Star City- Heroes of Tomorrow IC

[ChasNicollette]

50 Shades of Grey Matter, or "Headstrong," by Trapt. (Black Spider)

The symbiote's only response was to go what John would believe to be its own version of fully apeshit. They charged at the smaller man, as he got within range hundreds of pseudo pods lashed out

"I WILL EAT YOUR FUCKING BRAINS!!!"

There's a certain peace, sometimes, in knowing the future.

In being aware of danger.

The monster became even more monstrous.

Declared its desire to eat his cerebrum with fava beans and Chianti.

Something moved in the darkness at the edge of Johnny LaMonica's consciousness. Something skittering and chittering, many-legged, many-eyed, with a smile bigger and sharper than any Cheshire Cat's.

And it whispered the future to The Black Spider.

Told him he was a dead man. (His death flashed before his eyes.)

Told him he was part of something bigger.

Every spider was part of the same web.

And the desperate raging fury surging in LaMonica's veins stilled and chilled.

Replaced immediately with a kind of strange strangled Zen calm.

He swung his arms wide, and smirked his disfigured face beneath the mask. "C'mon, then. C'mon. EAT ME!"

And as Venom barreled for him like some arachnid X-Files juggernaut, The Black Spider fired two streams of web. Not at Venom, or at any of the countless reaching tendrils. But at the electrical console which Black Spider had exposed by ripping the door off of it as a projectile moments ago.

The webbing wasn't especially conductive. In fact, used in large quantities, it was pretty decent insulation. But single strands were enough to carry significant charges for brief moments before bursting into flame.

Johnny LaMonica fired those streams at the console, latched deep into its workings, and he held up the sparking ends of the webbing towards Venom as Venom bull-rushed him.

He could feel the electricity sear through him, too, as he stood there, but with superhuman strength and supernatural madness he stood there nonetheless.

He was going to die.

But he would hurt Venom as he died.

And the electrical backlash would destroy the very nerve center of communications that Venom was trying to preserve.

"Eat me and choke on me."

 

[TertiusHuman]

Venom

It was like the symbiote did not hear, did not see nor understand the danger of the crackling electricity. John was not fully aware of what was happening as he was placed in a deep meditative state, trying to get through to the symbiote. But the pseudopods did not latch on, they just prevented an escape action as they swarmed around like a nest of disturbed snakes.

They paused for a second just out of reach of LaMancha and then with incredible speed a hand flashed upwards, but not to disarm LaMancha, no instead incredibly long and sharp nails found his abdomen and ripped it open, the electricity barely bothering the symbiote from that brief, but devastating contact. The symbiote grinned and licked the blood from its claws.

"YUM"

The symbiote batted away LaMancha's strands as they burned through, the pseudopods latched onto him and drew him in. The hands closed over LaMancha's neck and then those teeth bit into the Black Spider's head. Killing him almost instantly.

It was at that moment that John finally managed to find the flame and he pushed it into the connection between the two of them.

RRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!

The symbiote flinched away from the flame as it was still in its primal form and did not have the connection to John to help it withstand that fear. It was all that John needed to regain control of his own body...and to become aware of the dead body held in his grip. Without realizing it, he subvocalized:

"...LaMancha...LaMancha is down..."

He dropped the body to the ground and stared at it for a few moments.

He hurt us

'You shut me out'

The silence in his mind was deafening, or perhaps it was the rushing of his blood through his ears which made him feel like he was standing in a stormy ocean, watching how the blood seeped from a place where a person's brain was supposed to be housed in a skull.

"Shit"

He turned away and entered the building, they had a job to do and they were going to do it.

 

[ChasNicollette]

Percussion and Repercussion. (Black Spider/Vixen/Felicity)

Black Spider could offer only token resistance to a beast as powerful as an enraged Venom symbiote.

And so he died, drenched in blood red and brain-matter grey, even his last attempt to hurt the creature batted away like it was a cat toy.

And when his life winked out, it rippled out into the morphic fields of the planet, out into The Red, as though someone had plucked on a strand of an infinite web.

********​

In nearby New York City, a man named Peter and a boy named Miles stood side by side atop The Chrysler Building, and they felt a shudder in their beings-- they had felt J'onn's darkening minutes before, but this was stranger and yet more familiar. A deep tearing. A separation.

A breaking of strands.

The boy named Miles pulled off his mask and stared at Peter for a moment, and neither of them spoke, but both of them wondered-- would this be what it was like if one of them died? If a Spider-Man fell in battle? Would all the other Spider-Men feel it through their spider-sense?

Quietly, Peter hugged Miles, and Miles hung onto his mentor for dear life.

********​

Elsewhere in Gotham City, as she stood talking with Black Canary and Tomari Leon, Mari "Vixen" McCabe clutched at her heart for a moment, staggered, her eyes going wide--

--her HOUSECAT template flickered to SPIDER for an instant, and for that instant her armband wasn't enough to keep the disfigurement at bay--

--she sprouted eight eyes and mandibles and her hands looked more like spider legs--

--but then she rippled back to herself, her template rippled back to HOUSECAT and she stood, half-bent, panting for a moment.

"--okay. What the Hell was that?"

********​

In Washington, DC, Felicity stared at the screen in ghostly-pale silence, both hands covering her mouth, staring in disbelief-- having watched a bird's-eye view of John "Venom" Denvers eviscerating Black Spider and dining out on his brains like some kind of horrifying French cuisine-- cervelle de araignée.

And it was right at that moment that the calculating presence on the line severed her link to the satellite and the image winked out.

The teams' commlinks inside Gotham would still function, after a fashion. But Felicity would have no way of reaching them.

No way of telling Oliver how far Denvers had just fallen.

And as bad-ass as Felicity could be under pressure, she was even more only human than Kara Danvers-- and she had been awake a very long time.

She burst into tears.

********​

Somewhere else.

Somewhere deep and dark.

Like a gravity sink in the collective subconscious of all of animal kind.

A half-hibernating presence stirred a bit more towards consciousness, and tugged against the bonds that imprisoned it, as though awakened by The Black Spider's passing.

Chittering and skittering, it smiled a too-wide too-white too-sharp smile.

And it started laughing.

 

[ChasNicollette]

Blitz. (Sportsmaster)

There in the darkness before dawn, in Slaughter Swamp on the outskirts of Gotham, soldiers of The League of Assassins stood guarding their holdings-- the former site of a sanitarium burned out ages ago.

Assorted outbuildings remained, and a small bridge over the river, as well as the train tracks running into the city, upon which were parked a few train cars with storage containers-- perhaps these were empty, having already offloaded their Markov Devices of Mass Destruction, or perhaps they contained the next wave of personnel and materiel?

In any case, there was a certain security in their secrecy. Who could possibly think to look for them out here? There had been no sign of the mighty Al Xu'ffasch, and only his detective mind could possibly conceive of this dark stronghold.

And yet.

A meaty fist emerged from the black waters of the river, clutching a speargun pointed straight up-- and fired a grappling line up into the underside of the bridge. It retracted, hauling Sportsmaster up out of the water-- he had a rebreather built into his mask --and up to the bridge's bottom, lurking underneath like the fabled troll, dangling from one arm.

Digging into a belt-pouch, Sportsmaster came up with a handful of golf balls-- and whipped them up over the railing of the bridge. The golf balls landed, ricocheting about on the bridge-- and then their dimples hissed open, unleashing a barrage of bear mace on the Assassins standing guard on the bridge itself. While their mouths and noses were covered by their traditional attire, their eyes were still exposed, and while they could certainly handle significant pain from their training, they were still almost instantly near-blinded--

--and then Sportsmaster was in the thick of them, muay thai, krav maga, Green Beret takedowns, absolutely not holding back, swift and silent, the nightvision lenses on his mask keeping him from suffering the same effects of the lachrymatory agent.

One of the Assassins managed to draw a blade and slash blindly for the blurred region where he thought Sportmaster would be, but Sportsmaster just stepped back with deceptive laziness, the blade-tip slicing nothing but the air in front of his chest. Then he darted into the radius of the blade-swing, grabbed the guy's wrist and blew out his shoulder with an elbow strike-- then planted both hands on the mook's head. With a savage twist, he turned the Assassin's head around like a bottlecap so that he faced the opposite direction-- snapping his neck and killing him instantly.

But as he did so-- the very instant he did so --a burst of green light the color of Kryptonite flooded his NVG lenses for a split-second, momentarily blinding him almost as badly as he'd done the assassins.

Dropping to a crouch by the bridge railing and swearing grimly, concerned that that green flash would have given away his position and alerted other Assassins to the attack ahead of schedule. He blinked rapidly to try and clear his vision-- even as another Assassin tried to stab him in the back of the head from behind--

--his boot lashed out, blew out the Assassins' knee, and as the Assassin fell forward, Sportsmaster whirled to meet him, catching him by the throat with one hand and by the knife-hand with the other. He took a moment to crush this Assassin's windpipe-- no death-flash this time, thank Ditka --and then tapped his ear, tuning into the half-assed frequency Arrow's team had cobbled together.

His "partner" was out there somewhere in the dark as the other prong of their attack.

"Pretty Boy," he growled, "you borrowing some kinda color-themed gear from Coach Green? Because not using it to flag my play would be just goddamned peachy."

 

[Lunaramblings]

"Pretty Boy," he growled, "you borrowing some kinda color-themed gear from Coach Green? Because not using it to flag my play would be just goddamned peachy."

Nightwing emerged from the woods into the back lot of the sanitarium. He looked out over the building and counted five guards. One in the field. two on the roof. Two at the back door of the main building.

Nightwing drops into the shadows of the over grown grass. Moving more like a jungle cat than a dragon of Kryptonian legend. With stealth and guile he closes on the first guard. A quick jab to the back of the neck, right at the base of the skull, and the guard crumples.

Moving again. He ducks through the grasses, coming to the edge. Two high. Two low. Ducking he lunges from the shadows. Batons flying in each direction. The two guards at the door, each struck in the throat with the taser ends. Stifling their ability to scream and knocking them unconscious in one go. Now outside the door he has only the two roof guards left before he can enter. He takes the opportunity to tack on the earpiece and respond to Sportsmaster.

"Sorry Sporty Spice, no clue what you're talking about. Got my hands full. Talk in a minute."

Nightwing retrieves his batons and launches a line to the roof. As he ascends behind his first target he strikes out fast. His baton crushing his nose, his left fist driving into his throat and crushing his larynx. He then spins toward the other man just as he draws his sword. As the Assassin swing, Nightwing uses both batons to pin the blade, triggering the taser ends through the metal of the blade, frying the hell out of his opponent. As the man is staggered, Nightwing lashes out with a spinning backfist, crushing his larynx and toppling him from the roof.

"Exterior of the main building is clear." Nightwing switches channels with a dial on his belt. Switching to the main line to reach the others as he peers through the skylight and sees Nyssa and a room full of assassins below. "We were right. They're here. We need-GAAHHH!" Before he can finish, a kusarigama lashes out and stabs into his shoulder toppling him through the light. He hangs several feet above the assassins as all but Nyssa dive for cover. Above him the silent warrior that had protected Nyssa earlier stands above.

Struggling Nightwing switches to all comms, "Need backup. NOW!"

 

[ChasNicollette]

Torch Relay. (Sportsmaster)

"Sorry Sporty Spice, no clue what you're talking about. Got my hands full. Talk in a minute."

Sportsmaster grunted as Nightwing hung up on him. "'Sporty Spice.' Little asswipe birdshit. You'd think The Bat would teach his bambinos a little more respect."

Rising to stand, he drew Fish Mooney's bat from his back and, twirling it over his fingers, sprinted off to quash the remaining pockets of Assassin resistance around the out-buildings as Nightwing investigated the burned-out hulk of what remained of the sanitarium's primary structure. "Game on."

"Exterior of the main building is clear."

"Rounding the bases," Crock replied, as another Assassin fell under his bat with a spray of teeth and blood and nasal cartilage. "Rolling right to you."

Switching to the main line to reach the others as he peers through the skylight and sees Nyssa and a room full of assassins below. "We were right. They're here. We need-GAAHHH!"

"Son of a bitch," Sportsmaster spat, drawing a starter's pistol from a holster at the base of his spine and charging towards the main building.

********​

He hangs several feet above the assassins as all but Nyssa dive for cover. Above him the silent warrior that had protected Nyssa earlier stands above.

Struggling Nightwing switches to all comms, "Need backup. NOW!"

"Yes," Nyssa al Ghul, nee Raatko, drawled as she gazed amusedly up at the dangling Nightwing, "Junah Alllayl, I imagine you do."

She drew a crossbow, and firing a single bolt, shattered the chain of the kusarigama right where it met the hilt of the kusari and dropped Nightwing the rest of the way to the floor.

"I owe you much for helping your Master steal Al'San'Awi from me," she declared, tossing her crossbow to one of her flunkies and drawing two matching swords. "I shall perhaps take this value out of your hide-- this seems to me a deliciously ironic variety of alchemy."

There came screaming from outside, yelling and panic--

--and the doors burst open, propelled off of their hinges by a figure wreathed in white flame, White Phosphorous, he was scrambling and wailing at a bloodcurdling octave but fell silent as the damage overwhelmed him, and he crumpled to the floor.

Almost idly, almost lazily, Nyssa turned from Nightwing to watch this go down, with her silent Horseman Bint al Qabil dropping down between her and Nightwing, twirling the weight at the end of what remained of her kusarigama chain.

Sportsmaster strode through the doorway brandishing that starter's pistol, and discharged another round immediately into another of Nyssa's entourage-- he burst into the same white flame and immediately started writhing-- instead of trick arrows like his daughter, Sportsmaster was using "trick" rounds.

Both men burned, and continued to burn, as White Phosphorous was wont to do, giving off billowing toxic fumes all the while. It was perhaps to everyone's benefit that this building had burned so thoroughly decades ago-- everything had already burned enough that the fire was less likely to spread. Less likely, but not impossible.

Throwing the empty gun aside, slinging his bat back onto his back, Sportsmaster rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. "Raatko. We got us a cross-town rivalry, and I'm calling you out."

"Such a way with metaphor," Nyssa purred, "Almajistir Alrriadia."

"Spare me the camel-jockey lingo," Sportsmaster harrumphed, and drew weapons that unfolded automatically in his hands from their compacted forms-- a hockey goalie's stick in his left hand, and in his right, a Lubrilon-coated fencing sword, with which he delivered Nyssa a fencing salute. "Let's get it on."

Nyssa twirled her twin swords, and faced Sportsmaster more squarely.

"Assassins, resecure the grounds. Bint al Qabil: beat Junah Alllayl into submission for me while I deal with this traitor."

Bint al Qabil tilted her head in acknowledgement, her gaze never leaving Nightwing.

Perhaps, given Nightwing's detective pedigree, he might detect the faintest microexpessive flicker of... apology... of reluctance... of obligation...

...but she was nevertheless determined, as she shifted into another gorgeous stance of that beautiful nameless style, and lashed the kusarigama's chain weight for Nightwing's face.

Behind her, Nyssa sprinted across the room with silken grace, and her blades met Sportsmaster's sporting goods with sparking clangs.

The battle was joined-- and if the back-up Nightwing yelled for didn't get here quick, the battle would be over before they got there. One way, or the other.

 

[ChasNicollette]

"Hello," by Adele. (Ceri/Chris)

Ceri Grant and Christopher Grant were each hanging by a moment.

Christopher Grant knelt on a rooftop in Pittsburgh, seeming almost catatonic as his daughter-- as Redwood --prepared to disembowel him.

Ceri Grant sat in a strange little mystical curio shop in San Francisco, bathed in blue glow, reading strange verse off of a card.

And life, as it is wont to do at times of great import, flashed before their eyes.

Hello, it's me
I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet
To go over everything
They say that time's supposed to heal ya, but I ain't done much healing

*********

Fairfax Museum.
Keystone City, California.
1998.​

"Hey, new girl!" yelled one of her coworkers.

Ceri heard this as though in the distance, as she very carefully pored over a manifest for a shipment to Fairfax Museum, vaguely remembered that this guy was called "Ford"-- she was very focused on what she was doing.

Another called, more hesitantly, a woman, Jeannie: "Uh, Serry?"

She glanced up at this, blinking, adjusting her glasses. "Ehm, it's 'Kerry,' there's no soft 'c' in Celtic--"

"Yeah, yeah," Ford waved dismissively as he stood there with Jeannie, "we've all done our bit on The Britons. But c'mere, we need fresh eyes. We're having a disagreement about how to inventory this piece."

Intrigued, Ceri set down her manifest and approached, tucking a lock of her dark dark hair back behind an ear. "Yeh wouldn't be messing with the new hire, would yeh?"

Between them on a pedestal stood a vase, Ford gestured to it. "Only a little, but it's a work-related sort of messing-with. Jeannie says it's Etruscan, and I think it's Roman. Settle the bet?"

Peering at it quietly, Ceri seemed to go away for a moment, running her blue-eyed gaze over the artifact. "...Roman."

Ford clapped his hands once, sharply, triumphantly, and grinned gleefully at Jeannie, who rolled her eyes tolerantly.

"...but just barely," Ceri murmured. "This is Roman-era Carthaginian, from some point after The Council of Carthage in 397 and before The Vandals captured Carthage in the 430s. In fact, I think this depicts a legend, a grey area in Carthage's history."

She pointed, as Ford and Jeannie looked on in surprise.

"You see these three figures here. This figure here with blood on his hands and his forehead, some mythic killer. And he stands against this dark woman, almost Gorgon in her depiction, and her ally-- this nameless monster."

"History tells us that Carthage was first destroyed at the end of The Third Punic War, 146 BC, and that it was later rebuilt into a breadbasket of The Roman Empire. But there are tales, whispers, of a second great destruction-- hundreds of years after Christ, after the Christian Biblical canon had been established by The Council of Carthage. A great and terrible battle between foes that transcended pantheons."

"In fact, they were in the midst of rebuilding when The Vandals came. Perhaps if they had not been so weakened, perhaps they would not have fallen when they did, we'll never know for sure."

Ford arched an eyebrow. "Well, look at you. Fresh off the boat from Cardiff, still learning how to speak American, and you're already leaving us in the dust."

Jeannie smirked softly. "Don't mind him, Ceri. Sometimes he forgets that the dust is an archaeologist's natural habitat."

Ceri laughed sheepishly. "Well. I do like to be useful. But I dun want to tread on yehr toes."

Ford grinned lopsidedly. "These toes were made for treading, I guess."

There came a knocking, then, a rapping of knuckles on metal, and the three of them turned in surprise--

--a red-haired man with blue eyes stood at the entrance to the loading dock, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry. I don't-- I don't want to interrupt. I tried to call the front office but I kept getting a dial-up modem noise, or a fax machine or something--"

He held up a brochure. "I have something that might help the next dig you fund."

Ceri stared at him for a long, long moment. She was still learning how to use Colonial terminology, sure, but the sight of him had her momentarily forgetting how to use words at all. He was-- he had a charisma to him, and his eyes were so blue, and he was-- beautiful.

Ford elbowed Jeannie, and Jeannie grinned.

And then Ceri found herself, and she walked forward to meet this bloke, shaking his hand. "I'm not in charge of anything here. In fact, I'm very new. But if yeh impress me, I might let yeh know who to talk to further up the ladder."

He smirked at that, radiating self-confidence. "Oh. I'll just have to impress you, then."

Hello, can you hear me?
I'm in California dreaming about who we used to be
When we were younger and free
I've forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet

********

Two Days Later.​

"Ground-penetrating radar," Ceri mused, eating a forkful of chicken Caesar salad at a Keystone sidewalk cafe as Chris tucked into a barbecue burger the size of his head. "More like reading tea leaves, isn't it?"

Chris laughed a bit, shook his head. "Okay, yeah, the images can look more than a little indecipherable to someone who's not trained in the machine's use, but we're hoping to refine the imaging with new generations of the technology. Besides which, we can provide certified personnel to help you translate the imagery as it exists now-- my boss consulted on that first Jurassic Park movie a few years back --and train Fairfax personnel to do it themselves if you're sufficiently taken with the tech."

Ceri ran her tongue around the gap in her teeth, examining him. "Working on Hollywood films is all well and good, but have yeh had any actual successes in the field of archaeology?"

"Not many... yet," Chris admitted reluctantly. "We've had some promising talk of examining the lands around Stonehenge, but you know how quickly academics move, it's like continental drift."

Ceri chortled. "Oh, it's so true. Sometimes I wonder if the archaeological community doesn't stall so much because they're waiting for new civilizations to fall so they can dig them back up."

Snorting, Chris reached over with his fork and stabbed one of Ceri's croutons, gnawing on it. "Mm, parmesan-garlic."

Ceri blinked, and burst out laughing. "Rude! Is this how yeh treat all yehr potential clients?"

Chris grinned at her. "Hey, I'm in Sales. And that was Sales Tax."

There's such a difference between us
And a million miles

********

Central City, California.
1999.​

"That accent," Ceri mused, pulling her gloves on.

"What accent?" Chris blinked, tugging off his shoes.

"Oh, don't mind me, yeh really have to listen for it," Ceri considered. "Mind for details, it's an archaeologist thing. But there's hints around the edges. English?"

Chris laughed softly, a hint of surprise in his voice to go with the hints of accent she'd heard. "Yeah. Sort of. My parents were both American. But my dad was army, stationed in England. We moved back to The States when I was like-- five."

Ceri nodded slowly as they both walked out onto the mat.

They both had busy lives, so they had to get their dates where they could. And when Ceri had found out Chris was taking kickboxing at a gym over the bridge in Central City, she'd signed up for the same class so they could get some time together while both doing something they enjoyed. These were just warm-ups, but they were important.

They bowed to each other, Ceri replying: "I almost joined the military once, growing up in small-town South Wales. Did a little pre-training. Physical exercise and so forth. Also thought about joining the constabulary. It was-- ever since I was a little girl, it's been important to me to protect the good things in this world. Eventually I decided to go the archaeological route-- preserving that which was good about the past and learning from history's greatest mistakes."

Chris looked a little haunted for a moment. More than a little. More than a moment. Then he got his gloves up, and they exchanged a few sparring shots. "I'm glad you didn't go military. It's a machine, it'll grind up what's good in you and just turn you into--" he cleared his throat, shook his head, reminded himself to keep his gloves up. "My dad was a good man. But when he left the service, he was-- was broken. PTSD, I guess, not that he ever gave a therapist the time of day. He just couldn't find his way when he didn't have someone ordering him around. It... taught me survival skills, at least, I had to know how to survive to get out of there alive." Damage flickered behind his eyes. "...my dad didn't. Get out of there. Alive. And neither did my mom. One spring when I was away at college, Dad just stopped in the middle of cleaning his gun, and he-- used it. Twice."

Ceri stood there for a moment, gazing at his aching eyes with sympathy and empathy and broken-heartedness in her own blues. "Oh. Oh, Christopher, I'm sorry. I'd no idea."

With a quavery shrug and a wobbly smile, Chris shook his head. "It's okay. It's not really something I talk about. With anyone. But that thing you were saying, about preserving what's good in the world. I guess I can understand that. This world is all broken, we've all lost our way-- if only we had a way to find it again."

Reaching out gently to cup his face with her MMA glove, Ceri blinked back a tear. "Maybe we can find it together."

"Like a team," Chris laughed softly, but not derisively, enchantedly, and reached up to squeeze her hand as she touched his face. "Like partners."

Hello from the other side
I must've called a thousand times
To tell you I'm sorry for everything that I've done
But when I call you never seem to be home

********

4247 78th Street.
Keystone City, California.
Late 2000.​

Ceri blew air through her lips and clawed a hand through her hair, her wedding and engagement ring gleaming in the light of the bedside lamp as she sat criss-cross on the bed. "Bluddy, stupid-- dial-up-- if Waldo Glenmorgan could see the state of this technology, he'd spin in his grave--!"

Chris stood in the doorway of the bedroom, holding a barely-touched bottle of Kool-Brau, frowning. "What is it you're working on?"

Grimacing, Ceri gestured to the laptop. "Trying to IM with this pre-antiquities expert about the legend of Aurakles, this fantastic warrior that seems like the archetypal template for Beowulf, Gilgamesh, maybe even King Arthur-- like this Neanderthal-era superhero. If there's anything to go on, there, I might be able to use it for a doctoral thesis someday--"

Chris perched on the corner of the bed, and sipped his beer. "Sounds like your White Whale."

"Red, actually," Ceri chuckled wryly. "He had hair the color of a fiery sunset. The first redhead. Supposedly, every redhead on the planet owes their distant genetic heritage to him."

Chris reached up and touched his own red hair. "Well. I'll try not to let it go to my, uh, head."

Smirking, Ceri gave Chris a sidelong glance and then gestured to him. "C'mere. Give. Tax."

Chris goodnaturedly rolled his eyes and handed her his beer, and Ceri took a firm swig.

"So," Chris wondered. "Does that mean, if I'm descended from this mighty Aurakles, that I am morally bound to pass on that genetic code? That all our children will share in that venerable heritage? Because it occurs to me that maybe that should be a priority."

Ceri had just attempted to dial up on her laptop again and had gotten nowhere, and then glanced up at Chris as though she'd only half-heard what he'd said. "Hm. What?"

Grinning, Chris gazed at her with half-lidded eyes. "Put the beer down."

Ceri blinked. "Erm-- oh."

She managed somehow to get the beer on the bedside table and the laptop out of her lap before he was climbing on top of her and she kissed him all the way back to the pillow.

Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I've tried
To tell you I'm sorry for breaking your heart
But it don't matter, it clearly doesn't tear you apart
Anymore

********

Saint Andrew's Hospital.
Central City, California.
August 23, 2001.​

"AHHHHHHH!" Ceri screamed, her pale face turning red, almost purple with effort, her hand clutching Chris' so hard that Chris thought it might break, but he didn't dare let go. "COME AHHHHRRRRN!"

"You can do it, Mrs. Grant," the doctor was saying loudly, firmly, from somewhere between her legs-- though it seemed as though he was miles away down a long tunnel. "Just one more good push should do it."

Tears were rolling down Ceri's face, she heaved in breath, her shoulders shook. Chris stroked her hair, wiped her tears, mopped the sweat on her brow that slicked her black hair to her forehead. "You heard the man. Okay? One more push and we'll get to meet our baby, okay? You can do this, partner."

Ceri couldn't speak to reply, but she stared at Chris for a moment, and found her center, and she nodded. Chris kissed her on the forehead, and--

--with a scream that could split the world--

--Ceri pushed--

--she went away for a moment, lost traction on the world, and when she came back Chris was beside her, the baby in his arms.

He was grinning and he was crying.

"It's a girl, Cer'. It's a girl."

"She's got red hair."

Hello, how are you?
It's so typical of me to talk about myself, I'm sorry
I hope that you're well

********

Lower Manhattan, New York City, New York.
September 11, 2001.​

"She misses yeh very much, does our Victoria Rose," Ceri's voice murmured in Chris' ear as he strolled down the sidewalk that late-summer morning. "We both do."

Smiling softly, Chris replied into his brand-new Nokia: "Well, I miss you both very much too. And I promise I'll be home soon. I just need to talk to the rep from this mining company-- they're hoping to find a vein of dwarf star alloy--"

As he walked, he accidentally bumped into an old man in a wheelchair, jostling him. "Oh, Jesus, I didn't mean--"

But the old man-- baseball cap, blanket over his lap, stink of homelessness and all --didn't even flinch. Just kept staring up at the sky, a battered old pocket-watch open in his twitching hand. He mumbled: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"What?" Chris blinked, understandably bewildered, the phone half-lowered from his ear. "Sorry for what?"

The old man kept staring skyward, and added, as though with a heart broken twice over: "This moment was scheduled to occur."

Despite himself, Chris turned his gaze skyward, to follow the old man's eyeline.

Just in time to see a jet airliner slice through the sky overhead and spear into the southern tower of The World Trade Center, erupting in a ball of flame.

Chris saw this happen in a strange, surreal, elongated moment, watched it in a slow motion that churned up through his gut and down through the part of his backbrain inherited from reptilian evolutionary ancestors-- visceral and remorseless and ancient and dark--

"Cer'," he murmured. "Something's happening. I love you. I'll need to call you back."

But he heard no reply from Ceri-- they'd been disconnected.

Absently, he pocketed the phone, and he walked towards the burning edifice as though transfixed, apparently oblivious to the screams of passerby around him, apparently having already forgotten the old man in the wheelchair.

With all the gridlocked traffic and the panicking evacuees and The FDNY and The NYPD, it took him almost an hour to reach the street directly below The World Trade.

As he did so, however, the building succumbed to internal stresses, and it folded inward and downward-- crumbled-- collapsed.

Again, he watched this happen in the slowest of motions, as if there was too much information and not all of it could fit down his optic nerve.

Again, absently, distantly, obliviously, he realized that he might be about to die now.

He should-- he should call his wife. Tell her he loved her before the end.

It all seemed pointless.

The world was more broken than ever.

He would sell his soul for the way to put it back together again.

To replace this burning screaming chaos with order and direction.

He would sell his soul to find the one who could lead the world to that order.

He should tell his wife he loved her.

Christopher King Grant pulled his phone out of his pocket.

He stared at it for a moment.

The letters and the numbers were changed. All gone. Replaced with strange, extraterrestrial, mystical alphanumerics. The battery was full. And the signal bars were empty.

He stared at it for far longer than a moment.

And he stared at it, transfixed, hypnotized, mesmerized, as the billowing black dust cloud from The South Tower's collapse washed over him like a wave--

--the darkness swallowed him.

Did you ever make it out of that town where nothing ever happened?

********

4247 78th St.
Keystone City, California.
September 13, 2001.​

Ceri stared at the landline touch-tone phone, having dialed it so often over the last two days that she'd practically broken its buttons.

She was out of tears.

Victoria Rose was still crying, out of hunger-- wet-- tired-- something.

Ceri was having trouble focusing. She needed to take care of her daughter. But.

She was waiting for the phone to ring, for her husband to say that he was sorry, his battery had died, he just hadn't been able to get to another phone--

The phone didn't ring. And didn't ring.

She never did get that call.

It's no secret that the both of us
Are running out of time

********

Saint Roch, Louisiana.
December 11, 2013.​

He was so tired.

He had traveled the world.

Seen its seediest, darkest corners. Seen the deepest depths of oppression.

Searched for anyone who might have the power to understand his strange, changed cellphone, whose battery never died but whose signal never pinged a tower. Who might be able to read the letters and numbers on its buttons.

And he had found nothing.

Scantest hints of rumor, mysteries, legends as wispy and flimsy as these little-known oft-forgotten tales of Themyscira and Atlantis.

His belly and his liver were full of an amber liquid far more potent than Kool-Brau.

He had quarters in his hand, and before him was a half-functional payphone.

He knew his old home number by heart. Burned into his brain, long before people had become so dependent on mobile devices to remember their contacts list.

He could just call her.

Call his wife.

Tell her he loved her.

One more time.

He could still go home.

He hadn't found anyone to whom he might sell his soul, and yet he had lost his soul anyway. And he only knew one woman who might help him find it.

He raised his hand to reach for the payphone's receiver.

BZZZ.
BZZZ.
BZZZ.

Something vibrated in his pocket.

The whole world seemed to stop spinning in that moment. The whole universe seemed to throw on the brakes so hard there was whiplash.

And in that moment in which even the turning of galaxies and stars seemed to hinge, he took his phone out of his pocket.

His undying, ever-silent phone.

He'd gotten a text.

It said. "You are ready."

And then the Nokia started to ring.

Started to ring from the same number that had sent the text.

Christopher King Grant stared at the cellphone.

And then looked up at the payphone.

It wasn't too late. He could still call Ceri. He could still call home.

The cellphone rang. And rang.

Chris looked down at it in his hand. And snapped it open like the old man's pocket watch.

"I've come so far."

"I need to know."

CCCRAAAAAACK

The world ripped open.

And Christopher King Grant stumbled through the rip.

The rip slammed shut behind him--

--the darkness swallowed him.

Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I've tried
To tell you I'm sorry for breaking your heart
But it don't matter, it clearly doesn't tear you apart
Anymore, ooooohh
Anymore, ooooohh
Anymore, ooooohh
Anymore, anymore

*******​

Their two lives hung by this moment.

Years of waiting, searching, pain and death and loneliness and wondering.

And those years' having unfurled in this moment, flashed before two sets of eyes, they again began to respool, and time out of joint made ready to tick forwards once more.

The next act was almost ready to begin.

Hello from the other side
I must've called a thousand times
To tell you I'm sorry for everything that I've done
But when I call you never seem to be home

Hello from the outside
At least I can say that I've tried
To tell you I'm sorry for breaking your heart
But it don't matter, it clearly doesn't tear you apart
Anymore

 

[TertiusHuman]

Venom

They were busy linking up power to the fourth tower, the third was practically deserted and this one held a minimal force. They listened to Nightwing's call for help. That was not supposed to happen.

"This is Venom, we have three more targets to finish. Should we provide assistance to Nightwing?"

We?

'Not now. You think on your sins and then we need to talk.'

No

And just like that John found hiself seated on the parapet of the building, unable to move.

We sort this out now.

'Alright, let's do that, but keep it short.'

I am in your mind, no need to ramble

And then they got down to some male/alien bonding

 

[Lunaramblings]

Eel and Renee "borrowed" one of the police cruisers they found a few streets over from the clinic. After the guards let him go, he told her they should leave. He figured more junkies and the like may show up. Or whoever was behind this, they may not like these humanitarians trying to help. They may come after them next. Either way, he needed to protect Renee. Get her far away from here.

As they were driving, for the first time all night the radio burst to life, scaring the shit out of both of them.

"Need backup. NOW!"

Eel skids to a stop. Panting with the sudden fear. He looks at Renee.

"Listen, Renee... I don't wanna put you at risk, but sounds like that cop is in trouble. With the thing I told you about wit those thugs, how can I not go help 'em. Course don't know where the hell he is."

"I understand. I got this." She reaches out and grabs the mic and calls out. "Officer Responding. Need location."

A voice crackles over the speaker, a young officer clearly surprised to hear an incoming call. "Officer Waid here, who is this?"

"Not important. We can help. Now give us a location."

"I... what if your one of them..."

"Then I wouldn't need the location would I?"

"I guess not... fine. The old sanitarium. Be careful. Whoever you are."

"There you go hun. Lets move. Just give me one second." Without waiting for a response she grabs the keys, and jumps out of the car. Running around the back, she opens the trunk and grabs a dufflebag before getting back in and handing Eel the keys. "Gordon made all the units start carrying special gear in the trunk a couple years ago. I don't have a cool super power, but I can't let you go alone."

Eel grins at her as she pulls the bullet-proof vest out of the bag and puts it on. Then draws out a pistol. "You don't look it but you got nerve girlie. I think we's gonna get along just fine. Lets go save this cop."

Eel and Renee take off at break-neck speed toward the sanitarium.

 

[Zet_Cross]

Drive looks the room over.

"Looks like some of you are injured. I may be able to help with that."

At that a toy ambulence drives into his hand and he shifts it into his bracer.

Tire Koukon, Mad Doctor

"Now then I warn you, only people with a strong will and a stronger body will be able to withstand this treatment. Metas have the best chance of it working."

 

[Lunaramblings]

Bint al-Qadil's chain flails out at Nightwing. With years of training his body responds like a machine. Without thought he catches the chain. Pain searing through his body as he lashes the chain around his already injured arm. Yanking he draws her toward him.

But she's ready. She sees the leaping knee coming and is able to whip her body forward in a diving roll, tucking beneath him and using the chain to wrap through his legs. With a yank she pulls him over. But Nightwing counters with a flip, landing on his feet as his shoulder is yanked out of socket. He drops to a knee.

For all his years of training and experience he is unable to block the barrage of strikes that the lithe figure before him throws next. Several of these hard blows find their home. Battering his injured body.

But Nightwing is tougher than he looks. He weathers the storm before firing back with his own strikes. For what seems like forever the two highly trained warriors exchange everything they have. Switching styles in the blink of an eye. From Aikido to Yusul and everything in between. But she always seems a step ahead. Always just a half move faster. His injuries are starting to slow him. He can feel the loss of blood taking it's toll. The deep laceration to his shoulder limiting the use of that arm. For the first time in his life, Nightwing is unsure he can beat a foe. This small, lithe, girl. So deadly. It's like she was bred for this.

She was bred for this.... Shit.

Nightwing stops going for hits. Instead focusing on prevention. He needs to get through to her.

She lunges with a muay thai knee, which he traps in a greco roman clasp.

"This is not all you are child. You do not have to be Bint al-Qadil. You can be so much more. You don't have to be a weapon. Let me help you. Let me show you a better way. Give you the life the League has never allowed."

She breaks his lock and tries a Savate-style kick. He redirects with an Aikido throw, rolling through with a triangle choke. Again he struggles to reach her.

"You were born into this right? Told that you were a weapon. A machine of war. But you are not. You are human. You have the right to a life of love and happiness. You don't have to be Bint al-Qadim. Not anymore. Help me stop all this death and destruction. stop all the kids and innocents from being killed. Do you know how many innocent people have died here today? Is that what you want?"

Her struggle lessened only slightly for a moment. Then she was back full force. But in that moment he knew he was right. She wasn't here by choice. It was all she knew. She was a living breathing weapon. Virtually a slave. He had to hold her off a little longer....

She was fast. Strong too. She moved like a jungle cat hyped up on steroid and speed. Her brick-like fists rained down hard and fast on him. He struggled to stay moving. She feigned a high kick and he bought it. Instead she drove hard into his already compromised upper body. Ribs cracking, he crumpled to the floor. Just rolling out of the way of an axe kick. Coughing up blood as he came to his feet, he blocks a kick. Catching her foot he flips her head over heels and as she lands, he delivers a straight, hard forearm to her jaw. In the second in which she was stunned he swung his body around her like a luchador, twirling around and over her shoulder he wraps his arms around her neck in a guillotine choke, and scissors her body with his legs. He expected that she would fall with his weight, but she was much stronger than he expected. He hung there, pleading again through panting breath and bloody splatterings.

"I can show you what it is to have a real life. Not just be a tool of some psychotic bitch. Please, you have to listen. You can have so much more. I won't strike you down. I want to save you. I want to help you. Give you the life you have never had the chance for. Please. Hear me. Trust me."

As Nightwing and The Weapon go round for round the other members of the league stand watching. Waiting.

There is a loud explosion as the far wall is destroyed. Ras al-Ghul and al-Saqr swing through the gap. Each launching a barrage of shuriken striking each of their targets, the remaining League members in the jugular or eye. Taking down the targets with ease.

 

[ChasNicollette]

"Supernova," by The Devil Wears Prada.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Earlier.
********​

--and an arboreal fist punched its way out through that perforated chest, a fist clutching a carbon-steel alloy pump.

The android crumpled to the roadbed far below, the wind dying around it.

The fist was at the end of an arm, and the arm grew up out of the hole in the android's chest like a sapling under time-lapse, swelling and growing up into--

--Redwood, hale and whole and healed.

"Hrrrnh," she growled, tossing the pump to herself like a baseball. "Whaddaya know. Tin Woodsman had a heart all along."

"Ut," the android twitched. "Ut... ut... ut."

"Bah, kwitcherbitchin', Aangdroid," Redwood harrumphed, stepping away from the android's failing body and absently lobbing the "heart" at it, bouncing it off of the android's forehead. "Airbenders're s'posed ta be vegetarians, eh?"

The android stopped twitching.

And then--

BOOM

--another of those teleportals yawned wide underneath the deceased android in the road, sucked it down and away, and irised shut again.

BOOM

--and yet another opened in the sky over Redwood's head, depositing another payload of parademons. Before there had been six. Now there were twelve. With parademons... there was always more.

Redwood grimaced.

And popped her claws again.

"Beauty, eh?" she snarled. "C'mere, then."

...Redwood carved through parademons with gleaming thorn-claws and chlorophyll frothing on her lips.

Supergirl lay buried in rubble as Solomon Grundy gleefully dug for her.

Doctor Light tortured J'onn with holograms of fire.

Chris Grant used the ectype of The Scarlet Scarab to battle the vastly adaptive powers of The Blue Beetle.

Captain and Mary Marvel were about to drop from orbit and turn the tide of battle, if only for a moment.

But before that moment could come... time stopped.

Everything paused. The false flames that excoriated The Martian Manhunter hesitated mid-crackle. Even electrons stilled in their orbits.

And in a burst of golden light, two figures staggered out of nowhere and onto a nearby rooftop overlooking the melee.

"We," gasped a man with a blue uniform emblazoned with a holographic lightning bolt, his black hair adorned with a white streak, "we made it."

Beside and behind him hunched a blond man dressed in blue and in gold, accompanied by a hovering droid in matching colors. "Ow. Ow. Sprock, John, I hope that was worth the trip through a raging chronal firewall--"

"Of course it was," John Fox clapped Booster Gold on the shoulder, shaking his head, pointing to J'onn far below. "Look! J'onn hasn't fallen victim to Anti-Life! The Marvels won't have been captured yet! We still have time to warn them, to change everything--"

Booster frowned, following the point of Fox' finger. "That's-- that's great. Just-- why is everyone freeze-framed? Are you doing a Speed thing?"

John blinked. "...no?"

Booster whipped his head around to check with his droid. "Skeets, we need an analys--"

But Skeets was just floating and sputtering. "404. 404. 404. 404."

Before Gold or Fox could completely feel the panic that might result from this, an arrogant laugh brayed behind them, and they whirled to face--

--a red-haired, red-eyed man clad all in black.

"You're out of sync with the timestream, a little pocket of history I created between attoseconds for you two meddling fools to land in," he intoned, arms crossed behind him. "Time travel in this parallel is strictly prohibited unless at the whim of The Master, you know this-- and you two don't exactly have a hall pass."

"Per Degaton," Fox snarled, "you bastard!"

He lunged for Degaton, fists outstretched, but only made it two steps before he realized-- his speed was gone--

Degaton curled his lip, raised a hand--

--Fox' silver chronal gauntlets crackled and exploded, shattering him into golden light that instantly dispersed.

Booster's eyes went wide behind his visor. "JOHN! NO!"

Degaton rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Gold. I've converted him into tachyon radiation infused with Speed Force static-- he'll drift forward in time towards The 27th Century and become the energy that gives him his speed powers in the first place. These Speed Force avatars are such a nuisance, notoriously resistant to Anti-Life... but that was a mercy-killing compared to what I did to Rip Hunter."

Booster clenched his fists, closed his eyes-- shuddered like a leaf. "Degaton. Listen to yourself. You're, what, The Master's temporal enforcer? His secret time police? I've never known you to be a pawn in anyone's game but your own!"

The black-clad man chuckled darkly, idly poking the still-stuttering Skeets with a finger, amused at the squawking agony the little droid found himself in. "Per Degaton is an agent of no man or faction but himself. But a little feigned compliance here and there suits my purposes nicely."

Booster Gold stood up straighter, opened his eyes, locked his gaze with Degaton's. "Fine. Go ahead and comply, then. Murder me the way you just murdered The Flash."

Another darksome chuckle, and Degaton shook his head. "Oh, no, Gold. I know your past, I know your history from beginning to end, and I know the desire for profit that drove you to put on that ridiculous costume. I know your heart bursts with sin even now, always weighing your 'heroic sacrifices' against what you might gain."

He snapped his fingers, and

BOOM

one of those terrible time-tunnels yawned open beside them.

"Murder you? Oh, Gold. The Master wants to hire you."

Booster opened his mouth to spit fury, revulsion, horror--

--but before his retort could echo in that that time outside of time--

BOOM

--the tunnel slammed shut and vanished.

And they were gone.

Time continued, then, utterly unaware that it had ever been interrupted.

Their darkest hour was still on schedule.

 

[ChasNicollette]

Triage. (Vixen/Tigress/Artemis)

"Now then I warn you, only people with a strong will and a stronger body will be able to withstand this treatment. Metas have the best chance of it working."

Black Canary shot Vixen a worried look at Vixen's unexpected transformation and equally unexpected reversion, but Vixen held up a hand-- I'm all right, I'm all right. --then she looked at Drive.

"I'm afraid there's not many metas in Gotham on the side of the angels," Canary shook her head. "And those that do usually have their own healing covered, like Mari."

"Little dab of earthworm'll do you," Vixen smirked faintly.

Laurel squinted, though. "But-- not to brag-- there's a few of us here that have trained up to the peak of human capability, or as close as they could get. Pagan, there, and Flamebird, they're in bad shape, but if you could fix them-- or my arm-- we'd be a lot less outnumbered."

Mari glanced over her shoulder and Paula, sitting in her wheelchair and catching up on old times with Selina. (She couldn't immediately locate Artemis, but the girl had to be around here somewhere.)

"Artemis got a bit scuffed up a little while ago. Nothing life-threatening, but--" Mari hesitated. "Could you-- Tomari-- could you heal someone who's been injured a long time? That woman in the wheelchair, Tigress, could you give her her legs back?"

It was a long shot, she knew it in her figurative whiskers. But if Mari could help take away the promise of restoration that Nyssa had dangled over Tigress' head-- if the good guys could give Paula the one chip Nyssa was bargaining with-- she knew it would do wonders for Tigress' path to redemption.

********​

Artemis had gone through to another room where a handful of dead Assassins lay in repose, picking arrows out of their quivers to replenish her own.

But then, against all odds-- sounding like he was at a distance, like a long tunnel --Nightwing's voice crackled in her earpiece.

Struggling Nightwing switches to all comms, "Need backup. NOW!"

Almost immediately, Venom came back:

"This is Venom, we have three more targets to finish. Should we provide assistance to Nightwing?"

Something about that pronoun-- we --stuck in Artemis as though she'd been shot with an actual arrow. Something... alien. Something... hive-mind.

But he was still active, he was still out there, he was still ready to kick carapace and take names. That was... good.

If only because she wanted to kick his carapace more later.

Nightwing didn't reply to John, which meant he was either too busy to come back, or--

Shoving one last arrow into her quiver to finish topping off, Artemis sprinted quickly for the area where the vehicles were all lined up. Her mom was safe. Mari could keep an eye on this new guy with the car.

Nightwing needed back-up and Artemis hadn't shot anyone for what felt like way too long.

She had her leg over a bad-ass Harley almost before she knew it. It revved to life under her and she grinned a tight little grin. "Aaaattagirl."

And she roared off through a gap in the sea of cats, blurring out into what was left of Gotham's Longest Night.

In the distance, she could hear her mother shouting, startled, after her, but when had Artemis ever listened to her mother?

She takked her earpiece. "Nightwing. Stay breathing. Okay? I'm on my way but I'm whole klicks out. Stay breathing."

 

[ChasNicollette]

Sabermetrics. (Sportsmaster)

Nyssa and Sportsmaster exchanged crushing blows, blurring like lightning-- back and forth--

--Sportsmaster's hockey stick went spinning away--

--Nyssa's right-hand blade fell in half, decapitated by Sportsmaster's fencing sword--

--but then the hilt of Nyssa's left-hand blade cracked into a nerve cluster, driving the sword from his hand--

--Sportsmaster growled, shook out that hand, but with his uninjured hand he dug into a belt pouch and came out with a heavy, spiked weight at the end of a chain, so heavy that it punched a dent into the floor as he let the chain play out. Like an Olympic throwing-hammer combined with a morningstar chain-mace, this was a weapon of devastating power, and he whirled it overhead that the chain might sing a scathing song.

"I can show you what it is to have a real life. Not just be a tool of some psychotic bitch. Please, you have to listen. You can have so much more. I won't strike you down. I want to save you. I want to help you. Give you the life you have never had the chance for. Please. Hear me. Trust me."

"You are wasting your time, Junah Alllayl," Nyssa called over her shoulder to Nightwing, twirling her remaining blade as she circled Sportsmaster, looking for an opening as he spun the hammer around and around. "And wasting your labored breaths. Bint al Qabil's native tongue is not... heard. And it is not spoken. It is seen and it is felt."

Indeed, while a troubled light had gathered in Bint al Qabil's deep golden-brown eyes, she made no reply. Save with fists and with feet.

As Nightwing and The Weapon go round for round the other members of the league stand watching. Waiting.

There is a loud explosion as the far wall is destroyed. Ras al-Ghul and al-Saqr swing through the gap. Each launching a barrage of shuriken striking each of their targets, the remaining League members in the jugular or eye. Taking down the targets with ease.

Rolling aside as Crock's piledriving weapon punched another crater into the floor just where she'd been standing, Nyssa snapped her furious gaze up to drink in the forms of Thea Queen and the mysterious boy that served as her Horseman.

"Bint al Sa-Her," Nyssa snarled to Thea, refusing to address her as Ra's al Ghul, she was simply The Daughter of The Magician. "There will be nothing left of your Remnant when I am finished with you!"

Strategic analysis blurred through her mind.

Without immediate support in the form of her Assassins, Nyssa knew-- despite her stubbornness, despite her ferocity, despite the living weapon that was Bint al Qabil-- they were outnumbered. And as much as it galled her to admit it-- she would much rather call in her super-powered allies than face bitter defeat.

Again, whirling clear of one of Crock's attacks--

--Nyssa reached up and touched her earpiece.

"NETWORK SUPPORT!"

 

[ChasNicollette]

Deus ex machina. (Felicity)

In Washington, DC, Felicity stared at the screen in ghostly-pale silence, both hands covering her mouth, staring in disbelief-- having watched a bird's-eye view of John "Venom" Denvers eviscerating Black Spider and dining out on his brains like some kind of horrifying French cuisine-- cervelle de araignée.

And it was right at that moment that the calculating presence on the line severed her link to the satellite and the image winked out.

The teams' commlinks inside Gotham would still function, after a fashion. But Felicity would have no way of reaching them.

No way of telling Oliver how far Denvers had just fallen.

And as bad-ass as Felicity could be under pressure, she was even more only human than Kara Danvers-- and she had been awake a very long time.

She burst into tears.

Felicity lay her head upon her arms and let herself sob a few very hard, rattling sobs. There was nothing she could do at the moment, no link she could re-establish, and if she didn't let out at least some of the helplessness she was feeling, she might explode.

But even as she sat there, letting the wallow take hold for just a moment-- she heard the door creak open, heard the whine of metal axles--

--she sat up, hurriedly wiping the tears from her eyes, "uh, sorry, I was just-- is this your room, I thought it was free--"

But then she saw who she was looking at.

An old man in a wheelchair, spasmodically twitching hands managing somehow to cling to his wheels to pull himself into the room and push the door shut behind him. "No need to get up, Felicity Smoak," he rasped. "My time in this place must be brief. Another moment is scheduled to occur."

Felicity felt herself go pale, felt trained edginess and tactical awareness seep in around the fringes of her exhaustion and exasperation. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

She knew she didn't.

But at least he was honest about it: "No. But I know of you, Felicity Smoak. And I know enough of you to know that there is nothing I can do or say that will reassure you that I am an ally to you in short enough order that I can act within the window available."

And out of a pocket, he drew a small, gleaming, silvery-metallic cube.

"Except to show you this."

It was beautiful. Like the box Felicity's mother kept her jewelry in.

Like a puzzle-box designed by Daedalus and forged by Hephaestus.

And it bathed Felicity in a warm glow that took her breath away.

Soothing her frayed, frayed nerves. Breathing life.

"Oh," Felicity mumbled, "my God."

PING, the box said.
PING.
PING.
PING.

 

[Zet_Cross]

Black Canary shot Vixen a worried look at Vixen's unexpected transformation and equally unexpected reversion, but Vixen held up a hand-- I'm all right, I'm all right. --then she looked at Drive.

"I'm afraid there's not many metas in Gotham on the side of the angels," Canary shook her head. "And those that do usually have their own healing covered, like Mari."

"Little dab of earthworm'll do you," Vixen smirked faintly.

Laurel squinted, though. "But-- not to brag-- there's a few of us here that have trained up to the peak of human capability, or as close as they could get. Pagan, there, and Flamebird, they're in bad shape, but if you could fix them-- or my arm-- we'd be a lot less outnumbered."

Mari glanced over her shoulder and Paula, sitting in her wheelchair and catching up on old times with Selina. (She couldn't immediately locate Artemis, but the girl had to be around here somewhere.)

"Artemis got a bit scuffed up a little while ago. Nothing life-threatening, but--" Mari hesitated. "Could you-- Tomari-- could you heal someone who's been injured a long time? That woman in the wheelchair, Tigress, could you give her her legs back?"

It was a long shot, she knew it in her figurative whiskers. But if Mari could help take away the promise of restoration that Nyssa had dangled over Tigress' head-- if the good guys could give Paula the one chip Nyssa was bargaining with-- she knew it would do wonders for Tigress' path to redemption.

Drive looked over at Paula.

"I've never tried on a pre-existing injury. Even if it could be done the pain would be unbearable."

He walks over to Canary and the two other women.

"If you think you can take it then lets start."

Tomari shifts his brace once and presses the button on it. Doctor! A bunch of holographic syringes appear around the three heroes and start emitting an energy at them. This energy forcibly knits bone and mends flesh and the pain is excruciating. The heartbeats of all three can be seen on the wheel on his chest.

 

[Lunaramblings]

"NETWORK SUPPORT!"

Nyssa's call rings through the air. A moment later the floor explodes upward in a shower of debris. A large disfigured man with a purple gem embedded in his forehead bursts forth.

Eclipso will devour your souls!"

With a defiant glint in her eye, Bint al-Qadim slips her hand into a fold in her shinobi shōzoku and draws her had back out with her fingertips clad with small, claw like hypodermic needles filled with a strange fluid. Nightwing, unfortunately doesn't notice in time as he locks her into a choke to disable her, and she is able to reach up and drive these needles into his cheek injecting him with the toxin. And in a moment he collapses.

With a thunderous cry the giant strikes at Ras' al-Ghul. As his huge fist swings forth, it is intercepted by the young man at her side. He deftly uses the giant's momentum to bring him off balance and strikes at several nerve clusters in the brief second that the beast is caught of guard.

Eclipso roars in anger and spins to face his new target. As the two trade blows, the smaller man dodging and weaving and the giants crushing everything he touches, Ras' al-Ghul draws a collapsing staff from her hip and gestures toward Nyssa.

"Nyssa, you and your rag-tag group of mercenaries will not bring Gotham down. Just as your father failed in Star City, you will fail here. Sportsmaster, glad to see your on the right side of this. Finish her while I help Nightwing."

Thea, Ras' al-Ghul, moves with purpose. "Bint al-Qadim... The Weapon. That is all you are to her. You should be so much more. Your master claims my title, and she disgraces it with her manipulation of you. I was chosen by her own father to be Ras' al-Ghul. He did not chose her. You have been abused and had your mind twisted. Cassandra, I knew your father. While I did not believe in his ways, he was honorable. Something that your master is not. Let us show you a new path. Show you how to be a truly honorable warrior. Your language is that of war, but one cannot be fluent in war, if one does not understand peace. It took me a long time to learn this."

As Thea speaks, the two young women are a blur of motion. But Bint al-Qadim was clearly a step off. Her mind reeling with the possibility of being more than just a tool in Nyssa's arsenal.

As Thea and The Weapon are locked in battle inside, a battered police care pulls up outside. Eel O'Brian and Renee Montoya emerge. Several members of The Network intercept them. But they aren't ready for Eel's new power. He absorbs their strikes and even gunfire, deflecting them. Renee, using the riot gear from the car helps him move through the interceptors, blasting several of them.

Renee, gets pinned down but gestures to Eel to go on. And so he does. Turning himself into a giant spring he bounds through the roof of the building, landing in the large upstairs room where all help is breaking loose. And as he does, even more insanity begins to break loose as the shadows in the room shimmer, and seem to come to life. They merge into a being in the middle of the room. A large, black, shadow warrior stands there, ready to pounce.

 

[ChasNicollette]

"Pacific Rim (Main Title)," by Ramin Djawadi & Tom Morello.

The Exchange.
Six Weeks Ago, Main Thread Time.
Liberation Day.
********​

Rising like a monolith from the center of the war-torn landscape stood The Dataspine, otherwise known as The Heart of The Exchange. Creatures from all over The Multiverse, Dialed or otherwise, waged a seemingly endless cosmic clash over control over that data hub. For so long, it had languished under the control of The Master's forces, and The Anti-Life Faction had used their unfettered access to the technology of The Operators to wreak havoc on the forces of Life and upon the greater spectra of parallel universes bobbing in The Bleed. But today-- today was the day that The Life Faction managed to wrest that control from The Master's cronies when The Master was off-world tending to secret projects, and thereby strike a critical blow to his efforts of conquest across the transfinite array of worlds.

This would not end the war-- just as quickly, The Master and his forces would strike back, renewing their efforts to recapture The Exchange and its great and terrible powers back from The Wizard and his allies.

A heroic Gear Dialer managed to summon a Green Lantern Ring and with one last burst of effort fashioned a battering ram that would crash and shatter the barriers keeping out the swarming H-Dialers at the gate.

With a resounding cry, soldiers of The Life Faction poured into the lobby of the supermassive skyscraper, driving their way up its halls and corridors and stairwells, fighting for every inch of black-tiled floor as Anti-Lifers attempted to barricade themselves away.

Eventually, it became apparent that The Lifers were a juggernaut that couldn't this day be stopped, and agents of Anti-Life began to scatter and evacuate like ants from a hill. Most were captured and defeated immediately, leaping before they looked-- but others were more conniving, their escape plans already in place and in motion.

Open-Window Man and the resurrected Boy Chimney of Team House pursued two such agents down the halls of The Dataspine, joined by two-- or was it three? --squad members of one of The Life Faction's strike teams, or Dial Bunches. These were Johnny "Whispers" Smith and his wolf daemon, McKennitt, and their tech support Fixer, Natasha Irons-- called "Rescue Nat."

The five of them skidded to a halt at an intersection.

McKennitt's nostrils flared, he swung his lupine head in both directions, he growled deep in his throat. "Can't tell which way they've gone. If Captain Creosote here would just get his fumes out of my sniffer--"

Brick-skinned with a skeletal build and a over-tall stovepipe hat that piped out eerie smoke everywhere he went, Boy Chimney snorted at McKennitt's disdain. "No smoke without fire, my dear four-footed boy, and we must needs smoke out these villains from whatever holes they have bricked themselves into!"

"It doesn't matter!" Rescue Nat shook her head, using a handheld gadget to sensor-sweep the flickeringly-lit hallway. "I'm tracing the signals on their Dials, and they've split up. Grant's headed deeper into the building, one of the maintenance sectors, but I think 9-X is heading for-- R&D?"

Whispers shook his head. "That can't be good. Nat, go with Jed and Chimney, Mac and I will handle 9-X."

"Are you sure? 9-X is--" Nat hesitated.

"No time for quibbling," Open-Window Man thundered, sprinting down the hallway Nat had indicated, Boy Chimney's long, agile strides carrying him along beside. "The time for justice is at hand!"

Nat steeled herself for a moment and then pelted after them, leaving Johnny and his wolf to wheel about and hurry after the one called 9-X.

"Smells better in here already," McKennitt grumbled. "Dunno why you like those guys so much."

"Jed-- Open-Window Man-- is one of the most professional non-Dialers I've ever met," Whispers noted as he ran, his walking-stick clutched in a white-knuckled fist. "And Boy Chimney, well, I appreciate his taste in canes."

"Hrrnh," McKennitt harrumphed, and the spirit animal was clearly unmollified.

********​

They saw him-- red-haired, clad in black, diving into a room ahead of them-- he slammed the door behind him, and the locking mechanism sparked and hissed and fried, deadlock-sealing.

Open-Window Man reached the door first, bashing it with his fists, crying out in fury-- "Damn! We're coming for you Grant, you'll pay for what you did to Spiralstair!"

"Stand away, old chum!" Boy Chimney crowed, twirling his cane and raising his own fist, driving a brick-skinned punch into the heavy alloy of the door, cratering the surface in the shape of his own knuckles. "This itch requires a sterner scratch!"

Heeding the advice of his partner, Open-Window Man took a step back so that Boy Chimney's superhuman might could fell the barricade, glanced at Rescue Nat as she came hurrying up. "Quick, Natasha! Use your Gear Dial! Dial me a way in there, a portable hole, a warp pipe, an open window--!"

Rescue Nat sputtered, shook her head, and held up a device not unlike a radar detector, with its lights bleating into the red. "I can't, Mr. Oliver, I can't! I can only Dial up one bit of Gear at a time, and I'm already trying to jam Grant's outgoing signals! If he Dials a Villain--"

In her other hand, she held the tracking device she'd been using earlier, and she made a strangled noise of dislike. "--agh, the room's construction is preventing a complete jam effect, he's managed to call out-- and he's got an OpTech-amplified scrambler with him, if he completes an emergency Jump Dial, he'll be able to prevent anyone following him to that world for months!"

Open-Window Man's impressive chin clenched, and he whipped his gaze to Boy Chimney. "Hurry, my old friend! Maximum amplitude!"

But-- too late-- Nat cried out in dismay as her signal tracker read a Jump Dial portal opening--

--Boy Chimney clutched his cane in both hands, swung it hard, knocked the door inward with a crushing THWOOM --

--just in time for bright blue light to flood the hallway, scrambling Nat's instruments and almost blinding all three of them.

Nat scrunched up her face in fury, dropped to her knees, and punched the floor. "No! No!"

Open-Window Man glowered, obviously fettering his own anger, but put a gloved hand on Nat's shoulder. "Easy, Natasha. Jump Dials are not the only portals available to us. I will find him."

Boy Chimney stabbed his walking-stick into the floor and set his stony, bony mouth into a stiff line. "One can only hope our Man and his Best Friend are having greater success."

********​

Johnny "Whispers" Smith had been doing this for quite awhile now.

Native to a parallel of the Earth known colloquially as Lyra's World, Whispers was a de facto shaman amongst the Skraelings of the northeastern region of New Denmark. Possessed of an uncanny sixth sense, he could utilize a soothsaying device called an alethiometer with rare intuitive precision. His alethiometer was also host to Hero Dialware, allowing him to take on superheroic ectypes based on the archetypal arcana of his alethiometer's divinations.

Like all humans (and humanoids) of his Earth, Johnny's soul presented externally as a daemon, physically manifesting as an animal that reflected the inner workings of his spirit-- like a spirit animal or Patronus-- that could operate somewhat independently and was possessed of its own sentience. Unlike the vast majority of the people of his Earth, Whispers' daemon manifested as male, like him, instead of as the opposite binary gender.

The fact that Whispers' daemon was a wolf was especially handy in the field--

--as they sprinted through the R&D sector of The Dataspine, it was McKennitt who stopped short, his claws skittering on the tiled floor. "Here, he's in here, I can smell him-- the air is practically dripping with his stink."

Whispers stopped, too, hand poised on the balled handle of his cane, his other hand drawing the alethiometer out of his pocket. "Watch yourself, Mac, there's no telling what arcane, profane abominations The Master's technologists have cooked up using Operator technology."

"Don't have to tell me to watch myself," McKennitt grumped. "I've been pulling your fat out of the fire-- or out of the icy drink-- since you were six years old, you just keep upping the stakes."

Johnny smirked at that. "Let's give that Wheel of Fortune another spin, then."

And he shouldered the door open hard.

Just in time to see 9-X finish pulling on the mask of a skintight black uniform with a yellow utility belt.

They stood in a room lined with Dials of various stages of assembly, various generations and incarnations of Dials-- and other technology, bits and bobs that Whispers Smith didn't have any names for--

"Ah, Smith," 9-X drawled as he turned easily to face the alethiometrist. "Come to see me off?"

Whispers grimaced, pointing at 9-X with his cane. "Come to head you off. This ends here, 9-X."

9-X snorted. "This is no denouement. Our long, mad dance before this was simply prelude, overture. This-- this is Act One."

And he held up his fists and the shhhhhCLICK! of a Dial echoed in that room.

But 9-X didn't appear to physically transform at all-- no ectype layered upon him-- no reconfiguration of body or mind--

--and yet he cried: "LIGHTNING LORD!"

And twin bolts of lightning speared from his upraised fists, trying to storm into Smith and microwave him where he stood.

Whispers dove, rolled, the singeing heat and the stench of ozone filling the air behind him, as he took one knee behind a bank of half-built Dials, In order to use an alethiometer, one would position three hands above the various symbols around the compass' face, picturing a question in your mind as one did so, and the fourth needle would automatically swing around to the symbol that indicated the answer.

Smith's fingers moved with fantastic dexterity, repositioning the needles-- The Serpent, representing Evil and Guile, The Thunderbolt, representing the literal lightning of 9-X' current ectype, and The Cauldron, representing the Alchemy and Change of Dialing.

How do I stop him? his mind petitioned the device.

And immediately, the fourth hand swung, the alethiometer Dialed-- shhhhhCLICK!

It chose the symbol of The Anchor. For Hope, Steadfastness... and The Sea.

As he changed, Whispers rose to his feet and roared "AQUAMAN ONE MILLION!"

And with a thought, with a wave of a mighty blue-green hand, he immediately summoned all the water vapor in the air to cling to 9-X, to bubble around him, shorting out his lightning powerset--

--except even as the water rushed towards 9-X, he laughed, and

shhhhhCLICK!

reDialed!

"THE PROGENITOR!" he trumpeted, and again, even though he did not visibly shift, his power certainly did, and-- speaking of alchemy--

Aquaman One Million found all the water in his body transmuted into a rotating catalytic cascade of molecular acids, faster than even his supremely invulnerable metabolism could adapt, and even his impossibly powerful frame collapsed into a shuddering ball with the agony of it, cracking the floor with the impact of his landing and the fall of his hyperdense melee-anchor-- "Aaarrrrhrhhh!"

9-X tutted, and snarked with babytalk: "Awh, poor Smitty, is your widdle steampunk See'n'Say not fast enough to keep up?"

Bounding into the room, standing snarling between 9-X and Whispers, McKennitt growled through clenched sharp teeth. "You stay the Hell away from him, you madman!"

9-X simply shrugged. "Oh, you don't scare me in the slightest, pup. Especially not now. I have the power of an Element Lad gone mad after billions of years of solitude, I could evaporate you with a thought, killing him and you. Such a design flaw, really, keeping your soul outside your body. Makes you two targets instead of one."

Then shhhhhCLICK!

Aquaman One Million cried out with relief as the acid in his body reverted to water, though his internal burns still nearly crippled him.

9-X appeared to hesitate. "Hm. While the co-opted design of this Insider Suit effortlessly manifests the powersets of my V-Dial ectypes as intended, defending my intelligence and fighting skills against any personality whiplash or physical dysphoria, the prototypical flaws of its baseline configuration prevent me from utilizing any supremely powerful ectype for more than a few seconds. No matter. I'll just have to remember to strike fast as well as hard."

He reached up to a shelf beside him and plucked up first one Dial, then another. "Just in case, I'll make sure to bring along a Gear Dial and a Jump Dial--" he snagged another few devices "--some from column A, some from column B, fortune favors the prepared."

Aquaman One Million forced himself up onto an elbow, half-rose, he was strong enough to withstand impossible pressures, to walk around at ground zero of a nuclear blast, his injuries were just a momentary setback-- "I am a dealer and a Dialer of Truth, 9-X. That's what it means to be an alethiometrist. I know Truths. And let me tell you this Truth: there is nowhere you can go where I won't hunt you down, no world you can run to where I won't stop you."

9-X shook his head. "Ahhh, now. See. Running implies retreat. And I'm not running from you, Smith. This is all part of the plan. I go to prepare a hundred worlds for the coming of The Master, to make them ready for his conquest. As for stopping me..."

He held up the Jump Dial.

"Yeah. Good luck with that."

CCCRAAAAAACK

...and he was gone.

McKennitt scoffed, not quite relaxing from the protective stance he'd taken over Whispers. "Okay, now the place smells better."

shhhhhCLICK!

Whispers' Dial timed out, and he reverted to himself, his cane replacing the anchor in his grip just in time for him to lean heavily on it. "Okay... ow."

McKennitt instantly whirled to support the side of Whispers that didn't have a cane and, quickly pocketing the alethiometer, Whispers availed his daemon of that support. "Thanks, Mac."

McKennitt grunted. "Best I can do. 'Fraid my tracking skills ain't so good interdimensionally. What do we do now?"

Limping over to the wall by the door and bashing an intercom control with his fist, Whispers answered McKennitt indirectly. "Whispers Smith to Rescue Nat. I need you here! We have to trace a Jump Dialer-- and run an inventory, see what he made off with. 9-X just embarked on a campaign of aggressive advance-agency, and we have got to shut him down before he sets dozens of worlds toppling under The Master's dominion like dominoes."

He hesitated. Then spoke again into the intercom: "Nat. This is big. This is... bad. We need to recruit a new Dial Bunch."

 

[TertiusHuman]

Venom

There wasn't any reply from Nightwing and that meant one thing, either reception was not as good or that Nightwing was busy...busy fighting or dieing...his eyes narrowed as his mind ran through this in a split second, it had taken his mind and the symbiote only a few moments to re-form their bond. They knew that they needed each other and fighting with each other could only be bad for their fighting prowess.

"Nightwing. Stay breathing. Okay? I'm on my way but I'm whole klicks out. Stay breathing." Artemis' voice in his ear made him start, if she went outside of comms range... Their mind was made up, first the towers and then back up. With a lunge and swing they were on their way, ready to take down more of the sentries who would block their way. Once more the two of them were gelled and there was no more hitching in their movements.

Truly they had re-bonded and John knew by some soldiering foresight, that they both would have to face up to the music.

 

[Lunaramblings]

Gordon pounded his fist on the desk as he screamed at the gathered forces.

"That young man out there is giving his life at this very moment. Means only one thing, he found their base of operations. No one but that psycho bitch is going to hold a candle to that kid. He needs our help, NOW! Every available resources, every cop that can stand and hold a gun is going. Get the riot bus out. I want every man moving. The sun is about to rise, and we are taking this city back!"

The crowd cheered and many of the cops started to grab their gear and head for the garage. The remaining heroes stood with Bullock and Gordon.

"All due respect, but neither of you are going. At your age, you can't compete with the members of The League. Guns or not, they are trained killers and they will die before they let you take them alive. You need to stay here. Use the rest of the wounded but mobile officers to hold this place. Me and the girls will go. We can provide backup but we need to have a fall back point."

"Dammit Jimmie, he's right. Look, I ain't never been against roughing up a few thugs that deserved it, or bending things just a bit. But we ain't kids anymore. We ain't got a chance. It's not like Dumas and his boys back in the day. These guys make those monks look like... well monks."

"Bullshit Bullock. If I can pull a trigger, I can back up my men."

"And say you do. What if, with you out there, no one defends this place. No one protects it and they send a wave here to take it, and wait for us to return and then hit us when we are hurt and weak? Gordon, we need this base. I can't trust Joker and Penguin to hold it. I need you two."

Joker saunters his way over and sets his gun on the table.

"Listen to Robin Hood here Jim. My men will help hold this place. Scouts honor. And I will even make you a deal. Me and Ozzy, we will leave our men here to help, but we will go and lend a hand. Long as you tell your boys not to shoot us that is."

"Never thought there would be a day when I have to call a ceasefire with you to save this city. But if that's what it takes so be it. Fine. Bullock, myself, Joker and Penguins men and the remaining men on the force will hold this place. We have to assume there will be a counter strike. But if things get bad, you call me. I want your word."

Done. And I will stay so even if the comms go out they can raise us on the comms we brought. Someone needs to be here." Batgirl, Barbara Gordon locked eyes with Green Arrow unflinchingly. Under no terms was she leaving her father here like this alone. She loved Dick. Maybe more than she even knew, but this was her Dad. She had to be there for him.

Oliver understood. He had lost so much. He wouldn't hold it against her to be here now. He nods and turns.

Robin falling in at his side without a word. Her face telling all that need be said. She had never heard that tone from Dick. He was hurt, and in trouble. In the time that she had been working with the Bats she had always seen him and Bruce as invulnerable. Even if they didn't have the type of superpowers that The Girl of Steel has, but they were always invincible. Untouchable. Sure, from time to time they would get banged up, maybe even a broken bone or something, but this... this was more.

As she walked by Penguin he reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder and leans in close. "He will be okay. I have been trying to kill that kid for years. Damned if some freak from some ninja clan is going to get the job done."

The years of torment, self inflicted and not boil within her as he falls in behind her. And with speed even Bruce would be proud of, she whirls and plants a stiff palm strike into he throat. Dropping him to the ground. She tugs him up by his lapels.

"Enough. Just shut the hell up. When this is done, when we take back this city, I am going to take you down and make you pay for all you have done. You want to help, the just shut up and do it."

 

[ChasNicollette]

Operation. (Vixen/Tigress)

Drive looked over at Paula.

"I've never tried on a pre-existing injury. Even if it could be done the pain would be unbearable."

He walks over to Canary and the two other women.

"If you think you can take it then lets start."

Tomari shifts his brace once and presses the button on it. Doctor! A bunch of holographic syringes appear around the three heroes and start emitting an energy at them. This energy forcibly knits bone and mends flesh and the pain is excruciating. The heartbeats of all three can be seen on the wheel on his chest.

Again, Mari reflected on how-- vaguely-- similar Tomari's set-up was to Rose Grant's. But then again, Mari had a prehistoric version of the same thing, touching and switching powers on the fly. Just because they were alike, didn't mean they were related...

...her eyes slid back over to Paula, but then the screaming started with Flamebird, Pagan, and The Black Canary.

(Laurel had been wise enough to deactivate her Canary Cry collar before this started, otherwise the whole building might have come down.)

But there she was, holding Flamebird's hand-- Bette was, suddenly, wide-eyed and wide-awake in pain as her anesthesia was no longer sufficient to block this pain...

...the two birds' hands were white-knuckled together as Drive's Doctor powerset forcibly regenerated their bodies.

Pagan had no-one's hand to hold-- Joe Public was still missing, out there somewhere, one of those few aforementioned metas on the side of the angels-- but then one of Selina's Strays hurried over to her and mopped her forehead, murmured encouragement, worriedly watching those heartbeats hologrammed on Drive's chestpiece to make sure no-one was approaching a cardiac event.

Mari stared in horror as the three costumed women contorted on their way to recovery-- and immediately made the judgement call that she wouldn't pass this on to Paula. No sense trying to get the woman's legs back to her if it might burst her heart into a fine red mist in the process. Better to find some other faith healer or cybernetic remedy.

Regretfully, Mari gently touched her new armband. If only there was an animal in Nature that had healing powers in a real sense.

For now, she'd have to settle for healing herself.

 

[ChasNicollette]

The Score is Still Q to 12. (Sportsmaster)

Nyssa's call rings through the air. A moment later the floor explodes upward in a shower of debris.

In the instant before the floor went concave, Sportsmaster felt the ground underneath him shift, and he dove and rolled sideways, leaving his throwing-hammer behind and holding up his armored forearm to defend against raining, ashen debris.

Licking her lips, Nyssa stepped back to watch the looks on her enemies' faces before her allies crushed them to pulp.

A large disfigured man with a purple gem embedded in his forehead bursts forth.

Eclipso will devour your souls!"

Sportsmaster harrumphed, and growled: "Come get some."

With a defiant glint in her eye, Bint al-Qadim slips her hand into a fold in her shinobi shōzoku and draws her had back out with her fingertips clad with small, claw like hypodermic needles filled with a strange fluid. Nightwing, unfortunately doesn't notice in time as he locks her into a choke to disable her, and she is able to reach up and drive these needles into his cheek injecting him with the toxin. And in a moment he collapses.

"Bats' kid is asleep on the job," Sportsmaster scoffed, "right when the other team brings in a ringer who'd piss so hot they'd melt the cup. Typical."

With a thunderous cry the giant strikes at Ras' al-Ghul. As his huge fist swings forth, it is intercepted by the young man at her side. He deftly uses the giant's momentum to bring him off balance and strikes at several nerve clusters in the brief second that the beast is caught of guard.

Eclipso roars in anger and spins to face his new target. As the two trade blows, the smaller man dodging and weaving and the giants crushing everything he touches, Ras' al-Ghul draws a collapsing staff from her hip and gestures toward Nyssa.

Sportsmaster took a moment to watch this new player go, to duke it out against the roid-raging "Eclipso." With a studious, stoic gaze, he observed the patterns of the boy's movements, his fighting style, looking for identifying elements. He wasn't terrible... he could stick, he could move, floating and stinging... but like all of Coach Green's team, Crock doubted this kid had the moxie to go for the finisher when the time came.

"Nyssa, you and your rag-tag group of mercenaries will not bring Gotham down. Just as your father failed in Star City, you will fail here."

Nyssa tossed her head haughtily, and sneered. "Star City was not a failure but a ball set in motion, its time will still come. Gotham is a house of cards with a tinderbox at its heart, and it is about to see its last sunrise."

"Sportsmaster, glad to see your on the right side of this. Finish her while I help Nightwing."

"Don't expect me to mark out when you take the mic, Girly-Girl," Sportsmaster grimaced at Thea.

But then he met Nyssa's gaze across the room as the dust from Eclipso's fight with the boy rained down, and he drew Fish Mooney's bat from his back and pointed it at her like Babe Ruth calling his shots. "Just so happens that it ain't outta my way."

He sprinted for Nyssa, jumped across the hole in the floor and landed with a roar, his bat crashing into Nyssa's blade with a shower of sparks.

Nyssa grinned at him, and gave as good as she got-- their moves were blinding, the clang of metal on metal echoing like a bell in that room.

As Thea speaks, the two young women are a blur of motion. But Bint al-Qadim was clearly a step off. Her mind reeling with the possibility of being more than just a tool in Nyssa's arsenal.

Turning himself into a giant spring he bounds through the roof of the building, landing in the large upstairs room where all help is breaking loose. And as he does, even more insanity begins to break loose as the shadows in the room shimmer, and seem to come to life. They merge into a being in the middle of the room. A large, black, shadow warrior stands there, ready to pounce.

Sportsmaster backpedaled away from Nyssa as the glass rained down and the shadows flared up, giving ground as she hacked at him with her blade, parrying it with the bat and with his arm-guard-- he wasn't losing, just-- like when Eclipso first showed up-- analyzing the field to see what plays he might have to make.

But what the Hell kind of clusterfuck was this?

A fucking cartoon character straight from the ACME factory and some kind of shadow-porter?

Enough. Of. This. Halftime show. Shit.

Twirling the bat, keeping it between him and Nyssa, Sportsmaster dug his other hand into one of his belt pouches, came out with a long, thin object--

"I ain't scared of the dark."

--which immediately telescoped out into an exploding javelin, which he then hurled one-handed at the heart of that shadow warrior.

 

[Lunaramblings]

The manifestation of Darkness before them roared with anger as it first caught, and then took the full brunt of the fiery explosion from the javelin. It clearly didn't expect that. In the moment that it took it off balance, the new arrival, Eel O'Brian struck out at it. As he flung himself forward, from god-knows-where, Renee Montoya drops from inside the from he had just abandoned. Having perhaps only a second of surprise, it was nonetheless enough. The blast of buckshot from the shotgun catches Nyssa off guard. Wounded, she hisses. At the same time the stretchy new would be hero launches onto the back of Eclipso, wrapping his extremities and pulling him taut to open up a variety of weak spots.

"Hey, Freakazoid, pick on someone yer own size... I mean, if you can find one... HIT HIM KID! He's strong as hell!"

Eel struggles to give the young warrior an edge. Which he exploits quickly. Deftly, he draws forth and launches with one hand a shuriken directly at the palely glowing gem in the middle of the giant's chest. The Eclipso Gem, the source of it's manifested form. Unfortunately this does little. Only a blessed blade, or other holy object can destroy one of these gems. But the young man isn't done.

With his other hand he has already drawn a kukri. And with a variety of quick slashes with the blade, he cuts deeply into the flesh of the giant. Eclipso howls and struggles to pull himself from Eel's grasp. His arms and legs are trapped, and he is able to only stagger and try to turn his back on the repeated assaults. Al-Saqr grins. He may not be able to hurt the gem, but he may be able to cut it out. As he gets back around the behemoth he looses that grin as the wounds have already healed leaving dark ugly scars in their place.

Meanwhile the Shadow-Warrior lunges toward the unconscious Nightwing, clearly attempting a coup de grace on the fallen hero. What happens next is most unexpected.

Nyssa's forces should have the upper hand here. She has two immensely potent superpowered monsters at her side. And a living weapon. But fate is fickle. And here and now, fate deals a blow to the wounded warrior princess that she won't soon forget.

As Obsidian lunges forward, his clawed hand inches from the fallen hero's carotid artery, there is a sudden, violent flash of light so bright that for a moment, those who see it from afar believe it is a nuclear detonation. Instead, Bint-al Qadim, has made her first free choice. Nyssa never trusted these metahumans, and as such her and her assassin were both armed with means to dispose of them should they turn on the League. Bint-al Qadim uses hers. A small grenade of mystical energy summoned from the polar opposite of where the Shadow-Warrior draws his power, it momentarily forces him from his shadow form, back to that of just a mere human. And in that second, while everyone else is off guard, Bint-al Qadim, lashes out. Incapacitating Nyssa's greatest trump card.

As the light clears, Nyssa howls in agony. Not for the wounds to her back from the buckshot, but for the betrayal of her living weapon. Nyssa draws forth a small talisman from hiding and smashes it in her hand. Immediately, she is swallowed by darkness and is gone. With her the remnants of her forces. Leaving the would be heroes alone in the dark.

Across town back at the GCPD Safehouse​

Joker and Penguin left moments before the sky was swallowed in light. With them, The Green Arrow and Robin.. And it was at this time that the remnants of the GCPD and the Mobsters that they had aligned with were all caught staring at this phenomena. What no one noticed was a small air vent behind James Gordon pop open and a sinuous form slink out of that inky darkness. In seconds, the two officers that had been beside Jim were dead. And this... thing, held a blade to Jim's throat.

"Everyone just chill and put down yer toys. I don't care about any of you... this is between me and dear old Jim."

Everyone just stood motionless. Except two. Bullock had already drawn and aimed his gun. And Batgirl had drawn out a pair of batarangs. But it was Jim Gordan that spoke.

"Its okay. Everyone just... set down your weapons, and walk out. NOW. This is between me and my son."

Horror washed over Barbara. She had just learned she had a brother maybe an hour ago, and he was supposed to be dead. But apparently, here he was. With a knife on their father's throat. She had never frozen before. Not ever. But this time, it was different. She just stood there.

Bullock began to argue but James shut him down. The... thing that was her brother, it chuckled maniacally as everyone else began to slowly move to the lower level and file out the main door. But Barbara didn't budge. She couldn't. It was like the world was moving without her. She could no more have walked away right now than she could have beat the Girl of Steel in an arm wrestling match.

"You too Batgirl. I appreciate it, but this is something that has to be done between the two of us."

She remained frozen. Unable to even think. Then she heard that strange raspy, yet high pitched voice from the thing again.

"It's okay Dad, I don't mind if Sis here wants to stay. Oh, did you not know? Come Sis, take off that silly cowl and show daddy his big girl. The child he always wanted over me." The blade dug in just a little deeper as the crazed thing on Jim's back practically oozed hatred.

Jim just stared at Barbara. It was his turn to be frozen. Could it be. Could she be... It all suddenly made sense. So many things came clamoring together. And Jim swooned. His knees nearly buckling. But deftly the thing on his back caught it's footing, never letting the long curved blade it held to his throat waver.

"No..."Jim croaked out. Less defiance than disbelief."She... this is between us. Leave it that way Jimmy."

If it were true, he didn't want her here. To see what might happen. Jim knew that either way it was unlikely that every member of the Gordon family would leave this room alive.

"I... I... sorry Dad. I can't leave. Not when you might need me most." Batgirl reached up and pulled the cowl back from her head. revealing her identity to her father and, apparently, her brother.

"What now? Your going to kill our father? What does that solve? Put down the knife James... lets work this out like family."

"Like family? What family? You don't know Babs... you don't remember what it was like. Never good enough for dear old Daddy. I did everything. I did everything to get him to notice me. He never once did. I graduated two years early. Full ride to 4 different schools. Think he cared? No, he was too busy "cleaning up this city" to even care about us. But then I got it. The only people he ever paid attention to were the deviants, the monsters that prowled this city. So I became what I knew he would notice. But guess what Sis? Turns out I liked being a monster. All those years I spent at the GCPD trying to be noticed, trying to get just a glimpse of respect, well, turns out I learned a lot. I learned how cops think. How they work. How to get around them. And when dear old Dad could careless about me, I would go watch my mother work. I saw how she did her job as ME, I learned about all the things she could uncover, and all the ways a body told a story. And then I used that to be the best monster I could be. But it still wasn't enough... I needed to show him what he had made. Show him what sort of a monster he created. You know what he did Sis? He didn't try to take me alive... no. The embarrassment for the great Jim Gordon must have been too much. Instead he tried to kill me. But guess what Dad, nothing truly dies in Slaughter Swamp. I was found by some very powerful people. People that helped me become what I am today. And do you know what Dad? I couldn't have done it without you. All those people I killed here, and the countless I have killed sense? Their blood is on your hands. You may as well have done it yourself old man. Because I may have been the weapon, but you... you killed them." As he talks handcuffs his father to the radiator and relieves him of his weapons. As he finishes he again steps behind his father and places the blade to his throat and laughs.

Barbara had heard enough. Her paralysis was finally broken by the rage that now powered her. "YOU COWARD!" She cried out in anger as she sends a batarang flying at her brother. He didn't expect such a response and the batarang bites deeply into the wrist of the hand in which he holds the knife, causing an involuntary response as he drops the blade in a spasm of pain and shock.

"You chose your path. Just like I did. You chose to be a killer and to throw away the family that loved you. Do you know the pain you caused? I never understood why Dad was so broken hearted, but now I do. And why Mum left? She couldn't face what you had done. She left us and went all over the world saving lives. You took my family. And now you dare comeback here and try to take my father? Oh HELL NO. You want him, your going to go through me!"

The other batarang sailed just wide of James Jr's head. But that was the intent. In dodging the batarang he created a moment of seperation between him and Jim. And in that moment, she was on him. All the years of training in the cave, and the years of self defense classes insisted on by her father, she was viciously focused.

James Jr. was quick. He dodge her strikes as best he could, but it was when she tried to execute limb holds that she got her surprise. James had no limitation to his range of motion. He had become a science experiment for the League. His joints were replaced by self replicating and highly adaptive nanite technology, as were several of his bones. This meant that there was literally no limit to the contortions which he could put his body through. The technology was stolen from PalmerTech and corrupted, but it still served it's purpose. He was a killer unable to have a bone broken, a joint damaged, able to slip through any opening he could fit his skull through and able to escape almost any restraint due to his unique physiology. This also made him quite durable.

The Rag Doll, as his employers often called him, was certainly a match for Batgirl. The two fought viciously, neither holding back. And then he had her. From somewhere unseen, he had pulled another blade, and as he wrapped her up with his long serpentine limbs, he looked to his father.

"Say goodbye to your daughter "Dad". As he drew the knife back to plunge it into her throat there was a sound behind him. Like a jack in the box springing open. And then he was stumbling forward, letting go of his sister in shock and pain.

"Oy! That ain't no way to treat a lady kid. Good thing Mistah J asked me to stick around huh girly?" A beautiful and seductive blonde with the streaks of red and blue in her hair stood there holding what appeared to be a large hammer from a test of strength game at the circus, from which, one end had sprung open and a long coiled spring ending in a boxing glove protruded.

"Listen kid, I get it. Lotsa people has shitty families. I mean, me and Mistah J, we ain't exactly got the most traditional family. But we make it work. Besides, you's is outmatched. Me and Red here, 'gainst yous, not lookin good.

By this time, Barb had regained her feet and stood opposite her brother, who, even through the mask was clearly seething.

"This don't concern you clown. Now go! Let me deal with my family as I see fit. I wouldn't want to have to carve up your sexy body. Oh, who am I kidding, of course I do, its kinda my thing. Last chance."

Harley Quinn grins a big dopey lopsided grin as she pushes a button retracting the glove into her hammer. With evident skill, she spins the hammer end over end and gestures to Rag Doll to bring it. Now with all three going at it it is true mayhem.

Jim is powerless to do anything as his son is trying to kill his daughter, and his only aid is Joker's mistress. As the three fight, Jim feels an intense agony in his left arm. Then he becomes very cold, as he drops to the floor, slipping into unconsciousness.

Barbara sees this from the corner of her eye. She knows she needs to get to him, but she can't take the pressure off her brother, he is afterall pretty damn good at what he does. Harley also sees what has happened. Before falling in love with Joker, she had been a respected doctor and psychiatrist. She has a pretty good idea that at Jim's age with this stress, it most likely is serious. She leaps in front of Babs and gestures to Jim "Go! That ain't good, if he dies on my watch Mistah J is gonna be furious, get him outta here!

Barbara breaks off and makes it to her father, easily using one of her gadgets to free him, she hoists him into a firemen's carry and leaps onto the banister, ready to spring down to the open bullpen below and get him out of here. However, her brother has other ideas. As he dodges one of Harley's attacks he pulls Jim's own revolver and fires. He was aiming for her head, but Harley strikes him from behind, dropping his aim. Barbara is hit in the lower back as she leaps, instantly she feels her lower body go numb after the intense searing pain. Having been dealing with the heavily armored League assassins, Jim had loaded his gun with armor piercing rounds. This round had torn through the armor of Barbara's Batgirl suit, and as the bullet fractured, several bits tore through her spine, paralyzing her from the waist down.

Barbara grabs he father by his belt and begins crawling and dragging him to the door. As she gets there, Bullock bursts in having heard the shot. Seeing the situation he scoops Jim up and looks down at Barbara, "I Got him. Cover up. Be back in a second to get you some help. Hang in there."

Barbara smiles and nods as she uses the last of her strength to pull her cowl back on. She then passes out from blood loss. She never sees her brother flee. She doesn't know that it is the actions of Harley Quinn, once a sworn enemy, that save her life. When she wakes up three days later, her only question is about her father.

 

[AmenRa]

"Battle Without Honor or Humanity" - T. Hotei

Within seconds there was nothing left of the crystalline metal but a humanoid figure. This figure was uniformed, and The Traveler moved a bit closer as the figure floated forward from the rock of the planetoid.

It, the figure, looked familiar.

Not someone The Traveler had met before, but someone he knew, as if from legends or stories he had once heard.

Throughout The Traveler's vast memories realization dawned upon him.

J'onn J'onzz.

Legend, indeed. Even on The Traveler's home world of Zenn-La, J'onn J'onzz was a legendary name. The Traveler had heard of the Last of the Great Manhunters of Mars when he was but a child. He had heard the tales of heroic deeds and unwavering adherence to a code of honor, of justice...of peace.

The Traveler floated there in astonishment at the sight of the Martian Manhunter. Had he been beaten? Had he been exiled to this metal cocoon? What had happened to this most powerful being?

The answer would come.

Without warning and with suddenness.

Those red eyes snapped open and blazed with intensity.

Beams of Martian energy lanced forth, searing into the Traveler's form. And, although The Traveler simply absorbed these powerful beams of energy, the attack was swift and without warning and left him in bewilderment as Martian Manhunter flew past him with terrific speed.

Something was wrong. Something was amiss. The Traveler must learn what and why. So, he followed.

He followed the almost invisible energy trail of J'onn J'onzz to Mars.

He found Martian Manhunter alone inside the Great Temple of H'ronmeer within the mountain of Olympus Mons. J'onn knelt upon the red stone floor, his cape draped around him and his head bowed. As The Traveler phased through solid stone and rock and solidified behind him, J'onn raised his head.

"Your mistake was to awaken me," his voice sounded out in the open space of the temple's interior.

The Traveler floated behind him, standing on top of his craft which he could control with a simple thought. He answered honestly, openly.

"I meant only to bring you back among us," he told J'onn. "I know who you are, J'onn J'onzz, the Last Manhunter, and the greatest among the Lawgivers".

J'onn stood, turned, and faced him. "And I know who you are," he responded, an edge of acidity to his deep, bass voice. "Norrin Radd, Herald of Galactus." J'onn's eyes blazed. "Destroyer of Worlds!"

The Silver Surfer shifted slightly on his board, and he raised his hands in defense and pleading. "I serve Galactus no longer!" he pled. "I am no longer his slave!"

J'onn was silent for a moment. Then, his mouth showed a small, cruel, smile. "It matters not," he stated simply. Then, Martian Manhunter attacked.

The energy blast J'onn unleashed from his eyes again caught Silver Surfer unaware. Norrin rocked with the blast, which was continuous, and even as he sought to absorb the power Martian Manhunter poured into him he faltered ever-so-slightly.

J'onn was on him now and he reached around the Surfer's throat and yanked him from his board. Radd crashed against the floor and looked up to J'onn who towered above him.

"Why?" he uttered with bewilderment.

"Because you are."

J'onn stepped towards him, reaching out with hands that now had talons like some great raptor. "And, after you, they will fall!"

 

[TertiusHuman]

Venom

Had there ever been any doubt?

He flicked the switch and the machinery hummed to live.

OK so there were moments he had wondered about him and his partner. Their first true test. They had failed. Dismally so. Yet it meant only one thing. They were not invincible.

The last of the lights flickered on and went green. All systems go. He looked back, drawing binoculars from that pocket dimension and scanned back. All stations marked green, comms was up again.

He keyed his communicator, "Venom reporting. All systems go."

Then he saw the huge truck pull to a stop half a block away, doors rolled open and more of the ninjas and some commando-types exited. Weapons bristling.

"Seems like we have tripped an alarm with the re-activated comms. I'm going in..."

He paused, not sure if anybody read him. The last contact was Artemis. "Artemis...do you read? If you do...tell him I messed up."

And if she didn't read?

Well then he will have to wait to tell Arrow face-to-face. He grinned suddenly, there was time for that later. For now...

He jumped from the building, meeting the fuselage from below with utmost glee.