raid. Now, he was also asking that a stranger come along with them.

"Commissioner... I..." he stammered and tried to find an appropriate response.

"I promise you, Lieutenant, tonight will not be a repeat performance of that fiasco six months ago. I shall stay well enough back, as will Mr. Hex. We just wish to observe, I promise you."

Lieutenant Smythe stared for a long moment before he spat and shrugged.

"Very well. Come with me."

They followed Smythe down the alley and through a doorway. Inside, six men were cleaning and loading weapons. Like Smythe, they all wore suits and ties with a GCPD badge pinned to their lapels. Five of them carried small revolvers while a sixth loaded up a scattergun with shotgun shells.

"Listen up, men," Smythe said with a motion towards Kane and Hex. "Commissioner Kane and his guest will be joining us tonight, but I have their word that they will not interfere. The commissioner is a man of his word, so I believe he will fulfill that promise to stay back. Tonight's agenda..."

Smythe pulled from his jacket a crinkled and faded photograph of a swarthy young man with dark hair and a Roman nose. Underneath his face were the words "GCPD: 10/4/87" written in white chalk.

"This is tonight's target. Giuseppe Maroni, better known on the streets of as Gyp the Blood. He's something of a mover within the Bowery Boys. He's got a crew of ruffians at least six deep. Robbery, extortion, murder for hire, you name it and they do it. I want him taken alive, got it?"

The men mumbled acknowledgment and Smythe nodded. He looked back at Kane and Hex and slightly sighed.

"Okay, mount up."

 

[Supergirl]

This city is NOISY. I'm so used to Metropolis, where it's usually fairly calm at night; or Kansas, where it's calm ALWAYS. Oakland... There's not a minute that goes by that I don't hear a siren. It's going to take time to learn to filter it. Listen for important keywords... like that one.

"Gun! He has a gun!"

And within seconds, Supergirl was out her third floor window, a blue and red streak towards downtown. In the three days since she'd moved, this was the third night a protest had turned into a riot. And this would mark the third time she's intervened. She focuses on the person she had overheard yell about a gun. It's an Oakland Police officer, pistol drawn on his subject. The black man in question has something in his hand, but she could tell instantly that it wasn't a gun. It was a camera.

*BLAM BLAM BLAM*

The officer fired three shots. All three flattened themselves against Kara's side as she swooped between the two men.

"STOP."

She looked at the officer, with a look that he was lucky couldn't melt metal... yet.

"This man is unarmed. Saying that he is just to shoot him doesn't jive well with me. I'm all about truth, justice and the American way, and this doesn't sit well with me."

The officer gives a sheepish look. "Well he was rioting. He threw a brick threw a window."

"Doesn't mean he deserves to die. I see a tazer there. Why didn't you use that?"

"Uh... Nevermind."

"No. Not nevermind, Officer..." She quickly scanned his badge. "Jensen. This kind of rash action is what's causing these situations in the first place. If I hadn't been here, there'd be even more reason for people to riot. Violence begets violence, and you, in a position of authority have the ability to curtail that violence."

"AND YOU. PUT DOWN THAT TV."

This time her glare was enough to melt metal, specifically the metal in the toes of a looter's boots. Suddenly stuck to the sidewalk, the looter put the TV on the ground, embarrassed and trapped.

Around them, the riot died down, with people realizing that Supergirl was present. About an hour later, after helping to clean up, she was back in her apartment.

The next morning she woke up to find that a blog post had already been made by a certain someone back in Metropolis.

"Supergirl defends violent thug, endangers officer - Cat Grant"

Why am I not surprised?

Four nights, and the riots have progressively gotten worse. People are angry. People are scared. But most of all, the violence has been overwhelming. Four police officers have been hospitalized, and five protesters have been killed in the ensuing nights. And that's with me stopping as many as I can. Oakland is out of control, more so than anywhere else in the country right now.

As if on cue, the sirens go off again. She spends the next several hours doing what she has for the past several nights. Protecting as many people on both sides as she can. By the end of the night however, one more person is dead, this time an officer of the Oakland PD, who was beaten to death by a mob of rioters. However, tonight she noticed something that had slipped by her the previous nights. A woman in a red hoodie was at the scenes of the biggest confrontations, without fail. Her face was hidden by the hoodie, but beyond that by a mask worn underneath. A mask made at least partially of lead, so that not even Supergirl could ascertain her identity.

She got in at four in the morning, and crashed for a brief two hours before she had to be up for her first day at Cal.

*************
​

Her first class was Fundamentals of News Reporting, a class she found it a bit difficult to pay attention during. After class she was approached by a young woman with curly blonde hair.

"Hi! I'm Joan, are you majoring in English too?"

"Uh... Yeah. I think so anyway. It's kinda a family tradition. My name's Linda."

The two girls decided to go get coffee together before their next classes. Linda found out that Joan had grown up just north of Berkeley in Richmond, and was looking to become a novelist one day.

"My favorite thing about writing is playing with all the different emotions. I'm only taking the journalism course because it will help me better understand the human condition."

"Ha. I'm actually looking to go on to the Journalism graduate program when I'm done with my bachelor's."

"Oh really? Why is that? All the excitement?"

"Well my aunt worked for the Daily Planet, and I interned there. Some of my best friends are journalists, and it just seems like a way to make a difference."

"Oh wow! The Planet?! Do you know Lois Lane?!"

Heh. If only I could tell you how well. "Yeah, she's great. She's the wife of my aunt's best friend, so I got to see her quite a bit when I lived with Aunt Lana."

"That is so cool! I love her!"

"Well maybe I can introduce you some time. I'm sure she'll come visit. Since Lana died, Clark's gotten a lot closer to me." More like since I lost all my family but him again, I have gotten a lot closer...

*************
​

Shortly after school, Supergirl took to the sky, hovering over the Oakland City Center, watching. She saw many women in red hoodies, but it was hours before she saw the one who's face she couldn't. Right before dark. Sure enough, she watched as the woman pulled the hood back just ever so slightly, and immediately the man she was looking at picked up a rock and threw it at one of the police officers. In a blur, Kara tackled and subdued the man, before the officer could violently retaliate.

"You. Who are you and what are you doing?"

She turned to look at the woman, who still had the hood slightly pulled back. Beneath the cowl, was a golden mask, an artifact Kara recognized from her time with the Justice League. The Medusa Mask.

"RAGE."

 

[TheCorpulent1]

I stop about 10 miles from the edge of town, a trail of smoldering asphalt behind me. The speedsuit whines, releasing the last of the energy left over from the jump. I'd say it's not every day I have to punch through the barriers between dimensions but, well, it kind of is. This has been my life for the past few years, so the dimension-hopping part isn't what's bothering me; the fact that I feel a cramp coming on is.

Let's back up for a sec: My name is Walter West and I'm--scratch that, I was--the Flash, the fastest man alive. I run; it's what I do, all day, every day, since a lightning bolt in my Uncle Barry's lab blessed me with the life of my dreams as a kid. I only got better at it when a desperate situation led to me mainlining the Speed Force, the source of energy for all us speedsters, a few years ago.

So you can see why the prospect of a cramp is particularly troubling to me. I literally shouldn't be able to get exhausted. Yet here I am clutching my side and wincing like an octogenarian power-walker who pushed himself too hard at the park one Sunday.

My speed's been... how to describe it?... lessening for a while now. I first noticed it about a week ago, when I tried to save some civilians from a train that Plastic Man decided to derail (long story short: alternate realities are weird like that). I raced in, as usual, and grabbed as many people as I could... then watched, powerless, as the very last passenger car collided with a building. I didn't even notice myself slowing down until I realized there was no way I could make it in time to stop that car.

Thankfully, there were no fatalities. I'd slowed the whole train down with a trick I learned to steal kinetic energy from objects in motion, the building was abandoned, scheduled to be demolished, and train cars make for a pretty good roll cage in a pinch. A lot of broken bones but, by some miracle, no one died. Still, it was the single most horrifying experience of my life, and I say that having been through... a lot.

I pull my cowl off and can't help scratching at the scar by my left eye as I think about old wounds. I don't worry about my secret identity because 1) the Flash's identity is public in this reality, and 2) if anyone saw me, they'd never recognize me as Wally West. I look about 10 years older, my eyes are blue where this reality's Wally's are green, and I've got quite a few nasty scars aside from the one near my eye--presents from my old friend, Abra Kadabra.

Anyway, since that day with the train, I've made it my mission to discover what the hell is going on with my powers. I refuse to let people be hurt because I wasn't up to the task ever again. If Barry had been there that day, he'd have been ashamed. So I started wracking my brain trying to come up with some kind of explanation for why my speed would be leaving me. I didn't come up with much.

My mainline to the Speed Force started as a result of moving so fast I physically passed out of reality and into the Speed Force itself. That's supposed to be a one-way trip, but I got a reprieve because I had a strong anchor to bring me back to the world: Linda Park, the love of my life.

It isn't until I think of Linda that I finally look around and notice just where I stopped. I'm on the outskirts of Keystone City, in a quiet little out-of-the-way cemetery. Somewhere I thought the public wouldn't swarm if they knew who was here.

This is where I buried Linda on my world.

 

[TheCorpulent1]

My name is Walter West. I'm the Flash, the fastest man alive--or was--and I'm watching a tear fall in slow-motion onto my wife's grave like some teenager in an angsty melodrama.

I give myself a moment to mourn, and then I push that familiar mix of grief and hopelessness and rage away, just like this reality's Wally taught me. The grave I'm looking at is not Linda's, of course; that helps. Here, Linda's alive and well, happy with her Wally. Another flash of rage, followed by guilt. They get to live the life I was denied.

Enough of that. Gotta put my mind to the task at hand. Of course I'm at Linda's grave; of course I thought of her when my powers started giving me problems. My mainline to the Speed Force was born of a drive to help her, so logically she might have something to do with why it's going away. Of course I thought of that. But my Linda had been dead for years, and I remained as powerful as ever until just recently--more powerful, in fact, than my counterpart here.

This is getting me nowhere. Maybe I should rewind for a sec--review the series of events that brought me here. I ran through a list of possible answers to what might be happening to me a few dimensions ago, just as I’m doing now, but I couldn't really do much right then because my time there was up.

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that part? I can't stay in one dimension for too long because my presence tends to play havoc with physics. Reality warps around me because I don't belong there. This whole dimensional jaunt began when I tried to stay in this reality, to make amends for some of the more... questionable... actions I took while working through my grief over Linda. Strange things started happening around me after a few months. Reality itself was coming undone. I had to leave, for everyone's sake--try to find my way back home. I don't know exactly how many years it's been since then, but suffice it to say the odds were not in my favor. Infinite realities, and I’m trying to find the one I can live in without posing a danger to everyone around me? It's like looking for a needle in a haystack the size of a galaxy.

Anyway, my time in that reality was winding down, so I jumped to a new one. Still not my own, but I’d stopped getting my hopes up long before then. Luckily, though, it was pretty similar to my own. They even had a Flash Museum with a surprisingly knowledgeable curator--one Max Mercury, the so-called "zen master of speed." He's basically a Jedi, only his "Force" happens to be the Speed Force. Even better, he was pretty much like the Max Mercury of this reality, only he ended up running the museum instead of adopting Impulse, a.k.a. Bart Allen, a.k.a. the most annoying kid who ever lived.

Max convinced me that I was focusing too much on symptoms rather than the root cause--the Speed Force itself. He said I should figure out some way to probe the Speed Force.

Well, actually, he said, "The Speed Force speaks to each of us in its own way. We only need to learn how to listen." Then he suggested meditation. Max is... an acquired taste, I guess you could say. This particular world's Max seemed even more into all that spiritual mumbo-jumbo than most, if you can believe it--maybe because he didn't have an Impulse driving him to the brink of homicide every other day.

Also, he had a goatee. That was weird.

Anyway, me? I'm not really a meditation kind of guy. I’m more the learn-by-doing type. I thanked Max for the help, then headed out to put my version of his plan into effect.

I sped out of Keystone heading west. Nothing but farmland, tiny towns, and highways (just in case). I figured the I-70 to Denver ought to do nicely. It was only about 230 miles, but that should be enough; if I did this right, it should be more of a sprint than a marathon anyway.

The plan was to take Max’s spiritual advice and turn it literal. I’d actually probe the Speed Force--just a touch to get a feel for what was wrong (and, if I was lucky, maybe restore my mainline right there). I got ready, counted down in my head, and imagined a gunshot to start me off.

Within a millisecond I was up to 60 mph. I was just about to hit mach-1 at my first full second. Slow start, just as I expected, but that’s what the highway was for. One of the many tricks I learned from studying the Speed Force was how to both steal and lend energy to other objects. I can stop a bullet just by concentrating--or I can shave, say, 10 mph off of every car I pass and add it to my own speed. 100 miles down the highway, I’m at mach-10, the Speed Force muffling the sonic booms that would normally trail chaos in my wake. The cars boost my acceleration exponentially, so another 100 miles and I’m getting up to speeds measured on cosmic scales.

It’s still not enough. I can feel a weight dragging behind me, like some of my speed is shearing off due to wind resistance. But that shouldn’t be possible--not with the Speed Force aura I have to keep it in check. The effect is undeniable, though; I’m definitely slowing down.

I decide to be greedy and go all-out on the cars. 70-80 mph times 30 cars for every mile-long stretch of road equals one hell of a boost. Black lightning crackles in my wake, a literal manifestation of the cars’ speed arcing into my aura. Not even the weight that’s been dragging me down can keep up with it, and I find myself feeling that familiar surge of energy signaling my approach to the threshold between reality and the edge of the Speed Force. It’s the feeling of my skin converting to energy, my eyes beginning to process light in new ways that trump things like blueshift and redshift, my whole body preparing itself for its final destination in the speedsters’ Valhalla.

It’s an intoxicating beauty that I can barely describe. I want to stay. I want it so desperately that I forget for a moment why I’ve even come here. What does it matter, after all? Why not just stay? My race is run and I’ve tried to make it a good one despite all the horrors I’ve seen. Why not stay? I deserve this. Who can say otherwise?

An image of a man and a woman, red and black hair, smiling, a gentle caress of the cheek, the horror in her eyes as she sees blue, not green. Blue, not green. Not the green eyes she expects. She knows I’m not him, just as I knew, no matter what I told myself, I knew all along that she wasn’t her. That she wasn’t mine.

Now the green, a face like mine in every way, but the green, fiery green, a rage that echoed my own. Wally. Me. But not Walter. Wallace. Wally, short for Wallace. Not me. Him. He’d come to save her. Linda. His Linda. From the monster who haunted her, tried to take her away from him. The monster with his face, a Wally too, but not the right Wally. Her Wally, almost, except for those cold, sad, blue eyes.

My eyes snapped open. I felt energy unlike anything I’d ever experienced before tear through me. My whole body was on fire, but only for an instant, and then everything changed. It was cold. Why was I cold? A rumble hit me as light flashed somewhere in the distance. Thunder. That was thunder. I could taste it in the air--there was a storm brewing. And as the ringing in my ears died down, I could hear other voices. People. People talking all around me. One voice in particular. I know it. I’m saying things back to it, but it’s like someone else speaking in my place. Whose voice is that?

I looked up. My eyes met Detective Chyre’s. He’s as surprised as I am. Before I can think to do anything else, I run.

* * *​

"Mister? You okay?"

I turn around to find the cemetery's groundskeeper looking at me, concern etched into the wrinkles of his weathered face.

"You a, uh, new one?"

"Sorry?"

"New one of them Flashes?” He points at the giant silver lightning bolt across my chest. “Seems like more of you folk’re coming out of the woodwork every day. I can't keep up with you." He smirks. "No pun intended."

"... Yeah. Yeah, I'm new here. Sorry to trouble you."

"No trouble to me, these're public grounds." He nods toward the rows of graves. "One of these belong to a friend of yours?”

“Um…” I look down again. The headstone of someone called "Geoffrey 'Ringo' Waid" looks back at me. “No. Sorry.”

“Oh? Most folks don’t come to a cemetery unless they’re lookin’ for someone. Can I, maybe, help you find somethin’?”

"No," I tell the groundskeeper, taking one last look at Linda’s--no, “Geoff’s”--grave. "No. There's nothing here for me anymore."

 

[Supergirl]

Four nights, and the riots have progressively gotten worse. People are angry. People are scared. But most of all, the violence has been overwhelming. Four police officers have been hospitalized, and five protesters have been killed in the ensuing nights. And that's with me stopping as many as I can. Oakland is out of control, more so than anywhere else in the country right now.

As if on cue, the sirens go off again. She spends the next several hours doing what she has for the past several nights. Protecting as many people on both sides as she can. By the end of the night however, one more person is dead, this time an officer of the Oakland PD, who was beaten to death by a mob of rioters. However, tonight she noticed something that had slipped by her the previous nights. A woman in a red hoodie was at the scenes of the biggest confrontations, without fail. Her face was hidden by the hoodie, but beyond that by a mask worn underneath. A mask made at least partially of lead, so that not even Supergirl could ascertain her identity.

She got in at four in the morning, and crashed for a brief two hours before she had to be up for her first day at Cal.

*************
​

Her first class was Fundamentals of News Reporting, a class she found it a bit difficult to pay attention during. After class she was approached by a young woman with curly blonde hair.

"Hi! I'm Joan, are you majoring in English too?"

"Uh... Yeah. I think so anyway. It's kinda a family tradition. My name's Linda."

The two girls decided to go get coffee together before their next classes. Linda found out that Joan had grown up just north of Berkeley in Richmond, and was looking to become a novelist one day.

"My favorite thing about writing is playing with all the different emotions. I'm only taking the journalism course because it will help me better understand the human condition."

"Ha. I'm actually looking to go on to the Journalism graduate program when I'm done with my bachelor's."

"Oh really? Why is that? All the excitement?"

"Well my aunt worked for the Daily Planet, and I interned there. Some of my best friends are journalists, and it just seems like a way to make a difference."

"Oh wow! The Planet?! Do you know Lois Lane?!"

Heh. If only I could tell you how well. "Yeah, she's great. She's the wife of my aunt's best friend, so I got to see her quite a bit when I lived with Aunt Lana."

"That is so cool! I love her!"

"Well maybe I can introduce you some time. I'm sure she'll come visit. Since Lana died, Clark's gotten a lot closer to me." More like since I lost all my family but him again, I have gotten a lot closer...

*************
​

Shortly after school, Supergirl took to the sky, hovering over the Oakland City Center, watching. She saw many women in red hoodies, but it was hours before she saw the one who's face she couldn't. Right before dark. Sure enough, she watched as the woman pulled the hood back just ever so slightly, and immediately the man she was looking at picked up a rock and threw it at one of the police officers. In a blur, Kara tackled and subdued the man, before the officer could violently retaliate.

"You. Who are you and what are you doing?"

She turned to look at the woman, who still had the hood slightly pulled back. Beneath the cowl, was a golden mask, an artifact Kara recognized from her time with the Justice League. The Medusa Mask.

"RAGE."

The face on the mask changes to one that I've only truly seen on Red Lanterns. So much anger, and I feel the same intense feeling begin to wash over me. I feel my face begin to contort in a similar fashion, and suddenly I'm filled with a hatred that seems unnatural to me. The only time I've felt anger even close to this intense was when it was directed towards Reactron. I'm angry at the things being done in the name of justice. I'm angry at looters for taking advantage of such an emotionally volatile situation. I'm angry at the racist and bigoted words that are being tossed around in this crowd. I'm angry at EVERYTHING.

My eyelids flicker and the brick that a rioter just threw at a store window explodes into burning shrapnel as it's intercepted by my heat vision. I feel myself turning my gaze upon the person who threw the brick, but I summon the willpower to avoid doing the same to him that I had just done to his weapon of choice.

The rage is still boiling, and I've lost sight of the woman in the hoodie. I need to remove myself from this situation, before I cause more damage than I already have.

An hour, and seven trips around the globe later, and I'm back in my apartment. The anger for the most part has subsided. The things that had triggered me still make me angry, but I can control my emotions better than to be led by hatred and animosity. Even so, it was near impossible to contain my vitriol when the mask was turned on me. But now I know why the riots have been so bad. I'm thankful for the explanation, and intent on ending it.

My phone rings on my nightstand. It's the apartment manager. "Hey Stacie, what's up?"

"Sorry to bug you so late, Linda, but I forgot my keys in the apartment, and need someone to let me up. NO LUCAS, PUT THAT DOWN! Sorry. Boys."

"Yeah, let me get decent and I'll be down in a sec to let you in."

I quickly toss my hair into a pony tail and throw on my glasses and a pair of pajamas before going downstairs to let her up. After all, she'd probably be surprised if I did so as Supergirl...

"Thank you so much! It's been a day, I'm just now getting home from all the things I had to do."

"Don't worry about it. I just got home myself a few minutes ago. It's been a heck of a day."

 

[Batman]

The next few minutes aren't what I'd necessarily define as "fun". With the hired thug count nearing the hundred man mark with no signs of stopping, and our combined efforts only being able to bring down close to three or four of them a minute, the odds aren't looking so good for us to be able to pull through. If it's a diversion tactic, Harvey's outdone himself this time. We're in no position to abandon the fight and start hunting him down. Bruce would know exactly what to do, but he's went oddly radio silent since this began. Almost as if he's at a loss, too. And Stephanie, Cassandra, Batwoman, Oracle and I don't even really speak to eachother for a long period of time. The four of us definitely don't take a second to stop for a breather.

All I can hear between the fighting is heavy panting from each of us. We're all exhausted, but equally all too stubborn to break away and help minimize the chaos. And Oracle can't find anyone who isn't busy to radio in for backup. None of the Birds of Prey, no former Outsiders. Even Dick and Damian have their hands tied. We're on our own - whatever that means. Somewhere along the way, this stopped making sense and just devolved into us delivering broken bones, shattered weapons, batarangs, and every last bit of crowd control gear that any of us had on hand. Hell, even with my rebreather, my eyes are already starting to sting from the last flank of tear gas that Batwoman dispersed over the group. But with every tactic we come up with, Two-Face just sends out another wave of expendables.

This isn't like Dent at all. I have to find out what's really going on.

Finally, I seize my opportunity and leap out of the fray. I manage to pin one of them in the middle of the all-out brawl that we've managed to contain to one roof of the docks, drag him away from the immediate area and throw him over the ledge of the building, forcibly dangling him upside down. He weighs a ton with that armor and my interrogation skills were never close to Bruce or Dick's, but I figure I can get by long enough to pull this off. I've just gotta know what Harvey's endgame is. There's got to be a point to all of this effort, all of this madness... right?

"You've only got half a minute before my grip loosens,"

"Talk! Or the last view you're gonna have is from to the bottom of the bay!"

At first, he doesn't budge. He struggles like all hell, though, and tries to aim his weapon close enough to my head to get in a lethal shot. All I have to do is pull and tug, and he finds himself slamming backwards into solid brick. The vibration coming off of his armor does the rest, and his grip on the pulse rifle loosens, tumbling down and plopping into the water that awaits him a considerable number of feet below. Another smirk forms across my lips, but he just looks up at me with contempt.

"I tell you nothing,", he says, in a broken accent. Sounds Hungarian. "Two-Face sooner kill us then let me give into children like you. And he can. He'll kill us all."

"Yeah, I don't know what that means and I really care. Because what I told you about my grip..."

Even now, I can see the boots slipping out of my hands. I'd try and secure him with a Bat-rope, but I can't risk letting go with either arm long enough to wrench a coil out of my belt. And I can't have Black Bat or the others help me, either, because they're all indisposed in one way or another. I only managed to get lucky by breaking apart from the scene.

"That wasn't a threat. I can't hold on forever. You're going to drop."

His eyes widen with fear. He can tell I'm not being disingenuous.

Even still dangling, he looks upward, towards the water. Probably trying to weigh out the lesser of two evils. He said that Two-Face has a way to kill "us all". Is he talking about my team or... or is he talking about his? Does Harvey have some sort of contingency in place that's really capable of bringing this many men down at will? Something programmed into the armor, maybe? I don't know, at this point, and I'm getting frustrated with the lack of insight.

For as long as I've been doing this - going back to when I was Robin and still a rookie at it, Two-Face has always been nothing short of predictable. He was always about duality. I mean, a coin flip literally made every decision for him. His mind was fractured beyond repair, despite Bruce's attempts to bring Dent back to sanity out of some misguided sense of loyalty to a friend he once had. It's made him sloppier in recent years. Redundant - even irrelevant, to some extent.

Apart from his rage, there was nothing to really separate Dent from the rest of the people that lined Arkham's cells. He wasn't a threat worth the effort like, say, The Joker or Ra's Al Ghul. Not to say we didn't treat him like one, but he wasn't. He barely managed to be remain more of a nuisance than Killer Moth, and it didn't help that half of the time he spent terrorizing Gotham was dedicated towards trying to rehabilitate himself - again. Over and over, Harvey Dent would come back as a "changed man" for all of a month, and then the cycle would repeat itself.

But this? This is the first time Harvey's legitimately not been acting anything like himself. And I didn't know why Bruce was so worried about that before, but seeing the lengths that he's gone to in order to pull off whatever he's got planned? I'm starting to think there's more to this than throwing human-shaped tanks at us until we drop.

Back to the thug I've barely got ahold of.

The one who still insists on refusing to betray Dent's secrets.

"Wait! I... I may have something for you!"

Or so I assumed, at least. Admist my train of thought, something's changed. I can feel it by the grip - that same one I've repeatedly pointed out that I can't fully maintain. This idiot's stopped squirming while dreading the inevitable, and there's a newfound focus to his body language. Almost as if something else entirely has caught his attention. And that's when I start to hear a faint voice barking on the other end of a communications line that isn't ours. A voice I recognize all too clearly. A tinge of rage flows through me as I realize who he's talking to.

"Your helmet. Give it to me."

He complies, hastily removing it and handing it up for me to grab. Though I suspect it's not because I ordered him to, and because a certain someone else gave him the go-ahead to. Whatever he's playing at, I've apparently gotten his attention enough to warrant an audience. Hooray for me.

"Hang on,"

Latching the bottom of my heel to the edge of the rooftop, I wrap what remains of my body around one of his legs and simulate, to the best of my ability, the same sort of grip I can accomplish with one of my hands. When I've finally clenched hard enough to feel safe in letting go, I release one of his legs - to which he briefly belts out a nervous breath - and reach into my belt.

Finally, after all this struggling, I'm able to produce a Bat-rope and swing it over my head. The cable goes taut once the razor end of the R-disc attached to it digs itself deep into concrete on the opposite end of the roof.

Wrapping it twice around his ankle, I feel the strain lift itself off of me as I reach down and grab the helmet. Giving him a smirk after all that tension, I also throw a mock salute as he continues to dangle precariously over the Bay.

"Thanks. I'll be back. In the meantime, stick around for awhile."

Angrily, he shouts something in his native language, but I'm not paying attention as I turn my back to him. Scanning the inside of the helmet, I immediately notice the device jutting out near an inner-earpiece. Grabbing it, I carefully detatch it from the helmet and stretch the side of my mask so that I can fit it onto my own ear. Eventually, I start to hear his breathing. It's just him and me now.

"Been a long time, kid."

 

[Batman]

Harvey didn't waste time to respond. I remain silent for the moment, because there's something off. The first thing I notice is that there's an eerie calm to his voice. But not like when he's speaking as Dent, the rational part of his psyche. And it's not entirely full-tilt into Two-Face. It's like there's something else there, having waited to be sprung on us. A third personality?

"I know it's you I'm talking to. The smaller bird. Not the smallest anymore, I've noticed, but you're still no Nightwing. You need to work on your communication skills if you want to get ahead in this life."

I tense up at the comparison to Dick. Been hearing that one for years.

"Says the psychopath whose communicated exclusively in launching borrowed henchmen at us."

To my surprise, I hear... a chuckle.

"Fair enough, junior. I guess you and I have moved past the need for formalities, at this point.", he replies. "I mean, you have been apart of this incessant charade of his for... what, how many years has it been? Five? Six? God, maybe even seven years. Not long after the clown caved in the skull of your predecessor. I admit, I always thought you'd die even quicker. If I didn't wring your neck, some other freak would. But you've managed to make it this far and become a man. I'd almost feel proud."

That's it, keep your supervillain monologue up. I've already sent a text to Oracle to start honing in on where exactly the signal off of this thing is coming from.

"Oh, and to be the age that you are now. I remember how full of hope and wonder I was at that point in my life. The young crusading District Attorney to be. Looking at the world from one, singular point of view... how I used to long for those days again. When it was all so simple."

Wow. He's not just monologing, he's actually being downright chatty. Casually conversing with me like we've been friends for years. All that's missing is the water cooler and a list of our favorite television shows.

Something's definitely off.

"Spare me the sentimentality, Harvey. Or Two-Face, or whatever the hell you're calling yourself these days. We know what kind of weapons you've gotten your filthy little mitts on, and we're bringing them in. Right after we send your ass back to Blackgate Island."

"Ah, ever the dramatic! That's what I've always liked about you. So much like he is. Straight to the point and always predictably sterile in your threats. I'll give you this, though. You always did manage to follow through. No matter how determined I was in the past, you and The Bat always did beat me in the end."

I'd be astonished at the amount of self-realization going on, here, if I didn't remember I was talking to a mass-murderer with enough voices in his head to make daytime radio stations seem limited.

"Is there a point to all this, Dent, or should we just continue making complete jackasses out of your hit squad? Because I'm about thirty seconds from coming in there and..."

"Dent? Oh, I'm sorry. Where are my manners? I should've let you in from the start,"

There's a glee in his voice that's so uncannily present that it's honestly surreal.

"Dent's gone."

There's a pause on both ends. From him, I imagine, just to gauge my reaction. From me because... honestly, I have no idea what the hell that even means. I mean, I know I'm not speaking to an imposter or one of his lackeys. I know who I'm speaking to is unequivocally Harvey Dent. But the way Two-Face has always dealt with double meanings. The weird pattern that's been building up. The uncharacteristic way he's been acting since he first opened his demented mouth.

Then it dawns on me. With slow realization, I start to piece it together...

"You mean you're..."

"That's right. After all these years, I've managed to completely purge him.", he announces. "Harvey Dent... as you knew him, as he knew him, is dead. Buried in a shallow pool of memories and never able to stand in the way of my goals again. Never able to allow his spinelessness to send me over the edge. It's peaceful, really. There's no conflict anymore. No duality. Nothing to hinge my focus away from what needs to be done. And who needs to be taken care of in order to achieve real success and really turn the tide of Gotham around."

He's... no. This has to be some sort of a trick. I mean, it's not like there isn't precedent. Harvey's pulled this exact same crap before. Bruce even once told me that he'd tried to purge Dent of the Two-Face side of his personality permanently by faking a double suicide. He'd convinced Two-Face that he was gonna let him fall, and even go with him. By the end of it, one of Dent's eyes had rolled back into his skull and he claimed he'd been cured of his dual personality for good.

Nine months later, the Earthquake hit Gotham and a fully restored Two-Face was among the first to vy for control of the shattered remains of the city. Like I reminded myself earlier, it's all become routine. All it takes is a little time, and he goes back to his old ways.

"You're lying. Or more likely, seriously deluded. Do you really think I believe for a second that..."

"I don't expect you to believe anything. Frankly, you don't mean a damn thing to me.", he says, a hint of that familiar anger lingering. "But he'll believe it. He'll look at all the evidence once I've told him how I did it, and he'll be forced to accept the truth. That I'm Two-Face, and nothing more. Because that's his nature. Just like it was my nature to rely on... handicaps."

If he thinks he's going to throw me off by grandstanding, he's clearly not been paying enough attention to how this works.

"You said you were focused on what needs to be done. What is that, Harvey? What are you planning?"

A frustrated sigh.

"...'Harvey'. You still don't get it. But I guess it'll all become clear in in due time. Let's focus on the here and now, because you and the Brat-Bats are the least of my concerns. You've no doubt become aware that Gotham elected a new Mayor just under two months ago?"

Just got a ping from Oracle. Signal's coming from directly below us. About three floors down. She thinks it's some kind of abandoned docking port he probably had hollowed out and made into a lair.

"Mayor Weston. I know... I voted for him."

I send her a message back to alert the Mayor's office of a potential threat.

"That makes you part of the problem. The electoral process always seems to churn out another ineffective cog in the machine. In Dent's day, it was because of rampant corruption. He fought for the system, but it was never worth fighting for to begin with. Today, you elect someone out of laziness. No one in Gotham wants a leader anymore. They want a puppet. Someone to sign waivers and look over parking tickets, if they're lucky enough not to have handed the Mayor's office over to another crimelord like Rupert Thorne. Because in their heart of hearts, they feel a sickening overabundance of safety from someone else. From you people."

Keep talking, you charred-up piece of work. Talking to me keeps you from sending out another wave of your hired soldiers for Cassandra, Stephanie, and Batwoman to fend off. And when they're done, we're coming for you. Then you can rant at the walls of a comfy little padded cell.

"So I had an epiphany. I'll change the system myself. Starting now, every Mayor in Gotham City gets a two month term. If they commit to change - to real change, and don't rely on the first caped closet case to drop on their front door to do it - then I'll let them live long enough to resign in peace. If they don't, however..."

KA-THROOOOM!​

Suddenly, the four of us are thrown entirely off guard by a loud noise coming off from the distance. Even in the midst of combat, Black Bat, Batgirl, and Batwoman all turn in the direction turn to look at the scene directly behind me. Their faces all illuminated by a sudden light, and their expressions each conveying horror. I don't have to turn around to know what's happened, but I do anyway. And it takes everything in me not to let out an audible gasp.

He blew up the Mayor's office.

Dammit. This was all a diversion!

"DENT! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!"

Proudly, he wastes no time to boast.

"His term ended at midnight. It's 12:01. And just so you know, I had my men pose as electricians so that they could install cameras in the building just last week. So I got a court-side view of former Mayor Adam Weston being blown to hell whenever it went up. And I can assure you... there were no survivors. His remains and the remains of whoever stayed with him after hours will be identified by morning."

I grab the earpiece, practically livid. Rage doesn't even begin to describe what I'm feeling. I want my hands firmly clasped around his throat so badly that I can hardly stand it.

"YOU SICK BASTARD! WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU..."

"You'll do what, beat on me? Lock me away and throw away the key? You pathetic little nobodies, still stuck in your damn ways after all this time!", he spits. "Even The Bat's never gonna fix what I've done tonight, if he finds the time to crawl out of whatever hole stuck his pointy-eared head in. And don't even bother telling me that pretender running around with the boy is the real thing. Dent may have been fooled into thinking he was the genuine Caped Crusader, but I'll always know a fake when I see it. And you know what? The real one may have been able to stop me. But he didn't, and you certainly sure as hell didn't. Because you're all the same. You all relied on the same, tired cliches that would have given me away. What did you expect, for me to flip a damn coin to decide Weston's fate?"

Fists clenched, I finally manage to look away from the massive inferno lighting up the middle of Gotham Square. I don't... I can't keep dwelling on it, or what he's saying. And there's no point in seeing if Dent's telling the truth. I can already hear the sirens of the firefighters heading to the scene. They've practically sent out every station in the city.

"Two-Face, I swear to God..."

"There, now you're getting it. It's disgusting, really, to think of how long we were all trapped in that vicious cycle of redundancy. But with The Bat well and truly gone for all this time, it’s given me such a grand sense of clarity. You want to make sure this doesn't happen again? You really want to ensure the safety of the people, like you and all the other capes supposedly claim?"

"Then come and find me. Make me truly pay what I’ve done. Prove that justice still exists in this damned city."

I glance over at the scene directly next to me.

"You must think I'm still new at this. I’ve never heard a more obvious trap in my life."

"There's as much a trap as there is a living Mayor. I've instructed my men to leave me entirely unguarded. Why do you think I allowed them to keep focused on the other three while we had this little chat? Because they know I want to do this face to face. You, me... and him. So be sure to keep a line open to him when you come down. He's not going to want to miss a minute."

Behind grit teeth, I remain silent as I hear him chuckle again.

"See you soon."

I have no choice.

Turning back to face my team, I express as much regret as I possibly can in the seconds that I waste to assure them of how sorry I am for what I'm about to do. Then, without so much as an apology, I get a running start towards the edge of the roof and dive off. Effectively abandoning them without explanation or a warning.

Spreading my cape into a solid wingspan, I begin my descent. Specifically, gliding towards the entrance made with the Bat-Sentries - before they all became the world's biggest paperweights, taken out by whatever Two-Face used to dismantle them. The same kind of tech I'd be worried that he's going to use on me, but he made it pretty clear. He wants me to keep an open communications line.

He just killed the Mayor from the comfort of an underground bunker. I'm not about to risk any number of lives that Two-Face is willing to take on the off-chance that my decision not to let "the genuine article" listen in might piss him off.

With regret, I whisper words I didn't expect to say again tonight.

"Oracle... patch me over to Bruce."

 

[Hound55]

Speak To Me​

So... in a world of magick where nothing comes free, you might just ask yourself a man stays whole. In my case, that's a particularly good question. Hell, there's a hefty demand on my soul even with the high number of nasty types who've held a receipt for it.

I think John Lennon and Paul McCartney said it best.

# I get by with a little help from my friends #​

Sorry if I was a bit out of key there, heh, it's been a fair while since me Mucous Membrane days... and let's be honest, that was hardly the kind of tune we were banging out back then.

People. I've always had a knack for speaking with 'em, they tend to come 'round to my way of seeing things. But there's more than that. There's psychological aspects, tone, misdirection, use of reassuring body language. Subtle actions that can be refined over years of discipline to a craft. If anything that's been as much a secret of my success as any two-bit incantation with a relic.

So far be it from me to toot my own horn, but I've had quite a knack for enlisting help and prospecting a nugget of kindness from the heart of strangers, synchronicity aside.

I mean, I've always been that charming, affable, lovable Liverpool lad.

Anyway, mate, you're up. It's your round.

...

...or is it?

* * * * *​

"So what's your story? Why were those men after you? What do you know about the Mark?"

John walked around and picked up a little flipbook that fell out of her pocket when she leapt from the brush.

"Me, luv? No idea. I'm normally loved by all. But it seems I've found the one I was looking for anyway."

He offered back the pocketbook.

"As for the Mark, what's their to know? Carried around since the first murder, sinner to sinner. Makes me curious to know how it landed on one like yourself."

"It's not your place to be curious." Renee said, snatching back the pocketbook.

John lit another Slim Cut and took a deep draw. "Evidently not."

"So why were you looking for me in the first place?" the faceless enigma asked.

"Good question." the Englishman answered with a smirk. "If not the right one..."

* * * * *​

Ten minutes later and the pair are continuing their conversation from a rooftop overlooking Gotham, away from prying eyes and ears.

"...so that's pretty much it. We've got a big ol' shebang coming - a real Twilight of the Superheroes - about to kickoff, and I'm pickin' up messages that your predecessor needs to take his position at the fore."

"My predecessor?"

"Yes."

"And you knew him?"

"Vic? I knew OF him. Never met him personally, but I'd be able to pick him out of a crowd." John thought for a moment before continuing. "Honorary member of the Trenchcoat Brigade." He said with a smirk.

Renee looked over the city, how did things get this big? Just a few years ago she was a homicide detective in the GCPD. Her own choice, her desires, her goal. She had seen the edges of a bigger world. A stranger world of figures almost larger than life, but she was never of that world. Something else had steered her into the path of Vic Sage and ever since that day it had seemed her life no longer held the structure. She was no longer driven by her own desires and goals.

Vic Sage had been an enigmatic white rabbit, something had drawn her to chasing him down the rabbit hole of this stranger bigger world, and that something had been her purpose and driving force ever since.

Curiosity. The need to see how far the rabbit hole went. The need to know just how big this bold world really was.

And from Vic Sage, as well as his associates Richard Dragon and Aristotle Rodor she had forged the tools to properly survey that world. She learned how to pose... the Question.

"So I suppose you heard that he died? You planned to come here and ask for my help in his stead?"

"Heh." Constantine chuckled behind his cloud of smoke. "Not exactly. The notions that premonitions deal with... Destiny and such."

"...we're playing in the kinds of waters where it's sort of 'Accept no imitations'."

"I came here, partially out of common courtesy, but also because I figured as one of the people who'd known him best, you'd be the most useful for what I'm trying to do."

"Which is?" the Question spoke, living up to her name.

"Making sure he's got on his Sunday best, so he can play his part in preventing the end of all things."

"Raising the dead..." the faceless woman spoke into the night's air. "Even if your story is true, and you're to be trusted. Raising the dead? That can't be..."

"Look, I understand that the girl with the Dragon Tattoo might be a bit 'Once bitten, twice shy' about magick. But rest assured I'm no two-fer-a-penny amateur who hires himself out for childrens' parties. I know what I'm doing, and I understand the ramifications of the forces I'm dealing with as well as anyone you'd ever meet."

"And..? As I said, there's still the matter of whether you're to be believed."

John lit a fresh Slim Cut off the first and took a deep drag of it, crushing the old butt into the ground.

"Well, that I can't help you with... On that one you're just going to have to either take it on faith, or not." John put his hands together and looked up to the sky in a sarcastic praying gesture.

Renee turned to the edge of the rooftop. She could leave this British madman behind, God knows he'd taken enough time from her tonight already. She could jump to the next rooftop and be gone from his sight in minutes, but what angle could he possibly have for making up this story?

Even worse, what if he was telling the truth? Would she really be willing to raise the dead? And if he was right about that and they could, what place would there be for her in this world with Vic's return?

She felt a little guilty just for thinking that last one, but it still begged the question.

A redundancy. A question asked and answered.

Does it mean that the universe doesn't think that she's enough? Or is that just ego?

She would leave him to his devices. If this English enigma was going to do this regardless, contacting her just a courtesy, does it even matter what she did?

Something about this whole situation seemed very wrong. She couldn't see how, but still, that one nagging feeling hung at the back of her mind.

Curiosity. How would this all play out?

Before she could make a decision though a muffled voice called from the darkness.

"WAIT!"

"I have something you need to hear..."

 

[Byrd Man]

Fortunate Son
Part III:
Posse


“I have struck a city - a real city... Having seen it, I urgently desire never to see it again. It is inhabited by savages”

-- Rudyard Kipling​

The Bowery
Gotham City
July, 1888



The ramshackle door flew off its hinges, landing on the dirty concrete floor with a loud thump that sent dust flying into the air. Three burly men in suits rushed over the fallen door, revolvers at the ready.

"Police department," yelled one of the men. "This is a raid!"

Two more men rushed into the threshold after them. From across the street, Jonah Hex and police commissioner Eliot Kane watched as Inspector Smythe's men went pouring in through the side entrance of a delicatessen with Hebrew writing on the window and cured meats hanging behind the glass. In front of the building, the Inspector stood with a cigar in his mouth and a shotgun in his hands.

"Mr. Hex, this unsuspecting eatery is, in fact a den of iniquity," Kane said vigorously. "These dreaded Bowery Boys use this building as a home base to commit their heinous crimes. Thanks to Inspector Smythe's men, this snake hole shall be purged of its vipers once and for all!"

Per usual, Hex simply grunted. It was his standard reaction to Kane's flowing rhetoric. The two men perked up when they heard the sound of shouting across the street. Moments later, several gunshots rang out in the building. Hex pulled one of his big Colts out of its holster on impulse while Kane's hand emerged from his jacket with a derringer cocked and ready to go.

Inspector Smythe spat out his cigar and prepared to enter the deli, only to have the door swing open and smash into his face. The Inspector fell down to the sidewalk as two young men jumped over him and ran down the street.

"Stop!" Kane yelled at the two men.

The fleeing youths looked back at Kane and raised their hands. They took potshots at the two men with small revolvers. Kane leaped for cover behind a wall while Hex stood there, aiming at one of the boys even as bullets whizzed by him.

BLAM!

The gunman farthest away from him, nearly twenty feet at this point, crumpled to the ground holding his leg.

"Got one," Hex growled. "He'll live, but I'll be goddamned if he's ever gonna run right again."

Hex took off down the street after the remaining runner. He passed by the wounded youth and took special care to ensure his docility by kicking him in the stomach with his boot tip as he stepped over him.

His quarry was young and fast, and Hex had very little knowledge of the city to rely on. Instead, the old cowboy kept running as hard as he could towards the fleeing man. The boy ducked into a side alley and Hex was behind him, gaining slowly but surely.

He raced the kid down the alley and up a rickety fire escape to the rooftops above the city. They stomped across paper-tar roofs that barely held their weight. Hex flashed a grin when he saw that the kid was beginning to get tired. Hex was slower and younger by over twenty years, but damn was he persistent.

After the kid leaped across a small gap between buildings, he put his hands on his knees and gasped for breath. A moment later, Hex came across the same gap and was on him. This close, their guns were useless, but the thug had a large Bowie knife ready for Hex. He took a wide swing aimed at Hex's guts, missing him by just an inch.

"That how you wanna play it?" Asked the bounty hunter.

The two men squared off on the rooftop. Hex's own knife was in his boot. In a situation like this, it may as well have been back in California for all the good it was doing. The boy swung again with the knife, fast but very wild and very inaccurate. It took the third time for Hex to get the measure of his attack. When he swung again, Hex caught his arm and twisted it sharply. His wrist snapped with a loud crunch, the knife falling to the roof. The kid let out a sharp cry of pain as Hex continued to twist his arm behind his back. He screamed and begged for mercy, saying the arm was about to pop out the socket.

"Shoulda thought about that before ya took potshots at me and made me run."

Hex made a growl and kicked the boy in the back, sprawling him on to his face on the roof. The large bounty hunter loomed over him, staring straight down at the injured and confused youth.

"Arrest me, already!" He yelled in a squeaky voice.

"I ain't the law," Hex spat. "How unfortunate for you. Now, yer gonna tell me everything about yer gang's kidnapping operation of I will make sure every goddamn bone in your body breaks when I throw you off this roof... What's it gonna be, son?"

 

[Hound55]

Us and Them​

​

Now one thing you're gonna find, if you were to spend any decent amount of time in my line of work, is that a lot of people out there are going to want to kill you, or worse.

Unique thing about what I do; worse is actually a legitimate possibility.

It can be hard for a lot of people to get used to that as a possibility. Generally, the threat of "worse than death" just tends to be a hyperbolic threat.

The forces and entities I tend to dabble and surround myself with don't really trouble themselves with hyperbolic threats. Even if a few of them have a bit of a flair for the dramatic.

A hell of a lot of thems revel in what they see as the lifestyle, capes and bonnets, shop talk and all of that bollocks. Frankly I think the whole bleeding lot of them are just a bunch of barmy ********s, but...

...wait, where was I again?

* * * * *​

The newcomer walked between the pair with his palms outstretched in a non-threatening gesture. This was clearly unnecessary however, because he was known by both parties, if not by his regular name then certainly by his sobriquet.

Sandy Hawkins. The modern day Sandman.

"What?" The Question asked snappily, immediately getting to the point. She'd wasted enough time already.

"I get-- these premonitions." The Sandman started. "What that man is saying," he pointed to John Constantine, "I can confirm it. Mine are seldom clear, but over the years I've been improving and learning how to decipher them."

"I saw a faceless man in a trenchcoat and hat. Wethered by time beyond his years, brought back to help save us all from a fate he had no part in and would never have suffered from."

"A true hero. Selfless in valour."

Renee looked back out across the city in reflection. You considered the dark thoughts she'd just let cloud her mind, even if only for a few seconds. And then her mind travelled to Richard Dragon.

His teachings had allowed her to shake off such thoughts. To find a true path. A light path. With time she'd even been able to focus and remove the mark of Cain - to purify a scar of evil itself in most people's eyes, even if not this John Constantine.

Maybe she really wasn't ready. Could she really allow thoughts of pride and vanity to get in the way of the future of the world? Potentially ALL worlds?

As if sensing her guilt, the masked man stepped closer and looked to reassure her.

"I think I know what you're feeling. Almost every day I still wake up and wonder if I'm living up to what Wesley - the first Sandman - and his legacy."

"And I know it might not be fair to say this, given we're not in the same shoes... but ultimately, I'd give just about anything to see my adopted father - my friend - again."

Renee considered all of this in silence, but it didn't really touch on her concern.

"...And to let him judge the man I've become, himself. I think he'd be pretty happy."

Renee couldn't see his face for the mask, but due to the tone, the inflection and thought that the Sandman showed as he said the words she could tell he was smiling behind the mask.

It made her wonder how often she gave tells of expression behind her own blank mask.

A solemn moment. And then...

"Well... couldn't have put it any bloody better myself, so will we shove on now or what?"

The Englishman again. As flippant as ever.

"If you need any help with this," the Sandman continued, "and you're not sure about HIM, I've brought a few people along who could lend a hand."

"Eh?!?" John exclaimed in surprise. "You're not squeezing me out with your bleeding Justice Society pals, I hope?"

"No. They didn't seem appropriate for this kind of matter. I called in some specialists for this kind of thing..." Sandy Hawkins directed to the people who brought him to this very rooftop.

From the corner a massive silhouette of a gorilla formed against a backlit wall...


...before a small chimpanzee wearing a Sherlock Holmes-style deerstalker hat, coat and pipe stepped out from the shadows.

"Bobo?!"

"...and the rest of Shadowpact, John. In the flesh. Although I'm happy to take top billing."

"But for you my dear, we've yet to be acquainted. And I doubt my friend John Constantine has the required sense of etiquette to rectify that." He walked to the Question, paw outstretched. "Myself, I am Detective Bobo T. Chimpanzee. Feel free to call me Detective Chimp or Bobo, whichever you prefer..."

"Or Dick Chimp!" Called the coarse Brit in the trenchcoat.

The chimpanzee winced at his crassness and gave a small contemptuous sigh before continuing.

"...and these are my compatriots; Blue Devil, Nightshade, Enchantress and the fellow in the tattered clothes is Ragman."

A few minutes were spent exchanging pleasantries and introductions before John Constantine finally gave his displeasure voice.

"I don't like this." He uttered plainly, giving his lungs a few seconds clean air as he replaced the cigarette with a small flask of whiskey, before filling his lips with a fresh Slim Cut.

"I bet you don't..." The Enchantress said. "You no longer can pretend to pull rank in magical know-how with us here and you don't like that you're no longer calling the shots. You really are a small, petty man, John Constantine."

John Constantine gave a smirk at the notion. "Heh. Not quite, luv. See, as a general rule I don't hang out with you jokers for a reason. Me, personally, I prefer to work quietly from the shadows and not drag too many people into things unless I can help it."

"First, I've been doing this long enough to know that you drag people along... not everyone makes it back. Learned that one the hard way. And often."

John struggled to swallow before continuing.

"And second, more people means..."

"There! That's them! Wotan, Faust ATTACK!" A shrill young voice called in the darkness.

"...more attention. Bollocks." John rushed behind an air conditioner block, one hand over his cigarette to protect it, before realizing he'd left the Question out in the open and yanked her back into his cover position.

"Hey! Get your hands off me!"

"Trust me, you don't want to go getting involved in that. It's beyond y'r pay grade."

John turned to the small chimpanzee cowering behind the box next to him.

"Bobo, I trust I'm not going to have any problems from you when I tell you the Question and I need to be get out of here? Your team can handle these few Society leftovers without needing us, right?"

"It can't be the Secret Society of Supervillains!" Sandman hollered over the sounds of demonic shrieking, fireballs and flying spectres. "Wonder Woman destroyed their base!"

"GET THEM! KILL THEM ALL! An extra fifth's share to whoever bring me the head of that monkey for a potion gourd! Secret Society of Supervillains, Slaughter them all!"

John shrugged at Sandy. For some reason, these capes and cowls never could catch on that the destruction of the physical, doesn't affect the magical.

"Do you ever get tired of being smug?"

"Hasn't happened yet... Bobo, clock's ticking, we shouldn't be here."

Detective Chimp spoke after being deep in thought.

"You're right. The pair of you are too important to risk a stray shot, and I can't do much good here either." He rubbed his chin between long fingers. "Are you alright here, Sandman?"

Sandy Hawkins scooped up dust from the roof, it was an old building. Many in this section of Gotham had been built from cheap materials, sourced by "families" of ill repute. As such, many of the construction workers had long been tied up in court looking for compensation from acute silicosis - some of the worst sufferers had died before they ever saw their day in court.

Not every villain wears a cape.

But today, it's purpose would be for the greater good. The Sandman seemed to dissipate into the very rooftop.

"I'll take that as a 'Yes'." The simian detective deadpanned. "Where do you need to go?"

"Central City."

"Central City?" Renee Montoya was more than living up to her name in the few minutes John Constantine had known her.

"We can do that. Enchantress! Nightshade!"

Suddenly the two appeared.

"Central City drop-off, please."

In an instant the two Shadowpact magicians had transported John Constantine, the Question and Detective Chimp into the very heart of Central City.

"Thank you kindly."

Enchantress and Nightshade disappeared, presumably back to the rooftop magic melee in Gotham City.

"Very good. Now could you tell us why exactly you chose to come here of all places, John?"

 

[Supergirl]

The face on the mask changes to one that I've only truly seen on Red Lanterns. So much anger, and I feel the same intense feeling begin to wash over me. I feel my face begin to contort in a similar fashion, and suddenly I'm filled with a hatred that seems unnatural to me. The only time I've felt anger even close to this intense was when it was directed towards Reactron. I'm angry at the things being done in the name of justice. I'm angry at looters for taking advantage of such an emotionally volatile situation. I'm angry at the racist and bigoted words that are being tossed around in this crowd. I'm angry at EVERYTHING.

My eyelids flicker and the brick that a rioter just threw at a store window explodes into burning shrapnel as it's intercepted by my heat vision. I feel myself turning my gaze upon the person who threw the brick, but I summon the willpower to avoid doing the same to him that I had just done to his weapon of choice.

The rage is still boiling, and I've lost sight of the woman in the hoodie. I need to remove myself from this situation, before I cause more damage than I already have.

An hour, and seven trips around the globe later, and I'm back in my apartment. The anger for the most part has subsided. The things that had triggered me still make me angry, but I can control my emotions better than to be led by hatred and animosity. Even so, it was near impossible to contain my vitriol when the mask was turned on me. But now I know why the riots have been so bad. I'm thankful for the explanation, and intent on ending it.

My phone rings on my nightstand. It's the apartment manager. "Hey Stacie, what's up?"

"Sorry to bug you so late, Linda, but I forgot my keys in the apartment, and need someone to let me up. NO LUCAS, PUT THAT DOWN! Sorry. Boys."

"Yeah, let me get decent and I'll be down in a sec to let you in."

I quickly toss my hair into a pony tail and throw on my glasses and a pair of pajamas before going downstairs to let her up. After all, she'd probably be surprised if I did so as Supergirl...

"Thank you so much! It's been a day, I'm just now getting home from all the things I had to do."

"Don't worry about it. I just got home myself a few minutes ago. It's been a heck of a day."

Once back in my room, I put my head down on my desk. The Medusa mask. Why did it have to be the Medusa mask. Stupid magic. Some words escape my mouth in my native Kryptonian. Words that don't have accurate translations to English, but if they did it wouldn't be for polite company.

"Ugh."

I dig in the drawer of my desk and find exactly what I'm looking for a slim electronic device with the JLA logo on it. My communicator from last year when I was an active Leaguer. I press the button on the A, and feel the tingly sensation that is the teleporter to the satellite. I cough a little as dust particles find their way to my lungs. Nobody's been up here in an awful long time. Shame really.

I make my way to the computer in the Hall of Villains. Both Hayden and Halstead are dead, well and dudes, so it can't really be them. And mask itself was supposedly destroyed by Conner. So either this is an entirely new mask and Pirate, or the rumors of the mask's demise were exaggerated.

-----

The next morning at school, everyone seems ridiculously happy. Or maybe I'm being paranoid and reading too much into emotional states with my new knowledge. The day goes by really slowly. So much so that I can see why Conner plays hooky occasionally. Finally, my last class is over and I duck into a bathroom to change, leaving in a blur through the open window so nobody gets the idea that Supergirl might be a Cal student.

The riots had escalated again last night. The Oakland PD has deployed their "Armored Personnel Transports" or as most protesters call them, tanks. And they're not wrong. I see them now as I fly over downtown. I take a perch on the Tribune building and scan the area, just looking for the one person that's screwing with everyone's emotions. I have to find a way to stop her.

 

[Carnage27]

The Batmobile screams around a corner as Damien and I rush towards our next target. As I drive around the city, I notice the plethora of emergency vehicles I'm sharing the road with. Bruce's team was out and about tonight looking for Two-Face, and I have to wonder if something has happened. I open up a comm link to Babs, "Everything going alright, Oracle?"

"Not the time, Batman," she responds, clearly flustered. "The team is taking on Two-Face's hired...army and he just blew up the mayor."

I curse under my breath. Harvey escaped recently, and Bruce insisted that he and his team take care of it. I've gotten out of his way on this, because he's still the boss. But I'm not happy about it, and I have to assume something went wrong with his beloved robots. And the mayor being assassinated...this has clearly gotten out of hand.

"I'm coming to help," I grit my teeth, and feel Robin perk up at the thought of helping the rest of the team out in a fight.

"I...uh...am not sure that's the best idea," she responds.

I shake my head again and Damien growls in the passenger seat. Babs's response is all I need to know that Bruce wants to handle it. This awkwardness between us has hurt our relationship, but if he's dead set enough to not let me help the team it's something else altogether. This is more than a team. We're a family. Not being able to help my family tears me up inside, but it is what it is.

"Fine, keep me update. Let me know if they need me, Bruce's opinion be damned," I snarl and close the comm down.

The frustration rolling off Damien was palpable. While he's softened as my partner, Damien is still a warrior at heart. He's got a fight first, ask questions later personality, and he had looks up to his father immensely. Ever since Bruce's return and subsequent near-self-isolation, Damien has become frustrated with his father. Bruce is no longer the great warrior Damien knows he is, and it irritates the boy.

It irritates me as well, but I'm slightly better than Robin at hiding it.

I know how much of a mistake it is to bother him while he's stewing, so instead I hail Gordon on the comm, "Commissioner."

"Batman, you weren't kidding when you said we'd need a lot of cars," Jim said, exasperated. "You saved these girls from a lot of pain."

"Now I just need to find out who I saved them from," I respond in my "Batman voice". It's honestly nowhere near as good as Bruce's, but it's getting there, I think. "Has anyone been in and out to see Pyg lately?"

Professor Pyg and his Circus of Strange had been the first case Damien and I worked together. Pyg is a certified lunatic who likes experimenting on people to "make them perfect", not to mention a biological agent to make them his slaves. He's currently rotting in prison as far as I know, but he's also the most likely person demented enough to have truck-fulls of women shipped into Gotham.

"I'll have someone check the tapes and get back to you," Gordon gets where I'm going with my hypothesis. "Where are you headed now?"

"To have a talk with a little birdie."

**********

Oswald Cobblepot yelps as I slam him onto the hood of his car with one hand and snap the umbrella he had just attempted to stab me with using the other hand. I snarl as the short, portly man struggles under my strength. Behind me, Robin finishes tying up the two armed guards we had taken care of second before.

"You can't do this!" Cobblepot sneers. "I've done nothing wrong!"

"That remains to be seen," I snarl. "Warehouse 34. In the Narrows. Talk."

"I sold it!" he sputters back. "A few weeks back. I knew it was hot, and some guy showed up with a briefcase full of money to buy it. Didn't give me a name, but the cash was legit! I gave him the deed that day!"

He's not lying. At least as far as I can tell he's not lying. Cobblepot was never one to keep his cool. He'd break if there was any chance of going back to jail, and it was clear he was at least partially telling the truth. I put him down and turn to Damien, "We're leaving."

**********

"So what now?" Damien asks as we drive away.

"We head back and check out surveillance tapes on the warehouse. Someone there will lead us back to whoever bought that warehouse."
​

 

[Supergirl]

Once back in my room, I put my head down on my desk. The Medusa mask. Why did it have to be the Medusa mask. Stupid magic. Some words escape my mouth in my native Kryptonian. Words that don't have accurate translations to English, but if they did it wouldn't be for polite company.

"Ugh."

I dig in the drawer of my desk and find exactly what I'm looking for a slim electronic device with the JLA logo on it. My communicator from last year when I was an active Leaguer. I press the button on the A, and feel the tingly sensation that is the teleporter to the satellite. I cough a little as dust particles find their way to my lungs. Nobody's been up here in an awful long time. Shame really.

I make my way to the computer in the Hall of Villains. Both Hayden and Halstead are dead, well and dudes, so it can't really be them. And mask itself was supposedly destroyed by Conner. So either this is an entirely new mask and Pirate, or the rumors of the mask's demise were exaggerated.

-----

The next morning at school, everyone seems ridiculously happy. Or maybe I'm being paranoid and reading too much into emotional states with my new knowledge. The day goes by really slowly. So much so that I can see why Conner plays hooky occasionally. Finally, my last class is over and I duck into a bathroom to change, leaving in a blur through the open window so nobody gets the idea that Supergirl might be a Cal student.

The riots had escalated again last night. The Oakland PD has deployed their "Armored Personnel Transports" or as most protesters call them, tanks. And they're not wrong. I see them now as I fly over downtown. I take a perch on the Tribune building and scan the area, just looking for the one person that's screwing with everyone's emotions. I have to find a way to stop her.

It's not even sunset and the APT's are out in downtown. I count four police helicopters flying in the skies around me. The governor is apparently mulling National Guard intervention... which with this new Psycho Pirate out here, could be a disaster in the making. Rao, it's already a disaster. But the military would make it worse. General Lane had no problem proving that to me.

The sun finally recedes past the Bay and that's when the calm protests begin to escalate. Naturally at first, just your standard stupid looters taking advantage of a tense situation, and giving crap talking heads like Morgan Edge more fodder for calling out "thug culture" in our inner cities. But then there's an intense pocket of violence, and almost before I see her I know she's there. The woman in the red hoodie again.

Faster than a bullet, I'm down there. She caught me unaware and unprepared last time. But I have a trick up my sleeve today. See, I made a phone call while I was in the satellite last night...

"Oh. You again? Didn't learn from last night huh? Well let's see what a rampaging Kryptonian can do. Oh wait, we saw that when your people were attacking Earth."

Rao. It's not me she's looking at. It's the officer behind me. I watch as the expression on the mask changes.

"Fear. Fear what this alien can do. Fear her power and her agenda. She sided with the aliens. Lived with them. Fear her."

I hear the officer drop a clip out of his gun. I spin around in time to see him slide in a different clip. "Get away from me you dirty Kryptonian witch!"

"Let's not do anything rash Officer" I take a second to scan his badge, "Brooks. I'm not here to hurt you, I'm here to help you."

"You sided with the thugs already! You're an anarchist and an illegal! Go back to where you came from!"

The world seems to slow down as he pulls the trigger. My hand goes out to intercept the bullet, like usual. But this time it doesn't stop the bullet. The bullet blasts out the back of my hand and burrows into my shoulder and I drop to my knees in pain. I see a golden glow in the bullet wound. Gold K. Somebody supplied Oakland PD with Kryptonite bullets. And my least favorite kind. Gold Kryptonite. The kind that killed my father. The kind that killed New Krypton. The kind that made up Reactron's black heart. I'm able to dig the bullet out and throw it out of effective distance, but now I have fifteen seconds before I will be able to use my powers again. And Rao help me, I hear the Pirate's voice as she turns more and more of the mob on me. Fifteen seconds. If I stay alive that long.

 

[Andy C.]

[EDIT: Wrong thread. I am dumb.]