Prologue
Criminal Darwinism

The Cheetah Lounge
Opal City, PA
11:14 PM

Anthony Di Pasqua looked at the stubby cigar smoldering in the glass ashtray on his desk. It was a thin Panamanian Cigar with weak tobacco and loose wrapping. They were made to look like Cubans on the surface, but closer inspection revealed them to be poor imitators. That could sum up the mob in Opal City these days. When Anthony came into the Life, always with a capital L, forty years ago the mafia either owned or had a healthy stake in every criminal enterprise going on in the city and surrounding area. Years of FBI investigations and arrests put plenty of wiseguys behind bars.

Then there were the killings. Dozens of small conflicts with Eastern European gangs over the years culled plenty from both sides, but those Slavic heathens always had more. Kill one Croat, two more popped up to take his place. Worse than that was their own short-sighted stupidity that led to whacks for all kinds of piddly shit. Anthony knew a guy who had another guy whacked just because he spilled a drink on his shoes. The Slavs were meaner, hungrier, and they just plain wanted it more. Generations of Italians running the show had made the mob soft and complacent. They were no longer at the top of the food chain, something they learned too late to change. Years of attrition meant that the mafia had just twenty made men working in the city. Anthony was head of the Family now, for whatever that was worth. Saying you were the mob boss of Opal City was like saying you was the world's tallest midget.

And now this shit on top of all of that.

Anthony looked up at the sound of the door opening. His bodyguard Pete nodded at him through a small crack in the door. On the other side of the door, Anthony could hear the rhythmic dance music from the strip club. The Lounge was one of the wiseguy's few remaining assets in the city, a good front for money laundering as well as pushing drugs and women.

"Ready?" he asked as he stood, making sure the cheap cigar was out for good.

"They're coming in now, sir."

Three of Anthony's guys came into the room, one of them with a pistol in his hand and pushing two unwilling captives towards the desk in the middle of the room. One of them was a woman. She had straight brown hair cut short and a navy blue dress and matching flats. To her side was the other captive, several feet shorter and infinitely hairier than his companion. To those who didn't know any better, he appeared to be a chimp dressed in a t-shirt and plaid coat. Any illusions that he was an ordinary primate were dispelled the second his opened his mouth.

"Anthony Di Pasqua," the chimp said in a clear, non-regional American accent. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Anthony shook his head. He'd met this little guy many times over the years, but he still couldn't get over it. He was a talking chimp! Not only did he talk, but he was smarter than probably everyone in this room, at least smarter than Anthony's guys.

"Can I call you Detective Chimp? Or does that insult you?"

"You've got a gun on me, so I imagine it doesn't matter if it insults me or not."

Anthony sat down behind his desk and motioned for the chimp and his companion to do the same. He looked towards the girl and winked. She had a nice figure. With a little silicone, she could be out there on the pole earning the real books.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Effie," she said curtly.

"Effie? You ever get tired of the chimp there and want to hang out with a real man, let me know."

"Don't like Italians," she said. "Too much hair."

Anthony's men tightened at the crack, but he just laughed good-naturedly. He waved them off and instead turned back to the chimp.

"I brought you here because I need some help recovering something that was stolen from me."

Di Pasqua reached into his sports coat and pulled out a folded up photo of a bald, fat man with a beard on his face.

"This son of a bitch here did the books for the Family. Three days ago he disappears, ups and vanishes with my money and other important shit. I want him found and I want him dead. I don't have the manpower to comb the city like I used to, so I'm getting contracted help from the outside."

"No," said the chimp. "Hell no. I am not helping you murder someone."

"Noble sentiment," said Anthony. "Unfortunately, it doesn't matter. You're helping me..."

Di Pasqua snapped his fingers and his gunman moved quickly, putting the barrel of the pistol against Effie's back. She let out a small yelp and the chimp barred his sharp teeth at the gunman. He tried to go for the gun, but the three other men in the room held him back. He was small, but surprisingly strong.

"Like I said, Chimp Boy, you're helping me or you're both dead. Your lives for the life of a double-crossing scum. What's your choice?"

The chimp turned forward, staring at Anthony with rage in his eyes and his pointy white teeth glaring against the office's artificial lighting.

"Okay, you bastard! Okay!"

John Constantine: Hellblazer
Chapter 1, I

It took about 100 meters and three turns from the Midnite Lounge for Constantine to find a suitable alleyway. The far side was a dead-end, blocked off by a low chain-link fence and several overflowing trash cans pressed up against it, and the three doors along the adjoining walls were dark and had collected dust on the handles. One was chained and padlocked. He liked his chances for privacy.

The Half-breed had followed him in. Of course he had. He’d followed John from the Lounge, John tempted to lose him (it wouldn't have been that difficult) but deciding it would be more useful to pry some information from his horned skull. John knew that the Half-breed didn't know him – Midnite had said his name enough while he was listening, and he hadn't been recognized either, so this devil knew nothing about his accomplishments, or the First’s stake of claim upon him. But he knew Astra and Nergal, or at least their names…so that confused John. Astra was Nergal’s only victory over Constantine, and it wasn't one he would soon let John forget about. So this Half-breed was either kept in the dark, found out information he wasn't meant to know, or just going on hearsay and rumors looking to make a name for himself, sucking up to some head Demon. John liked the first two. The third was idiotic, but it still allowed him some fun. John put his hands in his coat pocket as he walked up to a door, making it look like he was fumbling for keys as the half-breed rounded the corner into the alleyway.

“You’re asking about things that could get you in trouble, Mortal.” He said, and John suppressed a scoff. Big talk for a reject. Guess he didn't figure John was much for power; guess he forgot who Papa Midnite lets in to the Other Room. He was a moron, then. John started to turn, look of innocence on his face – and pushed his head into a strong, leathery hand, which pushed his head into the hard metal of the door. John’s head rang. Christ, he hadn't expected him to be so quick. “And look where it’s gotten you. Into trouble.” John felt hands clamp down on his shoulders and turn him around, pushing him back and holding him against the door. He pulled his left hand from his coat and pushed it to his temple, eyes screwed shut in pain. The half-breed chuckled. “Head hurt, mate?” He asked, and John felt the hold loosen slightly in confidence. He chose that moment to bring his right hand up significantly quicker than his left, knuckles wrapped in metal, and bury it heavily into the left side of the half-breed’s face, following through and sending him tumbling to the ground. He lowered both his hands.

“Not as much as yours, mate.” He said, and the Half-breed snarled, and then looked at John’s fist and the knuckleduster he held. Pure silver. Engraved. Crosses carved into the raised metal. And a strange subtle blur as the enchantment re-bolstered itself after such violent expenditure. Then he lifted a hand to where he’d been hit as it started to burn in agony. “What do you know about Astra, you half-horned son of a bitch.” Constantine demanded, raising his fist again. The half-breed chuckled.
“You can’t do anything but bruise me with that trinket, you stupid hedge wizard. I’m not demon enough to die from silver.”
Constantine smirked. “That’s what I was counting on.” He muttered, and then punched the half-breed again, rifling inside his jacket with his free hand for a fragile vial – which he then threw at the devil, letting it smash on his forehead and splash its contents over his face. The Half-breed started smoking, and soon screaming. John punched again, and skin cracked off, showing rotted flesh and vicious fangs beneath.

“Holy water, you magician bastard! You won’t get away with this, you can’t kill me, I can’t di-“ John cut him off with a knee heavily on his chest, and then put his knuckleduster away, replacing it with a small bible.
“Ever experienced redemption, Half-breed?” He spat as he flicked through the pages. “Demon, at the gates of Heaven. Love to be the fly on that wall.” The Half-breed looked at him, eyes wild and defiant, but John saw the smallest flicker of fear.
“You have no authority! No providence!” He spat back, and John chuckled, pulling a pendant from his jacket. A small silver cross, hanging on rosary beads. Authentic. Convincing.

“Says you.” John said, and then held the pendant in his left hand over the Half-breed’s head as he read from the bible in his right. He spoke in prominent voice, acting the part, and trying not to enjoy himself too much. "May God have mercy on you, and may He grant you pardon of your sins." The Half-breed strained his neck and tried to claw John's face, but he pulled his head sharply out of the way and pressed more weight onto his knee. "Whosoever sins You remit on Earth, they are remitted unto them in Heaven!" The devil protested, weakly pushing at Constantine's knee and croaking ignorance. Constantine continued. "Grant Your child into Thine kingdom, in the name of the Father, in the name of the Son, and in the name of the Holy Spirit!" It writhed beneath him, and John reached to the sky, stretching his pendant toward Heaven as he finished the prayer: "AME-"

"Stop! Stop! I'll tell you, I'll tell you everything I know! Just please, stop!" Constantine stopped, pocketing the bible and slipping the pendant to dangle around his wrist as he pulled his knee from the half-breed's chest and stood above the prone figure, eyes raining fury down upon him. "I was born in Hell. Not many half-breed are, but I was. My mother and father were human, but Nergal was my patron. He slew my father and drew my mother into Hell, and gave his blood unto her womb so that I might feel his influence and serve him on Earth. I was born in Hell, in Nergal's kingdom." Constantine pulled the half-breed up by the collars.
"Nergal doesn't have a kingdom. Rosacarnis usurped his throne and was slain by the First. I know. I was there. That kingdom isn't there anymore, and neither is Nergal." The half-breed just shook his head meekly, panting in pain and exhaustion.
"He lay dormant, gathered what strength he had, whispered into my ear as I grew. It felt like millenia..." Constantine glared, but he was starting to believe it. Time in Hell was not related to time on Earth. "He had some font of power, something pure and light and hidden away, something that didn't belong - and he feasted on its energy. A direct link to providence, something of pure divinity. I followed him one night, only once, and I saw it. Pure white, beautiful. It saw me too. It...blinded Nergal, or held him back, and imprinted upon me a vision of a girl and a name. Nergal tried to slay me that night, to undo what I had learnt, but it stopped him somehow and I escaped. I was at the Lounge because I wanted protection, safety, a fucking witness protection program! Midnite didn't want anything to do with it. He's fucking neutral. And now, I'm going to die."

Constantine let go, and the devil slumped to the ground, despair welling up in his core. John straightened up, and then helped the half-breed up off the floor.
"No you're not. You're under my witness protection program now. And you're gonna show me where you saw that soul. What's your name, devil."
The half-breed coughed and dusted himself down, wincing a little as his face ached and his veneer cracked a little more.
"Zziluhan." He said, and John raised an eyebrow.
"Well then, Zee, we better get going. New York ain't the place to be right now." They walked a few steps, and then Constantine stopped, turning to Zee with one hand pointed at him. "Oh, and for future reference - you have to ask for redemption to be forgiven. Asshole."

Star City
The Glades
11:45 PM

Even before the van jolted into a speeding frenzy, Daniil Kozlov knew he was in trouble. A member of the Bratva’s Star City branch, he and two other Byki had been charged with kidnapping a child for the mafia’s slave-trading operation, something which he did quite regularly, without any hesitation or doubt. He would go with his men, find a child and stick them in the back of the van, then proceed to deliver them to Star City Harbour, where they would be sold to the highest bidder and deported. It was a quick and easy business, and Daniil had no problem with it. It wasn’t his kid being sold, after all. But this job felt wrong. Never had he been ordered to take a specific child; never had he been ordered to deliver them to one of the Bratva’s fronts.

He didn’t know what made this kid so special. Looking at him as he lay bound and gagged on the van’s floor, he looked like any other kid he’d kidnapped: eyes wide in fear, tears streaming down his cheeks as he silently cried for mommy. He was a good looking fella, Daniil wasn’t gonna lie. His face alone would bump up his price by a good margin, what with his blond hair, brown eyes, tanned skin and defined jawline. He looked as if he jumped right out of Photoshop. But that didn’t explain why the Avtorityet wanted him delivered to the Tovarishch Bar front. It just didn’t make any sense.

Daniil was sent flying into the van’s wall as the vehicle lurched to the left, its tyres screaming like a banshee.

<Mikhel! What’s happening?> he yelled. Damn driver, always drunk on the job. Unacceptable, in Daniil’s opinion, but then again, since when was his opinion worth a chert?

<Someone’s after us!> answered Mikhel, his voice strained with anxiety, yet surprisingly sober. <Green Arrow!>

Right on cue, a heavy thud boomed on the van’s roof.

<He’s on top of us!> yelled Vasili, Mikhel’s brother and occupant of the passenger seat.

<No shit!> exclaimed Daniil. Reaching towards his waistband, he pulled out a pistol, clicking the safety off and taking aim at the roof. One. Two. Three. The shots went off, punching holes in the van, tiny windows exposing snippets of the night sky.

<What the hell are you– > began Mikhel, cut off by the sudden appearance of a green-hooded man on the hood of the van. The man struck the windscreen, summoning cracks onto the glass. Strike after strike followed, the cracks spreading, until it covered the entire windshield’s area. One final blow and the glass shattered, spraying shards all over Mikhel and Vasili. A muscular arm reached out and grabbed Vasili by the collar, the man too stunned to do anything, his face met by a green-clad fist, knocking him out with one powerful blow. <Shit! Daniil, shoot– > Green Arrow’s boot collided with Mikhel’s nose, stopping him short as his head bounced off his seat’s headrest, his unconscious form leaning on Vasili. The vigilante jumped into the van, sitting on top of Mikhel, and slammed the brakes on. The van came to screeching halt, the sudden stop throwing off Daniil’s aim, his shot going wild. The bullet sped out of the vehicle, through the glassless windscreen and out into the night. Daniil watched in horror as Green Arrow turned to face him, his features masked by shadow but for the snarl that was so grotesquely formed by rage.

<Oh god. Oh god, no…>

<No god here...> said the Arrow, disarming Daniil with a fletchette, <Only pain.>

---

Oliver carried the boy in his arms as he walked along the road, making his way towards his motorcycle, discarded on its side some half mile from the Russians’ van. His eyes browsed the Glades. Small buildings of one to two storeys, the majority run-down, crowded together on both sides of the tarmac, forming the district that has been home to over seventy percent of Star City’s crimes ever since its foundation. The streets were dirty, covered in filth and grime. Rats scurried from house to house, each one a new dumpster ripe with loot. The air was hazy and thick, the atmosphere heavy; like a blanket had been laid over the Glades, imposing upon it an impression of despair. Oliver had never liked spending time there as a child. He had always thought himself better than the people that lived there, because after all, didn’t privilege mean stature? But the island had been an awakening for him. It made him realise just how bad people had it there. Just how badly he wanted to help them.

The boy was sobbing softly into Oliver’s chest. Poor kid, he’d been through a lot. Getting kidnapped is something no one should ever have to go through, let alone by the Russian mafia. The fact that this eight year-old boy had to go through such an ordeal struck deep within Oliver’s conscience. Because deep down, he knew this was his fault. What kind of father abandons his own son?

“Connor,” he murmured, raising a hand to comb through the boy’s hair. “It’s okay, Connor. You’re okay.”

The youngster pulled away from his saviour’s chest, looking into his eyes. After a long moment of silence, he spoke, awed. “Are you really him? The Green Arrow?”

A thought, however brief, passed through Oliver’s head. Tell him the truth. He dismissed it with much reluctance. No matter how much he wished otherwise, he knew that he couldn’t tell Connor who he really was. Because of the life that he lead, his son couldn’t have a father. And it broke his heart.

“No,” he said. “I’m your guardian angel.”

Around 2 A.M.
Museum of Modern Art
New York City

It was luck, really. That was the only discernible reason for the knowledge. Although once the knowledge was had, it immediately led Sanctuary to damn near everything there was to know about it. Kara was no expert on this kind of thing...at least she wasn't until she had spent all the night before reading up on it (a week and she still hadn't slept), and VRing quite a few of these incidents using Sanctuary's careful recreations. And if she hadn't been before last night, she was certainly impressed by what she had stumbled upon. If crime could become a puzzle, this was one tough nut to crack. Kara had always loved puzzles.

It had taken them over three hundred man hours, most of that spent in gathering intelligence and technology research/development. The plan was precise, practiced, and as perfect as any sentient soul was likely to get it. The criminals involved were a mixed bag; Kara and Sanctuary had made sure to look into each and every one of them. Including the money trail, which went back three crimes, one Italian casino owner, and a Shanghai lawyer. Kara had personally spoken to the lawyer, a floating blonde girl with arms crossed wearing a white silk pants suit that had tailoring even Mr. Chen could appreciate.

Even if she'd surprised him as he came out upon the sixty-fourth story balcony of his luxury high rise for morning tea.

Mr. Chen had been a gracious host; inviting her to join him for tea. They discussed Chinese history, a conversation prompted by Mr. Chen complimenting her on her Mandarin, asking about how long she'd been at it. He answered a few questions she had about the modern Chinese elite, including their attitudes on the emerging 'metahuman' issue. The answers didn't surprise her, some of them disappointing. A few, she was told, were interesting in seeing if it was something they could benefit or profit from. That one made her chuckle. It wasn't until the end that Kara asked Mr. Chen about the criminal activity he funded, and his reasons.

That led her to an insurance executive out of Las Vegas. Mr. Percival hosted a small poker tournament for around eighty friends out of a private villa at the Venetian. Sanctuary had suggested the approach to her, although it hinged on Kara not being immediately tossed for 'crashing' the event. Given the expected guest list of mostly middle aged and beyond men, Sanctuary argued, the chances were high of Kara simply being allowed to stay. At least, the A.I. added, so long as Kara approached the situation correctly.

Of all the things Kara expected of Sol-III, having an A.I. suggest she wear a "mini-dress" wasn't high on the list. In fact, it hadn't been on the list at all. Disturbing as Kara found it, the advice worked. A black dress, and high black heels that felt like stilts to the Kryptonian girl, and her charming side got Kara smiles and friendliness. Soon she was using the practice time spent dealing cards, running the odds in her head for every hand, every card dealt. The numbers weren't too hard, so long as wild multiples and factoring were your thing. They'd always come easy to Kara, but then as she learned, a Kryptonian's education was far more in depth and active than most Terran upbringings.

Kara enjoyed her first cigar. Her first pocket Aces. Her first Scotch; then her second, and third. She bet big, and was even nearly busted once when chance triumphed over the odds. To say nothing of the other ways in which she was almost 'busted'--every guy in the villa wanted to ask her about herself. "Where you from?" "How old are you?" "What do you do, if you don't mind my asking?" "Y'like jazz, sweetheart?" She evaded most all of them for most the night; except the jazz, she liked jazz. But by then, she was on first name basis with every face she saw.

Even Eddie--Edward Percival. At the end it was just Mr. Percival and she, sipping a 'night cap', and playing a few hands. She dealt; she did it quickly (but not too quickly), and the cards always seemed to go where she wanted them...go figure. He asked her about herself, she gave clearer answers than she had all night, without giving away too much. They talked about the insurance business, they talked about betting and gambling in general. They even briefly touched upon politics, and Lex Luthor. Then they talked about metahumans. This time, Percival surprised her...even if he beat her with spades on the draw. She politely thanked him for the lovely evening.

It wasn't until she was walking away that he asked why she'd really come. So she asked him about the crime he bankrolled, and his reasons.

Given both Mr. Chen and Mr. Percival had been honest with her (and Kara liked to think she could spot the signs of a lie), Kara had no serious logic based objection to the next part of her plan. If she had, Sanctuary and she would have had to come up with a new plan. These men weren't angels, but they weren't devils, either--an important distinction to be made on this planet. If a fine line. But humanity was ever so fond of their fine lines, as Kara was starting to learn. Finally, it was time to head to New York City and prepare.

Sanctuary provided most the items needed, but the meet place wasn't exactly something that could be ordered online or replicated. She settled on the tenth floor of a nearby building under construction. It was private enough, it was a place they could talk, and it provided her with plenty of opportunity for any exit she wanted. Not that it would come to that, but it was just a nice thing to know was there. She spent most of the day of the crime listening to music in her D.C. apartment, going out with Kyle for a movie and dinner. When she got home it was near 11 P.M., and time for her to change and go.

The entire security system of the Museum of Modern Art in New York City's Manhattan island was taken down, piece by piece. Some of it manually, some of it remotely. Some of it by a little flying 'drone' that could evade motion detectors and laser grids to reach a small keypad. All said and done, they were in and and nearly ready to leave in just a shade over three minutes. Each painting was in a criminal's hands when the strong wind came through exhibit hall in question. Just like that, faster than a human eye could blink, the paintings they held in their very black gloved hands disappeared. Replaced with a note in black type on white paper.

Impressive job. 18th and West 53rd, tenth floor. I'll be waiting with the Picassos and Chagalls.

Whatever their shock and misgivings, all five of them arrived right on que, their arrival announced by the ding of the elevator. The floor was empty, lit only with mobile construction lighting. When they got in far enough and began to ask themselves if anyone was even there, or coming, and how they didn't see any paintings, Kara made her entrance.

She 'appeared' right behind them out of their sight. All five were men, though of varying ages. The ringleader, Mr. Green, was mid-40s, a diplomat's son that earned a degree in Engineering from Midwestern. The rest ranged from late-30s to mid-20s. Mark Towiski was from Montana, 25 years old, left Stanford a year before graduation, majored in Computer Science. According to Sanctuary, a good hacker with an addiction to...Mountain Dew. Demolitions was a Samuel Saunders, 34, from Georgia, trained while with EOD in the US Army. Jacob Crowder was 28, and liked to boast he could drive or fly damn near anything with an engine in it, his father a mechanic and race car driver out of Central Florida. Alex Franklin was 36, and had been everything from a male exotic dancer to a phone help desk operator in life before chance, or fate, brought him into one of Mr. Green's plots.

"I apologize--" she began, ignoring their reactions of shock and surprise. A few even cursed at her, like she scared them. Kara tried not to smirk, "--for the surprise attack, gentlemen, but I needed your full attention."

"Wearing that would have been enough," Mr. Green said, meaning the ceremonial vestments of House El she was wearing, and the shield upon it.

Towiski, nervously, voiced a concern. "...she could just be a girl in a Superman suit. Like...does she fly?"

"Can't be Superman if you can't fly."

"Or lasers. You need lasers out of the hands."

"No, idiot, Superman shoots lasers out of his eyes."

"...which one shoots them out of their hands?"

It was a suggestion the entire group seemed to embrace. Mr. Green seemed untouched by the suggestion of having Kara demonstrate the ability to fly, turning to his own band of fellow criminals. "You don't think maybe her lifting the paintings right out from under our noses and replacing them with white stock paper was enough of a demonstration?"

Most the group looked a bit embarrassed. Kara smiled at it, her eyes glowing red for a few heartbeats, her feet leaving the ground for just a few moments longer. By time her feet touched the ground, they were already cheering. Cheering.

"Wow, that's really it."

"...see any lines?"

"Hey, at least we're getting busted by Super...woman?"

"Supergirl, I saw it on Twitter."

"Maybe she prefers woman over girl. Ever think of that?"

"It saw it on Twitter."

"I saw it too."

"...don't help him."

Kara's eyes never left Green's, and his never left her's, even as the group bantered. Finally, Green spoke. "She's not here to bust us."

"...wait, what?"

"How is that possible?"

"Okay. Um, cool. So, why then?"

Kara gave them each a small smile, and explained herself. "I'm hiring you. All of you. Because of my own privacy concerns, I can't accept no for an answer. The paintings I'll return tomorrow. No cop's likely to question paintings being returned from Supergirl. I know what each of your takes was going to be, and I've already ensured the amounts in your chosen offshore bank accounts. Any questions?"

"What are we stealing?"

"Why can't you just do it? You're like...Superchick, right?"

That one made her snicker. "I am, like, superchick, sure. But this can't get back to me, and it has to look like it was done by actual people...not superchick. As for the other question, we're going to take files from the secure, private, server of Lex Luthor. Remote hack is out of the question, it's too secure."

"Black bag job," Green said, thinking aloud. "Think Lex'll mind?"

To that question, Supergirl only grinned.

Shoals of Trench flesh rippers, eager to sink sharp little teeth into unprotected Atlantean flesh. Hordes of Tritonis' screamers, mad as hell and baying for blood. Organised Lemurian Cohorts, a slow and unstoppable juggernaut of martial might that promised doom to their enemies. Parademons from fiery hell-worlds, self-declared God's, monomaniacal would be conquerors, alien invaders, petty crooks, highly trained mercenaries, undead sorcerers, corrupt business officials, and on one noteworthy occasion an extremely irate ex-girlfriend. Arthur Curry had faced them all, and conquered on every occasion. It was a source of no small measure of pride to him in fact, that his name was quite possibly the most feared in all the Seven Kingdoms of Atlantis, that when Atlantean warriors sat in their circles at night to eat their supper they all told stories of 'The Golden One's' achievements, or that when the people of earth ranked their greatest heroes his name regularly featured among them (Or at least the title 'Aquaman' did, but Arthur chose to ignore that.)

He would have quite happily given up all that hard one, grudging respect from both the bottom and surface-dwellers at that very moment though, if only to escape his current unenviable task; escorting Mera of Xebel, his newest - and quite possibly to date greatest – rival, towards her destiny.

Becoming his brothers bride.

When Arthur had first been handed this job he had thought to himself lucky. A mission that didn't involve him risking life and limb fighting some soulless monster of the deeps? Fantastic! Just carting some spoiled rich girl from one cushy palace to a slightly different cushy palace? Easy, just load her into the back of the reef-raider, hit the cruise control, then put his feet up and relax. It was gonna be the first thing resembling a holiday he'd had in almost four years! He shoulda realized at the time it was too good to be true, that there was a reason no body wanted this gig. After all, why else would Poesdonis send it's resident dogsbody to fetch the princess of Xebel, if not because every slopey-shouldered noble with a lick of influence, surely better suited for such a delicate diplomatic task than a bruiser like him, knew better than to take the damn job on!

Ever since he had collected her from her father Nereus in Xebel - and tense meeting in itself, considering that Arthur had disfigured him years ago in a duel - she had been nothing but hassle. Whatever pain Nereus might have felt since losing to Arthur's hands was nothing compared to the constant headache caused by Mera's constant complaints, criticism's and cutting barbs. It seemed she couldn't even look at Arthur without spitting venom. At first he had thought it was just her pre-wedding nerves, perhaps a frightened girls way of dealing with the fact that in a few short weeks she would be marrying a man she had never before met, purely to strengthen the links between two kingdoms that liked nothing better than to declare war on each other. Now though, now he wasn't so sure.

Now he just reckoned it was because she was a bitch.

The sliding doors behind him opened with a whoosh, the fragile peace Arthur had in the cockpit in danger of disappearing. Luckily it wasn't Mera come to berate him for some new infraction, instead it was Vulko. The old Scholar had joined Arthur in his task on the pretence that he desired a break from hectic life in the capital, though the blonde Atlantean suspected that the truth was that Vulko's divisive personality had angered the wrong noble, and he was merely making himself scarce while the heat died down. Never one to rest on his laurels, the old advisor had set right to the task of arguing the odds with the Princess of Xebel whenever the opportunity presented itself. No subject was too big or too small for that pair, and it seemed that Orm Ap Marius' inherent dislike for the Scholar was a trait his bride-to-be passionately shared. Not that Arthur minded. If she was screaming at Vulko then she wasn't screaming at him.

Vulko looked flustered, heavy black brows arched in a furious frown, mouth clenched in a grim line. The doors had barely whispered shut behind him before he was getting down to bitching.

“That fool of a woman, she is infuriating in the extreme!” He said, throwing himself into the seat next to Arthur.

“You don't say?” Replied the Prince, his sarcasm a touch too mild because the Scholar didn't notice it. That or he chose to ignore it and forge on anyway.

“I do say! I do indeed! She vexes me at every opportunity. If I say up, she immediately set's her self to not just saying down, but left, right, sideways and backwards too. Anything, as long as it runs contrary to whatever I have said!” Vulko had leapt back up from his seat, his face going from a deep crimson to a deeper violet, Arthur half wondering if the older man was mid-heart attack.

“What'ya wanting me to say Vulko? She does the same thing to me, or she did leastways, till I realized the trick was to ignore her. I reckon she only does it for the rise she gets outta us. No rise, no fun. No fun, and what's the point?”

“So your advice, as roundabout and littered with grammatical errors as ever, is to take the high road?”

“Pretty much.”

Vulko seemed to think about it for a moment, before scoffing loudly.

“Hardly a suitable option for one such as myself! I mean, really, I have tutored some of the greatest statesmen and orators our fine city has ever borne witness too! For one such as I to cede an argument to one such as her, well it's preposterous! Incredulous even! It would be like a warrior of your calibre submitting to a child armed with a stuffed toy! I shan't, nay, I can't do it!”

Arthur chuckled softly. The old bullshit merchant always did have a knack for making him laugh, even if it was rarely intentional.

"You're a glutton for punishment Vulko, and that's all there is to it."

A light on the control panel began to flash before Vulko could answer, a sharp beeping echoing throughout the craft. Arthur sat up, eye's darting across the ship readouts, his good humor evaporating faster than a glass of water left in the desert sun. Seeing exactly what he had prayed he wouldn't, Arthur moaned a curse and hit the emergency stop. The Reef Raider cut power immediately, lights dimming before dying completely while the quick-engine stop kicked in, the vessel going dead in the water. Arthur hit a few more buttons before switching his attention to the bay windows in front of him, eyes searching the inky darkness of the water.

"Orin. . . " Vulko edged, but the Prince shushed him with a glare. The two sat in tense silence, Arthur's gaze alternating between the control panels until the doors behind them opened with the same whispered whoosh that they had opened with earlier. Only this time it sounded a hell of a lot louder, like anyone swimming ten miles away could hear those doors echoing open. And if they didn't hear the doors open, then they'd sure hear the one who opened them.

"What is the meaning of this? I demand to know why we have stopped!" Princess Mera breezed in, all haughty arrogance and spoilt ignorance. Arthur spun on her, fixing her with the same intense glare he had unleashed on Vulko.

"Quiet!" He hissed, before returning his attention to the window. Mera, unused to being spoken to in such a fashion, or dismissed so lightly, was momentarily stunned into silence. Her face fell slack with shock and she took a faltering backstep, as if struck. Her amazement didn't last long, mores the pity, before her natural sense of outrage took hold. She surged forward, fury building up as she prepared to give the Champion of Poseidonis a tongue lashing so severe that Atlantean's would speak of it in hushed tones for generations to come.

"Now see here. . . "

"Mera! Shut your mouth, or so help me God I'll shut it for you!" Spit flew from Arthur's mouth as he snarled at the Xebel princess. None present were left in any doubt whether the blonde meant to back up his threat or not. Mera fell silent, frown so deep it looked like she was trying to crack her face in half, but at least she was silent. The Prince once more returned his attention to the seas, and this time he wasn't interrupted.

Shapes began to emerge from the dark water in front of them, indistinct blurs in the distance slowly coalascending into almost man shaped figures. Lot's of figures.

"Damn. . . " Arthur muttered under his breath, getting slowly up from his seat.

"What are those. . . things?" Said Mera, voice full of awe as she approached the window for a closer look.

"The Trench." Whispered Vulko, the old Scholar's cheeks a pale white, his pupils wide and darting. The Trench, terrors of the sea, nothing but teeth, and claws, and all consuming hunger. They came from the deep, dark places of the world, plaguing the Seven Kingdoms, hordes of the creatures descending like a storm upon unprepared settlements and travelers, leaving nothing but bones in their wake. There was no talking to the Trench, no bargaining or diplomacy. You either killed them or died, because once they got your scent they never gave up the hunt.

"Do you think they've seen us?" said Mera, face up against the window. Suddenly there was a crash like thunder, the princess throwing herself back from the window with a high-pitched shriek. Against the window was pressed a bulbous, sick-blue skinned head, pitch black eyes staring intently into the cock pit as it worked it's overly toothy maw against the glass, trying futilely to bite it's way in. Arthur, standing in front of a weapons cabinet, glanced over his shoulder at the beast.

"Yeah. I reckon they've seen us."

"Obviously the applications of this technology must be hidden from the public if I am to become part of society again."

"Obviously" Superman replied. His old enemy sat behind his glass desk with his legs crossed and his hands on the table. He leaned to the right and rested his elbow on the side of his chair. Clark stood on the other side of the desk in full costume with his arms crossed. "You still haven't told me what you want."

"Before I decided to change, I invested in advanced cloning technology." Lex leaned forward and rubbed his hand across his bald head. "With only one subject in mind."

"Me." Clark sneered at the bald man. It was only a matter of time before he tried something like this.

"And they say Batman is the detective." Lex said with a cocky smile and leaned back in his chair. Clark hated that smile. "I have been trying to get a hold of my research team for months now. They have not responded." Lex's face grew serious. He shifted again in his chair before standing up.

"You tried to clone me? I don't know if I should be flattered or repulsed." Lex finally returned Clark's sneer. The two men were now standing directly in front of each other. They were about the same height, they weren't the last time Clark had seen the bald man. Lex was still trying to prove he was an equal to the Man of Steel in smaller ways. "So something went wrong. Why don't you go see what happened youself?"

"The facility is on the moon. Going there myself would raise questions with the press.

"All the good super villains have moon bases after all." Clark said with a half smile. He could see the frustration building up in the bald man's face. A year ago that comment would have led to some kind of robot attack or kryptonite cannon.

"Very clever, it is a shame you became intelligent after I decided I no longer desired to kill you."

"Good one."

"Now, go find out what happened on the moon and destroy whatever you find. The world doesn't need two of you."

"Fine." Clark said before turning to head out the large glass double doors that served as an exit to Lex's office. This one was much nicer than the old office. Probably because the old one exploded during one of their many battles. "Oh and Lex, good luck on your speech next week. Might want to wear a hat though, wouldn't want you to get burnt."

Clark pushed both glass door open and was immediately greeted by the three man security team that led him inside. They walked down the long hallway that served as the other half of the top floor of the LexCorp building. The other half was the villain's office. There were no other rooms on the floor and the only other door was the elevator.

The four men rode all two hundred floors down to the bottom of the building. Clark was escorted outside before the team finally left him alone. He looked up at the building and up to the top floor. It would have taken much less time if Clark had been allowed to fly up there. He took off and flew towards the sky. The sooner he dealt with this clone problem the better.

Opal City, PA
12:20 AM

Detective Chimp's hands were still shaking an hour after the run-in with Di Pasqua. He sat in the passenger seat of Effie's car while his assistant stared blankly out the window. The two of them were in the little office space he rented out below his apartment when the mobsters showed up. Effie had her purse and was heading out the door when they pushed her back and showed both of them their guns. They tried to protest, but the guns were effective at silencing any such disagreements, as guns always are. The two mobsters shoved them into the back of Effie's car and drove them to Di Pasqua's strip club.

Now they were back outside his apartment. DC had a manila folder in his lap. Inside the folder were all the details the mob could give DC and Effie about their target. Johnny "Two Hands" Carbonerri, a mob accountant out in the wind with close to fifty grand of the Boy's cash. Di Pasqua's ultimatum was clear: 48 hours to find the Johnny Two Hands or he and Effie were headed for the bottom of the river.

"I'm sorry, Effie," DC said to break the silence. "I'm sorry to get you mixed up in all this crap."

"It's not your fault," she said softly. "You can't help them busting in on us like that. They're a bunch of monsters, DC."

"They're not monsters," he said, thinking back to a long time ago. "I've seen monsters and what monsters do. These men are animals. They'd get along famously with all my old friends back in the jungle."

DC opened the folder and browsed te information Di Pasqua had on him. It was thorough, part of it cribbed from an Opal City PD intelligence file the PD's mob squad compiled. That confirmed the fact that the Boys at least had their hooks into the PD. It also made DC wonder why they kidnapped him and forced him and Effie to work at gunpoint instead of getting an honest to god cop to do the legwork.

"What's the first move?" Effie asked with raised eyebrows.

"Carbonerri's file says he ran a hijacking crew out of the Eastside. If that's his base, and he's a player. Jake is going to know all about him."

"Jake," Effie said, rolling her eyes. "The Three Card Stud himself."



The tall, skinny black man stood in front of a small crowd of people in the alleyway. He had in front of him a makeshift table made from a cardboard box and his long, thin fingers shuffled three cards overturned cards with lightning speed. For his part, the man looked straight ahead at the crowd while his hands did the work, moving so fast it seemed that they were blurring.

"One, two, three, keep your eyes on the cards and not me."

He stopped just as quickly as he started and looked at the half dozen people in front of him, grinning wildly.

"It's two bucks to play, winner triples their money. Find the ace and you can put me in my place. Even shove it in my face!"

Titters went out from the crowd. A few threw down their money, a total of eight dollars.

"Teamwork, y'all," the man said with a wink. "You gotta pick the winner as a team."

The bettors argued and debated on which card was the one hiding the ace. After a few minutes of back and forth disagreement, one man put a hand down on the middle card of the three.

"This one," the man said, flipping it over and revealing a three of clubs.

"No such luck," the dealer said with another grin.

He flipped over the card on the far right, revealing a red ace. He laughed and scooped up their money amidst the grumbles. He stopped and looked deadly serious.

"Look... I like y'all, I do. What about double or nothing?"

The men threw down their money and he went back to work, shuffling and spinning the cards. Across the street from the scene, DC and Effie watched. DC looked amused while his assistant just looked bemused.

"It's not fair," she said. "Do you know how many people Jake Lonnegan has conned out of food and rent money?"

"People are dumb when it comes to money, Effie," DC said as he lit up a cigarette. "This is coming from someone who isn't even a person, but you're all the same when it comes to the prospect of easy money. If they're weak willed enough to believe money is that easy to get, then they deserved to be swindled. There!" He gestured with his cigarette while Jake continued to shuffle the cards. "Did you see it? You almost have to have a slow motion camera to see it. He made a slight twitch that last shuffle, palming the ace and hiding it in his hands. That ace they're looking for is never one of the three. He always wins."

Five minutes later, Jake was up a significant amount of money and folding up his table, making up a quick excuse to get out of there before the people became wise to his antics. He was scuttling down the block when DC stepped out of the shadows, blowing smoke from his mouth.

"What do you say, Jake?"

"DC?! Long time no see," he said with a smile. He looked towards Effie and winked, smiling when she frowned at him. "What are you and the lovely Miss Effie doing in the Three Card Stud's neighborhood?"

"Looking for a guy you might know," said DC. "He's reputed to be a thief."

"Now, why would an upstanding citizen like myself know a shady character such as that?"

"He's a mobster, Jake. Goes by the name Johnny Two Hands."

Jake laughed and shook his head.

"Gotta love them mob nicknames. Brother goes by Johnny Two Hands because, when he joined the Mafia, there was another Johnny, 'cept he only had one hand, so your boy becomes Johnny Two Hands."

"Nom de guerre aside, Jake, what else is there to know about him?"

"Just what I hear on the street," the conman said with a shrug. "Keeping my ear to the ground, you know how it is, apparently your boy has a lot of people talking. He's been using them two hands to feel up on a nice little number who works for the Russians."

"Hooker?" asked DC.

"I'm sure the Russians use her in their HR department," Effie said sardonically. "Staffing for a criminal enterprise is a full-time job, I'm sure."

Jake laughed again and pointed at Effie.

"I like you. You picked a winner, DC. But yeah, I just know this girl he has the hots for works for the Dragos. A real Romeo and Juliet story, you know? Star-crossed lovers and shit."

"Yeah," DC said, blowing smoke. "A hairy dago and an anorexic Ruskie hooker. Warms the cockles of ones heart."

John Constantine: Hellblazer
Chapter 1, II

"Hey, watch it asshole."
John flipped the bird with one hand as the other pulled him out of the cab by the top of the cab door that he'd opened into the bustling pavement outside his office building. A cigarette drooped lazily from his mouth, smoke drifting upwards past his eyes. Through it, the world seemed hazy, like a cheap glamour bought from some back-alley wannabe-witch, more a distraction than a disguise. John felt like he could wave away the smoke, dispel it with a mere twitch of his head, and wipe away the distraction, let him focus on the world once again. Maybe it would all melt away and he'd wake up, the last two decades of his life all one bad dream, trauma after trauma all revealed as some terrible nightmare. No Ravenscar, no Rosacarnis, no First. No Astra. Just a simple wave, and they never would have met. She'd be happy. She'd be alive. Just like so many others...

"This is where you work?" Said Zee from the other side of the cab, snapping Constantine out of his self-pity. He turned, frowning.
"Work out of. There's a difference. I do my work out there." He replied, gesturing toward the rest of Chicago that lay beyond the buildings, and the world that lay beyond Chicago. "Done a lot of overseas shit, too..." Back home, across the pond. No going back now.
"If you say so." Zee said, and closed the door, walking around the car to stand beside John. John closed his door, taking a step to the side and leaning down to talk to Chas through the passenger-side front window.

"This one's gonna take a while, Chas, and I'll be moving further than your crappy old wheels could take me."
"Bite me, John. My crappy old wheels have taken you three times around the world, all the running around after you I do."
"You wouldn't have it any other way, chum." John said, smiling a crooked, self-aware smile. He tapped his fag out and took a final drag before throwing it onto the road. "But I'm serious. Probably take planes on this one. Call in some favours."
"You got people left for favours?"
"I got a couple."
"Whatever suits you then, John. Least I'll get paying customers."

John grinned and stood up, banging twice on the roof of Chas' cab before he drove away, tires squealing. "I swear, even if I don't get him killed, his driving will." John muttered. Zee half-nodded, not really caring, but listening nonetheless. They turned and walked toward the building.

One short elevator ride later, they were stood outside John's office. John unlocked the door with a key he pulled from some depth of his coat, and stepped inside. Zee tried to step in after him, but John quickly put up a hand square to his chest, stopping him in his tracks just outside of the threshold.
"I wouldn't, if I were you." John said calmly, motioning to the door-frame. Zee looked, and he could see it now; runes, carvings, sigils. All wards, a line of defense. Marks like those would strip his glamour bare - and then some. "Probably best to just wait here. Won't be one second." Zee glared, but acquiesced. He couldn't follow even if he wanted to.

Inside the office, John went immediately to his desk, flicking through a small diary that lay on the side of the wooden surface. Numbers were what he was looking for, addresses, contacts. How many friends did he have left? How many enemies? The latter were far easier to make. He wasn't good at keeping the former.
"Etrigan...Fate...Strange...Ah! Z!"
"Yeah?" Came the half-breed voice from beyond the door.
"Not you, the letter. An old..." John hesitated on 'friend'. They'd been more, once. A long time ago... "...acquaintance. A colleague of sorts."
"Useful, then?" Zee asked, his call growing quieter with each syllable as Constantine came hurrying out of the office, holding a scrap of paper in one hand as he locked the room with the other, the key disappearing again.
"We'll see. She was involved in the relevant..." again, John paused on the word. He didn't know how much he wanted to impart on Zee. The half-breed was still uneasy to him. "...incident. She'll be as much help as anyone else. Phone, please." Constantine held his hand out, and Zee dutifully pushed a cell into it. John dialed, and held it up to his ear, walking toward the stairs as it rang. It picked up as they descended.

"Zatanna!" John said, his voice bumpy as he trod down steps. "Oh come off it, you know who it is...yeah. Yeah! No, I'm not dead...yeah, that is a shame. Been there though! Yeah. Uh-huh. Probably should have stayed, you're right. Look, I'm - yeah. Yeah I know I always am, but it fi- yes. Yes. No! No, that wasn't me. Yeah. Uh-huh. I know. Demons are good at lookalikes you know, love. No. Yes, he was bits of me. Yeah. Bad bits! Uh-huh. That was years ago! Three. Yes, three! You're right, I should have waited longer. She was my sister! My sister. Zatanna, come on. Yes. It's okay. Yeah. Look they were only technically - yeah. Yes, a lot of people. That kind of happens when demons get involved. Yes. Or me, you're right. Okay. Look if you could ju-"

"Any success?" Zee asked. Constantine's turn to glare.
"She hung up."
"Ah."
"S'alright though. She forgets how sharp I am."
"How so?"
"Magic, Zee. You know someone's name, you can know pretty much anything about them. Keep her talking, weave some bullshit, and you figure out she's in Gotham."
"Awful."
"Definitely. But useful. C'mon. Next plane's in three hours, and I need a new pack of fags."

Pulling one hand from the warmth of a pocket, long standing detective Darryl Frye squats down to grab the dead girls chin, pushing the head slowly to the left side until the wounds that were once hidden becomes visible as two small, ovate holes in the right temple ooze red and white. “Ain’t she pretty?” A young officer, clad in a black leather jacket and converse shoes watched as the February sun set onto the still warm body and blood leaked into the pale grass. “Two puncture wounds to the head, no other signs of trauma or struggle. This definitely wasn’t some random act of violence, this, Harrper was an execution. You know, if Corrigan was still here, he’d have this solved in five minutes” It was painfully obvious to anyone watching that the younger detective, Harper, was sick of hearing about this Corrigan fellow. As the two officers chatted casually over the body, the piercing blue eyes of Alec Holland narrowed. He stood in the gathered crowd, listening and watching. He certainly wasn’t in the swamp anymore. He gazed at the body; a sparkle of gold, a trail of pollen. They couldn’t see it but he could.

Leaving the crowd, Alec subtly followed the pollen trail. It was unusual for such high traces be in the air at this time of year but here it was, like breadcrumbs. Holland would find the girls killer and when he did, he would be the judge, the jury and the executioner; this was the right given to him by the parliament of trees. They had chosen him. Not that it was what he wanted but you can’t fight fate. Alec had been in Gotham for just over three weeks. He doesn’t plan on staying much longer. He just needed to stay until he had enough cash to move on; being dead for twenty years doesn’t help a man’s financial situation.

A heartbeat. That’s all he needed. Alec had spent months honing his newfound talents. He had learned to read a heartbeat, even identify its owner from the rhythm of the beats. Walking the downtrodden neon streets of the Bowery, he could hear everyone. Those that were lost, those that did not want to be found, those preparing to, those that were and those that had committed terrible, unforgiving acts. The vapour trail lead Holland to a familiar place, one he had come to know over his time in the dark city….Of course, it all made sense now.

When he had first arrived in Gotham, Alec had managed to very swiftly gain some employment at a store in the Bowery. At first it was just watering plants but the owner Raf; he didn’t seem much like the gardening type. Sure enough, he soon revealed why he had really hired Alec; to take care of some rivals. Since resurrecting from the dead, Holland’s view point of right and wrong had become very skewed. Now in his mind, if the Green deemed a man evil enough, the Swamp Thing would take care of it. Dispatching the Kush’s was not an issue. Now there was a new target on the Green’s list and Alec knew what he had to do, what the parliament was asking him to do, the question was, did he have the balls to do it?

Before leaving Gotham, Alec had one last bit of business to take care of at Raf’s flower shop. The place was all but empty except for one other man; an Middle eastern male sitting in the centre of the room. Alec took a seat opposite him and the two men sat in silence for at least a minute. “Is it done?” The man asked placing a roll of cash on the table. Alec’s electric eyes never moved from the flower man’s face. “I told you I’d do it didn’t I?” The gypsy responded in kind. “I always keep my word, Raf. The Kush brothers will not be bothering you again” The man now identified as Raf broke his stoney faced façade to breathe a great sigh if relief. “And me? You said you would not let me come to harm at his or his thugs hands” Alec placed his hand on top of Raf’s and gave him a subtle smile. “I did” Raf removed his hand, allowing the gypsy boy to pick up the money that had been beneath it. Alec stood up and placed the dollars in his pocket. “I gave you my word that you would come under no harm by their hand. I said nothing, about harm under my own” Raf began to feel a burning sensation in his hand, his throat tightening. “I normally don’t particularly care for what my employers do, but you Raf, spend your days turning young children into your personal sex slaves and then discarding them like they were trash. That is one thing, I cannot let lie” Every word Alec spoke was deliberate, calm and with class. “The poison that I just introduced into your system acts fast, so you’ll die quick. Your lungs will close, your blood will boil and eventually your brain will shut down. You have maybe a minute, probably less. Your heartbeat betrays you. The Parliament of trees has judged you and I have just executed you”

The pounding on glass continued, intensified, like the tempo of tribal drums, matching Arthur's heartbeat. He could feel it reverberating deep inside him, waking something primal, something ancient, something. . . .powerful. His gaze wandered over the weapons hung carefully in the cabinet as the blood pumped furious in his veins. His whole body felt like it was building itself up for something, the promise of violence making his flesh tingle. The barbarian who'd just spied his next victim. The bomb that's countdown had just started ticking away the seconds. The beating inside kept getting louder, blocking out everything else, louder and louder, making it harder to think straight, louder and louder and louder, pressing up against everything inside him, louder and louder and louder and louder, until there wasn't any other option, louder and louder and LOUDER and LOUDER. He made his choice, sweaty palms grasping at his chosen weapon. A key clicked into place. The beating stopped suddenly, almost painfully. He could think again, but to do so he'd made a promise.

And a promise had to be kept.

"What to do, what to do?" Vulko's voice was small, especially for a man so used to being loud. He was out of his element here, not used to dealing with the true dangers of the ocean. He couldn't stop watching the Trench watching him as they screamed and railed outside the glass, his eyes transfixed by their sharp teeth and pitiless black eyes. "What do we do?"

"You know me Vulko. What d' you think I'm gonna do?" Arthur answered, though he was willing to bet Vulko wasn't really looking for an answer. More like he was just trying to deal with the terror. Still the words, calmly spoken, seemed to yank Vulko from the edge of fear induced dumbfoundedness. The old Scholar turned slowly to face his Prince, understanding dawning slowly upon.

"You don't mean to go out there and fight those things?"

"Don't see that I have a choice."

"What, armed only with that?" demanded Mera, pointing at the weapon in Arthurs hand. Three handspans of roughly worked golden metal, gently curved and ending in a vicious hook. It was attached to a length of chain that clicked onto Arthur's vambrace. Ancient Atlantean runes adorned the blade, a language the Prince still hadn't gotten around to learning, though in happier times Vulko assured him the words on the blade were of little interest. It was a gift from his mother, given to him on the day he became Champion. It had seen a lot work in Arthur's hands. It was about to see more.

"You pick the tool for the job Princess." He replied, remembering his earlier misgivings about being sent on this mission. Seems the Poseidonis council had sent the right man for the job after all, even if it was for reasons they couldn't possibly have foreseen. Just his luck. He approached the cockpit doors.

"In that case, I shall go with you." Said the Princess, marching after him. After a seconds hesitation Vulko followed.

"And I." He ventured, though didn't look very happy about it. Arthur paused.

"No, stay in the ship."He ordered. Mera argued, Vulko not so much. About as much as he expected. "My job is to protect you Princess, and I can't do that if you're out there. Stay here, be safe. I'll deal with this."

"But there's too many of them out there, even for you, Golden One." There was a way she said it, a twist of the syllables, that left him in no doubt that she had not a jot of respect for the title.

"She makes a good point Orin. In fact, why go out at all? The ship seems to be holding. Could we not simply return to Poseidonis? Even with those monsters beating at the glass all the way, surely the sturdy construction of the craft would confound their best efforts?"

If only that was an option, but Arthur had already made the promise, and a promise has to be kept. On top of that there was other reasons that just wouldn't work.

"Don't underestimate them Vulko, they're stronger than they look." Almost as if to punctuate his point the window the Trench were hurling themselves at gave out a tiny crack, the smallest hints of a fissure appearing in the glass. Small, yes. But apt to get bigger. "Besides, you know as well as I do that once the Trench find prey, they never stop hunting it. Not unless they find easier prey. Think of all the defenseless settlements we'd pass on our way back to the city. We'd lead the Trench right to them. No, better I settle this now. Just stay here and stay safe. I'll be back soon." With that he left, closing the door behind him before they could offer anymore arguments.

Like he'd take a Sholar and a Princess out to fight Trench, regardless of how brave they were. Dangerous enough, facing those bloodthirsty monsters, without him also having to worry about to wet behind the ear, rookie combatants. Vulko was a powerful mage, sure, but his talents weren't combat orientated, and besides, he just wasn't cut out for a scrap like this. And Mera? Passionate, sharp and strong she might be, but she just wasn't trained for something like this. Way he heard it, she'd never even left Xebel before, never been outside the comfortable lap of luxury her father afforded for her. No, he'd be lucky if he got out of this in one piece as things stood without tying those two lead weights around his ankles.

He walked to the back of the craft, towards the bay doors designed for a swift egress into the surrounding waters. Fist gripped tight around the hilt of his hook-chain, he took several deep breaths, quick and sharp, in preparation for submerging himself in the chill water. Or maybe it was to work up his nerve for what was to come next. Who knew?

Arthur certainly didn't.

The steady rain on the roof tops of Blüdhaven did little to still the ever present stench of the city. Not that it mattered indoors where Detective Amy Rohrbach was currently standing. Twenty four hours ago, city council woman Stephanie Hill had been abducted from her home in Avalon Heights. An hour ago, the detective had received a call from the Municipal Sewage Treatment Plant, something about a mutilated body. Entering the crime scene, the young detective lifted the yellow tape above her head as the first responder guided her in.

"What are we looking at?" Rohrbach asked as she was guided towards the worker's washroom.

"Not a mutilated body, and not the usual M.O.'s we get down." The officer answered. "This looks like it came straight out of Gotham."

"Wonder if Gordon would lend us his oversized flashlight then." Rohrbach snarked flatly.

"Certainly would be nice if the Bat could handle this one." The Officer said as he opened a stall. The walls were covered in red writing, repetition of the word 'HA' could clearly be seen as a smiley face was painted behind the toilet.

"What... is that?" The Detective asked pointing to a device that kept swinging back and forth, hanging from it was a bloody foot that was smashed against the porcelain throne with each swing.

"Like I said Detective," The officer sighed, "Straight out of Gotham."

"Bag the foot and get it to forensics for testing. We're going to need photos, I want to find out every detail we can about this. I have a feeling whomever did this, we haven't seen the last of them."

"Do you think this has anything to do with the missing council woman Detective?" The responding officer asked as he followed Rohrbach towards the exit.

"I hope not." Amy muttered quietly as the officer looked towards her inquisitively. "That a message officer, the foot was kicking the can." The young officer's face fell as Amy pulled out a pad of paper. "New to Blüdhaven officer?"

"Yes Ma'am." He responded.

"Don't worry, it'll take the optimism out of you soon. Nothing ever goes our way in the 'Haven." Rohrbach retorted coldly. "Now could you please point me in the direction of the individual who discovered the crime scene."

---

There was something about the sensation of falling, of gravity pulling your body towards the Earth with every intent to punish it for ever believing that you could escape that thrilled every fiber in Dick Grayson's body. The new suit Alfred had provided was everything he could have dreamed of. How Alfred hid it from Bruce was another matter, if Bruce even cared that was. No doubt Lucius simply hid it in the batarang budget. The suit Cheyenne had made him had been functional, but this suit, this was made by Lucius Fox. It was practical, functional and almost as fashionable as Cheyenne's designs. Landing without a sound, Nightwing peered down over the edge of the warehouse as he watched the scene below unfold.

Three weeks ago, Nightwing had discovered that Tony 'Boss' Zucco was running arms in Blüdhaven using the Narrows. Getting himself a copy of the schedule, he had discovered the next shipping would be the one he was observing currently. However much to his disappointment it seemed Zucco himself would not be showing. Either way, the last thing Blüdhaven needed was more guns on its streets, Nightwing throught to himself as he sprung into action.

"Welcome to the gun show!" He cried as he dropped to the ground, wingdings flying from his hands striking the armed thugs standing guard.

"You guys wouldn't happen to know which way to the beach?" Like a sentient body of water, Nightwing's movements were fluid as he flowed from one target to another until none of the men were left standing.

"Barely broke a sweat." Twirling his escrima sticks, Nightwing sheathed them quickly as he approached the wooden crate. A crowbar had fallen from the hands of one of Zucco's men during the struggle, which Nightwing used to quickly pop the top off the arms crate.

"Toys..." He muttered, taken back slightly in surprise. "Then where are the guns."

"Heh." Came the forced voice of one of the thugs. "Zucco knew you were on to him hero." Nightwing snapped his attention to man as he placed a hand around the man's neck and lifted him from the ground.

"Where are they?" He growled as the hair on the back of the man's neck went up before the man started to chuckle upon realizing it wasn't the Dark Knight before him.

"What are you? Batman-Lite?" The thug said as he spat in Nightwing's face.

"And to think we could have done this the easy way." Nightwing muttered as he snapped an escrima stick across the man's forehead. Pulling a line launcher out, Nightwing threw the man over his shoulder as he scaled to the top of a nearby crane. Anchoring the line, Nightwing firmly tied it around the man as he gave him a few small slaps on the cheek.

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bac-y!" Nightwing muttered with a smile as the thug opened his eyes slightly disorientated.

"Huh..wha?" The thug barely had time to register what was going on before Nightwing landed a kick to the man's chest sending him towards the ground. Grabbing a hold of the line, Nightwing pulled it taunt as the man screamed.

"Where are the guns?" Nightwing roared.

"Let me go!" The thug yelled. "Let me go, and I'll tell you everything."

"Poor choice of words." Nightwing smirked as he released more of the line.

"No! Stop!" The man yelled. "He used the commercial docks!"

"How was he able to get guns in through the commercial docks." Nightwing roared.

"He has friends! Friends on city council." The thug yelled back, practically sobbing at this point as the rain continued to poor.

"Keep talking, I don't know how much longer I can hold this." Nightwing replied again loosening some more of the line.

"I don't know who! I swear that's all I know!" The thug said sobbing as Nightwing sighed and released the rest of the line, bringing it to a halt just a few feet above the ground. Jumping from the crane, he slid down the line and hopped to the ground, standing beside the upside down man.

"If I find out you lied, I'm coming from you again." Nightwing threatened as he tossed the man's wallet back to him. "I hope one of your friends is around to cut you down."

Today was the day that Michael Carter’s life was going to be changed forever. He sat in the seat of the Time Sphere, his hands wrapped tightly around the seat at its centre, and stared down at his feet. Beside him was his benefactor Rip Hunter who was running some last minute security checks on both Michael’s power suit and the Time Sphere. It wasn’t exactly in great condition and that fact hadn’t gone unnoticed even by Michael’s untrained eye. Rip had explained it only had enough juice to make one journey and that meant once he was in the twenty-first century there was no way of getting back. Understandably Michael was a little anxious about that.

“What if something goes wrong?”

Rip sighed.

“Nothing is going to go wrong.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ve done this a thousand times before, Michael.”

Rip’s voice was smoky and authoritative and the look he gave Carter was doubly so and yet Carter’s nerves were no closer to being assuaged. Maybe it was something to do with the copious number of science-fiction films that Carter had watched over the years but he couldn’t help but feel like something was going to go wrong. Something always went wrong when time travel was involved. Anyone that had ever seen a Back to the Future film knew that much.

“But what if I get stranded in the Jurassic Period and have to spend the rest of my life running away from dinosaurs? Or I materialise in the exact same place as a cinder block and I’m liquidated before I even get a chance to smell that sweet, sweet twenty-first century air? Or worse, what happens if I get stuck in the 1990’s and I have to pretend I like grunge music? What then, Rip? Have you thought about these things?”

An impatient Rip Hunter looked up from Booster’s power suit.

“Could you stop talking for once?”

The pair sat in silence for a time as Rip made the last few alterations that were needed before walking off into his Time Lab leaving only Carter and Skeets behind.

“Easy for him to say,” Booster muttered under his breath. “It’s not him that's going to be strapped into this damn thing.”

“There really isn’t any reason to worry, sir, Master Hunter is the foremost expert in chronospace transportation. You’re in safe hands.”

Booster shot the robot a churlish look.

“Why don’t you marry him if you like him so much?”

“Alas, sir, even in the twenty-fifth century robosexual marriage has yet to be legalised. Were it possible though I might give it some consideration.”

“Very funny.”

Before the robot had a chance to respond to Carter’s comment Rip Hunter came striding back into their portion of the Time Lab and hurriedly pressed a few buttons on the platform overlooking the Time Sphere. On a large screen in front of them appeared what appeared to be a heavily-armed militia of some sort making their way towards their Time Lab with menace.

“Skeets, we have company.”

“Locking down the Time Lab, sir.”

A confused look appeared upon the face of Michael Carter.

“Company? What? I don’t understand.”

“What we’re doing here isn’t exactly legal, Michael, there are some people that don’t take too kindly to time travel. You’re going to have to leave sooner than we planned.”

“How much sooner are we talking?”

“Like right now sooner.”

For the first time since Michael had met Rip he allowed himself a moment of seriousness as his thoughts drifted to what little family he had in the twenty-fifth century. His mother and his sister Michelle meant the world to him, it was for them that he had taken those bungs in high school, and for them he had taken crappy acting job after crappy acting job to make ends meet. They had grown up poor and he’d promised himself they wouldn’t have to live their entire lives like that. What would they do without him? How would they get by? Michael shook his head as he pictured their faces before him.

“But what about my sister? My mom? I haven’t even had a chance to say goodbye to either of them.”

The Time Lab began to shake from the as explosion after explosion from the militia outside began to rain down upon it. On the screen in front of them more militia began to appear with every passing second and it seemed like there was to be no stop in the hostilities.

“Sir, I’m not sure how long the Time Lab’s security can hold them.”

Rip stared Michael in the eye intently as he ran his fingers lightly over the buttons on the platform before him.

“It’s now or never, Michael, either I hit this button and you can become a hero, the hero you were always meant to be, or you can stay here and spend the rest of your life sweeping up after people at the Space Museum.”

“Thirty seconds, sir.”

Michael nodded.

“Do it.”

The explosions continued and a particularly violent one hit that shook the Time Lab so badly that Rip Hunter was nearly knocked from his feet. He clutched onto the platform and returned Michael’s nod as he began to adjust the figures on it. “April 8th, 2010” the figure read to begin with but once Rip was done the date stood at “April 25th, 2015” and he hit another button that seemed to lock the date in.

“Twenty seconds, sir, they’re almost in.”

The door to the Time Sphere began to hiss as Michael buckled himself into the seat and Skeets floated inside just as the door shut. The explosions were coming thicker and faster than before now and it seemed like the militia would overrun Rip’s lab in any second. As Carter stared at Hunter a pang of gratitude washed over him as he realised what exactly the man stood before him was doing for him.

“I know I've never thanked you for this but I really ought to,” Booster muttered. “I know I’m not the easiest person to be around sometimes, I know I’m hard work, but you’ve given me a second chance in life, maybe even a third chance, when nobody else would. So thank you, Rip, thank you for everything.”

The Time Sphere began to glow with a white energy and the Time Lab began to spin around Carter and Skeets as they sat unmoving within it.

“Five seconds.”

Less than a second after Skeets had spoken there was a flash of orange light and a loud bang that made it impossible for Skeets and Michael to see what was happening outside the Sphere. The white light of the Sphere overtook them and they were plunged headfirst into the time stream, unaware of Rip’s fate, hurtling head first towards whatever awaited them in the twenty-first century.

“Deactivate Simulation: Enemy at the Gates.”

At the Time Lab the explosions and the banging had had stopped. The militia that had come pouring into the Time Lab had proven to be little more than simulations of Rip Hunter’s own design. Even the damage his lab had taken during the faux-attack had been falsified. Hunter stood alone at the platform, his shame worn clearly on his face, as he eyed the date he had sent Booster to. When Hunter had sought him out he had promised Booster he would make him the greatest hero of all time, that he would be considered greater even than Superman, and that time itself would owe him a greater debt than anyone else. They hadn’t been lies. Allowing Booster to believe he’d be a founding member of the Justice League? Those had. He was going to arrive five years later than he thought. Faking the attack was the only was to ensure that he wouldn’t realise beforehand and call a halt to the entire thing. Rip sighed as he weighed up the morality of what he’d done, the lies he’d told, but within seconds shook his head determinedly.

The universe needed Booster Gold, even if it meant lying to him.

Barbara shoved her hair out of her face distractedly. Her small ponytail holder was failing to do its job. The worn elastic giving way under the bulk of red. Yet the diligent researcher paid it no mind. She only cared for the facts written down in front of her. Two days ago a patrol cop had found a dead body. The coroner had received it soon after and per standard procedure, done an autopsy. Everything was normal. Toxicology report, blood work, etc. The only reason why she was looking over the case was the left foot was missing. Sawed off at the ankle.

As static crackled in her ear she looked up from the paperwork and to the computer. All read outs looked good. Each of the three Bat boys featured on one screen, Batman included. Babs' eyes may have lingered on Dick's name, but only for a small second. Anyways, his read out was just like the others, good. Even the Drake kid.

Barbara leaned back and groaned as her spine creaked. A dull ache was working its way up to her shoulders. She eyed her pain killers for an even longer moment before she went back to the case. The facts were slim; practically non existent. If she was still Batgirl she would have visited the crime scene herself to gather clues, but she couldn't. Not in the wheel chair. She'd attract far too much attention. So she was stuck in her apartment with only the slender case file to work with.

Not that she really cared about the missing foot. No, she just needed a distraction. Ever since she had found herself cooped up in this wheelchair her mind had been exhausting. It never wanted to down shift. It was always going. Barbara had found the best way to keep herself sane was to keep her mind occupied. Plus it also kept her from dwelling on The Event she never wanted to think of again. Therefore the distraction was keeping her occupied as she listened to the com-link on the off hand chance someone would need her before she knew they needed her. Those emergency situations didn't happen often, but she would never leave them high and dry.

The other task she was performing tonight was keeping and eye on Lex's servers. Luther was paranoid enough that she hadn't hacked his private servers. But she had noticed a small amount of chatter about them. And some suspicious activity. From New York. She probably wouldn't have noticed, if she hadn't been looking. Whatever it was, it was a good enough reason to keep an eye pealed. Lex might proclaim he was reformed, but Babs was still suspicious. The Injustice League wasn't the type of organization to just let a member go like that. Lex was playing some angle, and she only had a few of the pieces. Plus, whomever was messing with Luthor was good. There was something else there, but they just stayed out of sight.

Babs watched both tasks for a long while before going back to her foot case. Though instead of going back to the paper files she dug into Mr. Carrillo, the man who found the body. The man was in his late sixties. His last job was four years ago. All records said he was homeless. He regularly visited a soup kitchen on 15th. He had a daughter, Mary, who worked for Barnum and Smith as an accountant. Her daughter was going to school in California. He had no criminal record, even after being fired. All reports said he was a nice guy.

In Gotham, there was no such thing. Everyone had secrets. Even the best people she knew. Herself included. She tucked herself further into her chair and continued to dig. After a hour, maybe two, Babs sat back again and looked at her work. There was no sign Mr. Carrillo was involved in anything. Nor were there any signs of Mary being involved, even by proxy in anything. She covered her mouth as she yawned. Once done she tapped on her key board and few times and the case was flagged and set aside. She'd work on it later, when she wasn't so tired.

Barbara looked over her two tasks again. The Bat boys were all still reading fine. Again, her eyes lingered on Dick's name. Ever since he became Nightwing he had been different. Both in good and bad ways. In the bad, he was darker, more like Bruce. She had heard of a falling out, neither of them were too keen on talking about it. Still, he had kept in close contact with her. Something of a lifeline, for both of them. With another three keystrokes her screen turned off and the alerts set. If anything changed, she'd know within milliseconds.

As for Luthor. Babs eyed the new readout. Whomever was snooping was being cautious still. She tried to picture the person on the other end of the computer and failed. She pointed her finger at the screen.

"I hope you know what you're doing." She spoke aloud. The sound of her own voice startled her. It was horse and weary sounding. She rubbed her hands over her face. She needed sleep. After keying in the proper codes the last screen went dark.

Instead of wheeling herself into the bedroom, Barbara instead went into the kitchen and started up the coffee machine. It was almost six anyways. Might as well get a start on the day.

Pulling his goggles over his eyes, Ted focused on the controls in front of his, switching off the Bug’s autopilot. Moving at a remarkable rate, the ship soured through the Chicago skyline, narrowly avoiding the multiple high-rises and skyscrapers. Many pedestrians looked to the sky and gazed in awe, while others simply shook their heads in annoyance at the sight of the city’s resident superhero. For many, the Blue Beetle wasn’t exactly a popular household name. Many believed that he, like many of the world’s many heroes, was simply butting his nose in where he wasn’t needed. Ted however didn’t really care. He was having fun!

“Yo Tracy, you reading me?” Ted asked, speaking loudly into his comm-link.

A heavy sign echoed through his headset. “Ted, we go through this every single time.”

“So that’s a yes then?”

No response.

Smiling to himself, Ted continued. “Any details on the situation?”

“The place is called Brownstone View according to the city records. The official call to the fire station was made around eighteen minutes ago. The fire department got there around seven minutes later.”

Ted had to note that despite how utterly uninterested Tracy may act, she really was useful. His mind ran through the information as he made his decent upon the burning building, circling downwards with the Bug. Activating the cameras on the Bug’s hull, Ted watched the work of the fire department down on the ground. Two fire engines were parked down on the street below, each one accompanied by a couple of firefighters manning the hoses. At the sight of one of the firefighters herding out a group of coughing citizens, Ted came to the conclusion that the evacuation was most likely complete. Although he had to be sure.

“Tracy, you mind activating the Bug’s scanners?” Ted asked, steadying his ship above the burning apartment building. “We better see if anyone is inside!”

After the quick sound of Tracy’s confirmation, a short hum was emitted through the Bug’s cabin, with a small 3D model of the building appearing on the monitor in front of him. Two red blips could be seen at various points within the building. Rising from his seat, Ted rushed to the rear of the ship.

“Looks like there are still two inside, Ted.” Tracy explained. “One on the top floor, the other on the third. Move quickly.”

Ignoring the fact that Tracy's last comment rang with a significant hint of worry, Ted moved forward, pulling a small lever on the cabin's wall as he did so. At once a small hatch on the floor hissed open, filling the ship with the roaring sounds of flames and screaming from the street below. Pulling a small breathing mask over the lower part of his face, The Blue Beetle grabbed hold of the small handle dangling from the cabin's ceiling and dived down into the destruction below, the wire attached to the handle entended tremendously as he did so. Swinging downwards, the hero stretched his legs foward, aiming towards what appeared to be a small hole where part of the ceiling had formally been located. He landed swiftly in the flame filled room, using his arms briefly to push his way through the flames. Fortunately his suit was fireproof!

Determined to not find himself crashing through a weakspot in the floor, The Blue Beetle moved forward steadily, his eyes catching what appeared to be a firefighter in the smoke ahead of him.

"Hey!" Ted called out, his voice slightly muffled from behind the breathing utensil he was wearing. "I'm here to help."

Ahead of him, the person turned. He was certainly not a firefighter, that was for sure, however the man wore the tattered remains of a Chicago Fire Department uniform over what appeared to be a giant set of armour. A large helmet covered the man's face, concealing the man's identity. Ted didn't need to see his expression however to know that he was pissed. Barging forward, the man swung out his arm and socked the blue clad hero straight in the face. The Blue Beetle dropped to the ground in pain, the breathing mask falling off his face as he did so.

"I thought that you would show up eventually, puny beetle!" The man shouted, his voice booming over the sound of the appartment building collapsing around them. "But no matter, as you are no match for the might Firefist!"

Coughing slightly, Ted managed a weak grin. "You're certainly dramatic!"

The Gotham City Dining Car
10:22 PM

The headwaiter brought him in through the back. Jim walked through the kitchen. Puerto Ricans chattered in their native tongue while music blasted out a boombox above the stove. A steak sizzled in a pan of oil. Fire flared by Jim's shoulder. He flinched. The Puerto Ricans laughed and said something to him he couldn't understand. The waiter shot them a look and reeled off a stream of words in Spanish. He apologized to Jim and pushed through the kitchen door into the rear dining area.

The restaurant was made up to look like the old dining cars trains had. Big booths, small tables, cheap steak and watered down hooch all for the low low price of forty bucks a plate. David Kane sat in a booth in the rear, his head down and in his plate. Jim was led to the booth. Kane looked up at him. He gnoshed a rare porterhouse with a baked potato and asparagus. A buck fifty soaking wet and he could put away amounts of food that would make a fat man blush. Off to the side sat a tumbler of scotch.

"Commissioner," Kane said with a mouth full of food.

"Councilman."

The waiter left quickly. Jim sat and watched Kane continue eating. Jim's eyes darted towards the scotch. He felt his mouth get wet. He licked his lips. Kane wiped his mouth and finally took a break from the food.

"Thank you for meeting me here today, Jim. We don't get a chance to interact outside the usual meetings. Do you want something to eat? Something to drink?"

"I'll pass."

Kane nodded. Dug back into his baked potato. Food crumbs flaked his Armani suit. The white shirt collar stained with steak sauce. Jim did the math. The suit would cost him a month's salary.

"You made your bones as a detective, yes?" Kane stared at him, a piece of steak speared onto his fork. "Can you tell me why I wanted to meet you here today?"

Jim adjusted his tie. He looked everywhere but at Kane. The food, the slop, his beady eyes. He didn't want to meet his gaze. He was afraid of what he might say or do at the sight.

"You want to make a run at mayor this year. Before doing anything official, you want to put out feelers and see where the winds blowing."

"Come come, Jim, you can do better than that. I read your jacket, you know. You took some law classes. Dissect my motives."

Jim sighed and adjusted his glasses. Kane put his fork down and leaned forward, tie dangling over the plate of food.

"You need my help if you want to take a serious run at it. You're an experience councilman, but you come from the 2nd District. You represent upper middle-class people in a city where eighty percent of its residents straddle the poverty line. Mayor Krohl has that vote sewed up by being from a working-class East Side family. Furthermore, you're a WASP and rich, two things most people in Gotham are not. Krohl is Armenian and has had to fight for everything he's ever had. You might make a good mayor, but you are not a good candidate."

"Don't lead me on, Jim." Kane smiled. Jim saw a splotch on his cheek. Steak sauce or blood, he wasn't sure. "Finish your thoughts without my interruptions."

"Your biggest advantage comes from your work on the public safety board. You're chairman and have more day to day responsibility for the police and fire departments than Mayor Krohl. You want to run as a law and order candidate who has done everything necessary to turn the GCPD around in the name of the people... or something like that."

Kane unknotted his tie and stretched.

"Or something like that. In order to be the law and order candidate, I'll need cooperation with the police force to adequately portray myself as a friend of public safety. That's where you come in. The GCPD is a very powerful political organization is could be used just right. Pounding pavement and getting interested parties to vote."

Jim saw through the double talk. Pounding pavement = shakedowns. Interested parties to vote = stuffing ballot boxes.

"I don't play politics. Neither does my police force. We are non-partisan and we will stay that way."

Kane took a long sip of the scotch. Jim licked his lips. The Thirst called to him. He could hear it singing from the glass.

"Everybody plays politics. Everything is politics, and politics is everything. You're serving out the last two years of Commissioner Loeb's original term, right?"

"Hard for Loeb to serve as police commissioner when he's doing five to ten upstate."

"The next mayor decides who the next police commissioner will be, Jim, remember that."

Jim stared across the table at Kane. The suit and money and fancy dinners were all window dressing. It obfuscated the true image of David Kane. It made him look like a man of means. He was a man of one mean only. Fear. He was a Gotham politician, and they used fear the way the stick-up boys on the corner used their guns. Two sets of criminals divided by simple perception.

"But the election is a long way off. If I do announce, it won't be until the spring or summer. Plenty of time to mull over my offer of support. Just think if over."

Jim stood and left without saying anything.



Eastern Gotham
12:15 AM

"Well... shit."

Crispus Allen failed to get his lighter to start outside the rowhouse. His partner, Renee Montoya, worked the crime scene inside of the house. Uniforms from the Eastern District kept the crowds back. Words was Inspector Essen was inbound. The call: Multiple 187s at the address. Three DBs all gunned down execution-style, their hands and legs bound with duct tape. A normal murder would rate simple homicide. Something like this drug in the MCU. Per Gordon's mandate, they got priority over potential gangland killings, even above Flass' own mob squad.

Allen gave up on the smoke and went back in. Tech cameras flashed through the room. A two man crew covered every inch of the living room taking shots. Three adult bodies covered in black tarps lay on the floor. One positive ID: Lil Walter Perkins, eastside dealer known to traffic huge amounts of horse and dope. A single black female killed was probably Perkins' woman, the man some kind of friend. Allen lifted the tarp and looked at Perkins' body. Contusion around the chest and head, at least what was left of the head, and broken fingers on both hands.

"Renee?"

Montoya appeared from another room, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah?"

"You do a once over on Perkins' body?"

"Yeah. I caught the bruises and bones. Think it's torture?"

"If I were a betting man."

Allen stood and started to walk the room. Nothing missing from the pad. Sixty inch TV on the wall still intact, same with electronics. Somebody wanted Perkins' stash. He put on latex gloves and carefully tossed the living room behind the CS techs. Nothing around the couches or chairs. All the walls were solid. Allen pulled up short on the mantle. Wood grain inconsistency. Lines stood out. He ran his fingers around it and found a catch. The lower half of the mantle swung open. A hidden compartment. Allen looked in and saw... bupkis. Narco had Perkins pushing a hundred K in drugs a month and... nothing in his stash spot?

"Renee! I think I may have found out why they were killed."

Star City
The Quiver
1:28 AM

Q-Core was the perfect front. A division of Queen Industries, it had, over the years, developed many innovative gadgets under Oliver’s leadership, seeing considerable success with products such as the Q-Phone and Q-Pad. With a revenue of thirty-eight billion dollars, the subsidiary had been subject to a slow rise as a Fortune 500 company, coming to rival companies such as Apple, WayneTech and even LexCorp. It also provided Oliver with a near flawless cover: as head of the company, no-one would think twice on the amount of nights he spent working overtime, or of the amount of money that got spent on his… private affairs. Most of all, no-one would think of searching below the Q-Core building, where, through two reinforced steel doors locked by retina scans, they would find the headquarters of Oliver’s superhero persona. Green Arrow’s home; the Quiver.

Oliver entered the base, his hood down and a content smile on his face. The night had been a rough one, but he’d gotten through it, and so had his son. Being so close to Connor had been a new experience. Whenever he had visited the boy before, it had been in the shadows; from his car, on the street, on the rooftops. He often questioned the morality of these actions. Didn’t they make him a stalker? Why didn’t he just knock on the boy’s mother’s door? Why couldn’t he just be a normal father? The rational part of his mind always answered first. Because you’d put him in danger, it would say, You have too many enemies, enemies that would use him to get to you. The best father you can be is an absent one. And so, things wouldn’t change. Oliver kept watching from afar, looking on as what could have been the best part of his life grew up without him. But tonight had been different. Tonight he had rescued Connor from the Russians, he had held his son in his arms, and he had said his first words to him. And though there were many lies in his life, what he had said to Connor as he carried him to his motorcycle was not one of them. Oliver was his guardian angel. And he was happy with that.

“How’d it go?” asked Felicity Smoak, typing away on her computer, her face illuminated by the bright glow of the screen. Oliver wouldn’t deny it, the blond IT girl was a knockout. With blue eyes, fair skin, thin lips and a slim body, he often caught himself staring at her, an act he couldn’t blame himself for, but felt guilty about anyway. She turned to face him, frowning upon seeing his smile. “Why are you doing that? It looks weird. Stop it.”

“Ha-ha. You’re funny,” replied Oliver, his smile widening into a grin. “It went well. He’s safe now.”

“And who exactly was he, Oliver?” John Diggle stepped out from behind the archer, as silent as a ghost, his well muscled arms crossed and a stern look on his face. If Oliver wasn't expecting him, he might have been startled.

“You’ve been wanting to do that for a while now, haven’t you?”

Diggle broke out into a smile. “Just wanted to show you how it feels.”

Oliver chuckled. “Right.”

“But seriously, Oliver… Who was that kid? I’ve never seen you so worked up since Brick kidnapped your sister.”

“Yeah, and you never go out into the field without Digg or Roy anymore. What makes this kid so important?” added Felicity.

Oliver looked at his team, calculating. After a long silence, he spoke. ”He’s my son.” He paused to see if either of them had anything to say. When it became apparent that they didn’t, he yawned, then continued. “Anyway, I should get going. Need to catch some sleep if I’m going to stir people up with my speech tomorrow.”

Beside Felicity’s computer station rested a duffel bag, within which a suit was contained. Oliver strode over to it and extracted its contents, removing his Green Arrow apparel and changing into the suit, paying no mind to a gaping Felicity, no doubt staring at his scarred, muscle-bound body as she tried to wrap her head around what he just said.

“Catch you later,” he said, adjusting the last of the blazer’s buttons. He picked up the bag, outfit tucked safely inside, and walked out of the Quiver, leaving Diggle and Felicity the most confused they’d ever been in their five years of knowing him.

---

Star City
The Q-Core Building
10:29 AM

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you all for coming,” began Oliver, addressing the crowd before him. The entire city had come to see him speak. Men, women and children, businessmen, police officers and politicians were all present, surrounded by the press, filming every second of the conference. Browsing the audience, Oliver clenched his hands tightly on the podium behind which he stood, taking a silent, deep breath before continuing. “My name is Oliver Queen, and this world has changed. Eight years ago, I was stranded on an island in the middle of the North China Sea, with no apparent way off. For three years I stayed there, survived there. Rarely did a chance to think present itself. But, on the occasion that it did, I never, not once, imagined just how much things had changed during my time away. When I was spending my second year on the island, Superman made his debut in Metropolis, Batman began operating in Gotham, and the world was trying desperately to adapt to the phenomena we now call ‘metahumans’. I, however, was not a part of this world. I was isolated. And when I came back to this home that I love, to Star City, I was in for a massive shock. Superheroes were at large. Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash– all of them were making a difference. The Green Arrow, our own resident protector of the innocent, set up shop in this city. And when I was finally getting used to these heroes, an alien going by the name of Darkseid decided to invade us.

“But I’m not here to talk about that. No, as much as I could go on about the Justice League and their efforts to push back the Apokolips, I’m here to talk about their opposites. Or, to narrow it down a little, their opposite. As you all know, we have a presidential election coming up. By the time November 8 rolls up, we will all have made up our minds on who to vote for, and President Obama will be sitting in his chair at the White House, hoping against all hope that he’ll be able to keep his position. With the way things are going, he won’t.

“You’ve all heard of Lex Luthor. You all know who he is. The man that founded LexCorp, who made it into what it is today: a megacorporation with enough control over Metropolis to make it his own. Now, he wants to extend that control; but not to another city. To the entire country. By the looks the first few rows are giving me, they think that I have no idea what I’m talking about. They’re thinking, ‘Lex Luthor is a good man. He only wants what’s best for his country. Just look at what he’s done for his city, at what he plans on doing for us.’ And that, my friends, is why I’m here today. I’m here to talk about the public’s perception of Lex Luthor, and why it is, on the most basic level, wrong.

“Not only is he the shortest, baldest man I’ve ever seen, Luthor is a liar, plain and simple. What he’s promised in his campaign, the eradication of monetary and technological poverty… That won’t happen. Luthor has displayed a gift for deceit and treachery, and while some of you believe that statement to be a wild accusation, no-one can deny the fact that he was, and still remains, an enemy of not only Superman, but the Justice League, and the state!”

A small number of the crowd cheered in agreement. Most stayed in an attentive silence.

“Lex Luthor is a criminal, trying to take advantage of the system to clear his name. This man is not a saviour, he is not a hero, he is a villain! It was not on one, but numerous occasions that he’s attempted to kill Superman. It was not on one, but numerous occasions that he’s attempted to destroy the Justice League. He has bribed, lied and murdered his way to the position he now holds, and he won’t stop there. Voting for him goes against everything that we, the American people, believe in. He will not give us freedom. He will not give us equality. He will not give us individuality. He says that he will do everything in his power to improve our lives, that he will do everything in his power to improve the status quo. He is lying. Lex Luthor is out for himself. The sooner we learn that, the better. My name is Oliver Queen. Thank you for listening.”

---

Sandra Hawke had never been a Luthor sympathizer. Even before his supervillain days, she had found the man repulsive. Maybe it was how short he was, or how bald, or his obvious greedy ambition, she didn’t know. Maybe it was just the notion of his existence. The acknowledgement of one’s achievements is, after all, enough to make people hate. But she didn’t care about him, not really. He may be an evil man, but for every bad person, there was a good one to stop them. She had to believe that. Especially if one such good man was standing before her. Especially after what he had told their son.

She was mad. At him, for remaining selfish even after what had happened last night. At herself, for caring so much. She needed to vent. And that’s exactly what she was going to do.

She found him not too far from the podium, talking with who she could only assume was his bodyguard. Oliver had changed since the last time she’d spoken to him. For one, he’d gotten rid of that terrible hairstyle he’d claimed to rock before the island. He was bigger, muscular. The way he held himself was different. Gone was the spineless boy that had run away from fatherhood. In his place was the strong, rigid man that continued to do so anyway.

The bodyguard left him, walking into the Q-Core building. This was Sandra’s chance. After all these years of pity and self-loathing, she finally had a chance to tell Oliver just how much he meant to her. She stormed up to him, the words bursting from her mouth. “Guardian angel? That’s what you are now? Connor’s righteous protector?”

“Sandra?” He looked confused. Good. She caught him off guard.

“If that was true, Oliver, then you never would have hopped on that boat with Lance, knowing full well that I was pregnant with your baby. If that was true, then the first thing you would have done when you came back was contact me, help me raise him. But instead you chose to watch from afar and wonder what could have been.”

His brow furrowed.

“What, you really think I didn’t notice you watching over Connor? Being another shadow in his life? Oliver, are you that selfish that you don’t even stop to think what it would be like to be an active part of it? Because I think you are. You’re too busy hiding under that green hood. You say that you’re his guardian angel… But where are you now?”

She didn’t give him a chance to speak. Turning her back to him, she strode away, walking out of his life for what could have been the last time.

Washington D.C.
Kara's Apartment
7:30PM

"Kara, I have something that might interest you."

"Is it a stylist? No? Not interested, Sanc." The dress she modeled before the mirror of her third floor apartment was tight around her midsection and hips, but cut around the shoulders. The ivory samite material of the dress shined and shadowed as Kara turned this way and that, it's lining a lush silvery satin, her feet slipping into silver heels. It would have to do, even if Kara admitted to herself, deep down, that she kinda liked the way it all looked on her. Kinda, anyway. Her breats still felt shoved against her chest and pushed up to her chin. It wasn't quite that bad, but there were still parts of human fashion that she was struggling to cope with.

"Looking good, Kara. Shall I call the car?"

Kara made a face, even if it was gone in half a heartbeat. "Yes, please." Kara wanted to fly. Now that she could fly, Kara found herself wanting to fly EVERYWHERE. But that wasn't the safest option, especially when dressed in an evening gown. But Lex had offered his limo and driver to pick her up at her building, and hadn't allowed her to refuse the offer. "What'd you find?"

"Someone else is looking into Luthor's servers."

"Legitimate, or...?"

"I find no direct ties to law enforcement of any kind. Nor do I believe we are dealing with another A.I."

Standing in front of her mirror, sliding on a small silver chained crucifix, before putting on the silver earrings, Kara's attention perked. "Oh? You sound impressed, Sanctuary. Is there a human out there that's impressing you with their ability to crack and code?"

"Yes, though this doesn't seem to be just any human: the processing power they're using is not something I run into outside a few Universities and the Government."

"And this is neither?"

"Correct. Whoever they are, I have traced them back to Gotham City. To get a more accurate location, you will need to travel to Gotham City, and assist in the trace."

"Think that trace leads back to a Batcave?"

"Possible. The processing power being used is quite impressive, and the sophistication of the coding languages used suggests someone very skilled."

"Right, but are you leading me straight into a meet-and-greet with one of Gotham's crazed vigilantes?"

"...are you not a vigilante yourself, Kara?"

"Oh, I am. But I'm the sane kind, you see."

"And those in Gotham City are insane?"

By then, the grin on Kara's lips was wide. "Seems so, Sanc." Outside the the front of the apartment building she heard a door slam shut; three stories down and across layers of concrete and steel and drywall. "Car's here. Send a message to the crew and alert them to the mystery hacker? No surprises, Sanc. We can't afford them...well, they can't afford them. And I don't want to go save their lives, so, no surprises."

When the door knocked, Kara went straight for it, opening it without much of a thought. She hadn't thought to look past the door, to see who might be on the otherside. In fact when she opened the door, she only gave a quick glance, expecting to see the driver of the limo. She did not see a driver. Instead, the quick look became a longer look, as Kara's big blue eyes blinked at the image of Lex Luthor.

Worst of all, he was smiling. And stealing glances into her apartment from the open door.

"Kara, you look amazing."

She smiled back at him, briefly, "Thank you, Mr. Luthor."

"Lex, please."

Kara chuckled, mostly at the innate oddness of it all. "Okay, Lex; you told me your driver would come pick me up for tonight, not you."

"Well," Luthor was unphased, giving the slightest of shoulder shrugs, "I hope it isn't a problem."

"No problem, just curious."

Whatever she said, it made Lex Luthor grin. A disquieting sight, if Kara had ever seen one. "I was just that: curious, about you. I admit I half expected your apartment to be filled with print outs and white boards with numbers on it. Instead..."

"Instead all you find is an apartment?"

And, that was all there was; a living room and kitchen, separated by a counter. Then a small hall broke off from that space; leaving to a bathroom and a bedroom. She had a few hiding spots in the apartment, but everything out in the open looked as plain and dull as any other career minded twenty-something year old woman's apartment. It looked clean, like she didn't spend a lot of time in it. But that wasn't out of the ordinary; not with the hours she had spent at Luthor's campaign headquarters.

"Shall we?"

Luthor's eyes snapped away from scanning around her apartment; something he obviously had a deep interest in at the moment. But why? Kara had no obvious clue. If he was onto her true identity, he likely would not have shown up to her doorstep, unarmed and unarmored. It was strange. It was bizarre. It was--

"Kara, I hope you don't mind my asking such a personal question...but your relationship with the Congressional naval attache?"

...it was creepy. Her blue eyes blinked. Why would Lex ask...that? "It ended, recently."

"I'm so sorry to hear that."

Kara wasn't able to check herself in time. The thought came straight from her brain, to her lips, without a single hesitation. "Are you?"

"No," Luthor smiled, but Kara didn't feel warmth or humor in the smile. Only gratisfaction. "After you."

Tim took a deep breath as he opened his eyes. The shaking and trembling that the bus made was nerve-racking. It crossed his mind that the driver may have been a little less that sober. Stop and start, it was like he'd never driven before, an opinion reinforced by the high-speed turns that threatened to overturn the bus like a die flicking across a table. Finally, it drew to a firm stop; the doors hissed open and Tim joined a small tribe of commuters navigating the valley between the seats.

"Blüdhaven," he huffed. The greatest place in the world to catch HIV and a movie at once.

He reached behind himself to grab onto his backpack, clenching it and feeling for his tools and precious masks. The load was uncharacteristically heavy. But, it was the result of his own labor. Most of his generation would prefer not to have harder work as a result of deliberate planning. Despite Tim being the son of a couple one-percenters, the minimalist effort prerogative did not resonate.

Standing on the sidewalk, he backed up to watch the populace flow down the street both ways. Similar trends, colors, possibly gang emblems, were repetitive enough to remind him of a shooting gallery.

According to the instructions he'd printed off the internet his destination was within a few blocks. Not too far to walk. Hands stuffed in his pocket, he casually walked the streets of Bludhaven, noting the exceedingly impoverished people. A strung out old man was leaning against a half-crumbled staircase to an apartment complex's foyer door. Checking the map, Tim noted that this was the wrong place. It made him wonder exactly what the former Robin's housing situation was like.

Tim checked against the map after walking a while longer, he'd lost count of how many drug dealers and prostitutes looked his way. It just didn't happen in Gotham. More than anything else, it made him feel soft. A while later, he came up to the noted address.

"Hello," he said, knuckles rapping against the door. "I'm looking for Dick Grayson."

The Handlebar
Gotham City
1:34 AM

Marcus Driver pounded the shot glass against the bar. Booze coursed through his body. It tingled. Mark it: his third shot since getting off duty. The shots supplemented two beers. He was halfway to getting good and shitfaced. He caught the eye of a woman down the bar. Redhead, late 40's and dumpy. Might have been a looker twenty years, sixty pounds, and thousands of beers ago. What caught his eye was the shiner. Purple and yellow around her left eye. On the verge of healing. Ther shiner beckoned his interest. The shiner got his dander up. He made eyes at the man beside the redhead. Big and burly and with a long beard.

Driver's hard-on for wife beaters was GCPD lore. As a patrolman he would give parole violators with domestic violence beefs a choice: Be run in for their crime and go to jail no muss or fuss, or fight him one and one and walk away if they won. They always took the chance to fight, they always came away spitting blood and teeth. He topped out at 6'3 and 230 pounds. An all-state linebacker that got a football helmet in the knee his first year in college and had to drop out. GCPD after that. His size and strength made him a terror. He rose quickly, from patrol to plainclothes to detective. CID Robbery was where he made his name. He killed two men in the line of duty. Armed heist gone bad, the both of them. One bank robber he put a bullet right under his left eye from twenty yards out. The second, a shitbird that robbed a grocery store and took hostages, he blew his brains out from up close. Now he was in the MCU, working for Bullock and Whiskey Jim and given the chance to be something more than an enforcer. Flass wanted him for the mob squad. He said "Join me, I'll make the Underworld fear you like they should." Bullock offered something else. He said "Join me, I'll make you an honest to god detective." Slowly but surely he was learning how to use more than his fist to put people behind bars.

The anger and violence stemmed from the Old Man. The Old Man beat his momma like a dog day in and day out. Too small, he could never properly fight back. Driver was twelve when he decided he was going to kill the Old Man once and for all. Right after that he went splitsville, headed to parts unknown. Twenty years since then and now every woman beater he encountered was an ersatz Old Man. He took all his shit out on them, one beating at a time.

"You got a problem, pal?"

The bearded man sized Driver up from across the bar. Driver stood and ambled over. The beer and booze warmed him, keyed him up and fueled his anger. He promised Bullock no more provocation of woman beaters. He kept his word for over three months. This was a tipping point. He felt close. He back down right now and keep his promise. The spirit was willing... but the flesh was weak.

"He beat on you, ma'am?"

"What business is it of yours what me and my old lady do?"

He made eye contact with he redhead and saw something in her eyes. Rather, a lack of something. It was a vacuum. An empty spot where something should be. The eyes told a story no amount of lying could. It revealed a lifetime of poor decisions that had been paid for in triplicate.

Driver smiled. "How about we step outside?"

The man shrugged and stood. He was older than Driver, but they were almost the same height and weight. Driver had him beat barely.

The man flexed and said, "We can go that way if you want to, pal."

Outside in the parking lot, Driver put on a clinic. He one-two-three'd the man with left and right hooks. He drove the man's head against a car door. He kicked him in the side and left him on the ground as a whimpering heap. He bent down and got in close to the beaten man's ear.

"Touch her again and I will come back and kill you."

The man rolled onto his side and looked up at Driver, blood leaking from his mouth.

"You know who I run with, you piece of shit?! Jesters MC, the baddest biker gang in this goddamn city!"

"I run with a gang, too." He flashed his badge at the biker. "And we're badder."

He stood and walked towards his car. The redhead made eyes at him and thanked him. He ignored it. Women threw themselves at him after he beat the shit out of their abusive significant others, but he always turned them down. He didn't do it to get laid. He didn't do it because it was right or even because it was wrong. He did it because it was the only way he could get back what the Old Man took from him all those years ago: closure. A voice in the back of his head asked that if this was closure, then why did he keep doing it?

The phone in his pocket went off. A text from Charlie. Multiple 187's, MCU had the case and they were meeting in a few hours. Driver sat behind the wheel of his car and shook his head to sober up and get ready to get back to work.



Gotham Central
2:10 AM

Jim's office on the top floor. Photos of Barbara on the desk. Everything else spartan and bare. Gone were Loeb's nicknacks and Grogan's hunting trophies. The message: A transient's office, a temporary way station. No matter the future, he would not be here permanently. Kane's conversation made that clear.

"Sounds like you're screwed."

Sarah Essen flashed a wry smile. Jim felt his heart skip a bit at the sight of that smile. He and Sarah came up together in the PD. She was fresh out of the academy when he arrived from Chi-Town. They were drawn to each other. The spark between them always felt like it could be something more. He was a detective when those sparks turned out to be kindling, igniting a raging inferno that caused Jim his marriage and gave Sarah a reputation as a girl who slept around. The affair led to a fifteen years self-imposed exile from each other after that. They were dangerous together. Passions could not be contained. Just like the booze, Jim had the Thirst for Sarah. The years had tempered their passions. They could stand to be in a room alone together without ending up on the floor naked. Jim learned self-control and Sarah made her way in the department on her own merits. The spark still sat there between them. He was afraid to acknowledge it. So was she.

"Astute observation. You should try being a detective, you might make a good one."

He lit up two cigarettes and passed her one. They smoked in silence. Jim replayed the conversation with Kane over in his head. Threats, implied and real, came to the forefront. He relayed the scene to Sarah. Politics was not his milieu. Sarah acted as his guide and advisor on all related matters.

"You did good from what I could see," she finally said. "You impressed Kane with your summations, and you resisted to throw in with him. If you went along with it right away he wouldn't respect you. Guys like that... they kind of like being rejected at first. They're used to having everything handed to them, it turns them on to work for it."

"That's... disturbing, but insightful."

"Just remember to tread carefully from here on out. Kane acts as chairman of the Public Safety Committee. He controls the purse strings of the PD. He can make us all hurt."

Jim blew smoke and frowned and said, "I know. I just have trouble with this. I'm not a politician."

Sarah smiled. "Don't give me that. Every cop above patrol is a politician. You have to be a politician to make rank. Even being anti-political is being political, Jim. Your end-around with Batman was a political move and look where it got you. You say you're not political, you need to start getting political if you want to stay in this lovely office."

He stubbed his cigarette out in a glass ashtray and looked at her.

"I seem to recall you wanted to see me about something as well."

"There was a triple murder tonight in my district. When everything is shaken out it looks like it'll be drug related. I called up Bullock and requested the MCU take it. Flass wants his squad to take it. He appealed to me directly and, when I said no, when to Burke with a formal request."

"So you went one higher, bypassing the Deputy of Operations, and came right to me?"

Sarah shrugged. "The MCU reports directly to you, and it is a high priority case. Furthermore, I don't trust Flass. He only shows interest in something if there's a payoff. And like I said, you don't rise above patrolman without learning how to play the game."

"And nobody plays it quite like you."



Major Crimes Squadroom
Northern Gotham
3:54 AM

"Where are we at on this murder?"

Harvey Bullock sipped coffee. The MCU squadroom: tiny and cluttered with files, photos, and case logs. A small office building smack dab in the middle of the industrial section of the city. The main bullpen held the four cubicles for the four detectives, Bullock's closed off office to the side in its own room. Away from Gotham Central and the Districts gave them breathing room. Walls had ears in the other buildings, here they could investigate in privacy. That led to rumors and innuendo. MCU was a rat squad, MCU was where all the ass-kissers went. Four men and one woman with a simple mandate: solve major cases fast and properly. Investigating any additional municipal corruption springing from the cases was secondary only, though plenty of crimes led that way. The city was so entangled together that cops, criminals, citizens, and politicians all blended int he same shade of grey.

Allen read from a notebook and said, "We've ID'd the three vics from the shooting. Walter, aka Lil Walter, Perkins. Kendrick Taylor. And Tasha Tatum. Perkins was a player in the eastside drug scene, Taylor was one of his dealers, and Tatum was Perkins' girlfriend. Coroners are still doing the autopsy, but time of death is believed to have been sometime between noon and nine PM."

Montoya said, "Cops were called to the scene after neighbors heard gunshots. The few eyewitnesses at the scene seen three men in balaclavas getting into a black SUVs and speeding off. No idea on the car's license plate, got an APB out on any stolen or abandoned black SUVs in the metro area. Best that we can figure is the three armed men came in through the front door and restrained the three victims. They were bound by their wrists and ankles and put on the floor. There are definite signs of torture on Perkins and Taylor's bodies, although Taylor less so. Cris found a hidden compartment in the living room just beneath the mantel. Techs found traces of narcotics inside of it. We're thinking it's Perkins' stash. It was empty."

Bullock said, "So they torture the dealers to get the information about their stash. They get the dope and or cash and then gun them all down."

"Shit," said Charlie Fields. "An eastside drug dealer gets robbed and murdered. That means half the goddamn city is a suspect."

Driver said, "I came up through eastern district and plainclothes units before I got my shield. The name is familiar. I never worked narco, but there were rumors about him. Rumors were that Lil Walter operated with GCPD sanction."

Bullock grunted and took a long sip off his coffee.

"Just what we need. Alright, Montoya is acting as primary on the case. Allen, you're secondary. Driver, Fields, and I will act as runners getting an much information we can about the victims and the drug scene on the eastside in general. This morning the three of us are going to hit central narco and the eastern district for information. Allen, canvass the area around the murder scene while Montoya goes to the morgue for details on the death. Sound good?"

A scatter of grunts and yeahs greeted Bullock. He shrugged.

"Let's get to it."