---

"Hello Bruce." He froze. Here she was, at his door. Smiling. She just stood there, waiting. Till he realized she was waiting for him. Letting go of a breath he didn't know he was holding in he immediately tried to construct a response. For someone who was the leading expert in radiation and Gamma energy it really should have been easy.

"Hi Betty, How, uh. How are you- are you- things are alright?" God dammit Bruce. She laughed, god how he had missed that laugh. "I mean, how did you find me?"

"Your cousin helped with the legal stuff for this house, didn't she?" Of course. Jennifer knew about the house, he had completely forgotten about her. Obviously his assessment the other day had been incorrect, someone had been watching the house. He wasn't sure if he was happier with it being Betty or if he would have preferred if it was Lex Luthor in that new suit coming to apprehend him. Hell, at least with Luthor he could live with the guilt of subjecting the man to the Hulk. "Can I come in? I'm under the impression my father is still after you." Ross, just the thought of the man - No.

"Yeah, yeah. Of course, come in." What's the worst that can happen? was the obvious addition to that sentence. Though he darned not uttering it, they both knew what the worst was that could happen.

"It's a nice place you have here."

"Huh?" He looked to her for a second till he saw her looking around the building. "Oh, what? Yeah it's alright I suppose. Bit of a fixer upper."

"You been here long?"

"No, couple of days."

"Since Vista Verde?" He froze, did she know already? Of course she knew, Ross would keep her updated on everything he was doing. How could she not know. He sighed and hung his head in shame, now was probably the best time to do this. Before she settled, before he felt normal. He couldn't feel normal, couldn't afford too. He wasn't.

"Betty, listen. I'm sorry about what happened, especially what happened to you, but I'm afraid you can't stay here. It's too dangerous, if anything were to happen to you-" He shook his head "-I don't know what I'd do. So please-" She walked up and put a finger over his lips. Silencing him, as if she had some kind of magic. He knew that wasn't true, but if anyone had power over him. It was Betty Ross.

"It wasn't you, I don't blame you. Look, I'm fine now, look at me Bruce. I know you'd never do anything to hurt me, not on purpose-" Bruce brushed her finger aside. Breaking the spell.

"You don't get it Betty, I hurt you. That's all that matters, I can't live a normal life anymore. Not until I find a cure, and until then it's not safe. You need to get away from me. As far as you can." As if on cue the window in the living room shattered, and a man in a metal suit jumped through the window. Blades shot out of his arms.



"Bruce...!" Bruce turned and looked at her, some blood on his face from the glass that had been sent across the room. He couldn't control it, it was too late. He was changing. His eyes turned green as he faced her.

"Get away." She backed away slowly. Bruce doubled over in pain, his fist smashing through the wooden floor. The figure in the suit began walking towards him slowly, a needle in his hand. He was obviously here for a reason. He somehow knew that he was here. As he convulsed he looked up at the man, gritting his teeth he spoke. "I said get AWAY"

"You don't scare me little man."

So crack a bottle, let your body waddle
Don't act like a snobby model
You just hit the lotto.

The speakers boomed as the Platinum Trio shook the Chunky Chika. Through crowds of sweaty clubbers, Lynne could make out the figure of Damien Simitiae sitting in his private booth, flanked by two bodyguards, with a hefty looking woman draped over him.

Most of the club-goers were all bundled up on the Chunky Chika’s chess-board dance floor, so it was fairly easy for Lynne to skate her way around the edges, shimmying carefully between tables.

“Hey! Asshole!” Lynne called out, shouting to be heard over the music, as she strode up to Simitiae’s booth “I hear you took something from me.”

The Mexican’s bodyguards were up out of their seats in a flash, but one quick gesture from the drug baron had them sitting back down.

“Alto! Cool it, boys.” The man’s voice was soft , yet it carried a calm authority.

“You shouldn’t let this skinny puta talk to you like that, mi amor.” Simitiae’s plus-size playmate pouted, tracing once chubby finger across his cheek.

“Just a second, nene.” Simitiae gave the women a quick peck on the lips “I want to hear what she has to say.”

“You’re a real gentleman.” Lynne sneered.

“You got some serious cojones, poco senora.” He laughed dryly “What is that you think I took from you?”

“My family, shithead!”

A scream went up as Lynne pulled out her peacemaker, and aimed it squarely at Simitiae’s head.

The music died, and the mexican’s bodyguards made a grab for their own weapons.

“You move one inch further and I blow this fucker’s head off!” Lynne snarled from the back of her throat.

“Keep them holstered.” Simitiae instructed his men, in a voice which suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d had a gun pointed at him “Let's keep a civil head about this. I’m sure kind Mister Javier doesn't want to be scrubbing strawberry jam off of the floor.”

He regarded Lynne with a cold look.

“I didn’t kill your family, Miss Riordan. Your father was sloppy, and he got himself curb stomped by that-”

Suddenly, Lynne felt something sharp rip through her back. She screamed, her gun falling from her fingers, as the thug who’d snuck up on her forced his shiv through her back and into her liver. She tumbled to the floor, as blood pooled out around her.

So much blood…

Lynne limpy raised one hand, gazing on in horror as tendrils of thick crimson leaked through her fingers.

Oh god...help me, please, help me.

Simitiae stroked his nene reassuringly, turning to address his henchmen.

“Pretty standard night in Blúdhaven. Slip Javier some cash, buy the next round of drinks, and this will all disappear.” He shrugged.

Then he fixed his gaze on Lynne.

“Get rid of the redhead.”

As the two men scooped her up, Lynne felt reality slip away around her. Darkness consumed her vision, and the world went black.

The Phoenix Skyline

Ghost Rider revved his bike once more, rocketing forwards.

Biggest stunt of your life, and the cameras aren't here. Figures.

The ninja leaped over the point that fixed the helicopter blades to the craft, toward the building across the way- a brownstone number. Not flammable, which was good. Ghost Rider leaned in.

[i][color=red]Wind's right. Pushing up after it hits the buildings... should be enough lift...[/i]

The ninja landed on the blades, continuing his bunny hop. Ghost Rider's front wheel connected with the slope, flaming rubber shrieking through the city like a banshee's wail.

Weight distribution is right. Accounting for lift...

Johnny held his breath as he started the jump, Death Ninja just reaching the other side of the helicopter blades and starting his leap. But Johnny had the speed advantage, and something the Death Ninja didn't- an eight-cylinder monstrosity of hellfire and American engineering. And that meant Ghost Rider reached the other roof first. Death Ninja's eyes widened in fear as his feet left the helicopter blade, as Ghost Rider's began glowing red.

God I love the spook act.
"YOU WHO FACES THE SPIRIT OF VENGEANCE, SHALL FEEL THE FURY OF ALL THOSE WHO HAVE SUFFERED AT YOUR HANDS."

Orange beams shot out of the Ghost Rider's eyes as Death Ninja flailed, trying to avoid the attack. But it was too late. Thirty years of assassinations. Of crying families. Of fatherless sons, of sonless fathers, of interrogations and torture and poisonings. The pain of thirty years of victims washed over the ninja as he let out a raspy scream. His grip loosened, and sent two of the infants sailing. Which left him with one baby. Ghost Rider, meanwhile, stood on his bike to catch the babies left sailing through the air. Death Ninja, still reeling from pain, drew his sword with the free hand he'd desperately needed. He staggered about, but managed to hold it to the baby in a threatening enough way.

Ghost Rider set the babies down and sighed. Death Ninja was trying to escape with at least one baby. As the ninja pressed the blade in, a trickle of blood formed...

...shortly before a massive chain wrapped around the sword and jerked it away. The ironclad grip of rigor mortis was not Death Ninja's friend today, as he was pulled bodily from the ground and towards the Ghost Rider's waiting fist. With a sickening crack, Death Ninja was floored as Ghost Rider picked up the three babies, debating how to return to the ground without the use of his handlebars. His prayers were answered as the helicopter began rising. He gently set the three crying infants down, mounting his bike once again and riding off.

Super Soldier he might be, but Steve was still tired. He had been staring at reports and watching replays of old battles all day. Apart from the tussle with Creel and lunch. Zee was yawning near him which set him off. The two exchanged tired smiles. Soon they would be relieved by either one of the other Leaguers or one of Lex's staff. They'd monitor the feeds and make sure the call was sent out if anything major was going down.

At least the situation in Coast City was sorted. Steve knew Carol was still running down loose ends. Namely, the Brotherhood's reasoning. If there was something bigger going on behind the scenes she'd find out. Flash would remain in Coast City. And who knew what the others were really up to because they hadn't checked in with anything new. Which was completely their prerogative.

Zatanna's expectant eyes were on him. He forced down another yawn unsuccessfully. "As soon as our relief shows up we'll be good to go."

"Good." Zatanna grunted. "I'm so tired I could take a nap right here."

Steve chuckled a little at her words and silence resumed. Steve quietly closed his programs on the screens and shut down his computer. According to Lex he didn't have to save electricity anymore, but it just felt wasteful to leave things running while no one was using them. Some might call his tendencies outdated and Steve was fine with that. He grew up in a different time. He wasn't going to turn his back on it.

When their relief appeared the two heroes departed. Zatanna drove her car off and Steve his bike. With the generous salary Lex paid Steve was able to afford a nice flat on the outskirts of Metropolis. It wasn't Brooklyn, but it was a good place. Steve pulled into the parking garage and turned off his bike. He froze for a moment as a shadow detached itself from the darkness.

Steve's hand reached back for his shield as the figure advanced.

"Hawkeye."

Steve was rewarded with a sloppy salute as his statement was correct. The man was still dressed in his garish costume, making it a wonder he was able to hide in the shadows at all.

"Captain." Hawkeye greeted.

Steve dismounted and pocketed his keys. "Let me guess. This is about what you said earlier." It had been on his mind. Implying that Lex was dirty or at least not on the side of angels. As the modern day vernacular would put it. Steve didn't quite feel like Hawkeye had much of a leg to stand on from what he had seen. But with the other man's appearance maybe there was something. Something he hadn't want to say in public. Or in front of Superman. Something that warranted Hawkeye tracking down Steve's flat and ambushing him.

There was a slight pause from the other man before he smile and spread his hands in a what can you do? gesture. "You think we could talk somewhere private?"

Steve sighed and nodded. "Sure." He lead the way to his floor. He let Hawkeye in first, followed and closed the door behind them.

S.T.A.R Labs, Manhattan, New York

Two A.I.M operatives, garbed in yellow body armour, stood at the window upon the fifth floor of the S.T.A.R labs building, tasked with observing and reporting on the actions of the police blockade. They didn't even bother trying to conceal their position, for while they were aware that there was no doubt dozens of NYPD sharpshooters on the surrounding buildings training high-powered rifles upon their forms, they were contemptuous of the threat they proved. A.I.M held all the cards here, and the police knew it. After the initial, disastrous push the two burnt out cruisers had made, it had been made very clear that if the law so much as took one more step towards the lab then hostages would start to die.

The sudden arrival of Iron Man had given the two lookouts pause for thought, though not been enough to worry them unduly. The appearance of 'super-heroes' was becoming more and more of a regular occurrence, and it would have been exceedingly remiss of the Imperial Council, A.I.M's ruling hierarchy, if they hadn't made provisions for at least one costumed avenger. What those provisions were, well the two look-outs weren't exactly sure, but they had certainly been told that they were in place.

One lookout contacted their leader to inform him of Iron Man's appearance, but the Golden Avenger left just as quickly as he arrived, flying into the distance. More communications were passed up the chain of command to appraise them of the bizarre development, while the second lookout gawked in the direction that Stark had left in.

“I don't believe it, he's actually leaving!”

So busy where they watching the skies that they didn't see the police cordon retreat.

“Then you're right not to believe it, because he wont be. He'll just be finding somewhere to settle in for a long haul, hoping to hold us at siege. Mark me, we'll get a call from Stark soon enough, telling us that our situation is hopeless and we'd be better served by surrendering.”

“Heh. You think?”

“I know. He wont risk us harming the hostages if he tries to storm the place, but he'll be afraid of losing his 'media darling' reputation if he just runs. He'll hang back, trying to make it look like he's in control of the situation. But he's not. We are.”

THOOOOORRRMM-CRASH!!

"What the hell was that!? Did you hear that!?"

"Of course I head it! I think that crash was a window breaking down a level. Stay here and radio the captain, I'll go and check out downstairs." The two A.I.M operatives split up, one hurrying down the corridor towards a well-signed stairwell, the other frantically radioing his superiors. After several failed attempts that achieved nothing more than static he came to the realization that their signals were being blocked.

Suddenly it didn't feel like A.I.M was quite as in control of the situation as they had thought.

---

Tony burst through the doors of the wide, circular meeting room in the center of S.T.A.R labs that A.I.M was using to hold it's forty-seven hostages, clocking in at over two hundred kilometers an hour, dragging all sorts of debris in his wake, but he still managed to come to a complete and total stop in less than five meters, right in the midst of the hostages and hostage-takers.

Thank God for inertia dampers.

A.I.M hadn't even had time to properly process his sudden appearance before he'd laid out two of their number, firing quick-fire consequtive repulsor blasts that hit them both dead center.

"What th--" A third operative managed to blurt out before he too ate his share of repulsor. A half dozen more fell to the smart-flechette's that fired from his shoulder launchers, each one a blunt projectile powered by a miniature rocket and guided by Stark-micromunition technology, perfect for non-lethal anti-personel deployments.

To become a member Advanced Idea Mechanics a potential applicant must have, at the very least, a master's degree in some area of science, mathematics, or business, though a Ph.D would hold one in better steading. It meant that every member of A.I.M was a thinking man. And what does a thinking man do?

He thinks, of course. And every moment that a man spends thinking is a moment that he doesn't spend acting. It's why A.I.M made imperfect soldiers, as the hair-trigger reactions so revered in the likes of Deathstroke or Captain America just couldn't be found among their numbers, so absorbed with the cause and effect of all their actions. This kind of attack would never have worked on Hydra agents, mercenaries, or even regular old bank robbers. As soon as Tony had burst into the room one of them would have panicked and shot a hostage. Not so with A.I.M. In A.I.M it was drilled into them from day one, their own personal golden rule; always use your head. Well that golden rule was working agains them today.

Still, it only afforded Iron Man seconds, and already there was some A.I.M levelling their weapons towards the hostages, who were just now realizing what was happening, all of them beginning to scream or cry for help.

"J.A.R.V.I.S, now!" An oval panel upon the Iron Man's right thigh popped open, and with it came an ungodly high, ear piercing shriek. Yellow garbed operatives and hostages alike fell to the floor writhing in agony. Stark Technologies had long since utilized sonic based weaponary, though the rest of the worlds militarys were still way behind on that particular curve. Apparently A.I.M was too, seeing as they hadn't insulated their suits to such an attack. Tony took the time to knock out the final hostiles before turning the sonic generator off. There was a few cries of relief from the hostages.

That was the problem with AOE attacks, they didn't discern between friend and foe. Still, if they were asked Tony was willing to bet most would rather a ringing in their ears for a few weeks rather than a bullet to the head. And no one could argue with the results. Fourteen A.I.M operatives downed in about five seconds.

Hurray for superior firepower!

"Alright folks, funs not over yet. You all need to stay here while I clear the rest of the building." He could see from the confused expressions that no one was quite clear on what he'd said. Probably something to do with them all nearly being deafened less than a minute before. Maybe sonic weaponary wasn't the most useful tool in the kit after all. With a sigh he made a second attempt, gesticulating wildly to help hammer home his point.

"You all stay here! Still not safe!" That didn't work much better. With a frustrated groan he flipped open the visor of his mask. Surely someone here could lip read. They were supposed to be geniuses, after all!

"STAY. HERE."

One woman, slightly overweight, mid thirties, mousy brown hair and wearing a pristine white lab coat, stood forwards before shouting a query at him.

"Are you going after Professor Morrow?"

"Wait, what. . . Professor Thomas Morrow? Where is he?" It didn't look like the woman really heard the question, but she was aware enough to piece together what Tony's response was in context.

"Two of those guys took him about two minutes ago. Looked like they were heading upstairs." It suddenly felt like Tony's stomach was trying to fall through the floor. His visor flipped back into position.

"J.A.R.V.I.S scan the building again." J.A.R.V.I.S was potentially the most advanced A.I. computer system on the planet, able to run hundreds of thousands of processes simultaneously without even the barest drop in efficiency. Scanning a building like this would take it micro-seconds, and yet it still seemed to take to damn long for Tony. Much as he hated to admit it, he'd been duped. Of course A.I.M had an end game here, they wouldn't have just marched into S.T.A.R and starting taking hostages for the thrill of it. Professor Morrow had always been their target, while the other hostages had just been a diversion.

And he'd been too eager to play the hero to even realize it. Guess there was something to be said about thinking about your actions before actually taking them after all.

"Sir," came the measured, immeasurably calm, and unmistakably British tones of J.A.R.V.I.S. "There is still another nine individuals in the building, three of which are nearing the roof. One of the three isn't armed or armoured in any A.I.M gear.

Tony cursed. If they were going to the roof that could only mean one thing. No one ran to the roof unless they had a plan to get off the roof.

"One more thing sir. It appears that an A.I.M VTOL gunship has just arrived upon the scene. Engines are hot and chances are good that it is here for extraction.

Typical.

He hated being right.

N E W   Y O R K

“Hey, who’re you calling an id– ”

Dashing low, the small boy had shot beneath the man's notice, his presence revealed in the heel that dug into the man's solar plexus. "We're having a conversation here," the child uttered, hands still tucked into the pockets of his hoodie as took the wind out of the man's lungs.

There, he'd hit him.

Straightening back up, the boy looked over at the Spider-Boy. "Hey, what's this about a price on your head?" the youth inquired curiously.

"Like, how much we talking? I've been wanting to buy a PlayStation 4..."

Was he joking? Most likely. Even so, PlayStations didn't buy themselves. And he'd blown his allowance on a new laptop. And he wasn't getting squat for the job in Gotham City. Ghuls didn't serve the League for rewards, Damian.

Bitch, whatever. Ra's al Ghul was mad rich. If the League wasn't rewarding him, then the man must have had one hell of a sugar momma.

M A N H A T T A N, N E W Y O R K

“Hey, what’s this about a price on your head? Like, how much we talking? I've been wanting to buy a PlayStation 4...”

“Good question,” answered Miles, once again taken aback by the boy’s efficiency. In just one kick he crippled Mayo from loss of air, making him look like nothing but a punching bag. But then again, that is all he was. An idiotic, incompetent punching bag. “Let’s ask him.”

Miles casually strolled towards him, crouching so as to be in line with his head. The wannabe crook was doubled over in pain, his face red as he gasped and wheezed for air. “Hey, Burger King,” said Miles, “What’s this about a price on my head?”

“I’m not telling you… jack,” spat the Mustard Man between breaths.

“Hey, come on,” pushed Miles. “Remember that time in Dakota with Static, when we stopped you from robbing that bank? That was fun, right? Think of all the memories we made together. I punched you, Static electrocuted you, I zapped you… Wouldn’t it be great to do that again?” He paused, caressing his chin in mock contemplation. “Come to think of it, I have Static’s number. I could always call him. The Terrific Trio, reunited!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” screeched Condiment King, as red as beetroot. “Please,” he whined, “I’ll tell you what you want to know. But… please don’t do that.”

Huh. That actually worked.

“Well?” prompted Miles. “Spill.”

“It’s Roxxon. The Roxxon Corporation,” Mayo whimpered. “They put a bounty on you, told any supercriminal that wants $20,000,000 to bring you to them alive. Something about wanting to study you…” He looked up with begging eyes. “I don’t know anything else, so please…” He started to cry, violent sobs racking his chest as he cupped his face in his hands.

“Uh…” Miles started. What was he supposed to do? “There there,” he said, patting Mayo on the back. “There there.”

And what was that about $20,000,000?

The Fortress of Solitude, The Arctic

The Earth shuddered as one of Clark Kent’s fists came crashing against Hank Henshaw’s metallic skull. The blow sent Henshaw flying through the air and into a nearby snow dune. The bitter cold wind snapped through Superman’s cape as he walked towards the downed Henshaw with a scowl. One of Clark’s eyes had been blackened some, a particularly powerful blow to the brow had left it swollen and miscoloured, and his lip was bleeding from the side. It was the first time he’d bled in years. He’d almost forgotten that he could. As he approached Henshaw the part-cyborg, part-Kryptonian climbed to his feet. He too was bearing the signs of the damage. The metallic side of Henshaw’s skull had been dented badly and one of his wrists had almost been twisted clean round. Still neither man seemed close to being downed.

Henshaw fired a beam of heat vision towards the ground beneath Clark’s feet and the floor cracked. Kent staggered backwards, giving Henshaw time to bear down upon him, and the pair grappled once more. Their heads mere inches from one another the pair blasted heat vision at one another in vain. The beams met in front of their faces and collected there for a moment. Clark sent an elbow down against Henshaw’s arm and it knocked him of balance and sent his heat vision firing into the clouds. Clark’s sliced along Henshaw’s neck and a cybernetic part broke loose. The Kryptonian reached for the opening and forced his hand into it.

As Clark’s fingers dug around inside, Henshaw turned to him defiantly and clasped his good hand around his neck. He lifted Clark clean from the ground by the neck and Kent struggled around in his grasp.

"You can’t beat me, Kryptonian. Don’t you understand? I was designed to destroy you and your kind. I’m stronger than you are, stronger than you could ever be. This fight was over before it even began."

Clark tried to pry Henshaw’s fingers open unsuccessfully before wrapping both of his legs around the arm. He grabbed at the arm and held it in place as he twisted his legs in the other direction. Henshaw growled and his grip loosened. The pair of them fell to the floor with a thud and Clark kept Hank’s arm between his legs and hyperextended it. Hank clawed at him, desperate to free his arm, as he howled in pain. Henshaw clubbed at the floor beneath them and again it cratered and sent Clark tumbling away from him.

Henshaw reached for his arm, trying to twist it back into place, as Clark loomed large over him. He struck a more composed, more resolute figure than the cyborg. Henshaw was sucking for air as if he were still human, as if despite having survived in the darkest, deepest recesses of space, he still needed oxygen. A knowing smile appeared on Clark’s face.

"You’re right, Hank. You are stronger than I am. You might even be faster too. But it’s not my strength or my speed that makes me the man that I am. I learned early on that strength in and of itself is not a virtue. I’ve spent the best part of three decades holding back, watching the world move around me at a snail’s pace and using a fraction of my strength, and that restraint made me a better, stronger man. I’ve learned things how to use my powers in ways I would never have imagined otherwise. It has made me all the more devastating when I do stop holding back."

Clark shoved his hand towards Henshaw and instead of knocking him backwards it simply passed through his chest. Henshaw’s eyes opened and he stared down at Clark’s arm that floated threateningly through his chest. Though it caused him excruciating pain he was determined not to show it.

"What are you doing?"

Clark grinned.

"An old trick my friend the Flash taught me."

He was vibrating his molecules. If he did it at the right frequency he was certain he could liquefy Hank Henshaw right there and then. At the very least it would destroy the cybernetic implants that had been placed into him. It was a last resort, a nuclear deterrent, that he hoped would compel Henshaw into submission. The cyborg grimaced beneath the pain. Through it all Clark could hear a sound approaching.

It was J’onn Jonzz. This time he wasn’t on his own. In his arms was a mousy-blonde woman that was slight of frame. Her hair had greyed some and she had lost some weight but Hank Henshaw recognised her in an instance. It was Terri Henshaw. The pair of them touched down in the snow in front of them and J’onn gestured to Terri to stand behind him.


Terri’s eyes widened as she caught her first sight of her husband in nearly a decade.

"Hank? Is it really you underneath there?"

A look of shame crossed Henshaw’s face. Suddenly he was aware of how he had disfigured himself for the first time.

"Terri…"

"What have they done to you? Your face… Who did this to you?"

"I had to get back to you. I… It was the only way to get back to you… He told me he could rebuild me, make me strong enough that he could get me home. All I wanted to do was see you again, Terri…"

Terri wandered forwards with J’onn’s consent. There were tears forming in her eyes as she approached Hank and Clark. She knelt before them and extended a small, frail hand towards Hank and rested it on his face.

"I told them you would come back. They didn’t believe me, they said there was no way you could have survived out there, but I knew you’d find your way back to me… I just didn’t think it would take so long, Hank. It’s been… It’s been nearly eight years."

Along Terri Henshaw’s finger was a wedding ring. It was not the one that Hank had slipped onto her finger twelve years ago. He spotted it and felt his heart break into a thousand pieces. He had crossed a galaxy to return to her to find that she had moved on from him. Somewhere deep beneath him, the rage that he had suppressed upon laying eyes on the love on his life began to make its way to the surface again.

J’onn wandered forward and placed a hand on Terri’s shoulder.

"Our offer still stands, Hank. Work with us and we will help you become the man you once were again. There are minds on this planet that rival the greatest scientists in the cosmos. They can undo what has been done to you. They can make you human again."

The rage burst free from the cyborg and he snarled in J’onn’s direction.

"Take your hand off my wife, you freak."

A ray of heat vision left his eyes in J’onn’s direction, the only weapon Henshaw had available in his arsenal with Clark’s arm still hovering through his chest, and at the last second Terri bumped J’onn out of its path. It seared into her shoulder and sent her flying several metres. The distraction caused Clark’s concentration to slip and allowed Henshaw to slip free from his grasp.

Her breathing weak and laboured, Clark glanced from Terri Henshaw to Hank with a shocked look.

"What have you done?"

Henshaw shook his head.

"You made me hurt her… You forced me to… I’ll kill you for this, I’ll make you feel my pain a hundred times over."

The look of shock on Superman’s face disappeared and was replaced with rage.

"Enough."

Superman tackled Henshaw and slipped his arms through the back of his neck, forcing him into a full nelson, as the Martian Manhunter followed after them. J’onn’s usual loving, kind eyes had too twisted into something colder, harder even, as he passed one of his hands through into Henshaw’s stomach and placed another atop the cyborg’s head.

~You have suffered greatly, Hank Henshaw. I feel your pain, I feel the rage that oozes from your mind like an open wound, but that does not give you license to endanger the lives of the innocent. Your righteous fury is misplaced. You lash out at those that seek to help you, not harm you, and I intend to put an end to that.~

Henshaw writhed and struggled in pain.

"You can't… I… I was designed to destroy you, I can beat you, I can… I’m strong. There’s nowhere you can put me, no place I won’t break free from… I’ll destroy you both. I’ll destroy this whole pl-"

J’onn’s mental assault came to an end and Henshaw slouched in Clark’s arms. He released him and let the cyborg fall to the ground with disdain.

"He will not be unconscious for long. I could feel his powers growing stronger by the second, Superman. They grow every second he spends underneath this yellow sun. We must find a place to house him until we can find him the help he needs."

"I know a place."

Clark made his way to Terri Henshaw and bent to lift her from the ground. He could feel her faint heartbeat in her chest. She needed medical attention and she needed it soon. They would be able to kill two birds with one stone at the Fortress. There Terri could receive her care and Hank could be held safely. The Fortress contained the only cell capable of holding a being of Hank Henshaw’s abilities. Clark had designed it with the help of Reed Richards in case he'd ever gone rogue or fallen under someone's control. He never thought he’d have to use it.

The wounded Terri looked up at Clark with tearful, tired eyes.

"Superman? Is… is Hank okay?"

Clark nodded.

"He’s going to be fine, Terri."

She smiled softly.

"He’s not a bad man."

Clark smiled back at her as he floated through the air towards the Fortress. J’onn remained, stood over the unconscious Hank Henshaw, and stared down at him. Even unconscious, J’onn could feel Henshaw’s rage, the sense of unfairness he felt at having been stranded in space and forgotten about. There was hatred there, real hatred, and sadness too. The feelings came so quickly that they were difficult for the Martian to decipher them. He bent down to pick Henshaw up and stared into his face coolly for a moment. Someone had sent him, J’onn thought to himself, and they had sent him to cause death and destruction. He pressed a finger against Henshaw’s skull and sifted his way through the cyborg’s memory in search of some clue as to who it might be.

There was a flash of pain but J’onn pushed through it. Another flash, this time tinged pink, but the Martian held his nerve and pushed further through the cyborg’s broken mind. Suddenly the pain passed and a figure became clear amidst Henshaw’s foggy thoughts. A green-skinned man sat at a throne with several tubes connected to his skin. There were pink orbs of energy along the man’s regal chest plate and one at the center of his forehead. As J’onn drew nearer to the man he realised the figure was staring directly at him across time and space. The corners of the man’s smile twisted into a bone-chilling smile.

I've been working on designs lately for a new, higher capacity web-shooter to replace my old model. There's nothing wrong with the current ones; it's just that my technical prowess has advanced a bit since high school, y'know? Unfortunately, the parts I need to make this thing a reality don't come cheap, and surprisingly, the spandex act doesn't exactly pay the bills. Luckily, that's why I've got my photographer gig. It all started when the Daily Bugle put out an ad offering a cash reward for pictures of Spider-Man. Never thought "selfie culture" could pay such dividends for me. It ain't exactly a living wage: J. Jonah Jameson is notoriously tightfisted to begin with, and he's got me over a barrel because I refuse to divulge my "trade secret" for how I always find the Webhead in action. But that sword cuts both ways because Jolly Jonah wouldn't dare risk losing my prized photographs to a competitor. So our stalemate means I can usually scrape a few extra bucks for Spidey pics, or more if the Bugle has a freelance job available and needs an extra lens. And today, that's exactly what I'm after.

Located in the heart of Midtown, the Daily Bugle building is a breeze to reach by swing. And in the course of my many comings-and-goings, I've learned that the rooftop access door isn't alarmed. Oh sure, I could use the front door like any other employee, but where's the fun in that? Landing behind the oversized "B" in the rooftop sign, I ditch my mask, boots, and gloves and throw on my civilian clothes over the rest of my costume. And just like that, Spider-Man becomes Peter Parker once more. I bury the extra costume pieces at the bottom of my shoulder bag and head downstairs. I hear the bullpen before I see it: the familiar sounds of frantic typing, printers running, and ringing phones playing like music to my ears. More than just a place to make quick cash or hear about breaking news for Spider-Man's attention, the Bugle is like a second home to me. The hum of the bullpen never ceases to get me amped up.

I've made it no more than three feet inside the door when I hear the bellowing of our "beloved" editor-in-chief. "Save it, Urich! I don't have time for your conspiracy theories today," Jonah growls from around the corner. I can tell by his tone of voice that today's one of those days. I suddenly regret coming here empty-handed. Moments later, Mr. Jameson storms into view, teeth gritted and flanked by Joe "Robbie" Robertson, the Bugle's city editor and the "yin" to Jonah's "yang." Jonah walks fast, barking to anyone who'll listen, "Terrorists are holding S.T.A.R. Labs, Iron Man is currently on the scene, and I want to know why WE DIDN'T BREAK THE STORY!" Before I can lose my nerve and scurry out of view, J.J.'s narrowed eyes fall upon me. "Parker. Leeds tells me that Spider-Man was spotted at the docks last night, cavorting with known criminals. Do you have something for me?"

I bite my lip. In all of last night's excitement, I forgot to set up my automatic camera. I was just hoping Jonah wouldn't hear about the fight with the Enforcers. Rubbing my neck, I avert my eyes and admit, "I don't."

The vein in Jameson's neck tightens. That's never a good thing. He leans forward and, with lowered voice, snarls, "Then stop wasting my time!" With an angered huff, he turns away and stomps towards his corner office.

Before Robbie can turn to follow his boss -- no doubt in an attempt to quell Jonah's rage -- I clear my throat. "Hey, Joe?" He stops to consider me. "I was wondering if you had any assignments today."

"Sorry, Peter," he shrugs. "All I've got is the S.T.A.R. Labs situation, and Bannon's already on the scene." Bannon, a.k.a. Lance Bannon, a.k.a. the Bugle's other photographer. He and I have been known to butt heads. He resents me for usurping his status on the staff, and I dislike him because... well, because he's a pompous jerk, mostly. Shaking his head, Robbie continues, "Sorry to leave you hanging like this, but I've gotta run. One of those days, you know." He claps me on the shoulder before marching off towards Jonah's office, flipping through the folder in his hands as he walks.

I slump my shoulders and find a cubicle wall to lean against. Wow, what a dud of a trip this turned out to be! No job, no paycheck, which means no new web-shooters. And not only that, but Lance Bannon scooped me for the S.T.A.R. Labs hostage crisis, which he'll surely use to weasel his way back into Jameson's good graces! I guess it could've been worse; if Jolly Jonah hadn't been so preoccupied, he would've laid into me even harder for not delivering new pics of Spider-Man. Not like I'm heartbroken to rob him of ammunition for his endless vendetta against my alter-ego. I'm sure he would've found a way to use the pictures to further some agenda about Spider-Man working with the Enforcers.

"Argh! Stupid thing!"

I recognize that voice; and from the sounds of it, she's not having a much better go of it than I am. Shifting the weight of my bag, I wander over in the direction of J. Jonah Jameson's office. There, seated behind the reception desk, is Jonah's personal assistant and the one-time apple of my eye, the lovely Betty Brant. Currently, she's going after her desktop computer with a ferocity matched only by her employer, so she doesn't notice my approach. Over her shoulder, I can see a blank webpage displaying an error code. As she slams the Enter key on her keyboard, she mutters a string of obscenities that would land her in seriously hot water if my Aunt May could hear her now.

"Having trouble?" I ask.

She swings her head around, and her expression softens slightly as she sees me. Still, her brow is furrowed in disgust as she explains, "The website's down, and our webmaster called out sick this morning. When Mr. Jameson finds out, he's gonna blow his top."

I lean in closer, resting a hand on the back of Betty's chair for support and trying not to get distracted by the smell of flowers in her hair. I scan the error message and say, "That's actually an easy enough fix if I can get into your code." She gives me a curious look. "I'm no 'webmaster,' but I know a thing or two about web design. So, how about it? Do you have the administrator password?"

Betty nods and rips off a Post-It note from her desk. After scribbling down the user ID and password, she passes it to me. "You can use Foswell's old cubicle, right over there," she points. Placing a hand on top of mine, she adds, "You're a life-saver, Pete."

I can't help but smirk. If you only knew the half of it, Bets! "I'll give a holler when it's back up." Post-It note in hand, I make my way over to the abandoned cubicle. It clearly hasn't been used except as a staging area since its previous owner died. Poor Frederick Foswell, made to take the fall by the real Big Man and paid the ultimate price for it. I try to banish that thought as I take a seat. It takes some re-positioning of papers and folders to get to the keyboard, but I finally carve out a small workspace. I stick the Post-It to the bottom of the screen and crack my knuckles, getting ready to go to work.

As I predicted, the fix is easy enough. After shouting of my success across the way to Betty, I hit F5 and watch the Bugle homepage load seamlessly. A livestream of the standoff down at S.T.A.R. Labs is positioned front-and-center, but what catches my eye is a short blurb in the corner of the page about Spider-Man's activities from the night before: "SHOOTOUT AT THE DOCKS, SPIDER-MAN AND UNKNOWN VIGILANTE SPOTTED." Of course, I now know that the "unknown vigilante" goes by Spoiler, but it's not like I can tell Jonah or Robbie that. Beyond that, though, the girl is a mystery. I still can't stop thinking about the last thing she said to me: "If you want another clue, you'll have to buy one." It's been lodged in my brain all day. Rubbing my chin, I lean forward and click on the Bugle search bar. I type those words in and hit Enter.

The first result that comes up is a review article. "QUIZBOWL: A TRIVIAL GAME OF TRIVIA." The name instantly registers with me. Quizbowl was a short-lived game show from the '90s. I know because Uncle Ben and I used to watch it every Thursday night when it first aired. Truth be told, I hadn't thought about it in years, but Spoiler's words finally click. It's something the host would say to the contestants: they each started the game with a set number of clues, and once their allotment had run out, they could buy more clues at the cost of some of their winnings. Smiling to myself as the memories come rushing back, I open the review to see what the Bugle to say about the show.

Quizbowl is the newest entry in the world of trivia games and game shows, but if the first episode is any indication, it will have a hard time living up to that lineage. The show operates on a simple enough conceit: participants are quizzed on a series of increasingly difficult trivia questions with a handful of lifelines to help them outpace the competition. Among these, the most valuable are the clues. Each participant starts with the same amount of clues as their competitors, but they are also given the opportunity to "purchase" further clues from the host. This is where Quizbowl's ultimate Achilles' heel presents itself. The host, Arthur Brown, is charismatic enough, but he projects a certain air of condescension when interacting with his guests, as though he wishes to convince all involved that he is the smartest person in the room. This self-proclaimed "cluemaster"...

I stop reading, and my eyes go wide. "Cluemaster." Combined with Spoiler using one of Quizbowl's catchphrases, that can't be a coincidence, can it? Does Spoiler know something about the Cluemaster's true identity? Was she trying to give me a hint, or did she simply let it slip? My mind races with the possibilities. I glance back up at the article and find the host's name again. Arthur Brown. Scrolling back up to the top of the page, I enter the name in a search of the Bugle's archives. The search returns a handful of hits, including the first review and another short article on Quizbowl's cancellation. It's the third result that catches my eye, though. "FORMER GAME SHOW HOST ARRESTED ON ASSAULT CHARGES," the title reads. I instantly open the article.

Arthur Brown, the one-time host of failed game show Quizbowl, was arrested Thursday night on charges of public intoxication, disorderly conduct, and assault. Brown, 42, was escorted out of the Iceberg Lounge in handcuffs after getting involved in a physical altercation with another patron. Officials within the Gotham City Police Department state that the incident began when Brown took offense to a statement made by the unnamed party. The two continued to argue until Brown threw the first punch, according to the other patron. Brown has largely remained out of the public eye since Quizbowl's cancellation. Although sources claim he was forcibly removed from the network's lot on multiple occasions after the announcement, no charges were ever filed.

Alright, so this Arthur Brown is certainly an unstable fellow. That doesn't mean he is the Cluemaster, but it certainly lends more weight to the idea. I glance at the date of the article: 2014. So, this was two years ago in Gotham. What's Arthur Brown been up to since then? I scroll through the other search results, but the only other relevant hit is another blurb following Arthur's trial. I'm about to scroll past when a picture stops me. It's Arthur Brown, looking far more haggard than I remember him from Quizbowl, on his way up some court steps. To his left is a man in glasses that I can only assume is his lawyer, but it's the two ladies on his right that intrigue me. One is a woman about Arthur's age; the other, a young girl with the same golden hair as Arthur himself. I glance at the caption.

Arthur Brown arrives at the Gotham City courthouse accompanied by wife, Crystal, and daughter, Stephanie.

"Stephanie," I mutter to myself. I study the grainy photograph. The picture may be two years old, but it's not hard to imagine the same girl just a little older, a little taller... It would explain her connection to Arthur Brown and Quizbowl, as well as why she's so dead-set on bringing the Cluemaster down. I minimize the tab and bring up a new one, navigating to the white pages. A quick search for Crystal and Stephanie Brown brings up an address downtown. After scribbling it down on the bottom of Betty's Post-It note, I tear off the incriminating half and stuff it inside my jacket pocket. I don't know if I'm onto something or not here, but I intend to find out.

Lynne’s eyes fluttered softly open, as a small, dark room filled her vision. Her back roared in agony, and, when her flesh brushed across the steel beneath her, she felt a fresh scar, and rows of stitches.

Where the hell am I..?

Leather straps bound her wrists and ankles, pulled tightly across her flesh, as she lay spread out across some kind of metal table.

“Even with that slight rusty tinge to it, I found your liver to be quite delicious, little cherubin.The faintest hint of ethanol’s dark taint soured what could have been an impeccable meal, but I must compliment mademoiselle on being leagues above the usual gutter trash which gets sent my way.”

A figure, tall and lean, slipped into Lynne’s vision. His hair was a mess of knotty red tangles, and he wore the flowing white gown of a surgeon, which fluttered about his bony ankles.

But it was his face that left Lynne’s mouth hanging open in horror.

Neither a childhood in Blúdhaven, nor her years as a cop, could prepare Lynne for the mask of warped flesh which gazed down at her. Skin of different tones and hues was pulled back across the figure’s scalp, fused together by intricate needlework.



A thousand burning questions screamed inside Lynne’s skull, but she only managed to choke out four words.

“You ate my liver..?”

“I believe I articulated that quite plainly. Are you simple, little cherubin? I do hope I shan’t have to keep repeating myself.” The figure frowned, glowering down at her like a teacher would at a child who’d forgotten their homework. “Worry not, I replaced your liver with a perfectly adequate substitute; Hence the stitches.”

Lynne could feel bile rising at the back of her throat, and the only thing which kept her from vomiting was the fear of choking on her own tongue.

“Why are you doing this?” She could feel tears pearling beneath her eyes, as her lips quivered limply “I’m a good person.”

“And how long do you think you will remain that way, little cherubin?” The figure cocked his head slightly, regarding her with a look of puzzlement “Once I take away your innards, carve you a new likeness, and mold a fresh soul from the pieces of your old one, will you still be a good person? When do you stop being you, and become something new?”

The corners of the flesh-mask twisted into a jagged mockery of a smile.

“I am the Dollmaker, and you will be my chef-d’oeuvre.”

“Mister Simitiae would have me dispose of you, little cherubin,” The Dollmaker explained, as he made his way over to a trolley of surgical equipment, and picked up a slim syringe. “But what difference does it make if you are no longer you?”

Lynne tried to jolt upwards, struggling against her bounds as she hissed and spat and shrieked.

“Get away from me, you fucking freak!” She snarled, as tears leaked down her cheeks “You take a single step near me and I’ll rip your cock off!”

The Dollmaker chuckled heartily.

“And how will you be doing that, little cherubin? You look quite incapacitated from where I’m standing.”

“My name is Lynne!” She screamed “I’m not your fucking cherubin!”

“Not yet perhaps,” The Dollmaker gave a faint nod “But what if I were to plunge a needle into your frontal lobe and stripped away that foul mouth of yours?”

“You’re sick.” Lynne sobbed limply.

“Antisocial Personality Disorder, as a result of childhood trauma. Do try and keep up, little cherubin.” The Dollmaker smirked, as he strode over to Lynne’s table, and calmly slipped the needle into her arm.

“I hate to use anaesthetics,” The Dollmaker lamented “it takes the life out of the procedure, but I can’t have you thrashing about and runining my good work, so I’ve had to go for a sort of halfway point. The psychedelic will numb your body, make your brain more prone to suggestion, and make you that much more..agreeable.”

That was the last thing Lynne heard, as her world broke away into a tapestry of swirling ribbons. Bells chimed softly against the walls of her skull, as little twinkling lights danced across her eyelids.

It was all so silly. She couldn’t help giggling like a schoolgirl as the Dollmaker began cutting into her flesh.

Justice League Watchtower - United States - Midgard

The headquarters of Thor's compatriots, the Justice League of America, was situated atop a mighty structure belonging to Lex Luthor. Thor did not fully understand the fascination that mortals seemed to have with expanding their material possessions; on Asgard a man was given what befitted their status and desired no more. Thor supposed that, to the residents of Midgard with their finite time in existence, the hunger to expand their fortunes must be hard to resist. No matter, Lex had proven himself an honourable man and a true champion of justice regardless of how others clamoured against him. Should the hairless human want to claim a measure of ownership over the Justice League by erecting its fortress atop his own land Thor would not hold that against him.

The Odinson entered the Watchtower via the main doors. He traversed the building with an air of one who was used to the open area of a large hall and could make his way through a feast with ease. But there was no feast here, the dull tones of Lexcorp walls were as alien to him as the boughs of Yggdrasil would be to any of his colleagues in the League.

Thor made a full circuit of the building before coming to his own chambers. He liked to do this when returning to residence here, it was good to give the mortals who worked here a glimpse of the God in their midst and he liked to ensure all was well before going to rest.

He had made sure to check in with the monitors that alerted the League to the world's woes. For now they were calm. The trouble in Coast City appeared to be abating, thanks in no small part to Thor's compatriots on the scene, he was glad that his early absence had not turned the situation against the remaining members of the Justice League. There was notice of activity in the arctic region of the world but Thor did not pay much attention, there were no settlements that he was aware of in the area so anything occurring would be of little consequence.

Thor felt exhaustion tug at his senses, he had been working hard in the defence of Midgard for close to a week now without rest. His body was more capable of maintaining this pace than others but even he required time to recuperate.

Upon entering his chambers Thor removed his cape and helmet. His quarters were sparse by Asgardian standards: a large bed took up a good portion of the room with a small dresser and table by the other wall. A window illuminated the room and offered a prime view of the city below, Lexcorp buildings were usually the tallest in any given area and the Watchtower was higher still, the people and vehicles below were like ants going about their business. There had been an issue in the early days of the League where the peons in the media had ascended in their flying machines to the skyline right outside Thor's window, the Odinson had barely been able to sleep without images of 'Thor's Homelife' appearing in the news. A few days of gale force winds and thunderous clouds occurring right outside Thor's window had ensured his privacy ever since.

Thor was not a tidy person, he was too used to having servants for cleaning; he smashed mugs, tore curtains and cared not where he slept as long as there was a level surface. As a result his quarters had grown into a comfortable disarray. There had been talk of hiring a cleaner for the Watchtower but after after the fourth attempt by a supervillain to destroy the Justice League from within it had been made clear to Thor that 'servants' were no longer an option. As a result Thor usually ate in public and would confine his carousing to areas better suited for such activities.

Thor picked up a half-empty mug of ale from his table. He had been halfway through a solitary toast when the news of the Wrecking Crew in Star City had come through, he did not toast this time but merely drained the contents of his cup and placed it back carefully onto the table. Allowing Mjolnir to fall from his hand, the God of Thunder fell backwards into the unkept bed and felt his eyes close.

Thor drifted slowly into sleep.

Central City, Missouri
1:14 AM

The bright yellow Hummer pulled up to the side of the street and honked. The horn played La Cucarcha to announce its arrival to the corner crew working the street. From his vantage point Big Tall Manny could sense something wasn't right. He took a bite of his sandwich and watched the passenger window in the Hummer roll down. This was the third time the car rolled through the spot looking to cop. The car people that rolled through mostly copped coke, nothing more than an eightball here and there, enough to last the middle class college kids the night. But this was the third time they came through looking for half a key of coke. Big Tall Manny finished his sandwich and wiped the crumbs on his pant legs.

The five-man crew he managed were among the best dealers in Central City. The men they worked for never had to come down here to beat somebody's ass for skimming money or product. The count was never short because he knew how to handle his boys. He motivated and inspired them, pushed them to keep going and keep making money. In another life, he would have made one hell of a sales manager at some car dealership. But he was a black man born and raised in America. It was a miracle that he was twenty-five and still hadn't seen the inside of a jail cell.

Rico, the youngest member of his crew at twelve, flashed a hand signal at him from across the street. He held up two fingers three times, their sign that they needed more product. The stash for that night sat in a large gym bag in a hollowed out section underneath the stoop Big Tall Manny sat on. He was the only one who went in to get more product. Anybody tampered with it or even went for it, no matter who, he pulled the 9MM in his waistband. That was what the big businessmen with their MBAs called "asset control" and "loss prevention", ten dollar words to describe something that was common sense to a lowly dealer from the eastside.

Big Tall Manny was in the process of getting the coke out the duffle bag when he felt something sharp stick him in the lower back.

"Alright, mate."

He spun around and saw a man with a--

"Fucking green ski mask?"

The man snarled and hit Big Tall Manny across the face with the barrel of a pistol. Manny slammed against the stoop and fell down. Blood dripped from his face but he could see some guy with a... boomerang... holding his crew at bay.

"Thanks, mate," the man in the skimask said gleefully as he ran towards the Hummer with the gymbag around his shoulder. He got in while the guy with the boomerang jumped into the driver's side.

"Spread the word," the guy with the boomerang announced to Big Tall Manny and his boys. "This is what happens to people who have something Captain Boomerang and Mirror Master want!"

The Hummer burned rubber and squealed off down the street. Even though it was dark and his vision was blurry, Big Tall Manny saw the license plate. It was a paper tage for a brand new car. He remembered the car's make, color, and gaudy accessories like the horn and the spinning rims. The people he worked for would be able to track it down in record time.

"Yo," Rico said with a look at the rest of the crew. "Did we just get robbed by cosplayers?"

---

La Araña Discoteca
3:52 AM

Nigh on four in the morning and the nightclub was still in full swing. Latin techno thumped through the speakers in time with the flashing strobe lights that showed snatches of bodies in motions. A mass of human flesh moved in time with the music and the lights. In the middle of the dancing, writhing clubbers was Digger Harkness. He was coked up and out of his mind, just like he liked it. Across from him, Evan McCullough was grinding against some half-naked club kid and grinning widly. Digger smiled. McCullough was the only one in the group that understood him. Snart and Rory were too obsessed with being pros to let loose while Dillon was aloof and Rhino was a moron. There was something there with McCullough that Digger recognized. They were both ex-pats in America, both had hard upbringings that they tried hard to escape. This was part of that escape.

Snart liked to rag him for his debauchary, but he just couldn't understand that this was how he and McCullough were. They spent anything they made as soon as they could, they ate and drank and lived like there was no tomorrow because for nearly their entire life there was no tomorrow. Growing up, every new day for Digger had been a challenge. He never knew where his next meal would come from, where he would sleep that night, and how he would make it to the next day. To people like Snart it was impulsive, but to Digger and McCullough it was just instinct. They robbed the drug stash because they could, and who the fuck could actually stop them? Nobody. That was what Snart didn't realize. The six of them could run this town if they had the balls. But all Snart wanted to do was rob. That was going to change soon if Digger had his way. The days of living hand to mouth were over thanks to the bank robbery. Now it was time to make a legacy as kingpins of the city.

Digger felt a hand on his mouth in the dark, followed by something hard and metal against his temple.

"Harkness," Dean Swarbrick said in his ear.

Through the strobe lights, Digger saw Johnny Frost doing the same thing to McCullough.

"You have fucked up big time, Harkness. Big Tall Manny sends his regards."

---

6:30 AM

"Do you come from a land down under? Where women glow and men plunder? Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder? You better run, you better take cover."

Lenny Snart and Michelle Rory had just gotten to sleep good when her cellphone started to ring. Snart grunted and rolled over as Rory climbed out of bed and groped for the phone. Snart rolled his eyes and sighed. Fucking Harkness probably had some bullshit scam he was trying to pull in the middle of the night all coked up and not thinking straight.

"What, Digger?" Rory grumbled. "The fuck... wait. Len--"

She hit the speakerphone button. Snart listened, but sat up when he realized what he was hearing.

"We've got Harkness and his little Scottish buddy. You've nine hours to return every single penny you stole from the Top or we'll kill both of them and then proceed to track you all down and kill you. Tick-tock."

---

The house itself was nothing special, it was just a regular sub-urban house. Though the last one of these missions the Professor had sent him on it had been a regular farm house. The difference this time was that he didn't need to worry about Ruth as she was on the train back to New York and then onto Weschester. So as he stood outside the house he took a deep breath, hopefully this time it would be simple. Go into house, find the mutant, leave with mutant. Not every mission would have complications, right? He walked up the steps and knocked on the door. The door pulled open a tiny fraction as an elderly old woman looked around the door.

"Yes?" You could hear the age in her voice, she was likely about the same age as his Grandmother. Her eyes widened when she saw Piotrs steel form, standing over six foot tall, outside her door. "What is it you want?"

"I am sorry to disturb you. However I am a representative from the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. I am here looking for-" He looked down at a piece of paper he was holding in his hand. "-Sarah Lester? I would like to talk to her about a position at the school." The old woman nodded. Taking a step back Piotr waited as the door was closed, before a series of clicks and chunks declared that the door had been unlocked. Walking into the hall Piotr looked around. "You have a lovely home."

"Yes, yes. This way." If Piotr had been an untrusting man, that would have been the moment he had sensed something off. However the person that he was, he just thought nothing on it as they continued up the stairs where they entered a smalling living space. "Take a seat." Piotr nodded his thanks as he went to stand beside the window.

"I would feel it best to stand, I would rather not ruin any of your furniture." The elderly woman merely shrugged as she walked through a door into a dimly lit room. Piotr couldn't see what was going on so merely turned his attention to look out the window. It was a lovely day, the sun was shining and everything seemed so peaceful. Maybe his luck was on the up.

Then he heard the door behind him open, he turned with a smile on his face which immediatly disappeared as he noticed a man in black robes standing in the doorway. He had a white cross on his robes, trailing down to his feet and some form of weapon in his hands. "What-" Piotr barely got a word out before a beam of energy hit im in the chest. Burning a hole in the middle of his shirt and casting him out the window. Crashing into a car the roof crumpled under his weight.

"O, Bozhe" He muttered. He rolled off the car roof glass clattering as it broke. He stood up with a woman looking at the building he just flew out of. "They are not the most friendly sort, I would recommend you leave this street."

“And how are we today, little cherubin?”

How long had she been here? Days? Weeks?Months?It had all blended together into one messy tapestry of blood and pain.

The Dollmaker finished mucking about with his equipment, and strode elegantly over to Lynne’s table, his shoes clacking loudly against the cold stone floor.

“I do believe it is time for mademoiselle to gaze upon the metamorphosis of the flesh which she has been privy to.” There was something different in the Dollmaker’s voice today. His words were quick instead of calculated, full of child-like mirth. The facade of refined elegance remained, but it was joined by the bubbly excitement of a young boy who wanted his parents to watch him do a backflip.

The Dollmaker held up a vintage mirror, biding Lynne to take a look at her transformed self.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to grab hold of the Dollmaker and snap his fucking throat.

Skin, not her skin, was pulled tightly across her scalp, wrought into her own face. Hooks and stitches ran through her likeness, binding the two sets of flesh together. Thick, jagged, cuts ran through the raw redness beneath, turning her features into a crooked mess of deep marks and gashes.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

She couldn’t let her horror show. If she wanted to escape, she had to love her new face.

“Its beautiful.” She said, the corners of her twisted mouth forming a strained grin.

“Oh, sweet cherubin!” The Dollmaker beamed, his face lighting up “How long I have waited to meet one which truly appreciates my muse! Such brilliance can only go unappreciated for so long!”

“The texture is...exquisite.” She managed.

“Isn’t it just?! To blend flesh together, so seamlessly! To craft dolls of flesh and sinew!”

“Might I...feel it?” Her voice was weak and hoarse, little more than a croaky whisper.

“Why, of course, sweet cherubin!” The Dollmaker exclaimed joyously, his body swaying “to feel flesh against flesh! Is anything in life half so sweet?!”

His gnarled hands slipped down to her wrists, steadily unfastening the leather buckles which held her arms in place.

“Take care to really linger on the-”

Lynne’s hand shot forwards, grabbing hold of the Dollmaker’s throat, and digging her nails into the scarred flesh of his neck. His eyes went wide, and he started to gag and thrash about, beating wildly at her side as he fought to free himself from her grasp. Her body was raked in cuts and bruises, and every time the Dollmaker struck her it sent a fresh spasm of pain shrieking through her flesh, yet somehow she conjured the strength to endure.

He went limp, his eyes lolled back, and he fell to the floor, with jagged trails of blood seeping down from where her nails had bitten into him.

Lynne lay there, as though she were dead, puffing and pating on her back for some time. Once she had the energy, the young woman steadily began unfastening the straps which bound her, and eased herself up off of the table.

She gazed down at the Dollmaker’s unconscious form. I should kill him. I should cave his skull in with my foot and let him bleed out. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t stay and exact her vengeance. She needed to get as far as way as she could from this place. She needed to leave before he woke up.

---

Having owned a bondage shop in one of the most crime-ridden cities in all of the United States for the best part of three years, Douglas Zukauskas was used to seeing some weird shit. Quite literally, in regards to some of his more out-going regulars. However, the woman with a face like a rack of uncooked ribs who came stumbling through Douglas’ door was still a bit of a shock.

“Holy shit, are you okay?!” He called out from behind the counter. He didn’t want to come across as mocking her injuries, but she looked genuinely frantic and scared.

“P-Please, help me…” She croaked.

“You stay right there, love,” he said as softly as he could “I’ll ring an ambulance.”

Douglas pulled out his mobile and began to dial 911, but the woman called out.

“No! No...ambulance.”

“Jesus, love, you look like yer on death’s door,” He rushed out from behind the counter, ready to support her “please let us get you to a doctah’.”

Douglass leaned down, about to slide his arm through hers, when suddenly she grabbed hold of his pulse point and forced him to the ground.

“What the fu-”

Her boot-clad foot smashed into his jaw, and then he was lying on his back, as searing agony ripped through every cell in his body.

“I’m sorry, you seem like a good guy,” he heard her say, as pain overcame him, and his eyelids began to drift shut “but I don’t know how far Simitiae’s influence extends, and I can’t risk going back there.”

---

Once the shopkeeper had blacked out, Lynne made her way behind the counter, and began rummaging through the various cabinets which were hidden there. She fished $500 in notes out of the register, which she stuffed into the her jacket's pockets, and found a Beretta AL391 stashed away in a compartment.

Shotgun and cash in tow, Lynne took a look around the store’s various shelves.

Gear, gags, and gizmos lined the walls, accompanied by raunchy magazines and bull whips.

But it was one particular piece which caught Lynne’s attention.

A suit of black latex and red leather, with what looked like a painted gimp mask all done up with make up, stood on a podium nearby.

“I suppose we’ve all got to experiment…” Lynne muttered to herself, as she began to strip down and change.

“I’m coming for you, asshole.”

Ivy took a moment to stare at the man picking himself off a ruined car. The fact he was metal, or metal-ish made her stare. She had seen mutants and other metas on her travels, but nothing like him. Though he must have noticed because he looked at her and spoke.

"They are not the most friendly sort, I would recommend you leave this street."

The thick accent gave her a little pause as she looked at him. She looked at him for a second longer. Then she remembered why she was here. She remember Sarah. Whom she had forgotten for a moment and the rage was back full force. Without actually replying she looked back up at the window he had come through and then checked her address. While she was looking down at her writing she heard someone from the now broken window.

"Begone foul Mutant!" A man's voice cried. Ivy's head snapped back up to see a robed man, his face hidden, pointing a unique looking gun at the man by the car. Ivy instantly recognized the voice. David. Her rage, barely in check, bubbled over.

"David! You Bastard!" Ivy shouted up. She didn't have any idea what was going on. But that didn't matter. All she wanted was Sarah. The robed man jerked in surprise and he turned his weapon on Ivy. With the new angle Ivy could somewhat see his face.

Manic. Ivy's mind supplied. He's gone mad. Or maybe he was always mad, she just hand't seen it before.

"What did you do with her?!" Ivy demanded, paying the gun no heed. Or at least that was the appearance she had given. She could feel a plant in the apartment. It wasn't large, but it was enough. She was feeding it energy and directing it towards David. Soon it would be close enough to wrap around an arm, maybe his throat, she just needed to keep his distracted. Not an easy thing when apparently he wanted to kill someone.

By the Pond, the Park, Midgard

It was a glorious day! The yellow orb that was Earth's sun gleamed down upon the pond where all the animals gathered. As the central point of the park the pond was the perfect place for all to come to share their news; and what news it was!

"A man came along today and threw a ball for me!" Barked Doggy the Dog.
"Some children sat by my tree to admire my shiny fur!" Squeaked Squirrelly the Squirrel.
"I caught three flies today, I ate them all!" Sang Spidery the Spider.
And the ducks in the pond quacked merrily for, as everyone knows, ducks cannot talk!

There in the pond on a well placed lily-pad stood Thor! He stood regally, just as he'd seen the humans do, it was important that he look as regal as possible on such a special day. Everyone around him knew that he would keep them safe when no one else could and today was the day he would be rewarded. Today was the day that he would be made King of the Pond! He inhaled sharply through his nostrils and struck another pose.



But then, a flicker of trouble caught his bulbous eye. Slinking toward his lily-pad were two sets of eyes; they were just above the water and accelerating towards him with an evil glimmer. Thor hefted Frogjolnir and croaked a battlecry. At this, the eyes rose up to reveal scales, teeth and not much else. The eyes belonged to a pair of crocodiles who were clearly attempting to try their luck; with a reptilian hiss their jaws snapped open and came down hard upon the lily-pad where Thor stood.

Only Thor was no longer there! Seeing his danger he had jumped with his powerful legs and had landed atop the head of one of the fierce crocodiles. Eyeing his audience of park animals Thor attempted a quick jig on the scaly hide of the crocodile but was forced to make another leap when its associate lunged for him.

Jumping to the edge of the pond, Thor called upon the elements to loose a bold of lightning, leaping to attack his foes Thor let out one mighty croak and brought his hammer down-



Thor's Quarters, Justice League Watchtower, Midgard

Thor awoke with a shout, whatever dream he had been experiencing had clearly been a terrible one. His heart raced and, reaching to his forehead, Thor found a layer of sweat that was new to him.

"Sleep well?"

Thor jerked his head towards the voice, by his window in the corner of the room stood a figure; the curves of the figure coupled with the voice itself suggested a feminine presence. Then the figure stood forward into the light and was revealed to be-



"Amora." Thor reached out his hand and willed Mjolnir to him, his hand remained empty. He looked down to where Mjolnir stood unmoving.

"Oh don't worry about your little toy." Amora purred, "I'd just rather things stay civil."

Thor struggled to still his breathing, whatever his dream had been it had clearly left a mark. "Why are you here? We have nothing to discuss."

Amora walked still closer to Thor, for a moment he wondered if she intended to join him in the bed, he could not decide whether that worried or pleased him. As if sensing his thoughts, the Enchantress perched at the end of his bed but seemed content to remain there. It took all Thor's strength not to reach out for her.
"Nothing to discuss?" She affected mock surprise, "My dear Odinson I'd have thought we have plenty to discuss."
She leaned in closer towards him, "We're the only ones here Thor, Asgard's shut its doors, no one else is coming." Reaching out, Amora brushed a lock of Thor's long hair back and took his face in her hands. "That leaves us with some..." She leaned in and whispered directly into Thor's ear, "opportunites."

Thor did not know how she had gotten quite so close but could not quite work up the conviction to move away. After all this time it was good to be in close proximity to another of his kind, to bask in the presence of a fellow God and forget about all of his responsibilities.

"You and I Thor, we're two of a kind. Enough to make the very Heavens themselves shake."

"You're..." Thor breathed unsteadily, "criminal..."

The Enchantress snapped back, she fixed him with a scowl before rising and stepping off the bed. For the barest of moments Thor's arm lifted as though to stop her. He scolded himself internally, trying to shake the cloud that had come into his thinking.

"And what are you?" Her voice was harder now, "Exiled down to Midgard, to this stable of a realm. Rescuing humans from their little squabbles." She tutted in exasperation, "This is work for a herder, not a Prince of the Realms!"

Thor blinked repeatedly, trying to form a coherent argument, it had made sense until now but everything Amora was saying...she was right.

"You are correct," he finally said slowly, "This is not a prince's work. But I am no longer a prince." His eyes lit up as he registered the truth of his words. "I am just another exile, like you, but unlike you I will not act upon my every whim!"

The Enchantress gestured and a flash of light caught Thor's attention, he looked to the window and stifled a gasp. The city outside was burning!

"I tried to be fair Odinson," Amora seethed, "Ever since you appeared on Midgard I have given you every chance to join me as the rulers this filthy little Realm needs."

"By plotting my death?" Thor demanded, "By arming witless humans in misguided attempts to attract my attention?" He shook his head, "You are an embarrassment."

"Not everything's about you Thor. I gave mortals the abilities of greater beings just to see if I could."

Thor reached out once more and this time Mjolnir flew to his open hand. "I will not allow you to continue using these mortals. Whatever you have planned, end it now and then we can perhaps discuss our future."

Our future? He had not meant to say that, especially as they barely even had a 'past'.

The Enchantress appeared to think for a moment, "Tempting but no. I've too much invested already."

Thor flew out of bed with a roar, Mjolnir in a mighty swing that would render his fellow Asgardian unconscious, Amora merely smiled.

"Ta ta my love."

Thor's Quarters, Justice League Watchtower, Midgard

Thor awoke with a start, Mjolnir flew to his hand and he prepared to do battle. But the room was empty. He quickly jerked his head to the window but the only light entering the room was from the morning sun that shone blissfully upon the city below.

All of it, a dream?

Thor relaxed back into his bed, he knew that Amora's powers were vast but had never experienced them in such a way before, could she really engage with him in his sleep? Or had it been a vision perhaps, a sign of things to come?

Regardless, Thor would have to track his foe down, he sensed that she was about to start something terrible. Would any of his fellows in the Justice League be willing to lend him their aid? He doubted that events in a dream would be enough to convince them of the seriousness of his situation. No, this was a matter he would have to put to rest himself. Despite everything, Thor smiled, he had not slept so well in months.

---

The Flash Museum
Distant Future

A police hovercar passes overhead as the shadowy figure kneels low to the ground. He waits until the car has passed before slowly standing and continuing towards the eastern perimeter wall. The walls surrounding the museum grounds are accompanied by six-foot tall hedges, perfect for anyone attempting to make an unnoticed approach. Upon reaching the corner of the wall, the figure presses his back to the hedges and dares a glance around the courtyard. The largely open space presents a most serious challenge for reaching the front door of the museum. Periodically spaced lamps throw light across the grounds while security drones silently travel pre-determined routes overhead. The man reaches into his pocket, feeling his fingers wrap around a tiny remote. He points it at the nearest lamp, and with a click, the light is extinguished. Crouching, the figure darts through the shadowed space, pausing to let a drone pass before disabling the next lamp and advancing.

Finally, through careful navigation of the maze of lamps and drones, the figure reaches the exterior wall of the museum. He glances upwards at the domed security cameras. Though it's much too dark to make out their movement, he knows the timing by heart. Silently counting to himself, the man waits until the blind spot in camera coverage presents itself. He swiftly dashes for the front door, extinguishing the overhead lamps. The door is locked, but he has come prepared. Producing a new device from his pocket, the figure places it against the door and begins the sequence. There's a whirring of electronics before the door clicks open. Retrieving the device, he quickly ducks inside before a security drone or another passing hovercar spots him.

In the darkness of the museum's octagonal vestibule, a colossal shape looms. Hands on hips and sporting a smile cast in bronze, the twenty-foot statue of Barry Allen -- a.k.a. the Flash -- stands guard and welcomes visitors to the museum erected in his honor. 'Would he be smiling if he could see me?' the figure wonders bitterly. He shakes the thoughts from his mind. He has come tonight with a purpose, and he cannot let his emotions distract him. Having no need for a map, the man walks with purpose down the Main Exhibit Hall. On either side, trophies from the Flash's countless adventures adorn the walls, but the figure pays them no mind. Tonight, he's after a trophy of a different kind. Near the back of the hall, he finds the door he needs. "Employees Only past this point," an adjacent sign reads. The man again turns to his lockpicking device.

This is uncharted territory. Until now, the man had only seen the public side of the museum. Still, he has studied the floor plans and is confident he knows where to go. Even in the dim, overnight lighting, he navigates the much smaller hallways with ease. After descending a flight of stairs to the basement, the figure finally arrives at the archives: the room where all uncatalogued exhibits are stored. He knows he will find his prize here, if he finds it at all. Row after row, shelf after shelf, unmarked boxes extend the considerable length of the room. With a sigh, the man cracks his knuckles and prepares for the search.

Central City
Present Day

Wednesday afternoon brings a fresh crime scene: robbery/homicide at a pawn shop. The call comes in while I'm in the Crime Lab, and I volunteer so I can stretch my legs. There are two squad cars parked out front when I arrive. Among the officers standing around the scene is my roommate Vin. Upon seeing me, he wraps up his conversation with the other uniformed officers and approaches me. "Hey, Barr," he says by way of greeting. His eyes narrow, and he nods towards the protein bar in my hand. "That another one of your 'special' bars, the ones without labels? I've always been curious to know what's in 'em. You're munching on one practically every time I see you."

What's in 'em, Vin? Oh, about ten thousand calories, give or take. During those first few days after getting my powers, I felt extremely lightheaded and weak. It didn't take Dr. Wells long to realize that my supercharged metabolism was burning through calories faster than I could take them in. So he developed these calorie-dense protein bars to help take the edge off. I've still got a voracious appetite, but at least I'm not in constant risk of passing out. "I'd offer you one, but they've got walnuts so I know you can't have them," I lie. Truth be told, I don't know what would happen if someone with a normal metabolism ate one of these, and I'm not itching to find out.

"Walnuts are fine. It's cashews that I'm allergic to," Vin explains.

"Oh. Well... it's got those, too," I add quickly. I finish the rest of the bar and sanitize my hands before approaching the scene. The door to the pawn shop is cordoned off with tape. I duck beneath it and get my first look inside. There's a crime scene photographer crouched behind the counter where the dead cashier's body lays. At the feet of the body, the business end of a pump-action shotgun sticks out conspicuously. I scan the floor of the shop, noting the shards of broken glass and the various crime scene markers. The shelves on the far wall are shredded in a pattern consistent with a shotgun blast. Looks like the shopkeeper tried to defend himself before he went down.

As I circle the scene, I spot a mark beneath some broken glass. I bend low and take out a pen from my pocket, gently pushing the glass pieces aside. Feeling Vin hovering over my shoulder, I decide to explain before he can ask, "It's some kind of scuff mark." I lean in a little closer. "Too smudged for a clean tread, but the pattern appears to be some kind of combat boot with a rubber sole." I set down my bag next to me and unzip the smallest compartment. There, I find my ruler. Lining it up with the scuff, I report, "Looks to be about a size... ten? Ten and a half? Hard to tell with an incomplete mark."

Vin just nods and jots down what he can on his notepad. His radio crackles, and he takes a step back to listen to the call going out. "10-4," he answers when Dispatch finishes. As he returns, he explains, "Sorry, Barr. We've gotta run. The Rainbow Raiders are hitting the First National Bank right now."

"Sure. Be safe." I stand up straight and watch as Vin and his partner hop in their car. Once they leave, I pick up my bag and make for the back door of the pawn shop. With one last glance to ensure that no one's watching, I slip out the door into the alleyway behind the shop. There, I have the privacy to slip on my ring and press the release button. In a flurry of motion, I slip into my friction-proof suit and cowl. The Rainbow Raiders are small-time, but Flash can bring an end to the conflict far quicker and more painlessly than the CCPD. I take off for the First National Bank, passing Vin's squad car as I go.

As I arrive at the bank, I'm greeted by a strange scene. The Rainbow Raiders are there alright, but they've already been subdued and piled on top of one another outside. Before I can begin to speculate about who -- or what -- took them down for me, the answer presents itself. In a blur of motion, another speedster appears at the base of the First National Bank's steps, holding the last remaining Raider, Indigo, under his arm. His costume is not dissimilar to my own; in fact, it's clear that he took heavy inspiration from the Flash. With a proud smile, the speedster drops Indigo with the others and zooms across the street to meet me. "Flash, you have no idea what an honor this is. I have admired you for a long time."

"Looks like it," I answer diplomatically. I shake the speedster's extended hand and continue, "Seems like I should be the one admiring you. Central City didn't need me today, thanks to you."

He laughs with a hint of nervousness behind it. "Don't give me too much credit. I was just trying to live up to your example. I believe there's a lot you can teach me about using the Speed Force."

The mention of the Speed Force catches me off-guard. "You know about the Speed Force?" I ask.

"I know a lot more than that," he winks. "You see, I'm from the 25th Century. I've come back in time to learn from you, to become your partner! My name is Eobard Thawne, but you can call me -- PROFESSOR ZOOM!"