Post by HoM on Feb 4, 2018 9:59:11 GMT -5
fLast time, in DC2 MOST WANTED…
After receiving a power up thanks to secretive society of the world’s super villains, the vicious energy leech known as the PARASITE evolved into the ultimate bogeyman, no allegiances and a thirst for more power driving him to strike out against both the good guys and bad!
AMANDA WALLER finally had enough and sent TASK FORCE X after him, and after a hunt through the streets of Lagos, the team were successful and PARASITE was taken into custody.
But WALLER has a secret agenda! She needed a power source for a brand new project known only as ‘Twilight’ and PARASITE fit the bill perfectly. With ‘Twilight’ active, THE WALL has the ability to drain the superpowers out of any threat against the American government, and with her track record against the superhuman community, some people are concerned…
BATMAN and SUPERMAN meet to discuss this development, and the Caped Crusader vows to resolve the issue before it can escalate… but when Belle Reve Penitentiary goes into emergency lock down and RICK FLAGG finds the Dark Knight standing over the dead body of WALLER, the question is, has Gotham’s premiere hero taken it a step too far?
With all this in mind, please join us now as the adventure continues…
Blood pooling around her awkwardly contorted body, Amanda Waller lay dead on the floor of her office, like a discarded puppet without its strings. Over her still warm body, bloodied batarangs in his hands, stood Batman a foul grimace cast across what was visible of his face.
“You weren’t supposed to see this.”
Waller dead. Batarangs embedded in her chest. The culprit stood over her body. There was no doubt in Flagg’s mind. This was an assassination, and a damn clumsy one-- something he didn’t expect from the likes of the Dark Knight.
While he didn’t know enough about Project: Twilight, Flagg was convinced that this was a pre-emptive strike on behalf of the super bastard community. They were watching their own backs, not caring about the rest of the world. Kill Waller, end the project? Could they be that naïve? This gave the powers-that-be all the excuse they needed to take the project into overdrive!
Meanwhile, body cameras fed the scene of the crime to the nerve centre of Belle Reve, where Katana and the support staff watched in shock and horror-- their boss, the Wall herself, was dead-- Batman the clearly the culprit-- but he was cornered-- what would, or could, Flagg do--?
“You’re-- you’re under arrest,” spat the Colonel, cursing his own hesitance.
He raised his weapon, first pressure on the trigger, and before anyone could say a word to stop him, his rifle burst to life. This was the god damn Batman they were talking about, any he knew that any quarter given would be taken advantage of tenfold. Taking his unspoken cue, the Belle Reve security team behind the Colonel raised their weapons and joined in, but Batman moved impossibly fast, threw a a smoke pellet down and the office filled up with a thick, choking cloud that made it impossible to see the Caped Crusader.
Then the screams started. The team behind Flagg were being taken out of the fight, and it took two seconds for the Colonel to pull on his infrared goggles to see what was going on.
On the floor lay the security that had joined him in breaching the office. There was a blur amongst the smoke, and he fired in its direction, but he couldn’t tell if he’d hit anything. There was a noise behind him-- he turned-- and Batman snarled as he wrenched the rifle from Flagg’s hands and smashed the soldier in the face with the butt once, twice, hard enough to send blood flowing from his now broken nose.
Bloodied but not defeated, Flagg dropped to a knee, then immediately drew a knife from his boot, metal singing as he swung it up at the stomach of the vigilante. Batman shifted back, grabbed Flagg’s wrist to gain control over the weapon, but Flagg passed it smoothly into his left hand and stabbed forward, precisely, toward Batman’s heart. The vigilante palmed the side of the blade away from his centre mass, but it drew blood on the arm, and Flagg received a sharp knee to the jaw for that, sending him backwards with it dislocated.
“Stay out of my way in futue, Flagg,” growled Batman. He stepped backward, there was a crackle in the air, and he was gone, leaving Rick to painfully shunt his dislocated jaw back in place, and the dead body of Amanda Waller cooling by her desk.
“Damn lucky I was staying in St Roch when the call came in-- the president’s office sent the directive directly to me-- "
A matter of hours later, General Hardcastle was escorted by his armed guard into the medical wing of Belle Reve Penitentiary and stopped in his tracks when he saw Amanda Waller’s corpse on the gurney at the side of the room.
“--My God.”
Flagg looked over at Hardcastle, then down at his hands. They’d set his nose back in place, and his jaw had swollen up like nobody’s business, but June had laid her healing hands on him and knitted his injuries back together far better than modern medicine ever could.
Hardcastle’s own jaw was set, and words emerged from his mouth like a growl. “This is karma, you god damn bitch.”
Surprised by the venom, Flagg watched as the general spat viciously on the pale face of Waller. Cursing through bloodied, thickened lips, the Colonel stood and made a beeline straight for the disrespectful military man, but Katana intercepted him.
“No. Not now,” said Tatsu.
Hardcastle turned and saw Flagg’s rage reddened face. “Angry, Flagg? Pissed off? You don’t know the meaning of the word. My daughter is dead because of this woman. Lost on one of her damn deniable ops*. This? This here? I consider this payment rendered Now. You’ve got a Bat-problem, and the joint staff have sent me here with this.”
One of the armed guards held an attaché briefcase up so that Hardcastle could pull a black dossier out from inside. He slapped the contents into Flagg’s chest, then exited Belle Reve’s mortuary nearly as fast as he’d arrived
Katana couldn’t make out what Flagg had received. “What is it?” she queried.
Silently, Flagg opened the sealed documents, pulled out the contents and began to read. It took a minute to absorb the contents. Then shook his head. “Direct from the office of the White House. We’ve just been ordered to bring in the Batman. Dead or alive.”
“Your preference?” asked Tatsu.
“Convene Task Force X to launch deck. Tell the armoury not to bother providing non-lethal munitions. We’re going to Gotham. We’re ending this farce once and for all.”
Steve Trevor, White King of Checkmate, put the phone down and ran his hands through his hair. Paul Kirk, his Bishop, aka the Manhunter, sat in the corner of the room, awaiting his orders.
“Amanda Waller’s dead. According to eye witnesses at the scene she was assassinated by the Batman.”
Kirk jolted out of his seat. “What?”
Trevor nodded, just as incredulous. “Flagg has the encounter on body cam. Looks like the mad caped bastard snuck into Belle Reve and stabbed her with his own ‘batarangs. My God…”
Kirk shook his head. “That’s not his MO. Batman doesn’t kill. This is insane!”
“That’s not what they’re saying. Task Force X has been tasked to bring him in. Paul, this could be the end of it. If Batman killed a government operative, if they take him down… the house of cards collapses in on itself. The UN sanction the Justice League hold would be stripped away, the deputising of Superman in Metropolis, Dia-- Wonder Woman’s political immunity… poof. Gone. Just like that.”
“White King-- Steve-- Batman does not kill. This has to be a frame job. Someone smart enough to break into Belle Reve without be detected and getting out without leaving a hint or a clue-- sure, that points to Batman all the way-- but Batman does not kill.”
“Believe what you want, but somehow, he found out about Project: Twilight and took action. That’s the narrative the folks in community are pushing.”
“Sir…” started Kirk.
Steve raised his hand. “The conflict of interest with the order from the White House to bring Batman in being given to Task Force X though… that’s… Paul, I need you to--” There was a knock at the door and Trevor held his hand up abruptly. “Come.”
A secretary poked his head in and said, “They’re calling a meeting of the Royal Families, sir. Kings and Queens only.”
“Thank you, I’ll be right there. Paul, if you think this is dirty then I’m inclined to side with your thinking. Find out what’s going on. And get back to me with actionable intel that I can pass to the Black Royals.”
“Yes, White King,” said Manhunter, grabbing his coat and leaving the room immediately.
“Waller’s dead? How can that be?” Leonard Starkey reread the report then looked over at the Parasite, currently impaled by the control rods at the centre of Project: Twilight’s core.
“Batman. Pre-emptive strike against the project,” said Acting Director Lambert.
While Starkey was in his mid-fifties, thin through lack of thought toward eating, and a walking shambles due to his concerns with next-generation science over personal up-keep, Lambert was in his thirties and powered by sheer self-determination. He always wore a perfect black suit and pressed white shirt, and his tie was the same shade of silver every single day.
Also, no one knew his first name, and he’d answer, ‘Deputy Director is all you need to know’ if asked. Now the line would change to ‘Acting Director’, etc, but he didn’t know how long that would last. He had no allusions that his current position was due to the casual momentum of convenience.
He’d been personally vetted by Amanda Waller for the deputy directorship, and in her absence, he’d been given all the responsibilities that she’d held, though he knew that it wouldn’t last long. He was a great point man, a quality Waller always looked for in her operatives. Give him a directive, and he could run with it, but he needed that initial starting push to get him going in the right direction.
The greatest quality, apart from his managing skills and understanding of the reasons why Project: Twilight had to run was the fact that he was indifferent to the world of so-called ‘superheroes’ and ‘supervillains’. He had no horse in the race. He had managed to avoid contact with any of the threats that had riddled the world these last four years, be it the Apokolips invasion*, the Starro infiltration and subsequent supervillain uprising**.
He’d been in an underground bunker along with the rest of his university class when the Black Sun had risen*, and it had been all but a minor inconvenience. Illuminated by his keyring pocket torch, he went through his thesis paper with a red pen and the kind of determination that came with not knowing if you were going to hand it in on time thanks to the end of the world occurring overhead.
But that threat had passed, and he’d survived the day. He graduated top of the class and it was his thesis, ‘Man and the Great Darkness; a study on the impact of enhanced operatives on the direction of the 21st century’, that had caught Amanda’s eye. Especially the section about weaponizing said operatives for military action.
He’d been back home this last week. His mother was sick, and his father had long passed away. She was on her last legs, but he knew, in his heart, that this work was more important than one woman, so when Waller was announced dead he travelled back to Project: Twilight to ensure it kept moving forward as planned. He knew that the project was the much-needed Gotterdammerung, and he was no fan of hyperbole. If it didn’t go ahead, then the Great Darkness would descend, and humanity would be a footnote in the history of the world in the face of the rising population of enhanced operatives...
“So, what are we doing?” asked Starkey.
“Project moves ahead as planned. You have the power source now, so let’s began activation. I want the array ready for deployment as soon as possible. If the Justice League have performed a pre-emptive strike against us, I’ll be damned if we don’t take bring them down a peg before the day is through. Get to work, Leonard. We’re doing this for Waller now.”
Lambert didn’t believe that last bit, but thought it sounded good. He was going to do this for all of humanity. Because if the super-community was allowed to continue growing unchecked and unchallenged, Earth would never be the same again.
Starkey’s nose wrinkled, and he removed his glasses to wipe them down with his lab coat. “We’re having to insert more and more control rods into the Parasite. I’m confident we can draw the power out of any subject and store it, but the pain…”
“I don’t care about the pain, and neither did Amanda. Keep inserting them. If Batman is acting against us, then that means the Justice League can’t be far behind. Can you imagine the amount of energy the activation will take in?”
“His body might not be able to take it,” noted Starkey.
“Then let’s see how far we can go, and if that fails…”
“…Yes?”
“Well, you have certain contacts in Medea, don’t you?”
Starkey was taken aback. “How did you--?”
Lambert smiled, thinly. “Waller knew, and now so do I.”
“You can’t… they… I don’t…”
Lambert patted Starkey on the shoulder. “Keep going, Leonard. Let’s see how much the Parasite can take.”
Waves crashed against the tide breaks of the island headquarters of the Justice League, but they were too busy to notice. They’d convened-- well, all but one of them-- to address a major issue directed at them by the United States government, and without their missing teammates presence, they were left to make assumptions all of their own.
Going around the meeting table…
“That’s clearly not Batman,” said Wonder Woman, simply.
“But they believe it is him,” replied the Martian Manhunter.
“That’s gonna cause an issue. With everything going on with Kobra, and now this? It’s more ammunition,” said Green Lantern.
“We need to be up front with this whole thing. We need to get ahead of it and release a statement,” said the Flash.
Aquaman laughed incredulously. “Saying what? Throwing Batman to the wolves? Or saying we don’t believe he’s capable of such an act?”
The Flash shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant--”
“When the government thought we went rogue, you handed yourself into their custody. How’d that end?” posed Aquaman.
“…It could have gone better…*” The Flash replied.
Superman held his hands up. “The American ambassador to the United Nations has requested we hand Batman over to FBI custody. This is an official request.”
“How can we hand him over when he’s not answering hails? Are you saying we go to Gotham City and drag him out?” Green Lantern asked.
Wonder Woman stood abruptly. “We’re not going to hand him over. We’re not going to entertain anyone’s notion that Batman did this. He’s incapable of taking the life of another. We all know this.”
Martian Manhunter contemplated the matter, and slowly responded. “Yes, of course Diana, but if we go against a United Nations request, we’re jeopardising the status of the Justice League in the eyes of the world. We operate thanks to the fine line we walk, that of the license we’ve received to operate globally by that League of Nations.”
“I’ll go,” said Superman, simply. “I’ll talk to him.”
Green Lantern rubbed his knuckles contemplatively. “Alone?”
Superman nodded. “We’ve known each other for years. After Captain Marvel, he was the first one in the community I interacted with… we have an understanding.”
A buzzing came from the Man of Steel’s belt buckle and he looked down at it in surprise. He apologised and exited the room, then a few moments later returned to the others.
“What’s wrong?” asked the Flash, noting the solemn expression on the Man of Tomorrow’s face.
“I’ve been summoned to the White House. The President wants to see me.”
The cheery woman’s voice was a front. Of course it was. “Uh, so, please leave a message after the beep! Thanks!”
“…Listen to me. I know this is a private channel for emergencies, but this is an emergency. The full weight of the United States government is preparing to come down on you, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent it. You’re on every agency’s most wanted list, higher than Luthor, higher than Lord Naga. You killed a government official, someone who was on the cusp of something massive. This is an act of war--”
Paul Kirk’s senses screamed that he was in danger. He’d left the covert officers of the White King, based in the nation’s capital, and went by foot toward Constitution Gardens. He wore grey sweats, a hooded top that was currently obscuring his features as he jogged, and headphones that weren’t connected to any music player. He wanted to appear distracted, like he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, but at times like this, during an active operation, he was sharp. Poised. Ready for action and ready to pounce. Not that he needed to. No. Right now, he needed to send out a signal.
He’d picked up a burner phone on the way there from one of the electronics shops he’d clocked on his daily runs, and called the emergency number he’d received from Batman in case of this kind of situation. There was no fixed address at which he could be reached, but if you were a certain kind of someone, with a certain relationship with members of the extended vigilante family based in Gotham, you might be able to get hold of a special number…
From the Constitution Gardens he made a beeline to the path running alongside the Lincoln Memorial Reflection Pool, and made his call. It made sense to be in public, better this than hiding in a public restroom somewhere. And then he could dump the burner and get back to the White King’s offices without anyone being none the wiser and a shower later he’d be back on the board.
As he spoke, there was a shadow, cast by a figure taller than any figure had a right to cast. His instincts kicked in and he swung round, kicked up, and it was like smashing one’s limb into a concrete wall.
“Hhhrrrr?” growled the figure. He hooked his massive, reptilian arm around Kirk’s leg and squeezed, gripping it tightly in place so that the government operative couldn’t escape. “That tickled.”
Manhunter looked up at Killer Croc. “Holy sh--” He jumped up on one leg and in the same movement kicked his attacker at the side of the head, causing the former-crocodile-wrestler to release his hold on him and give him some breathing room.
“Aoww!” roared the monstrous villain.
Time to fight back, no two ways about it. But first, Paul crushed the thirty-dollar mess of plastic and metal he called a burner cell phone together so that it was beyond repair and then threw the debris into the reflective waters. No one could use it to track the last number dialled or anything else.
Killer Croc swung his heavy fists downward toward Kirk, but Manhunter hurdled over the monster’s shoulders so he was behind him. Systema training kicked in. He was naturally a cardio machine, his muscles didn’t get exhausted like regular folks did, and he’d been training to kill since he was a teen. Croc howled as pressure points were pounded with powerful strikes, but the amount of power Kirk had to put into each blow meant the edges of his hands screamed, pain rushing up his arms and shoulders every time he struck. Every punch he threw was doing damage to his scaled opponent, but it was doing damage to him as well.
“Hands off the crocodile, perro. He’s one’a us.”
A new voice-- Kirk turned-- but was sent flying back as a spiral of flame struck him square in the chest. He tried to barrel toward the pool, but the fire spread like he was made of dry kindling. He made it into the shallow waters, spun around so he doused the fire, but it reached his chest, burned so deep--
He was struck in the back of the head and fell face first into the waters. He was unconscious for a second, drowning for another, but then his determination to live kicked in and he gasped. He was in agony. Overwhelmed.
“Aww, they call ya the Manhunter, right? Kinda ironic, considerin we’re the ones been hunting ya, and not the other way round.”
His attacker giggled. High pitched and hysterical. Her accent was thick, Brooklyn or New Jersey, but he didn’t recognise the voice. That said, when she rolled him over with a sharp kick, he recognised her face and costume. His eyes must have told a story.
“Aww, ya recognise ol’ Harley? Ain’t that peachy. Say ‘ahh’!”
She hefted up her comedically over-sized, but practically applicable mallet, and swung it down hard on his skull, concussing him into unconsciousness.
“…Ya shouldn’ta been leaking, Paulie. Colonel Flagg ain’t happy with ya. Not! One! Bit!”
Superman slowly descended onto the lawn of the White House, and dozens of Secret Service agents swarmed together as he approached. After the briefings they’d been given earlier, everyone was on the razor’s edge of alertness.
A few hours ago, there’d been some kind of attack on the Washington Mall, but by the time police had responded, all they found was scorch marks and a dozen or so eye-witnesses who claimed a trio of super villains attacked some random jogger. It meant that they were on high alert and there was a battalion of armoured soldiers cloaked in the bushes. The Man of Tomorrow had spotted them upon approach, but didn’t respond to their posed threat. He didn’t want to scare anybody.
“At ease, gentlemen,” said Superman, his open hands raised at his waist in acquiescence. “I’m here by presidential order.”
One of the agents holstered his weapon and waved him down. “We’ve been expecting you, Superman. We’re just a bit jumpy is all. All’a Washington is on high alert. I’m Tanner. You’re to come with me, if that’s all right?”
“Lead the way.”
Tanner led Superman through one of the side entrances of the White House, away from where any civilians might be. They’d locked down the building since the attack on the mall. Only select staff were on hand, and every member of the secret service was on high alert. The pair descended beneath the White House, into the secret, fortified bunker that was built in case of the worst kind of superhuman emergency, in the wake of Darkseid’s invasion of the planet.
Finally, after dozens of precautions, scans, every contingency they could think of in case of emergency, the Man of Steel was beckoned into an exact duplicate of the Oval Office dozens of floors beneath the original, and President Jebediah Stuart sat waiting behind an exact duplicate of the Resolute Desk.
Clark scanned the structure of the desk. He almost showed the surprise on his face-- it was made from the exact same wood-- another desk built from the timbers of the British Arctic Exploration ship ‘Resolute’.
“Thank you for coming, son,” said the President.
“It’s my honour, sir.”
Jebediah Stuart was military royalty, even before he became the 43rd President of the United States. His father was a lieutenant during the Second World War, and he himself fought in Vietnam. He'd been a prisoner of war for nearly six years and the torture had changed him physically. But he’d never done what many others had in his position, he’d never ‘confessed’ to the United State’s ‘war crimes’. He knew it was all anti-U.S. propaganda, but he never blamed any who came before or after him who did.
Every man had a breaking point, and when asked why they never found his, he informed the journalists, the military brass, his family, anyone who’d ever asked him, that they had, time and time again they had. But like his father before him, he claimed to have been visited by the spirt of his 19th-century ancestor, Confederate general J.E.B. Stuart. In a debrief interview with the army psychiatrist years later, this is what he said:
“When I was at my lowest, when the torture, the starvation, the dysentery… when everything finally ate away at me and left me a broken shell of myself, the ghostly good ol’ boy arrived. He was an ornery old bastard, and he refused to let me give in. I thought… my father’s stories from the war, when he told me about the first time his M3 tank squad went into action against the Nazis and they were pinned down and the ghost visited him in his time of need… I thought they were the delusions of someone who’d rationalised the horrors of war… but the general pulled me up by my britches and told me that I couldn’t give in. I couldn’t give them what they wanted. And then, after six years had just about passed… I was released. And I never saw the general again.”
Jeb smiled at Superman’s approach. “Do you want to take a seat?”
Asked like a polite inquiry but said by someone who knew they were in the presence of someone who could crush them in the palm of their hand. Stuart motioned toward the sofas behind the Man of Steel, and smiled. Superman spread his cape and took a seat as directed, knowing that it was the small gestures that made people feel the most at ease.
“Thank you. I know the events of the last few days have been less than--”
Stuart cut him off with the raise of his hand. “I know, son. I know. I also know that you and Gotham’s vigilante, the Batman, you work together as sometimes-partners, and as members of the Justice League. So I understand how difficult this whole situation must be.”
“Batman isn’t a murderer,” stated Superman. “I assure you--”
“And yet, the Batman was caught on camera digging two of his-- what do the press call them? Batarangs?” The President rolled his eyes at the sheer insanity of it all. “-- two of his Batarangs into the chest of one of the most decorated and assured operatives the intelligence agency has ever produced.”
“It couldn’t have been him, sir. The man doesn’t have it in him to kill.”
Stuart began to unfurl his fingers as he made his points. “Footage of the murder. Eye witness statements. The weaponry matches that of other samples collected from Gotham City by the FBI. Three major points I cannot get passed. Now, if the man is innocent--”
“And he is,” said Superman, surprised by the force of his own interruption. But Bruce Wayne was the best man he’d ever known, second only to Jonathan Kent, the man who raised him. This was a man who dedicated himself to justice, who’d lost everything to the barrel of a gun. He’d never take a life. Even in the face of horrors like the Joker, Scarecrow, Two-Face, abominations wrapped in human flesh, he’d never taken their lives, not even when he’d lost more to their likes. Because he knew that if you took a life, you were no better than those that had before you. You became part of the problem instead of part of the solution. If his kind were to kill, then the precarious trust the law enforcement agencies would be torn apart. Not all of their kind could operate in the glare of the sun. Others had to operate at night.
It was simple…
…Bruce Wayne didn’t kill.
President Stuart simply sighed. “I have every single domestic law enforcement agency in this country, and a few foreign, who want to bring the Batman down. Not take in, mind; they want to see this man dead. Better to do that than drag this out into a public forum. He’s a vigilante. They take him down, they brush it under the carpet. Done and dusted. It’s how we’ve managed to to keep it out of the press so far.”
“They want him dead? They can’t do that. What about due process-- what about--”
Stuart cut him off. “The Batman has had a hand in saving this country, this world, more times than its population knows. If he has cracked, gone off the deep end, then he deserves to face justice. That the ethical foundation that this country is built upon. So I need you to find him. I need you to bring him in. Because I think you’re the only man I can trust right now to do that. Everyone else is terrified of the man and would rather shoot to kill first rather than take him alive.”
Superman considered the President’s words. While he did, Stuart continued.
“I know you and he are friends. But I also know who you are, Kal-El. Regardless of where you were born, it's clear that you're a true American, through and through. You came to this country and made something of yourself, through all the adversity and doubt thrown your way. But a man who has his own agenda, who slinks into the shadows and refuses to explain himself, in the face of atrocity? That's a man I cannot trust. That's why I need you to bring him in. I need you to bring in the Batman."
“You… you have my word, Mr President. I’ll find him.”
Stuart smiled and patted the Man of Steel on the shoulder. “Thank you, Superman. May God be with you.”
Colonel Flagg was holding court in front of his subjects. He was wearing body armour, and his rifle was slung at his hip. He had a holster behind his back and one under his arm. He had clips at hand to reload. He had grenades for all kinds of uses. But right now, he wanted to make the situation clear, so he stood in front of his people, and he spoke plain.
Before that, roll call.
Captain Boomerang. Australian mercenary and thief. Poor attitude. Usually ran with the Flash’s Rogues but bad behaviour kept him coming back to the Suicide Squad time and time again. Good in a fight with an opponent you can’t keep track of most of the time, but before now knew better than to land a killing blow against the likes of a Justice Leaguer given the chance. The kind of heat the death of a superhero brings down on you would mean his preferred quality of life would become untenable.
Deadshot. Assassin and marksman. Death wish. Had totted up enough kills at this point to earn his freedom ten times over, but he had an arrangement with Waller. He kept working for the government, and the government made sure his daughter was given the best life possible. He’d already lost one son. He’d avenged that loss bloody. When it came to Gotham though, he’d always blinked when it came to that kill shot. But if the president had given the order…
El Diablo. Gangbanger and pyrokinetic. Don’t think past the tattoos. This guy was hot-headed more than one, but the ink told all the story you needed to know. According to his file, he housed some kind of ancient entity, a god of fire by the name of Xiuhtecuhtli, but if that was the case, why was he so small time? He was picked up after incinerating an opposing gang on the streets of Los Angeles. A mother and her child were caught in the blaze. He wasn’t so mouthy after he found that out.
Enchantress. Dark magic user and psychopath. Used to be she was a package deal; when she wasn’t throwing around spells and speaking in tongues she was timid June Moone, but they’d seen less and less of her recently. Flagg had asked why but never got an answer, just a smile. Whatever the nature of the Enchantress identity, it had asserted itself big time, and she revelled in the power she flung around. That was a massive concern, but Flagg held the kill switch-- like he did for everyone else on the team-- and he didn’t believe she could bounce back from a hole in the head.
Harley Quinn. Former moll to the Joker and current ace in the hole when it came to Gotham. Not only was she an absolute lunatic, but she was also a trained psychiatrist, and it was the hope of Waller that they could use Quinn to get in the heads of her fellow Task Force Xers and kind of threats they came up against. She was a wildcard, but Flagg wanted boots on the ground who knew the battlefield, and of all the people available to him, Quinn fit the profile 100%.
Katana. Trained ninja and haunted by the spirit of her dead husband. At least, that’s what she claimed. Her namesake was called a ‘Soul Taker’ a blade capable of cutting the spirit from the body of an enemy. That was the nature of her husband’s haunting, and that’s the weight she carried with her into battle. Flagg trusted her implicitly. She was his second in command, and the only member of the team without an explosive implanted in her brain.
Killer Croc. The muscle. Another product of Gotham’s broken criminal and social systems. He’d originally been a wannabe crime lord with a skin condition, but it had mutated him over the years into something much worse. What was once diagnosed as an extreme case of epidermolytic hyperkeratosis had been theorised recently as a case of regressive atavism, meaning that he has inherited traits of ancestral species of the human race-- in his case, those of the reptiles. He was a scary bastard with big teeth and an appetite to match.
“You’ve all read the mission parameters. Those of you who can’t read have had them read to you. We’re here to take down the Batman. I don’t care what you think he is. Urban legend. Mythical being. Undead vigilante. Demonic force--”
Giggles from the back row interrupted his speech.
“Got something to add, Quinn?”
Harley leaned forward so the others could see her broad grin. “Oh, Rick, ya know he ain’t any of those things. He's a man, but in better shape than most. Wowzers, those toys he’s got though! Anyways, I’ve been up close and personal with him, and he’s a barrel of laughs ya play it right. But he ain’t no monster. Ol’ Weyland’s got that down though. And please, call me Harley.”
Killer Croc grunted. “…I can read.”
Flagg ignored her. “Moving on. Tonight, he dies. We’ve been sanctioned by the president. We have authorisation. The Batman dies. We’ve tried this once before and we came up short. Task Force X was deployed last year to bring the vigilante down and he trounced us hard*. There will not be a repeat tonight.”
Floyd Lawton took a break from checking over his rifle and spoke up. “You sure of that, Colonel? He ain’t like the usual crop of bastards we go up against. He’s Batman for Christ’s sake. I took shot and shot and shot in his direction that last time, and the bullets didn’t fly straight.”
“Then we get close, Deadshot. We get personal. And we don’t leave Gotham until he’s dead. Bagged and tagged ready for delivery to the Joint Chiefs. We deploy in thirty. Croc, you’re up first. You know the plan.”
“Hhrr. Sure. But I lied. Could someone read the briefing t’me again?”
Night by the time Superman made it to the city. He flew slow from Washington, thinking the events of the day through as he went. The Justice League wanted to know what he intended to do. He had no answer. Told them to hold off. Help elsewhere where they could. Wonder Woman was as close to apoplectic as she got, but didn’t make a show of it. The Martian Manhunter said they’d honour Superman’s wishes, and then the psychic link shared by the team faded, and it was still night, and it was still Gotham City blaring below.
Night by the time Superman made it to Wayne Manor. Night still, when he arched to the rear of the vast property, and located the secret entrance that he’d seen the Batman drive his fleet of vehicles in and out of. He floated through the waterfall and into the vast cave system beneath Bruce Wayne’s childhood home and found…
…Nothing.
What had once been the Bat Cave… was now…
…Empty.
There were, of course, vast, flat spaces that had once been occupied by powerful computers, non-lethal weaponry and state of the art technology. Multiple levels that had each had a dedicated purpose in a war against crime that had been waged for the better part of a decade were simply empty. Areas that had been hollowed out for uses as vaults and medical facilities were no longer lined with steel and concrete.
“How…?” wondered Superman aloud.
He scanned the surfaces of the cavernous space and saw debris, dust and guano. The detritus of a place long abandoned. He sniffed the air-- there was nothing to indicate that there had ever been a paramilitary vigilante operation acting out of this location. No chemical fuels from where there had been a laboratory, no stench of gasoline emanating from the bottom of the pit where there had once been a motor pool.
And where was the damn Tyrannosaurus Rex?
“Bruce?” He shouted, once, clearly, and his voice echoed back on him. It was joined by hypersonic screeching as the floods of bats that called this place home reacted to his presence and began to spill out of their nooks and crannies and crowd him. He repeated himself, shouting at the top of his lungs, enough to make the roof of the space shake. “Bruce?” But again, no response.
He floated to where there had once been a stairwell leading up to the entrance to Wayne Manor, but there were no stairs there anymore. There was just a gap, a sheer wall, and interestingly, a wire grill and a cast iron gate over the entrance to the manor. Stood at the entrance, on the interior of Wayne Manor, with the grandfather clock door opened wide, was Alfred Pennyworth. He was behind the grill, a safety precaution one could assume, to stop one from falling into the cavern below.
“Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?”
“Alfred… what happened? Where’s the cave? Where’s Bruce?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Straight face. What else would you expect from a RADA trained actor? This was the man who taught Bruce everything he knows about acting and deception. But still, barely perceptible, Pennyworth’s heart spiked. Nerves. Anxiety. Hearing that, and Superman knew what they’d done.
“You’re bringing it all down on itself. He’s been compromised so massively that you’ve… you’ve done all this? The scope of it… the amount of effort…”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir. There’s nothing to be seen here. We try to keep the caverns beneath the manor closed off, in case of accident or injury. Perhaps… whatever you’re looking for, will be best located in the city?”
Massive explosion reported in the Bowery. With Park Row to the north, and Sheldon Park to the east, it was mostly known as a massive shopping district that also happened to include the bank. The institution had been evacuated quickly, but there were two problems.
Firstly, the massive amounts of smoke that continued to billow out of every open door and window in the building. Secondly, there was the massive walking alligator prowling the grounds. That should have problem been mentioned as the main problem, but with the amount of phone calls flooding the emergency service switchboards, who knew what was truth and what was fact?
“Yeah, we can confirm, it’s Killer Croc,” said Sergeant Bullock, bleeding from a nasty cut to his scalp. He’d bundled up his tie and stuffed it against the wound, but Detective Montoya was having none of it, insisting he get to the paramedics as soon as possible. She’d been the one to go in with him, and she’d been the one to drag him out.
Commissioner Gordon grimaced. “What does he want this time?”
“Screaming about wanting the Bat. Y’know, the usual malarkey,” replied Bullock.
“I don’t know about this whole thing, Commish, it kinda stinks,” said Montoya.
Bullock gestured toward his head wound. “Kinda stings? Bit of an understatement, kid?”
“Go to the paramedics, Harv. We’ve got this,” said Gordon, ushering his sergeant away.
“Yeah, I mean, he came out of nowhere after the explosion… and there’s smoke, but we couldn’t see any fire. It’s weird. Feels wrong to me.”
“Hmm. Yeah, that doesn’t sit right with me, either,” said Gordon.
“What do you think it could be?” asked Montoya.
There was an almighty crash, and an ATM machine flew through the front doors of the bank. Croc momentarily emerged from the billowing smoke and howled, “Tell the Bat that the Joker wants his hide and I intend to give it to him! Yeah! Tell him that!”
Automatic gunfire rattled toward where Croc disappeared back into the smoke, but no one could be sure they found their mark. Montoya turned to Gordon and her expression was worth a thousand words.
“The Joker? Working with Killer Croc? I don’t know about this thing… but it’s like it’s engineered to--”
A shape descended overhead and landed amongst the gathered members of the Gotham City Police Department. The Batman walked with steely determination toward Commissioner Gordon and said simply, “I’m here now. I’ll end this.”
“Are you sure?” whispered Gordon.
“This is a setup. But Killer Croc is here. Either way, I have to go in.”
He held up his grapnel and fired it off, launching himself into the air and to the rooftop of the Merchant Bank. He vanished amongst the smoke and spires, leaving the GCPD to hold the line.
“It’s a trap. It has to be a trap. And he knows,” said Montoya.
Gordon turned and started barking orders. “Get the word out! We need a cordon around this entire building, and a secondary line two blocks distance. I want roadblocks in and out of the Bowery! No one leaves the area unless we get eyes on them first!”
The police scrambled, while inside the bank, the clockwork gears of a plan began to turn in perfect synchronicity. Through the vents and smoke-ridden corridors, the Batman crept. He made no sound, until he made it to wide open space of the bank floor itself.
A grapnel to one the ledges overlooking the tellers’ area. Croc was prowling between the pillars, the smoke obscuring his feet as he padded around. The Dark Knight surveyed the scene. The smoke had made it up to the upper levels of the multi-storey bank, and the lights were flickering off and on in all areas. He couldn’t make out any other vantage points in the immediate vicinity, and he felt like he was going in half-cocked, something he didn’t approve of in himself.
Batman’s eyes became slits. There was a pattern to Croc’s movements. He was doing a very specific lap of the area. With a click, new lenses fell into place over the Dark Knight’s eyes, and he saw that in the places that Croc didn’t go, there were some kind of device-- mines?-- lining the walkways.
There was a sound. A buffeted hiss of air. He didn’t have a chance to do anything about it when the bullet found its mark over his chest insignia. His chest exploded outward in a fine Kevlar mist-- no blood though-- and he toppled off the ledge. He fell hard on the countertop that the bank tellers had been working at, and rolled inward, so he wasn’t in the killing box that Croc had set up.
Who’d shot him?
“Ese, looks like today is your unlucky day. My man the Colonel has it out for you in a big way,” said El Diablo, passing liquid flame from one hand to the other while grinning broadly. He’d emerged from the smoke like it was nothing, and his hands did not look of the healing variety.
Batman lifted up his grapnel gun and aimed it at the pyrokinetic. His hands were shaky, his vision blurry, and he knew that the round to the chest had rocked him more than he’d expected.
Instead of firing it, he dropped it abruptly, and it snapped back to place on his belt thanks to the small bungee line attached to the base. In his other hand he’d drawn a batarang from the back of his utility belt and he threw it at El Diablo in the same motion as dropping the grapnel. The shuriken spun blue in the air and crackled on contact with Diablo’s chest, enveloping him in a field of ice. He was an icicle in seconds, but the slabs of ice were already melting. Batman had to get clear but--
Bullets rained down from up high, from the same level as he had been on that ledge. Okay, so there was a sniper up there. Why didn’t he go for the headshot? Centre mass all but guaranteed impact, but if he had the time to get a shot off without being detected by the Dark Knight himself, then--
“Oh, Bats. Bats, Bats, Bats. Who’da thought that all those times Mista Jay wanted ya dead, and now he’s gone, ya go and make yaself public enemy number one? I love it! Makes a girl laugh!”
That voice-- that laugh-- Quinn? But she hadn’t been seen for nearly two years-- not since the Joker’s disappearance at the tail end of Ra’s Al Ghul’s assault on Gotham City*! How did she--
--Just a distraction-- a boomerang whizzed past Batman’s head as he ducked at the last split second-- and then-- another-- and another-- after he caught one of them, it all fell into place--
He’d been framed for the murder of Amanda Waller, and now the Suicide Squad was here to take them in. He’d rushed in because of an obvious trap, not thinking that things would go to pot as soon as they had, and now he was being picked apart by a group of super villains.
He tracked the trajectory of the boomerang as it returned to sender, trying to block out the deafening laughter that echoed through the bank. Croc was behind the counters, trying to remember where the mines were now that the Batman was on his level. He was kept out of the fight for the time being by his own stupidity, but the Dark Knight’s luck couldn’t last. There was a sound, a boomerang being caught, so Batman sent his own gift toward the man who’d thrown the last flying weapon-- Captain Boomerang cried out as he caught the electric batarang, and then he could be heard falling to the ground in a seizing mess.
A blade sailed toward him so he raised his gauntlets, his wrist-mounted flechettes deflecting the strike at the last moment, though the impact still sent pangs of pain down his arm. He twisted, capturing the flat of the weapon, and then reached into the smoke and grabbed the throat of his attacker. He drew her close, and he was face-to-face with katana.
“I didn’t kill Waller,” he hissed.
“I know. But that won’t stop the others from trying to kill you,” she replied.
She threw an elbow, keeping Batman inside the box of her attacks. She was all knees and elbows, all points and movement, and he was struggling to keep up. He was winded still by the bullet that had hit him square in the chest, still fuzzy from the fall, and he’d walked right into this trap like he was a damn rookie--
“You need to get clear. Flagg wants your blood. You need to clear your name,” said Katana, slowing her movements by degrees, letting him get close. She had always been one the side of angels, and the superhero community counted themselves lucky that she was keeping whatever schemes Waller designed in check.
“I heard that, you traitorous bitch--!” growled El Diablo, having finally defrosted himself.
“Adults are talking,” replied Batman, throwing a handful of batarangs at the pyrokinetic with one hand, but they were melted into slag before they cleared the distance between them. Diablo was about to double down on his attack but he didn’t count on what was thrown from the Dark Knight’s other hand-- the boomerang connected with a heavy clunk at the back of his head, taking him out of the fight.
Katana pressed Batman back, so he was staggering toward the back of the teller’s area, toward the vault. The ceiling was now providing enough cover from the sniper above, and Croc was growing more and more frustrated across the floor. “Hit me. Get clear.”
Killer Croc had enough. He barged forward, across the bank floor, and detonated a half dozen electric-mines as he went. It did little to phase the monstrous reptilian, who cleared the distance in seconds, and was barrelling toward Batman and Katana in seconds.
The Dark Knight struck Katana hard in the area beneath her ear, knocking her out instantly. He grabbed her before she fell and ran straight toward Croc, who got confused by this man who was half his size coming at him even faster than he himself was running. At the last second, Batman skidded through Croc’s legs and then threw a device at his back--
--Waylon was sent flying into the sealed door of the vault by a concussive blast emitted from the device on his back. It spluttered excess energy, but he’d hit the vault with the speed of an oncoming train, and the impact knocked him out immediately.
“Enough of this dancing. EKOPP VNOFF KAAA” Tendrils of dark energies latched themselves around Batman’s limbs, and he was immediately strung up in front of the newly revealed Enchantress. She watched as the Dark Knight was suddenly prone before her, and she lost any sense of fear she might have had earlier for this creature. “You gave nightmares to June, Bat-Man. I thought I was the only one to do that. I would give you a seat next to me in the new world if I thought you’d take it. Alas.”
“Alas,” repeated Batman, before closing his eyes and shouting, “!odnU”
The magic flexed around him and shattered, the feedback causing the Enchantress to yell in pain. Batman fell hard, blood dribbling from his nose. It was a minor spell, wielded by someone who didn’t exactly believe in it, and the cost was the major agony he was now feeling as his body tried to process what his mouth had just said. Zatanna Zatara had warned him back in the day when she taught him it, but he still hadn’t expected it to hurt so damn much…
He needed to get clear-- he headed toward the vents-- raised his grapnel gun-- and it was destroyed by a rifle round fired by Deadshot, who had now descended from his vantage point. The Dark Knight stumbled forward, threw a batarang toward the assassin, but Lawton dropped his rifle and fired it out of the air with his wrist-guns.
“We’ve gone about this terribly, but you’re still a hot mess, Bats. If Flagg wasn’t so concerned with taking you in before anyone else did, maybe we’d have come up with a better plan and more of the team would be awake right now.”
He fired another round at Batman, but the Dark Knight wasn’t where he’d left him before squeezing the trigger. He lost track of him for a second, even though the smoke was starting to clear. He spun around and was knocked out by a mallet to the face.
“Oopsies,” said Harley.
Batman was as surprised by this act as the now comatose Deadshot had been.
Quinn shrugged. “Couldn’t let a shmuck like him do ya in, could I? If Mista Jay isn’t here to pull the trigger, then I guess I’ll have t’ instead.”
She groped at Deadshot’s body, trying to figure out how to use his wrist-guns, but then gave up. “Jeez, why ain’t this easy?”
Batman was about to knock her out when she cried out as electricity racked her body. Not him this time. Something subcateanous. The control implants Task Force X get implanted with before they start their tenure with the team?
Before he could answer the question, he was shot again, and he didn’t see Rick Flagg moving before it was too late. The Colonel emerged from the last of the smoke with his rifle raised. His shot impacted Batman in the chest, just below where Deadshot had caught him, and he lost his ability to breathe for an amount of time no man wants to lose. The armour around there had been compromised, and it wouldn’t take long before a bullet would go right through. Instead of taking another round, he raised his cape and sent an electrical charge through it so it went solid. Fabric became as hard as steel, and bullets bounced off it as Flagg approached quickly.
“You-- are-- done--!”
Flagg threw a punch and Batman caught it.
“Not yet.”
He twisted Flagg’s wrist hard but with the colonel’s other hand he pulled his side piece and fired off a round in the complete wrong direction when Batman elbowed him hard in the shoulder.
“Godammit!”
Batman wanted to end this, but he was asthmatic suddenly, his head blurry. He hadn’t thought this through at all and now he was paying the price in pain. Flagg elbowed him hard in the throat, and was surprised to find the shot land, and then he drove the Dark Knight back against the wall.
“You killed Waller, you bastard, now you’re done!”
He shoved his pistol against Batman’s cheek, but then cried out when the handle became too hot to continue holding onto. He was grabbed by the strap of his rifle and flung backwards, and he landed with a grunt by one of the pillars Croc had been patrolling.
Superman looked back at Flagg, then down at Batman. With a grim expression, the Man of Steel said, “We need to talk.”
After receiving a power up thanks to secretive society of the world’s super villains, the vicious energy leech known as the PARASITE evolved into the ultimate bogeyman, no allegiances and a thirst for more power driving him to strike out against both the good guys and bad!
AMANDA WALLER finally had enough and sent TASK FORCE X after him, and after a hunt through the streets of Lagos, the team were successful and PARASITE was taken into custody.
But WALLER has a secret agenda! She needed a power source for a brand new project known only as ‘Twilight’ and PARASITE fit the bill perfectly. With ‘Twilight’ active, THE WALL has the ability to drain the superpowers out of any threat against the American government, and with her track record against the superhuman community, some people are concerned…
BATMAN and SUPERMAN meet to discuss this development, and the Caped Crusader vows to resolve the issue before it can escalate… but when Belle Reve Penitentiary goes into emergency lock down and RICK FLAGG finds the Dark Knight standing over the dead body of WALLER, the question is, has Gotham’s premiere hero taken it a step too far?
With all this in mind, please join us now as the adventure continues…
BELLE REVE PRISON, LOUISIANA:
Blood pooling around her awkwardly contorted body, Amanda Waller lay dead on the floor of her office, like a discarded puppet without its strings. Over her still warm body, bloodied batarangs in his hands, stood Batman a foul grimace cast across what was visible of his face.
“You weren’t supposed to see this.”
Waller dead. Batarangs embedded in her chest. The culprit stood over her body. There was no doubt in Flagg’s mind. This was an assassination, and a damn clumsy one-- something he didn’t expect from the likes of the Dark Knight.
While he didn’t know enough about Project: Twilight, Flagg was convinced that this was a pre-emptive strike on behalf of the super bastard community. They were watching their own backs, not caring about the rest of the world. Kill Waller, end the project? Could they be that naïve? This gave the powers-that-be all the excuse they needed to take the project into overdrive!
Meanwhile, body cameras fed the scene of the crime to the nerve centre of Belle Reve, where Katana and the support staff watched in shock and horror-- their boss, the Wall herself, was dead-- Batman the clearly the culprit-- but he was cornered-- what would, or could, Flagg do--?
“You’re-- you’re under arrest,” spat the Colonel, cursing his own hesitance.
He raised his weapon, first pressure on the trigger, and before anyone could say a word to stop him, his rifle burst to life. This was the god damn Batman they were talking about, any he knew that any quarter given would be taken advantage of tenfold. Taking his unspoken cue, the Belle Reve security team behind the Colonel raised their weapons and joined in, but Batman moved impossibly fast, threw a a smoke pellet down and the office filled up with a thick, choking cloud that made it impossible to see the Caped Crusader.
Then the screams started. The team behind Flagg were being taken out of the fight, and it took two seconds for the Colonel to pull on his infrared goggles to see what was going on.
On the floor lay the security that had joined him in breaching the office. There was a blur amongst the smoke, and he fired in its direction, but he couldn’t tell if he’d hit anything. There was a noise behind him-- he turned-- and Batman snarled as he wrenched the rifle from Flagg’s hands and smashed the soldier in the face with the butt once, twice, hard enough to send blood flowing from his now broken nose.
Bloodied but not defeated, Flagg dropped to a knee, then immediately drew a knife from his boot, metal singing as he swung it up at the stomach of the vigilante. Batman shifted back, grabbed Flagg’s wrist to gain control over the weapon, but Flagg passed it smoothly into his left hand and stabbed forward, precisely, toward Batman’s heart. The vigilante palmed the side of the blade away from his centre mass, but it drew blood on the arm, and Flagg received a sharp knee to the jaw for that, sending him backwards with it dislocated.
“Stay out of my way in futue, Flagg,” growled Batman. He stepped backward, there was a crackle in the air, and he was gone, leaving Rick to painfully shunt his dislocated jaw back in place, and the dead body of Amanda Waller cooling by her desk.
DC2 MOST WANTED
Issue Two (of Five):
HoM / ARTTEACH
The following takes place before Justice League #41
BELLE REVE PRISON, LOUISIANA:
A matter of hours later, General Hardcastle was escorted by his armed guard into the medical wing of Belle Reve Penitentiary and stopped in his tracks when he saw Amanda Waller’s corpse on the gurney at the side of the room.
“--My God.”
Flagg looked over at Hardcastle, then down at his hands. They’d set his nose back in place, and his jaw had swollen up like nobody’s business, but June had laid her healing hands on him and knitted his injuries back together far better than modern medicine ever could.
Hardcastle’s own jaw was set, and words emerged from his mouth like a growl. “This is karma, you god damn bitch.”
Surprised by the venom, Flagg watched as the general spat viciously on the pale face of Waller. Cursing through bloodied, thickened lips, the Colonel stood and made a beeline straight for the disrespectful military man, but Katana intercepted him.
“No. Not now,” said Tatsu.
Hardcastle turned and saw Flagg’s rage reddened face. “Angry, Flagg? Pissed off? You don’t know the meaning of the word. My daughter is dead because of this woman. Lost on one of her damn deniable ops*. This? This here? I consider this payment rendered Now. You’ve got a Bat-problem, and the joint staff have sent me here with this.”
*Last issue
One of the armed guards held an attaché briefcase up so that Hardcastle could pull a black dossier out from inside. He slapped the contents into Flagg’s chest, then exited Belle Reve’s mortuary nearly as fast as he’d arrived
Katana couldn’t make out what Flagg had received. “What is it?” she queried.
Silently, Flagg opened the sealed documents, pulled out the contents and began to read. It took a minute to absorb the contents. Then shook his head. “Direct from the office of the White House. We’ve just been ordered to bring in the Batman. Dead or alive.”
“Your preference?” asked Tatsu.
“Convene Task Force X to launch deck. Tell the armoury not to bother providing non-lethal munitions. We’re going to Gotham. We’re ending this farce once and for all.”
WASHINGTON, DC:
Steve Trevor, White King of Checkmate, put the phone down and ran his hands through his hair. Paul Kirk, his Bishop, aka the Manhunter, sat in the corner of the room, awaiting his orders.
“Amanda Waller’s dead. According to eye witnesses at the scene she was assassinated by the Batman.”
Kirk jolted out of his seat. “What?”
Trevor nodded, just as incredulous. “Flagg has the encounter on body cam. Looks like the mad caped bastard snuck into Belle Reve and stabbed her with his own ‘batarangs. My God…”
Kirk shook his head. “That’s not his MO. Batman doesn’t kill. This is insane!”
“That’s not what they’re saying. Task Force X has been tasked to bring him in. Paul, this could be the end of it. If Batman killed a government operative, if they take him down… the house of cards collapses in on itself. The UN sanction the Justice League hold would be stripped away, the deputising of Superman in Metropolis, Dia-- Wonder Woman’s political immunity… poof. Gone. Just like that.”
“White King-- Steve-- Batman does not kill. This has to be a frame job. Someone smart enough to break into Belle Reve without be detected and getting out without leaving a hint or a clue-- sure, that points to Batman all the way-- but Batman does not kill.”
“Believe what you want, but somehow, he found out about Project: Twilight and took action. That’s the narrative the folks in community are pushing.”
“Sir…” started Kirk.
Steve raised his hand. “The conflict of interest with the order from the White House to bring Batman in being given to Task Force X though… that’s… Paul, I need you to--” There was a knock at the door and Trevor held his hand up abruptly. “Come.”
A secretary poked his head in and said, “They’re calling a meeting of the Royal Families, sir. Kings and Queens only.”
“Thank you, I’ll be right there. Paul, if you think this is dirty then I’m inclined to side with your thinking. Find out what’s going on. And get back to me with actionable intel that I can pass to the Black Royals.”
“Yes, White King,” said Manhunter, grabbing his coat and leaving the room immediately.
PROJECT: TWILIGHT’S TOP SECRET BASE OF OPERATIONS:
“Waller’s dead? How can that be?” Leonard Starkey reread the report then looked over at the Parasite, currently impaled by the control rods at the centre of Project: Twilight’s core.
“Batman. Pre-emptive strike against the project,” said Acting Director Lambert.
While Starkey was in his mid-fifties, thin through lack of thought toward eating, and a walking shambles due to his concerns with next-generation science over personal up-keep, Lambert was in his thirties and powered by sheer self-determination. He always wore a perfect black suit and pressed white shirt, and his tie was the same shade of silver every single day.
Also, no one knew his first name, and he’d answer, ‘Deputy Director is all you need to know’ if asked. Now the line would change to ‘Acting Director’, etc, but he didn’t know how long that would last. He had no allusions that his current position was due to the casual momentum of convenience.
He’d been personally vetted by Amanda Waller for the deputy directorship, and in her absence, he’d been given all the responsibilities that she’d held, though he knew that it wouldn’t last long. He was a great point man, a quality Waller always looked for in her operatives. Give him a directive, and he could run with it, but he needed that initial starting push to get him going in the right direction.
The greatest quality, apart from his managing skills and understanding of the reasons why Project: Twilight had to run was the fact that he was indifferent to the world of so-called ‘superheroes’ and ‘supervillains’. He had no horse in the race. He had managed to avoid contact with any of the threats that had riddled the world these last four years, be it the Apokolips invasion*, the Starro infiltration and subsequent supervillain uprising**.
*DC2’s one year anniversary event, The Apokolips Imperative, took place in August 2006
*The second year anniversary event, Justice League vs America ran from July to September 2007
He’d been in an underground bunker along with the rest of his university class when the Black Sun had risen*, and it had been all but a minor inconvenience. Illuminated by his keyring pocket torch, he went through his thesis paper with a red pen and the kind of determination that came with not knowing if you were going to hand it in on time thanks to the end of the world occurring overhead.
*The Black Sun rose in the pages of Nemesis, a DC2 event spanning April to October 2009
But that threat had passed, and he’d survived the day. He graduated top of the class and it was his thesis, ‘Man and the Great Darkness; a study on the impact of enhanced operatives on the direction of the 21st century’, that had caught Amanda’s eye. Especially the section about weaponizing said operatives for military action.
He’d been back home this last week. His mother was sick, and his father had long passed away. She was on her last legs, but he knew, in his heart, that this work was more important than one woman, so when Waller was announced dead he travelled back to Project: Twilight to ensure it kept moving forward as planned. He knew that the project was the much-needed Gotterdammerung, and he was no fan of hyperbole. If it didn’t go ahead, then the Great Darkness would descend, and humanity would be a footnote in the history of the world in the face of the rising population of enhanced operatives...
“So, what are we doing?” asked Starkey.
“Project moves ahead as planned. You have the power source now, so let’s began activation. I want the array ready for deployment as soon as possible. If the Justice League have performed a pre-emptive strike against us, I’ll be damned if we don’t take bring them down a peg before the day is through. Get to work, Leonard. We’re doing this for Waller now.”
Lambert didn’t believe that last bit, but thought it sounded good. He was going to do this for all of humanity. Because if the super-community was allowed to continue growing unchecked and unchallenged, Earth would never be the same again.
Starkey’s nose wrinkled, and he removed his glasses to wipe them down with his lab coat. “We’re having to insert more and more control rods into the Parasite. I’m confident we can draw the power out of any subject and store it, but the pain…”
“I don’t care about the pain, and neither did Amanda. Keep inserting them. If Batman is acting against us, then that means the Justice League can’t be far behind. Can you imagine the amount of energy the activation will take in?”
“His body might not be able to take it,” noted Starkey.
“Then let’s see how far we can go, and if that fails…”
“…Yes?”
“Well, you have certain contacts in Medea, don’t you?”
Starkey was taken aback. “How did you--?”
Lambert smiled, thinly. “Waller knew, and now so do I.”
“You can’t… they… I don’t…”
Lambert patted Starkey on the shoulder. “Keep going, Leonard. Let’s see how much the Parasite can take.”
LAPUTA:
Waves crashed against the tide breaks of the island headquarters of the Justice League, but they were too busy to notice. They’d convened-- well, all but one of them-- to address a major issue directed at them by the United States government, and without their missing teammates presence, they were left to make assumptions all of their own.
Going around the meeting table…
“That’s clearly not Batman,” said Wonder Woman, simply.
“But they believe it is him,” replied the Martian Manhunter.
“That’s gonna cause an issue. With everything going on with Kobra, and now this? It’s more ammunition,” said Green Lantern.
“We need to be up front with this whole thing. We need to get ahead of it and release a statement,” said the Flash.
Aquaman laughed incredulously. “Saying what? Throwing Batman to the wolves? Or saying we don’t believe he’s capable of such an act?”
The Flash shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant--”
“When the government thought we went rogue, you handed yourself into their custody. How’d that end?” posed Aquaman.
“…It could have gone better…*” The Flash replied.
*As detailed in Justice League vs America
Superman held his hands up. “The American ambassador to the United Nations has requested we hand Batman over to FBI custody. This is an official request.”
“How can we hand him over when he’s not answering hails? Are you saying we go to Gotham City and drag him out?” Green Lantern asked.
Wonder Woman stood abruptly. “We’re not going to hand him over. We’re not going to entertain anyone’s notion that Batman did this. He’s incapable of taking the life of another. We all know this.”
Martian Manhunter contemplated the matter, and slowly responded. “Yes, of course Diana, but if we go against a United Nations request, we’re jeopardising the status of the Justice League in the eyes of the world. We operate thanks to the fine line we walk, that of the license we’ve received to operate globally by that League of Nations.”
“I’ll go,” said Superman, simply. “I’ll talk to him.”
Green Lantern rubbed his knuckles contemplatively. “Alone?”
Superman nodded. “We’ve known each other for years. After Captain Marvel, he was the first one in the community I interacted with… we have an understanding.”
A buzzing came from the Man of Steel’s belt buckle and he looked down at it in surprise. He apologised and exited the room, then a few moments later returned to the others.
“What’s wrong?” asked the Flash, noting the solemn expression on the Man of Tomorrow’s face.
“I’ve been summoned to the White House. The President wants to see me.”
SIX HOURS AGO, WASHINGTON, DC:
The cheery woman’s voice was a front. Of course it was. “Uh, so, please leave a message after the beep! Thanks!”
“…Listen to me. I know this is a private channel for emergencies, but this is an emergency. The full weight of the United States government is preparing to come down on you, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent it. You’re on every agency’s most wanted list, higher than Luthor, higher than Lord Naga. You killed a government official, someone who was on the cusp of something massive. This is an act of war--”
Paul Kirk’s senses screamed that he was in danger. He’d left the covert officers of the White King, based in the nation’s capital, and went by foot toward Constitution Gardens. He wore grey sweats, a hooded top that was currently obscuring his features as he jogged, and headphones that weren’t connected to any music player. He wanted to appear distracted, like he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, but at times like this, during an active operation, he was sharp. Poised. Ready for action and ready to pounce. Not that he needed to. No. Right now, he needed to send out a signal.
He’d picked up a burner phone on the way there from one of the electronics shops he’d clocked on his daily runs, and called the emergency number he’d received from Batman in case of this kind of situation. There was no fixed address at which he could be reached, but if you were a certain kind of someone, with a certain relationship with members of the extended vigilante family based in Gotham, you might be able to get hold of a special number…
From the Constitution Gardens he made a beeline to the path running alongside the Lincoln Memorial Reflection Pool, and made his call. It made sense to be in public, better this than hiding in a public restroom somewhere. And then he could dump the burner and get back to the White King’s offices without anyone being none the wiser and a shower later he’d be back on the board.
As he spoke, there was a shadow, cast by a figure taller than any figure had a right to cast. His instincts kicked in and he swung round, kicked up, and it was like smashing one’s limb into a concrete wall.
“Hhhrrrr?” growled the figure. He hooked his massive, reptilian arm around Kirk’s leg and squeezed, gripping it tightly in place so that the government operative couldn’t escape. “That tickled.”
Manhunter looked up at Killer Croc. “Holy sh--” He jumped up on one leg and in the same movement kicked his attacker at the side of the head, causing the former-crocodile-wrestler to release his hold on him and give him some breathing room.
“Aoww!” roared the monstrous villain.
Time to fight back, no two ways about it. But first, Paul crushed the thirty-dollar mess of plastic and metal he called a burner cell phone together so that it was beyond repair and then threw the debris into the reflective waters. No one could use it to track the last number dialled or anything else.
Killer Croc swung his heavy fists downward toward Kirk, but Manhunter hurdled over the monster’s shoulders so he was behind him. Systema training kicked in. He was naturally a cardio machine, his muscles didn’t get exhausted like regular folks did, and he’d been training to kill since he was a teen. Croc howled as pressure points were pounded with powerful strikes, but the amount of power Kirk had to put into each blow meant the edges of his hands screamed, pain rushing up his arms and shoulders every time he struck. Every punch he threw was doing damage to his scaled opponent, but it was doing damage to him as well.
“Hands off the crocodile, perro. He’s one’a us.”
A new voice-- Kirk turned-- but was sent flying back as a spiral of flame struck him square in the chest. He tried to barrel toward the pool, but the fire spread like he was made of dry kindling. He made it into the shallow waters, spun around so he doused the fire, but it reached his chest, burned so deep--
He was struck in the back of the head and fell face first into the waters. He was unconscious for a second, drowning for another, but then his determination to live kicked in and he gasped. He was in agony. Overwhelmed.
“Aww, they call ya the Manhunter, right? Kinda ironic, considerin we’re the ones been hunting ya, and not the other way round.”
His attacker giggled. High pitched and hysterical. Her accent was thick, Brooklyn or New Jersey, but he didn’t recognise the voice. That said, when she rolled him over with a sharp kick, he recognised her face and costume. His eyes must have told a story.
“Aww, ya recognise ol’ Harley? Ain’t that peachy. Say ‘ahh’!”
She hefted up her comedically over-sized, but practically applicable mallet, and swung it down hard on his skull, concussing him into unconsciousness.
“…Ya shouldn’ta been leaking, Paulie. Colonel Flagg ain’t happy with ya. Not! One! Bit!”
THE WHITE HOUSE:
Superman slowly descended onto the lawn of the White House, and dozens of Secret Service agents swarmed together as he approached. After the briefings they’d been given earlier, everyone was on the razor’s edge of alertness.
A few hours ago, there’d been some kind of attack on the Washington Mall, but by the time police had responded, all they found was scorch marks and a dozen or so eye-witnesses who claimed a trio of super villains attacked some random jogger. It meant that they were on high alert and there was a battalion of armoured soldiers cloaked in the bushes. The Man of Tomorrow had spotted them upon approach, but didn’t respond to their posed threat. He didn’t want to scare anybody.
“At ease, gentlemen,” said Superman, his open hands raised at his waist in acquiescence. “I’m here by presidential order.”
One of the agents holstered his weapon and waved him down. “We’ve been expecting you, Superman. We’re just a bit jumpy is all. All’a Washington is on high alert. I’m Tanner. You’re to come with me, if that’s all right?”
“Lead the way.”
Tanner led Superman through one of the side entrances of the White House, away from where any civilians might be. They’d locked down the building since the attack on the mall. Only select staff were on hand, and every member of the secret service was on high alert. The pair descended beneath the White House, into the secret, fortified bunker that was built in case of the worst kind of superhuman emergency, in the wake of Darkseid’s invasion of the planet.
Finally, after dozens of precautions, scans, every contingency they could think of in case of emergency, the Man of Steel was beckoned into an exact duplicate of the Oval Office dozens of floors beneath the original, and President Jebediah Stuart sat waiting behind an exact duplicate of the Resolute Desk.
Clark scanned the structure of the desk. He almost showed the surprise on his face-- it was made from the exact same wood-- another desk built from the timbers of the British Arctic Exploration ship ‘Resolute’.
“Thank you for coming, son,” said the President.
“It’s my honour, sir.”
Jebediah Stuart was military royalty, even before he became the 43rd President of the United States. His father was a lieutenant during the Second World War, and he himself fought in Vietnam. He'd been a prisoner of war for nearly six years and the torture had changed him physically. But he’d never done what many others had in his position, he’d never ‘confessed’ to the United State’s ‘war crimes’. He knew it was all anti-U.S. propaganda, but he never blamed any who came before or after him who did.
Every man had a breaking point, and when asked why they never found his, he informed the journalists, the military brass, his family, anyone who’d ever asked him, that they had, time and time again they had. But like his father before him, he claimed to have been visited by the spirt of his 19th-century ancestor, Confederate general J.E.B. Stuart. In a debrief interview with the army psychiatrist years later, this is what he said:
“When I was at my lowest, when the torture, the starvation, the dysentery… when everything finally ate away at me and left me a broken shell of myself, the ghostly good ol’ boy arrived. He was an ornery old bastard, and he refused to let me give in. I thought… my father’s stories from the war, when he told me about the first time his M3 tank squad went into action against the Nazis and they were pinned down and the ghost visited him in his time of need… I thought they were the delusions of someone who’d rationalised the horrors of war… but the general pulled me up by my britches and told me that I couldn’t give in. I couldn’t give them what they wanted. And then, after six years had just about passed… I was released. And I never saw the general again.”
Jeb smiled at Superman’s approach. “Do you want to take a seat?”
Asked like a polite inquiry but said by someone who knew they were in the presence of someone who could crush them in the palm of their hand. Stuart motioned toward the sofas behind the Man of Steel, and smiled. Superman spread his cape and took a seat as directed, knowing that it was the small gestures that made people feel the most at ease.
“Thank you. I know the events of the last few days have been less than--”
Stuart cut him off with the raise of his hand. “I know, son. I know. I also know that you and Gotham’s vigilante, the Batman, you work together as sometimes-partners, and as members of the Justice League. So I understand how difficult this whole situation must be.”
“Batman isn’t a murderer,” stated Superman. “I assure you--”
“And yet, the Batman was caught on camera digging two of his-- what do the press call them? Batarangs?” The President rolled his eyes at the sheer insanity of it all. “-- two of his Batarangs into the chest of one of the most decorated and assured operatives the intelligence agency has ever produced.”
“It couldn’t have been him, sir. The man doesn’t have it in him to kill.”
Stuart began to unfurl his fingers as he made his points. “Footage of the murder. Eye witness statements. The weaponry matches that of other samples collected from Gotham City by the FBI. Three major points I cannot get passed. Now, if the man is innocent--”
“And he is,” said Superman, surprised by the force of his own interruption. But Bruce Wayne was the best man he’d ever known, second only to Jonathan Kent, the man who raised him. This was a man who dedicated himself to justice, who’d lost everything to the barrel of a gun. He’d never take a life. Even in the face of horrors like the Joker, Scarecrow, Two-Face, abominations wrapped in human flesh, he’d never taken their lives, not even when he’d lost more to their likes. Because he knew that if you took a life, you were no better than those that had before you. You became part of the problem instead of part of the solution. If his kind were to kill, then the precarious trust the law enforcement agencies would be torn apart. Not all of their kind could operate in the glare of the sun. Others had to operate at night.
It was simple…
…Bruce Wayne didn’t kill.
President Stuart simply sighed. “I have every single domestic law enforcement agency in this country, and a few foreign, who want to bring the Batman down. Not take in, mind; they want to see this man dead. Better to do that than drag this out into a public forum. He’s a vigilante. They take him down, they brush it under the carpet. Done and dusted. It’s how we’ve managed to to keep it out of the press so far.”
“They want him dead? They can’t do that. What about due process-- what about--”
Stuart cut him off. “The Batman has had a hand in saving this country, this world, more times than its population knows. If he has cracked, gone off the deep end, then he deserves to face justice. That the ethical foundation that this country is built upon. So I need you to find him. I need you to bring him in. Because I think you’re the only man I can trust right now to do that. Everyone else is terrified of the man and would rather shoot to kill first rather than take him alive.”
Superman considered the President’s words. While he did, Stuart continued.
“I know you and he are friends. But I also know who you are, Kal-El. Regardless of where you were born, it's clear that you're a true American, through and through. You came to this country and made something of yourself, through all the adversity and doubt thrown your way. But a man who has his own agenda, who slinks into the shadows and refuses to explain himself, in the face of atrocity? That's a man I cannot trust. That's why I need you to bring him in. I need you to bring in the Batman."
“You… you have my word, Mr President. I’ll find him.”
Stuart smiled and patted the Man of Steel on the shoulder. “Thank you, Superman. May God be with you.”
STAGING AREA ALPHA:
Colonel Flagg was holding court in front of his subjects. He was wearing body armour, and his rifle was slung at his hip. He had a holster behind his back and one under his arm. He had clips at hand to reload. He had grenades for all kinds of uses. But right now, he wanted to make the situation clear, so he stood in front of his people, and he spoke plain.
Before that, roll call.
Captain Boomerang. Australian mercenary and thief. Poor attitude. Usually ran with the Flash’s Rogues but bad behaviour kept him coming back to the Suicide Squad time and time again. Good in a fight with an opponent you can’t keep track of most of the time, but before now knew better than to land a killing blow against the likes of a Justice Leaguer given the chance. The kind of heat the death of a superhero brings down on you would mean his preferred quality of life would become untenable.
Deadshot. Assassin and marksman. Death wish. Had totted up enough kills at this point to earn his freedom ten times over, but he had an arrangement with Waller. He kept working for the government, and the government made sure his daughter was given the best life possible. He’d already lost one son. He’d avenged that loss bloody. When it came to Gotham though, he’d always blinked when it came to that kill shot. But if the president had given the order…
El Diablo. Gangbanger and pyrokinetic. Don’t think past the tattoos. This guy was hot-headed more than one, but the ink told all the story you needed to know. According to his file, he housed some kind of ancient entity, a god of fire by the name of Xiuhtecuhtli, but if that was the case, why was he so small time? He was picked up after incinerating an opposing gang on the streets of Los Angeles. A mother and her child were caught in the blaze. He wasn’t so mouthy after he found that out.
Enchantress. Dark magic user and psychopath. Used to be she was a package deal; when she wasn’t throwing around spells and speaking in tongues she was timid June Moone, but they’d seen less and less of her recently. Flagg had asked why but never got an answer, just a smile. Whatever the nature of the Enchantress identity, it had asserted itself big time, and she revelled in the power she flung around. That was a massive concern, but Flagg held the kill switch-- like he did for everyone else on the team-- and he didn’t believe she could bounce back from a hole in the head.
Harley Quinn. Former moll to the Joker and current ace in the hole when it came to Gotham. Not only was she an absolute lunatic, but she was also a trained psychiatrist, and it was the hope of Waller that they could use Quinn to get in the heads of her fellow Task Force Xers and kind of threats they came up against. She was a wildcard, but Flagg wanted boots on the ground who knew the battlefield, and of all the people available to him, Quinn fit the profile 100%.
Katana. Trained ninja and haunted by the spirit of her dead husband. At least, that’s what she claimed. Her namesake was called a ‘Soul Taker’ a blade capable of cutting the spirit from the body of an enemy. That was the nature of her husband’s haunting, and that’s the weight she carried with her into battle. Flagg trusted her implicitly. She was his second in command, and the only member of the team without an explosive implanted in her brain.
Killer Croc. The muscle. Another product of Gotham’s broken criminal and social systems. He’d originally been a wannabe crime lord with a skin condition, but it had mutated him over the years into something much worse. What was once diagnosed as an extreme case of epidermolytic hyperkeratosis had been theorised recently as a case of regressive atavism, meaning that he has inherited traits of ancestral species of the human race-- in his case, those of the reptiles. He was a scary bastard with big teeth and an appetite to match.
“You’ve all read the mission parameters. Those of you who can’t read have had them read to you. We’re here to take down the Batman. I don’t care what you think he is. Urban legend. Mythical being. Undead vigilante. Demonic force--”
Giggles from the back row interrupted his speech.
“Got something to add, Quinn?”
Harley leaned forward so the others could see her broad grin. “Oh, Rick, ya know he ain’t any of those things. He's a man, but in better shape than most. Wowzers, those toys he’s got though! Anyways, I’ve been up close and personal with him, and he’s a barrel of laughs ya play it right. But he ain’t no monster. Ol’ Weyland’s got that down though. And please, call me Harley.”
Killer Croc grunted. “…I can read.”
Flagg ignored her. “Moving on. Tonight, he dies. We’ve been sanctioned by the president. We have authorisation. The Batman dies. We’ve tried this once before and we came up short. Task Force X was deployed last year to bring the vigilante down and he trounced us hard*. There will not be a repeat tonight.”
*2008’s Trial By Fire, taking place across Detective Comics #33-37
Floyd Lawton took a break from checking over his rifle and spoke up. “You sure of that, Colonel? He ain’t like the usual crop of bastards we go up against. He’s Batman for Christ’s sake. I took shot and shot and shot in his direction that last time, and the bullets didn’t fly straight.”
“Then we get close, Deadshot. We get personal. And we don’t leave Gotham until he’s dead. Bagged and tagged ready for delivery to the Joint Chiefs. We deploy in thirty. Croc, you’re up first. You know the plan.”
“Hhrr. Sure. But I lied. Could someone read the briefing t’me again?”
GOTHAM CITY:
Night by the time Superman made it to the city. He flew slow from Washington, thinking the events of the day through as he went. The Justice League wanted to know what he intended to do. He had no answer. Told them to hold off. Help elsewhere where they could. Wonder Woman was as close to apoplectic as she got, but didn’t make a show of it. The Martian Manhunter said they’d honour Superman’s wishes, and then the psychic link shared by the team faded, and it was still night, and it was still Gotham City blaring below.
Night by the time Superman made it to Wayne Manor. Night still, when he arched to the rear of the vast property, and located the secret entrance that he’d seen the Batman drive his fleet of vehicles in and out of. He floated through the waterfall and into the vast cave system beneath Bruce Wayne’s childhood home and found…
…Nothing.
What had once been the Bat Cave… was now…
…Empty.
There were, of course, vast, flat spaces that had once been occupied by powerful computers, non-lethal weaponry and state of the art technology. Multiple levels that had each had a dedicated purpose in a war against crime that had been waged for the better part of a decade were simply empty. Areas that had been hollowed out for uses as vaults and medical facilities were no longer lined with steel and concrete.
“How…?” wondered Superman aloud.
He scanned the surfaces of the cavernous space and saw debris, dust and guano. The detritus of a place long abandoned. He sniffed the air-- there was nothing to indicate that there had ever been a paramilitary vigilante operation acting out of this location. No chemical fuels from where there had been a laboratory, no stench of gasoline emanating from the bottom of the pit where there had once been a motor pool.
And where was the damn Tyrannosaurus Rex?
“Bruce?” He shouted, once, clearly, and his voice echoed back on him. It was joined by hypersonic screeching as the floods of bats that called this place home reacted to his presence and began to spill out of their nooks and crannies and crowd him. He repeated himself, shouting at the top of his lungs, enough to make the roof of the space shake. “Bruce?” But again, no response.
He floated to where there had once been a stairwell leading up to the entrance to Wayne Manor, but there were no stairs there anymore. There was just a gap, a sheer wall, and interestingly, a wire grill and a cast iron gate over the entrance to the manor. Stood at the entrance, on the interior of Wayne Manor, with the grandfather clock door opened wide, was Alfred Pennyworth. He was behind the grill, a safety precaution one could assume, to stop one from falling into the cavern below.
“Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?”
“Alfred… what happened? Where’s the cave? Where’s Bruce?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Straight face. What else would you expect from a RADA trained actor? This was the man who taught Bruce everything he knows about acting and deception. But still, barely perceptible, Pennyworth’s heart spiked. Nerves. Anxiety. Hearing that, and Superman knew what they’d done.
“You’re bringing it all down on itself. He’s been compromised so massively that you’ve… you’ve done all this? The scope of it… the amount of effort…”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir. There’s nothing to be seen here. We try to keep the caverns beneath the manor closed off, in case of accident or injury. Perhaps… whatever you’re looking for, will be best located in the city?”
GOTHAM MERCHANT'S BANK:
Massive explosion reported in the Bowery. With Park Row to the north, and Sheldon Park to the east, it was mostly known as a massive shopping district that also happened to include the bank. The institution had been evacuated quickly, but there were two problems.
Firstly, the massive amounts of smoke that continued to billow out of every open door and window in the building. Secondly, there was the massive walking alligator prowling the grounds. That should have problem been mentioned as the main problem, but with the amount of phone calls flooding the emergency service switchboards, who knew what was truth and what was fact?
“Yeah, we can confirm, it’s Killer Croc,” said Sergeant Bullock, bleeding from a nasty cut to his scalp. He’d bundled up his tie and stuffed it against the wound, but Detective Montoya was having none of it, insisting he get to the paramedics as soon as possible. She’d been the one to go in with him, and she’d been the one to drag him out.
Commissioner Gordon grimaced. “What does he want this time?”
“Screaming about wanting the Bat. Y’know, the usual malarkey,” replied Bullock.
“I don’t know about this whole thing, Commish, it kinda stinks,” said Montoya.
Bullock gestured toward his head wound. “Kinda stings? Bit of an understatement, kid?”
“Go to the paramedics, Harv. We’ve got this,” said Gordon, ushering his sergeant away.
“Yeah, I mean, he came out of nowhere after the explosion… and there’s smoke, but we couldn’t see any fire. It’s weird. Feels wrong to me.”
“Hmm. Yeah, that doesn’t sit right with me, either,” said Gordon.
“What do you think it could be?” asked Montoya.
There was an almighty crash, and an ATM machine flew through the front doors of the bank. Croc momentarily emerged from the billowing smoke and howled, “Tell the Bat that the Joker wants his hide and I intend to give it to him! Yeah! Tell him that!”
Automatic gunfire rattled toward where Croc disappeared back into the smoke, but no one could be sure they found their mark. Montoya turned to Gordon and her expression was worth a thousand words.
“The Joker? Working with Killer Croc? I don’t know about this thing… but it’s like it’s engineered to--”
A shape descended overhead and landed amongst the gathered members of the Gotham City Police Department. The Batman walked with steely determination toward Commissioner Gordon and said simply, “I’m here now. I’ll end this.”
“Are you sure?” whispered Gordon.
“This is a setup. But Killer Croc is here. Either way, I have to go in.”
He held up his grapnel and fired it off, launching himself into the air and to the rooftop of the Merchant Bank. He vanished amongst the smoke and spires, leaving the GCPD to hold the line.
“It’s a trap. It has to be a trap. And he knows,” said Montoya.
Gordon turned and started barking orders. “Get the word out! We need a cordon around this entire building, and a secondary line two blocks distance. I want roadblocks in and out of the Bowery! No one leaves the area unless we get eyes on them first!”
The police scrambled, while inside the bank, the clockwork gears of a plan began to turn in perfect synchronicity. Through the vents and smoke-ridden corridors, the Batman crept. He made no sound, until he made it to wide open space of the bank floor itself.
A grapnel to one the ledges overlooking the tellers’ area. Croc was prowling between the pillars, the smoke obscuring his feet as he padded around. The Dark Knight surveyed the scene. The smoke had made it up to the upper levels of the multi-storey bank, and the lights were flickering off and on in all areas. He couldn’t make out any other vantage points in the immediate vicinity, and he felt like he was going in half-cocked, something he didn’t approve of in himself.
Batman’s eyes became slits. There was a pattern to Croc’s movements. He was doing a very specific lap of the area. With a click, new lenses fell into place over the Dark Knight’s eyes, and he saw that in the places that Croc didn’t go, there were some kind of device-- mines?-- lining the walkways.
There was a sound. A buffeted hiss of air. He didn’t have a chance to do anything about it when the bullet found its mark over his chest insignia. His chest exploded outward in a fine Kevlar mist-- no blood though-- and he toppled off the ledge. He fell hard on the countertop that the bank tellers had been working at, and rolled inward, so he wasn’t in the killing box that Croc had set up.
Who’d shot him?
“Ese, looks like today is your unlucky day. My man the Colonel has it out for you in a big way,” said El Diablo, passing liquid flame from one hand to the other while grinning broadly. He’d emerged from the smoke like it was nothing, and his hands did not look of the healing variety.
Batman lifted up his grapnel gun and aimed it at the pyrokinetic. His hands were shaky, his vision blurry, and he knew that the round to the chest had rocked him more than he’d expected.
Instead of firing it, he dropped it abruptly, and it snapped back to place on his belt thanks to the small bungee line attached to the base. In his other hand he’d drawn a batarang from the back of his utility belt and he threw it at El Diablo in the same motion as dropping the grapnel. The shuriken spun blue in the air and crackled on contact with Diablo’s chest, enveloping him in a field of ice. He was an icicle in seconds, but the slabs of ice were already melting. Batman had to get clear but--
Bullets rained down from up high, from the same level as he had been on that ledge. Okay, so there was a sniper up there. Why didn’t he go for the headshot? Centre mass all but guaranteed impact, but if he had the time to get a shot off without being detected by the Dark Knight himself, then--
“Oh, Bats. Bats, Bats, Bats. Who’da thought that all those times Mista Jay wanted ya dead, and now he’s gone, ya go and make yaself public enemy number one? I love it! Makes a girl laugh!”
That voice-- that laugh-- Quinn? But she hadn’t been seen for nearly two years-- not since the Joker’s disappearance at the tail end of Ra’s Al Ghul’s assault on Gotham City*! How did she--
*2008’s A Mirror, Darkly, running in Batman #27-30
--Just a distraction-- a boomerang whizzed past Batman’s head as he ducked at the last split second-- and then-- another-- and another-- after he caught one of them, it all fell into place--
He’d been framed for the murder of Amanda Waller, and now the Suicide Squad was here to take them in. He’d rushed in because of an obvious trap, not thinking that things would go to pot as soon as they had, and now he was being picked apart by a group of super villains.
He tracked the trajectory of the boomerang as it returned to sender, trying to block out the deafening laughter that echoed through the bank. Croc was behind the counters, trying to remember where the mines were now that the Batman was on his level. He was kept out of the fight for the time being by his own stupidity, but the Dark Knight’s luck couldn’t last. There was a sound, a boomerang being caught, so Batman sent his own gift toward the man who’d thrown the last flying weapon-- Captain Boomerang cried out as he caught the electric batarang, and then he could be heard falling to the ground in a seizing mess.
A blade sailed toward him so he raised his gauntlets, his wrist-mounted flechettes deflecting the strike at the last moment, though the impact still sent pangs of pain down his arm. He twisted, capturing the flat of the weapon, and then reached into the smoke and grabbed the throat of his attacker. He drew her close, and he was face-to-face with katana.
“I didn’t kill Waller,” he hissed.
“I know. But that won’t stop the others from trying to kill you,” she replied.
She threw an elbow, keeping Batman inside the box of her attacks. She was all knees and elbows, all points and movement, and he was struggling to keep up. He was winded still by the bullet that had hit him square in the chest, still fuzzy from the fall, and he’d walked right into this trap like he was a damn rookie--
“You need to get clear. Flagg wants your blood. You need to clear your name,” said Katana, slowing her movements by degrees, letting him get close. She had always been one the side of angels, and the superhero community counted themselves lucky that she was keeping whatever schemes Waller designed in check.
“I heard that, you traitorous bitch--!” growled El Diablo, having finally defrosted himself.
“Adults are talking,” replied Batman, throwing a handful of batarangs at the pyrokinetic with one hand, but they were melted into slag before they cleared the distance between them. Diablo was about to double down on his attack but he didn’t count on what was thrown from the Dark Knight’s other hand-- the boomerang connected with a heavy clunk at the back of his head, taking him out of the fight.
Katana pressed Batman back, so he was staggering toward the back of the teller’s area, toward the vault. The ceiling was now providing enough cover from the sniper above, and Croc was growing more and more frustrated across the floor. “Hit me. Get clear.”
Killer Croc had enough. He barged forward, across the bank floor, and detonated a half dozen electric-mines as he went. It did little to phase the monstrous reptilian, who cleared the distance in seconds, and was barrelling toward Batman and Katana in seconds.
The Dark Knight struck Katana hard in the area beneath her ear, knocking her out instantly. He grabbed her before she fell and ran straight toward Croc, who got confused by this man who was half his size coming at him even faster than he himself was running. At the last second, Batman skidded through Croc’s legs and then threw a device at his back--
--Waylon was sent flying into the sealed door of the vault by a concussive blast emitted from the device on his back. It spluttered excess energy, but he’d hit the vault with the speed of an oncoming train, and the impact knocked him out immediately.
“Enough of this dancing. EKOPP VNOFF KAAA” Tendrils of dark energies latched themselves around Batman’s limbs, and he was immediately strung up in front of the newly revealed Enchantress. She watched as the Dark Knight was suddenly prone before her, and she lost any sense of fear she might have had earlier for this creature. “You gave nightmares to June, Bat-Man. I thought I was the only one to do that. I would give you a seat next to me in the new world if I thought you’d take it. Alas.”
“Alas,” repeated Batman, before closing his eyes and shouting, “!odnU”
The magic flexed around him and shattered, the feedback causing the Enchantress to yell in pain. Batman fell hard, blood dribbling from his nose. It was a minor spell, wielded by someone who didn’t exactly believe in it, and the cost was the major agony he was now feeling as his body tried to process what his mouth had just said. Zatanna Zatara had warned him back in the day when she taught him it, but he still hadn’t expected it to hurt so damn much…
He needed to get clear-- he headed toward the vents-- raised his grapnel gun-- and it was destroyed by a rifle round fired by Deadshot, who had now descended from his vantage point. The Dark Knight stumbled forward, threw a batarang toward the assassin, but Lawton dropped his rifle and fired it out of the air with his wrist-guns.
“We’ve gone about this terribly, but you’re still a hot mess, Bats. If Flagg wasn’t so concerned with taking you in before anyone else did, maybe we’d have come up with a better plan and more of the team would be awake right now.”
He fired another round at Batman, but the Dark Knight wasn’t where he’d left him before squeezing the trigger. He lost track of him for a second, even though the smoke was starting to clear. He spun around and was knocked out by a mallet to the face.
“Oopsies,” said Harley.
Batman was as surprised by this act as the now comatose Deadshot had been.
Quinn shrugged. “Couldn’t let a shmuck like him do ya in, could I? If Mista Jay isn’t here to pull the trigger, then I guess I’ll have t’ instead.”
She groped at Deadshot’s body, trying to figure out how to use his wrist-guns, but then gave up. “Jeez, why ain’t this easy?”
Batman was about to knock her out when she cried out as electricity racked her body. Not him this time. Something subcateanous. The control implants Task Force X get implanted with before they start their tenure with the team?
Before he could answer the question, he was shot again, and he didn’t see Rick Flagg moving before it was too late. The Colonel emerged from the last of the smoke with his rifle raised. His shot impacted Batman in the chest, just below where Deadshot had caught him, and he lost his ability to breathe for an amount of time no man wants to lose. The armour around there had been compromised, and it wouldn’t take long before a bullet would go right through. Instead of taking another round, he raised his cape and sent an electrical charge through it so it went solid. Fabric became as hard as steel, and bullets bounced off it as Flagg approached quickly.
“You-- are-- done--!”
Flagg threw a punch and Batman caught it.
“Not yet.”
He twisted Flagg’s wrist hard but with the colonel’s other hand he pulled his side piece and fired off a round in the complete wrong direction when Batman elbowed him hard in the shoulder.
“Godammit!”
Batman wanted to end this, but he was asthmatic suddenly, his head blurry. He hadn’t thought this through at all and now he was paying the price in pain. Flagg elbowed him hard in the throat, and was surprised to find the shot land, and then he drove the Dark Knight back against the wall.
“You killed Waller, you bastard, now you’re done!”
He shoved his pistol against Batman’s cheek, but then cried out when the handle became too hot to continue holding onto. He was grabbed by the strap of his rifle and flung backwards, and he landed with a grunt by one of the pillars Croc had been patrolling.
Superman looked back at Flagg, then down at Batman. With a grim expression, the Man of Steel said, “We need to talk.”
TO BE CONTINUED
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