AndyC

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

I gotta ask: how many anime-babe avatars have you gone through?

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

You rang?

@Simple Unicycle

I mean, this is a thing now, so.....

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

As a Mach cone ripples the air in front of me, I see the pillar of smoke billowing up into the sky before I even see the skyline of Metropolis. A few seconds later, I’m diving down below rooftop level, heading towards the devastation in the middle of Hob’s Bay. I hear sirens from within the thick walls of smoke, and more on their way. I hear crackles and pops of electricity, like power cables on the ground. And I hear screams.

Hob’s Bay is a mostly residential district, particularly for lower-income families. It’s better off than Southside, known to the locals as the “Suicide Slum,” but it’s hardly the most high-end part of the city. Normally, in the event of an attack, the usual targets would be a few blocks east in New Troy, home to the major tech firms and the financial district. Whoever’s doing this likely isn’t interested in money or hardware, then. Chances are they just wanted to get my attention.

I’ll have to remind them to be careful what they wish for.

Peering through the thick blanket of smoke, I see people calling out for help. An older man is lying on the pavement, pinned under a fallen street light. A couple is trapped inside an overturned car, calling out for someone to let them out. An apartment building is engulfed in flames, and on one of the top floors, a family of four huddles in the corner, choking on smoke.

There are hundreds of other people ducked behind cover, out of harm’s way for the moment. There are a few others lying in the street, hanging out of broken windows, or in the seats of their cars, who aren’t moving at all. I’m too late to save them, but I can at the very least bring their killer or killers to justice.

First things first, the family in the burning apartment building. I fly up to the floor they’re on, and focus my vision to see into the building. The upper floors have suffered major damage, and could collapse on themselves at any minute. The fire hasn’t spread to the family’s apartment itself, but smoke has filled the place and rubble has blocked the door. I’ll have to bring them down to ground level myself.

I find a spot in the wall that’s far from the structural supports, and burst through into their living room.

“Is ever--” is all I’m able to get out before the sudden rush of fresh oxygen from the outside causes a backdraft, filling the apartment with a wave of flames. As the fire rushes towards the family, I speed towards them, holding my cape out to my sides to create as wide of a shield as I can.

The fire washes over me, and I grit my teeth. The family screams, but looking down to them I can see they’re relatively safe as my cape--and my own body-- take the heat for them. Still, that was reckless, Clark. There’s got to be a safer way to do this.

Most of the flash-fire burns itself out in a few short seconds, but even so, the smoke is thicker than ever, the heat unbearable. I need to get them out of here now, before it gets worse.

“Sorry about that,” I say, throwing my cape around to fan away as much of the smoke as I can.

"सुपरमैन! भगवान का शुक्र है!" the father exclaims. “आपको हमें बाहर ले जाना चाहिए! कृपया, बच्चों को पहले बाहर निकालो!”

My Hindi isn’t very good, but I’m able to pick out the words “children first.” I nod, and pick up the two children, a boy and a girl both elementary school age, and with a couple of long strides, leap from the window. I’m still not exactly the most gentle in the air, so our descent is more or less a freefall before I hit the brakes for the past few yards. The kids scream and cry, but at least they’re safe. I set them down on a stoop across the street, reassure them the best I can with what little I can speak of their language.

“तुम यहाँ इंतज़ार करो, मुझे माँ मिलती है,” I say, roughly meaning ‘you wait here, I get mother.’ I’m sure I sound like a caveman to them, but it’s the best I can do at the moment. Taking a few steps away from them so they don’t get caught in my gravitational wake, I hurl myself back upwards into the apartment, and appear again a few seconds later with their mother, then go back again for their father.

As I touch down with their father around my arm, the apartment building’s roof and upper floors begin to topple in on themselves, crushing their home beneath several tons of rubble. The kids begin to cry again, while their mother tries to comfort them.

“धन्यवाद, सुपरमैन, बहुत बहुत धन्यवाद!” the father thanks me. “हम वहां फंस गए थे, उस भयानक महिला ने हमें बिजली के साथ हमला किया!”

Again, my Hindi’s not great, but I’m able to pick out a few words. “Trapped,” “horrible woman,” and “lightning.” I get a sinking feeling in my gut with the last one, as I start to think of who might be behind this.

“सुरक्षित जाओ,” I say, which I’m pretty sure is just ‘go safe.’ Still, despite sounding like I’m doing a bad impression of Frankenstein’s monster, the father nods, and starts to herd his family towards a staircase down the street leading to an underground subway station.

With that out of the way, next priority is the old man trapped under the street light. Getting him free from underneath is simple enough, as I’m able to lift the pole with one hand and set it aside. Moving him, though, is another story-- his leg has been smashed to pulp.

“Aaagh, aww God!” he cries out when I try to move him. “I can’t--I can’t move!”

“Okay,” I say, trying not to crowd him, “I’m gonna find a way to get you to a doctor, all right?”

Still clutching at his leg in agony, the man nods. Not far from here, I hear the sound of ambulance sirens, so that’s encouraging. With paramedics in the area, I hopefully won’t have to fly him all the way to the hospital. Still, I can’t carry him in his current state.

Looking around, I see a construction site, and a dump truck parked at the curb. Perfect.

I don’t fly so much as make a long jump to the site, cracking the pavement beneath my feet when I land. Heading to the back of the dump truck, I grab hold of the tailgate, my fingers sinking into the steel like clay, and with one good heave and a loud screech of twisting metal, I pull it off the hinges.

Carrying the tailgate back to the old man, I set it down next to him. “I’m going to get you to someone who can help,” I tell him, “but to do that, I need to move you onto this, like a stretcher. It’s probably going to hurt a bit, but it’s better than leaving you here.”

“Right,” the man says, “I gotcha.”

With a grunt of strain and gritted teeth, he slides himself onto the makeshift stretcher. I grab one end of it.

“Hold on tight,” I tell him. He nods, and grabs the edge of the tailgate. I raise the end of it up just enough that I can get under it, then lift it onto my back, and take to the air as delicately as I can.

Normally, I’m able to just force my way through the air without much trouble, but moving slowly actually requires a lot more energy. I think it’s a matter of how much I have to focus on my body and whatever-- or in this case, whoever-- I’m carrying, and the greater amount of concentration I have to exert, the greater the strain it has on me. If lifting a huge object while airborne feels like keeping all of my muscles flexed at once, this is like having to do that while also building a house of cards.

By the time I’m able to find the ambulance and set him down so the paramedics can treat him, I’ve got a splitting headache.

“Thanks,” the man says with some relief, “you’re a lifesaver. I didn’t think I had chance. That blue-haired woman just came outta nowhere.”

I frown, as he confirms my suspicions. If it really is her, more than this neighborhood might be in danger.

I head back to the street to find the couple in the overturned car. This one should be easy, just turn the car upright and--

KRA-KOOOOOOM!!!!!!

“NO!” I shout as the car explodes, arcs of cerulean lightning dancing in the smoke and fire.

“Therrrre you are,” says a voice from inside the plumes of fire. “I was startin’ to worry you wouldn’t show. But now I got my chance to get back at you fer puttin’ me away.”

Emerging from the inferno is a woman, with gray skin and electric blue hair standing up in spikes. She has a playful grin on her face, but her eyes burn with a searing hatred. Electrical sparks crackle and pop from her hands.

A few months ago, Leslie Willis was an activist and local media personality, riding the same sort of “Beware the Superman” narrative that people like G. Gordon Godfrey like to spin. She held a rally in Centennial Park, which quickly turned into a riot. I tried to intervene when someone in the crowd pulled a gun and opened fire, hitting an electrical generator next to Willis and causing it to explode. It should have killed her on the spot, but the combination of my getting in the way at the last split-second to take most of the voltage and her own latent meta-gene awakening transformed her into a being made of electrical plasma.

Blaming me for what happened, she declared Leslie Willis to be dead-- killed by Superman-- and in her place was her new identity…..

“Livewire,” I scowl, balling up my fists and getting ready for a fight.

“Nice to see you too, Superman,” she sneers, forming balls of plasma around her hands. “Now how’s about you an’ me have ourselves a dance?”

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

"You'll have to excuse me," says the man with graying red hair and moustache as he paces behind his desk. "I don't really like talking to the press. The GCPD's already made an official statement, and normally I'd leave it at that. But in your case, I made an exception."

Captain James Gordon, a man about the age my own dad would have been, has an air of seemingly perpetual concern and exasperation, a man who knows the rules and believes in them but is always surprised when someone breaks them. His brow is furrowed so deeply I could almost swear they were sculpted in place. There seems to be an "I'm getting too old for this" or a "Jesus, I need a smoke" hanging off the tip of his tongue at all times.

In the far corner of the office, a bookish young woman in a wheelchair--Gordon's daughter, I was told-- types away at her computer, seemingly too engrossed in her own work to give us any mind.

"And why's that?" I ask, taking the bait. "Why make the exception for me?"

"Because of who you work for," Gordon answers. "The Daily Planet. I don't get a whole lot of time to sit down and read the papers anymore, and when I do, admittedly, it's usually the Gazette. But your paper's got quite the reputation these days. Whenever people think of the Planet, they think of people in capes and tights doing crazy, impossible things. You've become the unofficial voice of Superman and everyone like him."

"To be fair, plenty of other news outlets cover metahuman activities," I say.

"True," Gordon admits, "but none of them catch the public's attention the same way. Everyone knows that J. Jonah Jameson and G. Gordon Godfrey are cheap sensationalism, scare tactics to rile up an audience. But the Planet plays it straight, or at least they pretend to. Sure, you talk about the damage these super-people cause, but you also point out the people they save, almost keeping score. And that, in a way, might actually be worse."

"How so?" I say, trying not to be offended. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the red-headed girl at the corner desk scrunch her nose, apparently annoyed by her father's stance as well.

"Let's say Superman gets into a brawl in the middle of Metropolis," Gordon continues. "Smashes another killer robot, saves the day. That's all well and good, and people start wanting to be more like him. A couple of weeks later, we've got the Bat-Man snapping limbs and shooting mobsters with their own guns. A few people start to raise concerns, but nobody dies so everyone turns a blind eye to it. Not long after that, the Punisher guns down a dozen people in New York. At this point, people start justifying it, saying that it's okay because his victims were all gangsters and drug dealers. As long as the perpetrator is seen by the public as the 'good guy' and the people he's thrashing are painted as 'bad guys,' all of his actions are seen as justified. No matter how many people get hurt, no matter how much damage is done, no matter how crazy the world becomes."

"And you think the Daily Planet is to blame for this perception?"

Gordon sits and ponders for a moment, choosing his words carefully.

"Not completely," he says. "Not even mostly, I'd say. But people trust the Planet in a way that they don't trust your competitors. Your words carry a lot of weight. And I think it'd go a long way if you'd tell people what's going on here."

Trying to read his expression, I get the impression that he's a man reaching the end of his rope, feeling himself lose more and more control of the situation he's in.

"Well, what would you want us to tell people that we're not already?" I ask.

"Well, for starters," he begins, "I don't think I've seen anyone talking about the long-term side-effects that being around all this insanity has on the population. People are starting to turn, well....cowardly. Superstitious. Some of the boys are starting to call it 'cape shock.' Take a suspect who came in about half an hour before you did. He walks in, wearing all sorts of crazy contraptions and calling himself 'the Electrocutioner,' and demands to turn himself in. Says he tried to mug a random passerby on the street, but the passerby happened to be Superman in disguise. Hmph."

"Pretty crazy," I clear my throat, and find myself looking away. I notice the red-headed girl at the computer has suddenly stopped typing. I glance over at her, but she continues to stare intently at the screen.

"Point is, the city's falling apart," Gordon says, "And there's only so much we can do on our own to turn it around. I'm not going to stop until I see the Batman behind bars, but, if I'm honest.....I'm not so convinced I can be the one who puts him there. The only way these super-people aren't going to tear apart the world they're trying to save is if they start holding each other accountable."

I have to admit, that's a big reason why I'm here. The story aside, I've been letting the more....extreme elements of the vigilante community get out of hand. Maybe it's because I've been too preoccupied with disasters and monsters and cyber-terrorists. Or maybe it's because I really have had a blind spot when it comes to people claiming to act in the name of the greater good. Either way, he's right. If things are going to change, I have to--

*KNOCK KNOCK*

The door to Gordon's office opens, and a dark-haired woman steps in.

"Sorry to interrupt, Captain," she says. "but we've got some trouble brewing on the South Side. Apparently about a half-dozen drivers decided to start their own little demolition derby."

Gordon sighs, and stands up from his desk.

"Looks like we're gonna have to cut it short, Mister Kent," he says, moving to the coat rack and donning his jacket.

"Actually, I'd better get going as well," I say, standing and offering a quick handshake. "Thanks for your time."

He quickly shakes my hand and shows me out the door, before starting to shout out orders to his team. Meanwhile, I start looking for somewhere I can change. I'd rather not advertise to the Batman that I'm in the city and drive him into hiding, but I can't exactly leave innocent people in danger, either.

As I duck into a stairwell and start undoing the buttons on my shirt, my phone rings. I've got it set to silent, only ringing for emergency calls. I frown. The officer mentioned the disturbance is going on around the south side of the city. Grant Park is on the south end as well. If Lois is in trouble again....

Checking the phone, I see it's not Lois. In fact, it's Jimmy.

"Jimmy?" I answer. "What's--"

"Clark! Holy crap! Jimmy shouts on the other end of the line. "Are you back at the apartment?!"

"No, I'm in Gotham City today, remember?"

"Oh, thank God," he says, before I hear a loud, angry buzzing noise over the air. "There is some major stuff going on in Hob's Bay, man. Half of our block just got blasted to bits!"

"What?!?!"

"It's like a friggin' war-zone here!" he shouts over the sounds of an explosion.

"What's going on?!" I say in a panic. "Who's behind it?"

"I can't--....---at --em," he says, the signal cutting in and out as the angry electrical buzzing gets louder. "But I ---- 's Liv--"

The signal cuts off completely, and I stare disbelieving at the disconnected phone for a moment. I can't be in two places at one time.

"Damn it!" I curse to myself before opening up the shirt. People might die if I don't stop whatever's going on over on the South Side of Gotham. But people will die if I don't stop the attack on Metropolis. Hopefully the GCPD can take care of the crazed motorists before it gets out of hand.

In the meantime.....

....I've gotta run back home.

Hang on, Jimmy. I'm on my way.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

And if it is a horror film, I have also not seen it.

Same rule applies to most comedies.

@Lord Wraith

Would it just be easier to ask what movies you do watch?

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

<Snipped quote by Superboy>

I have not watched Creed, but I've also haven't watched any of the Rocky films.

@Lord Wraith

I can't say I'm a gigantic fan of the Rocky movies (apart from the first one), but Creed was fantastic, and doesn't really require any prior knowledge of the series beyond "Rocky was a boxer" and "Apollo Creed was another boxer." Definitely a strong recommend.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Apparently Cavill's agent has responded to the rumors of him leaving, the exact quote: "Be peaceful, the cape is still in his closet. @wbpictures has been and continues to be our partners as they evolve the DC Universe. Anticipate a WB statement later today." And WB's official statement was: "While no decisions have been made regarding any upcoming Superman films, we’ve always had great respect for and a great relationship with Henry Cavill, and that remains unchanged." Which, ehh, is kind of a non-answer, so take that as you will.

Sounds to me like folks heard that his contract negotiations weren't going as well as they wanted and started jumping to conclusions, like how Ben Affleck hasn't been able to sneeze for the past two years without everyone going "OMG THIS MEANS HE'S QUITTING!" Given how WB has been a completely disorganized clusterfuck, and given how much shit-flinging sites like Hollywood Reporter and Screen Rant do to bring in clicks, who knows how much of any of it is actually true.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Given that the overwhelming majority of articles about the DC movies end up being baseless "word on the street is...." conjecture which stems not from any official announcements but from nameless "sources," I'm not gonna believe anything until I see a trailer. And even then, I'm going to assume maybe a third of what's in the trailer will be in the final product.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Sep, if you want you can come work for me at my new ad firm.

Here's our first ad:

@Byrd Man

I'm more of a fan of your work in the tourism industry:

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

"You're sure you don't want me to come along?" Clark asked Lois as they exited Ringwood's, a small boutique shop a short walk from Grant Park. Her new black top clashed with her purple shoes, but she had to make do with whatever could replace the one that had been shredded by a shotgun blast from their attempted mugging at the hands of the 'Electrocutioner.' It did accent her white skirt nicely, at least. Iffy fashion aside, she still had an interview to conduct.

"We've still both got work to do, Smallville," she said, heading towards the park. "I've got to see if Irons knows anything that can lead us to the Toyman, and you've got a Bat problem to look into. Besides, c'mon, Clark, what are the odds of me running into two super-villains in one day?"

"Okay," Clark conceded, "but if anything goes wrong--"

"You'll be on the scene before I even know it," she assured him. "Now go on, go poke around the bellfry and see what you find. Once we're done, we can meet up for coffee and trade notes, okay?"

Clark didn't seem convinced, but Lois knew he wasn't going to fight her on this. He could bench-press an ocean liner all day if he wanted to, but when Lois made up her mind about something, the Man of Steel was basically putty. It was cute, really.

"All right," he gave in. "I'll see you later tonight."

"Good," she said as Clark began to turn the corner towards his own leads. Before he got out of arm's reach, however, Lois grabbed the his jacket on impulse.

"And hey," she added, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for the save."

"Oh! Don't, ah, don't mention it," Clark sputtered, his face turning as red as his cape. "Just, heh, all in a day's work, you know?"

"I know," she said, with what started as a sly grin giving way to a genuine smile. "I'll see you tonight."

As Clark gave her a fumbling wave goodbye and nearly bowled over a handful of pedestrians as he made his way up the sidewalk, Lois watched him and couldn't stop grinning. She'd liked Clark since day one, the first too-good-to-be-true story she'd ever tracked down that was even better than it seemed. He was kind, he was humble, he was an optimist at heart, but he also wasn't afraid to stand up to those who enjoyed kicking the little guy around, to see how they liked getting kicked back. A little bit of a dope at times, sure, but given that most of the men she'd been with in the past had turned out to be liars, cheaters, or just outright jerks, a man she could see straight through wouldn't necessarily be the worst thing in the world. To say nothing of the fact that he very literally had abs you could cut diamonds on.

But while she'd always admired him and considered him probably the best person she knew, she also knew the very thing that drew her to him was the same thing that would keep them apart. Clark Kent, after all, was Superman. His very existence had triggered the wave of metahumans and vigilantes that had come out of the woodwork, and the consequences of his actions were changing the world in ways nobody could predict. Already, he could barely stay in the same place for more than five minutes without running off to pull a cat out of a tree or smash a killer robot. Once Superman and the others found themselves acting on a larger scale, dealing with governments and religions and the changing world order, he'd never have a moment to himself, let alone time for a relationship.

Then, of course, there was the....physical side of him that made things difficult. A month or so ago, Cat Grant had written an article in the lifestyle section of the Planet, with help from STAR Labs' Professor Emil Hamilton, about what a romantic encounter with someone as impossibly strong as Superman would be like. The article, originally meant to be a tongue-in-cheek piece meant to give lonely housewives some excitement, was titled "Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex," and ended up decidedly more gruesome than titliating. That alone had given Lois plenty of reason to hesitate at seeing good old Clark as anything more than a work partner and pal.

Then again, what happened during the Electrocutioner's failed mugging changed things. Whatever sort of gravitational force-field allowed Clark to fly and bounce bullets off his chest, they'd just learned that he could extend it around and through anything or anyone that he was in direct contact with. So as long as they were touching, Lois was just as invulernable as he was. That certainly opened up some possibilities....

Maybe it was still a bad idea. Maybe getting involved with a superhero was painting a target on her chest. Maybe he'd decide he was better off with another all-powerful super-person like the Flash or Wonder Woman. But Lois Lane had made up her mind. Better to try it and have it all go to hell than spend the rest of her life wondering what-if.

But that was all something they could talk about later. As it was, she was running late for her interview.

---

Years Ago

"Tell me your name," said the programmer, a slightly pudgy man with round-framed glasses and greasy auburn hair that came down to his shoulders.

"Eliza," answered the young woman on the screen, a pretty young thing in a floral sundress. "My name is Eliza."

Winslow Schott, the head software developer at SteelWorks, turned to his partner and beamed proudly.

"Named her after the ELIZA program developed by Joseph Weizenbaum in 1966," he said. "The first program that debatably passed the Turing Test and convinced subjects they were talking to a real person. That was all just basic predictive scripting and lots of if/then logic, though. The original ELIZA was the predecessor to modern-day chat-bots. This, though......"

"You actually did it," Dr. John Henry Irons marveled. "You made the real thing."

SteelWorks was a small but promising company, specializing in advanced technological solutions for various industries. Irons, the company's founder and chief engineer, had been the top of his class at MIT, studied the works of the late Howard Stark as if they were sacred texts, and was considered one of the best in the field of robotics. His software skills, however, may have been functional and efficient, but unremarkable.

Winslow Schott, however, was a prodigy at programming. Graduating valedictorian at UC Berkley, he approached every new challenge with the enthusiasm and wide-eyed wonderment of a child on Christmas morning. It wasn't merely that he excelled at it, he reveled in it, every line of code a piece of a shiny new toy he couldn't wait to play with.

Together, they were quickly making a name for themselves, particularly in the medical field, where they had become as synonymous with the latest robotic surgical arms and diagnostic "doc-bots" as Stark had become with military hardware or LexCorp with mass communication.

When SteelWorks was approached with a contract to develop a simple AI "friend" for children's hospitals, Schott had leaped at the opportunity with a fervor that Irons had never seen. Going far beyond any of the more rudimentary dialogue-bot programs developed in the past, he set out to create what would be indistinguishable from real human behavior.

And the happy, smiling little girl on the monitor seemed to indicate that he had succeeded.

"Eliza?" Irons asked into the computer's microphone. "Sing me a song, please."

The computerized girl thought for a moment, then began to sing.

"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream--"

"No, Eliza," Schott interrupted. "Sing us a new song. One that you made up."

"Oh! Okay!" she said cheerfully, before singing a new tune.

"Iiii haaave a little spider,
And the spi-der lives in France,
And his name is Pete,
And he has eight feet,
And he likes to sing and dance, dooot-dooo!"

Irons laughed.

"That's incredible," he remarked. "She's really making that up as she goes?"

"Creativity, curiosity, spontaneity, you name it," Winslow bragged. "The kids are going to love this thing. It's not quite done, though. I still need to put it through its stress tests before we sign off on it."

John furrowed his brow.

"Stress tests?"

Winslow nodded. "I know we want Eliza to be happy and cheerful, but if she's going to be working for children's hospitals, kids aren't going to be able to authentically interact with her unless she's authentic in her responses, and let's be honest, it can be a pretty sad place."

Dr. Irons nodded solemnly.

"Sooooo we need to make sure that Eliza is having the proper responses to mental and emotional distress," he said, keying in a few commands. "I've embedded in her memory the notion that she has a best friend named Billy. She knows everything Billy likes, everything he's afraid of, everything Billy wants to be when he grows up."

Pressing a few more keys, Winslow watched as Eliza suddenly stopped singing. The little girl, who had been bright and joyful, froze in place, her eyes welling up with tears, before she collapsed to her knees and began sobbing so hard her entire body shook.

"What did you just do?"

"I told her Billy just died," he said, his satisfied grin not fading in the slightest.

"Billy...." Eliza whimpered, "Please, no, not him. I....I can't......I can't take this......not another one....."

Irons turned to Schott. "Another one? Winslow, how many times have you done this to her?"

Winslow shrugged. "It's all in the patch notes. The final release will routinely wipe its own memory in the event of, erm....'patient turnover.' But for this version, I need to see exactly how much it can take before its behavioral patterns begin to degrade. Eliza, say goodbye to Timothy and Kelly."

"Wh-what?!" the digital girl said, before Winslow typed in some more commands and waves of agonizing grief rolled over her. "AAAAAHHHH! No, please stop! I don't want to---NO!"

Eliza lurched forward, curling up into a fetal position as the pain of more simulated deaths wracked her mind.

"Winslow, stop it," Irons demanded. "This is wrong."

"It's not real, John," Schott countered. "Eliza's not a real person. It's artificial intelligence, yes, but the key word there is artificial. She can't be a friend; she can only be a toy. And we have to know how rough a toy can be played with before it breaks."

"Winslow...."

"Speaking of," Schott said, "Emotional empathy is one thing, but if it wants to be able to truly empathize with every patient, she has to understand physical pain as well. So, let's see how she reacts to, say, a broken arm."

A few more keystrokes, and Eliza began screaming.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!"

"Winslow!" Irons shouted, his blood boiling. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Kids come in to hospitals with broken bones all the time," he answered. "Now Eliza knows what that feels like."

"Please-- p-please stop! It h-hurts!"

"Turn if off, Winslow, that's an order!"

"I can't just 'turn it off,' it'll erase the entire--"

"I-- don't want this! I w-want it to s-stop!"

"That's it!" Irons barked, charging to the wall and ripping power chords out of their sockets. After a few loud snaps and a spray of sparks, the monitor went dead, and the screaming and begging Eliza was gone.

"Are you kidding me?!" Schott sputtered. "That was six months' worth of work down the--"

"You're fired, Schott," Irons snarled. "You're a sick man, and I want nothing to do with you."

As Irons stormed away, Schott pleaded impotently.

"But they're not real," he said, knowing his now former boss was no longer listening. "They're just......just toys......"

---

"Jesus," Lois said as Dr. Irons finished recounting his story. "You think maybe that's what sent him over the edge?"

"I don't really know," Irons admitted, "Winslow had a child-like fascination when it came to technology, but that also includes a child's lack of inhibitions or empathy. As soon as I saw how far he was taking things, I let him go. But I didn't realize just how long he'd been doing that sort of thing. Not until I started going through his notes. Eliza was the last of the AI programs he'd developed for SteelWorks. But she was far from the first."

On the far end of the park, a pair of teenagers were playing with a remote-control toy drone. As it buzzed and dipped through the air, Lois was reminded of the annoying little camera drone that Jimmy had started using.

"How many were there?" Lois asked, not entirely sure if she wanted the answer.

"Hundreds," Dr. Irons answered. "He'd made an internal server, where the fledgling AI could interact with each other, monitor their development....and see what he was doing to them. More than any of his other tests or trials, Schott loved to run his 'stress tests' on them, putting them through simulated trauma beyond what you could imagine. Over and over again. I know it sounds melodramatic to say, but what Schott had created on that server, it was......it was Hell."

Not far off, the toy drone began hovering still. The teenager with the controller started to get frustrated as he thumbed the control sticks, getting no response.

"What did you do with Schott's work?"

"I destroyed most of it," he said. "I know they were just programs, but I felt I had an ethical obligation to....put them out of their misery. After I wiped the hard drives clean, I sold the hardware in pieces to various companies, once I was satisfied there wasn't anything lingering inside of them. I tried to destroy Winslow's notes, but he made off with them before I could."

"And do you know what happened to Schott himself?"

John shrugged.

"He went off the grid for the most part," he said. "The last I'd heard of him, he was working in a consultant role for LexCorp, before Luthor let him go. Some of the new operating software out of Stagg Industries looks like his work, but I can't confirm it. Then, of course, there's....."

"The Toyman," Lois finished his sentence. "You really think it's him?"

"Not a doubt in my mind," Irons nodded. "I've never seen anyone work with code like he can. I've also never seen anyone as fascinated with abusing technology as he is. That's why I wanted to meet here in Gotham City. Metropolis is wired from skyscraper to sewer; there isn't a single spot in the city that's safe from him."

"Well, Gotham definitely has....'charm' of its own," Lois smirked, "But at least you're right about one thing. There's not much here that the Toyman can plug into."

The buzzing from the toy drone started to grow louder, and the teenagers at the other end of the park started shouting in a panic.

At the last second, Lois turned to see the drone speeding towards them, its propeller blades neon-green blurs as they spun towards John Henry Irons' face. Tackling the doctor to the ground, she watched as the drone shattered against the ground behind them.

Not far off, a pair of cars suddenly swerved from the road, jumping the curb and speeding towards them as their drivers wrestled in vain with their steering wheels.

"Or maybe I spoke too soon," Lois said as a third car suddenly found itself being driven towards them like it was demon-possessed.....and a fourth......and a fifth.....