CRISIS: AFTERMATH
Tears, Tributes, and Unanswered Questions by Lois Lane Daily Planet
Metropolis—Twenty-four hours after the Crisis that nearly tore this city, and many others, apart, the rebuilding has begun. But many questions remain unresolved about the actual nature of the catastrophe, as well as what happens next.
What is known definitely is that, after several days of seemingly random attacks and disasters, the so-called "Infinite Crisis" culminated in a titanic battle between the Secret Society of Super-Villains and nearly every one of Earth's costumed defenders. Rex Mason, better known as Metamor-pho the Element Man, recalls: "The short of it is that, after years of hitting and running, all the super-villains—and I mean all of them—teamed up and declared all-out war on the white hats. Picked us off in twos and threes before mounting an assault the likes of which, by all rights, should have ripped this planet in half."
The resulting battle left much of Metropolis in ruins and cost the lives of many heroes, including Superboy, the Freedom Fighters, a number of former Teen Titans, and several others. A memorial service is scheduled to take place in Centennial Park at 4:30 p.m. Saturday. The Justice League of America and many other surviving heroes are expected to attend.
Yet as the world breathes a collective sigh of relief and slowly gets back to normal, one question remains on the lips of many concerned citizens: Where are Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman?
The three heroes, perhaps the most iconic of all, were last seen leading the battle against the Society, but have not been glimpsed since. In the absence of any official explanation, speculation is rampant that "the Big
Three" are injured, dead, or perhaps just taking some time off after saving the entire planet once more. Rumors and unconfirmed sightings abound.
Those close to the missing heroes are not worried, however. An anonymous (but highly reliable) source points out that many less famous heroes, including various members of the Justice League, the original Justice Society, and the Teen Titans are ready to pick up the slack until their celebrated comrades return. "Things are in good hands," the source insists.
This much is certain: A world without Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman is not necessarily a world without heroes.
Lois read' the article one more time, ran it through the spell-checker, then fired it off to Perry White for his approval. Not a bad piece, she thought, if I do say so myself. Hopefully, it would serve to reassure a worried public and cut down on the wild rumors—just as Clark intended.
Sitting at her desk in the Planet bullpen, she wondered what her readers would think if they knew that her anonymous source was none other than Superman himself. Part of her wished she could reveal the full story behind the Man of Steel's absence, but she and Clark had both agreed it would not be wise to publicize the fact that he had temporarily lost his powers in the wake of the Crisis. That would be like waving a red flag in front of Intergang and Superman's other enemies. Best to keep that info to ourselves.
Likewise, she had to keep quiet about what was going on with Batman and Wonder Woman these days. Only a handful of people knew that Batman, whose suspicious and paranoid nature had helped precipitate the Crisis, had decided that he needed to retrain himself from the ground up in order to achieve a healthier mental balance; he was also concentrating on rebuilding his strained relationship with his two young proteges, Nightwing and Robin. Lois hoped that Bruce Wayne succeeded in getting his head on straight; although Superman considered Batman a friend, she had never quite warmed to the Dark Knight, who had always struck her as somewhat grim and aloof. Then again, all heroes suffered in comparison to Superman, at least as far as she was concerned.
He's my husband, she thought. I’m entitled to be biased.
Wonder Woman was also taking a mental health break. After going through a number of traumatic events during the Crisis, including the loss of her native Paradise Island, Diana was attempting to get back in touch with her humanity by living as a mortal woman for a time. Lois wondered how the formidable Amazon princess was coping with her new secret identity. Rumor had it she had even taken to wearing glasses like Clark!
And why not? Lois thought. Lord knows those glasses fooled me for years.
Lois called up her article and read the last couple paragraphs again. "Things are in good hands/' Clark had insisted, yet, if she was honest with herself, Lois had to admit that his forced sabbatical gave her the occasional flicker of anxiety.' Sure there were plenty of other heroes out there, but could anyone really replace Superman? Especially with the Flash and Captain Marvel and assorted other heroes also out of commission?
Deep down inside, Lois wasn't so sure....
It was a sunny spring day in the City of Tomorrow. Uptown in a fashionable shopping district, people were taking advantage of their lunch breaks to enjoy the beautiful weather. A sidewalk hot dog stand was doing brisk business, while other citizens lunched at outdoor cafes. Schuster Avenue was crowded with buses, taxis, and private vehicles. Horns honked impatiently every time the lights changed. Speeding bicycle messengers risked life and limb to deliver their parcels in record time. Pedestrians window-shopped as they went about their afternoons. Pet owners walked their dogs. An elevated monorail zipped by overhead. A blue sky showed above the skyscrapers.
“LOOK! UP IN THE SKY!”
An amplified electronic voice, booming from high above the avenue, demanded attention. Pedestrians lifted their heads, while curious drivers stuck their heads out of the windows of their cars to see where the voice was coming from. Tourists and natives alike stared at the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of Metropolis's most famous citizen. Eager eyes searched for a flapping red cape or bright red S. Was Superman back in action?
But instead of the Man of Steel, someone else was soaring through the sky. An heroic figure in a bright blue and gold uniform flew (sans cape) above the busy street. Translucent yellow goggles partially concealed the man's face, beneath a head of wavy blond hair. A brilliant white smile gleamed in the sunlight. A handful of corporate logos adorned his uniform, rather in the manner of a NASCAR driver. His well-toned arms held a dazed super-villain high above his head. Mammoth, of the Fearsome Five, to be exact. A shiny golden ovoid, about the size of a football, hovered in the air nearby.
“booster gold, ladies and g entlem e n !” the sphere announced like a carnival barker, “he’s from the futures” The robot's breezy tone belied the electronic nature of its voice. “how cool is that?” He zipped about in the sky, taking care to maintain a safe distance from the villain's thrashing
limbs. “AND EVEN THOUGH BOOSTER’S way too modest to say it, I’M NOT ASHAMED TO SPEAK UP AND TELL. YOU THAT THIS MAN IS THE FRESH NEW FACE OF SUPER-HEROICS.”
You tell them, Skeets, Booster thought. Who needs a press ag'ent when I have my own cybernetic sidekick hyping me full-time?
"What the hell is all this, ya flamin' gala?" Mammoth griped in a thick Australian accent. A red-haired bruiser in a studded black costume, the superpowered strongman had frequently clashed with Superman in the past. His gruff voice held both anger and confusion as Booster carried him even higher into the air. "What are ya pickin' on me for? I didn't even know I was gonna nick those diamonds 'til I did it. Spur o' the moment!" Hundreds of feet below, an upscale jewelry shop needed a new front window. "How'd ya get up on me so quick?"
"Call it an inside tip," Booster said with a smirk, enjoying a private joke. This jerk's history ... in more ways than one.
Skeets continued to work the crowd: “boys, girls, and potential
CORPORATE SPONSORS! IFTHE DAY NEEDS SAVING, BOOSTER’S YOUR
buy!” Not for the first time, Booster was glad that he had "borrowed" the levitating robot from that museum before traveling backward in time to this primitive era. Skeets had a real talent for promotion, among many other useful abilities, “in an uncertain world, it’s good to know there are
STILL SOME THINGS YOU CAN ALWAYS RELY ON.”
Twenty-fifth-century technology, built into the fabric of his uniform, enhanced Booster's strength while also providing him with a protective force field. Plus, he could fly.
Unlike Mammoth.
Taking full advantage of the suit's capabilities, Booster hurled the yowling villain down at an empty intersection below. Mammoth smashed like a meteor into the asphalt, giving the transportation department a massive new pothole to worry about. A cloud of powdered pavement rose above the newly formed crater before settling back down onto the unconscious brute. The nearest civilians fled the intersection in a panic, but the majority of the onlookers reacted with cheers and applause. Dozens of digital cameras and cell phones captured the scene for posterity. Admiring eyes gazed upward at the triumphant hero. Basking in the attention, Booster felt like Superman himself.
This is more like it! he thought. Relocating to the past to become an old-fashioned super hero was the smartest thing he had ever done. Here in the twenty-first century, he wasn't Michael Jon Carter, disgraced professional athlete, anymore. He was Booster Gold, super-powered idol and celebrity. And soon to be one of history's most famous heroes. Not to mention one of the richest. ...
TV news vans were already arriving on the scene, so Booster began to dramatically descend toward the crater below. Mammoth was flat on his back amidst the pulverized blacktop, covered by a layer of dust and debris. A groan escaped the big lummox's lips. He wasn't going to be giving anyone a hard time anytime soon.
Skeets zipped over and whispered in Booster's ear. "sir—"
"I see it," Booster assured the robot. He had already spotted the adorable little girl standing near the front of the crowd below. No more than five years old maybe, the moppet was sporting a Wonder Woman T-shirt, star-spangled shorts, and a worried expression. A plastic tiara crowned the girl's curly red hair. "Photo op deluxe."
The kid's eyes grew wide as he dropped smartly to earth before her. Kneeling, he flashed a smile at the girl (and the cameras) and mussed her hair. "Hey there, little lady. What's up?"
"My brother said Wonder Woman was dead," the child said, fighting back tears. Booster belatedly noticed an eight-year-old boy standing behind the girl, looking a tad sheepish. A Batman T-shirt suggested that he preferred the Dark Knight to the Amazon princess. "He said she was gone and she's never coming back."
"Is that right?" Booster looked sternly at the brother, while making a mental note to look into licensing his own line of T-shirts and plastic goggles. "Well, I've seen the future and I happen to know that Wonder Woman's fine. They're all fine." He rose to his feet. "Now step aside, kids."
A single bound carried him to the center of the crater, where he planted a foot atop Mammoth's beefy chest, like a big game hunter posing with a trophy. Digital cameras whirred all around him. The TV news crews shoved their way through the crowd to get live footage of Booster's triumph. With any luck, he'd be the top story on the evening news as well.
“terrific takedown, sir!” Skeets congratulated him, loud enough for all to hear, “you’re a real pro.”
"Thank Mammoth here," Booster quipped. "He's the one who kept it from being a dull afternoon." He yawned theatrically. "Nothing to see here, folks. Just doing my job." He casually produced a can of Soder Cola from a pouch on his costume, making sure that the label was facing the cameras. "Now, if you'll just excuse me, sometime even super heroes get thirsty."
Let's hear it for product placement. He drained the can in one gulp, then lobbed it into a curbside wastebasket. Sirens heralded the arrival of the Metropolis Special Crimes Unit, showing up to take Mammoth into custody. Booster was more than happy to let the S.C.U. handle the cleanup and paperwork; why waste his time on such less-than-glamorous duties? Waving at the cheering crowd, he took off into the sky. Skeets cruised alongside him.
"Did you see the look on Mammoth's face when I blitzed him?" Booster crowed to the robot. Sometimes his old quarterback skills came in handy. "I knew what he was going to pull before he did!"
“technically, sir,” Skeets pointed out, “tm the one holding all the historical data from this era.” Unlike Booster, the robot's shiny metallic housing boasted no corporate logos or trademarks. A panel of optical sensors served as his face. Tiny propulsion units orbited the sphere, “i can’t even get you to read the FILES.”
"And that's why we make such a good team." The wind whipped through Booster's blond hair as he soared above the city. "A couple of refugees from the twenty-fifth century come back to the Heroic Age, armed only with future weaponry, charm ... and every news headline for the next half millennium."
He glanced back over his shoulder. "I wish I could have told that little girl back there what tomorrow is. My big day." He grinned in anticipation. "I may have flunked twenty-first-century history—"
“AMONG YOUR MANY ACCOMPLISHMENTS, SIR.”
"But even I know that tomorrow is the defining moment of the new century, and I'm gonna be a part of it. The speech on Hope and Unity that Superman delivers will be taught in civics classes for the next five hundred years. And that photo of him, Batman, and Wonder Woman as they announce the new-and-improved Justice League? Jimmy Olsen gets a Howitzer for it."
“PULITZER, SIR.”
"Whatever." Booster was not going to let the robot's nit-picking kill his buzz. "The dawn of this century's JLA. And they're going to ask me to join, aren't they?"
And why shouldn't they? he thought. His knowledge of future events had proven incredibly useful to Batman and the others during the recent Crisis. The good guys couldn't have won without me.
"C'mon, you can tell me," he urged the robot.
“I ALREADY HAVE, SIR.”
"So tell me again. Make me smile." He couldn't hear about his destined good fortune enough. "Skeets, being a member of the greatest Justice League ever . . . let's work out how much my sponsors will pay for that kind of placement!" .
“FIRST THINGS FIRST, SIR,” SkeetS Said. “MY RECORDS SHOW THAT THERE IS A SHIPYARD DISASTER ACROSS TOWN THAT YOU’RE DUE TO
stop in exactly seven minutes.” Booster veered west toward the harbor. “HEROES MUST BE PUNCTUAL ... IF NOTHING ELSE.”
They jetted past an enormous billboard that showed a smiling Booster holding up a frosty bottle of Lit Beer. The Lit logo was emblazoned on the upper right corner of his tunic, across from the fruity trademark of The Banana Co.; Soder Cola was advertised on his left shoulder, but there was still plenty’ of room on his uniform for even more corporate sponsors. The various logos were momentarily blurred by speed as Booster and Skeets rushed to star in yet another heroic headline.
The future looked bright.
GOTHAM CITY.
The name of the tavern was 52 Pickup. Renee Montoya had decided it was her favorite bar. At least until tomorrow night.
Finding the right watering hole was tricky these days. Cop bars were out because she wasn't on the job anymore. The last thing she needed was the scornful or, worse, pitying glances of her former colleagues in the Gotham City Police Department. She could too easily imagine them whispering about her when they thought she wasn't listening. "See Montoya over there. Used to be a pretty good detective once upon a time, before her partner got killed and her life went into the toilet."
Serew that, she thought.
The gay bars were no good either. She might run into Daria, and no way was she ready for that just yet. It had only been three months since her ex had moved out, not that Renee blamed her. Not after the way I messed things up.
52 Pickup would have to do for now. Dim lighting helped to hide the cigarette bums on the bar counter and the scuffed tile floor. A neon sign advertised Lit Beer. A pool table and dartboard offered potential amusements to the largely blue-collar clientele. Yuppies and singles-bar habitues were mercifully absent; this was a place for serious drinkers who just wanted to get plastered as quickly and inexpensively as possible. The smoky atmosphere smelled of tobacco. A jukebox sat neglected in one corner, an Out of Order sign taped to its unlit exterior. Spilled drinks and stale beer nuts littered the floor. Let's face it: The place was a dive, but the booze was cold and nobody cared who she used to be.
Works for me, she thought.
Renee sat at the bar. An Hispanic woman in her thirties, she had on a black leather jacket, like the one A1 Pacino wore in,Serpico, a red T-shirt, and jeans. Her dark brown hair was tied up in the back. An empty bottle of tequila sat on the counter in front of her, next to an overflowing ashtray. She had a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Smoking in public places was technically illegal in Gotham, but nobody in the tavern seemed too worried about that. The G.C.P.D. usually had bigger things to worry about... and so did the Bat.
If he was still alive.
Seated to her left, a drunk white dude was going on about the insanity that had passed for current events lately. "Listen," he said to no one in particular. A cheap vinyl jacket proclaimed his allegiance to the Gotham Wildcats. "I'm a Gothamite born and bred. I've seen it all, right? Earthquakes, plagues, and poison in the reservoir." Renee wasn't sure, but she thought his name was Kevin. "And I swear, even I thought it was the end of the world last night."
"It was," Montoya muttered. She lit herself a fresh cigarette.
"What, you find yourself with an empty bottle?" the bartender quipped.
"Funny guy," she replied. He sure had her pegged already. She waved the tequila bottle in his face. The last few drops sloshed around the worm. "Keep 'em coming."
The bartender, a stocky guy with bushy sideburns and a receding hairline, hesitated. "Uh, you might want to slow down there,"
"Or you could pour faster." She shrugged her shoulders. If I imnted somebody to keep me from drinking too much, I would have never driven Daria away... .
The drunk dude (Kevin?) laughed at her suggestion. "That's a good one!" He clinked his own glass against hers. Bleary eyes looked her over. "I like your style." *
Was this bozo actually hitting on her? Boy, was he ever barking up the wrong tree. ■
"So, you hear about this big memorial service in Metropolis this weekend?" he persisted, slurring his words. "If the roads are open ... you wanna, y'know, go?"
A memorial service. The humor in the situation evaporated as Renee suddenly remembered standing over the grave of her partner. Detective Crispus Allen had been a good cop and good friend. The fact that his killer was still walking the streets made the tequila in her mouth taste like turpentine.
"No thanks," she mumbled, staring bleakly into her cup. She massaged her forehead in anticipation of the hangover to come. "I've had my share of funerals lately...."
Black Adam seldom allowed his feet to touch the ground. He was above that.
At the moment, he hovered over forty feet in the air above the capital city of his nation, the proud Middle Eastern kingdom of Kahndaq. A powerfully built Arab man, he wore a tight black uniform that contrasted sharply with his golden boots, belt, and wristbands. Sleek black hair met in a widow's peak above his brows. The golden thunderbolt emblazoned upon his chest matched that worn by Captain Marvel. His godlike powers, given to him millennia ago by the wizard Shazam, matched Marvel's as well, making him one of Earth's mightiest mortals. He had been Shazam's original champion, before he had rebelled against the wizard's foolish restrictions. It was then that Mighty Adam had first become known as Black Adam. Confident in his own righteousness, he bore the cognomen with pride.
So let it be written, he thought. And may the world tremble.
The people of Kahndaq—his people—thronged the sprawling courtyard below. By the thousands they filled the open plaza before the magnificent palace that Black Adam had inherited when he had deposed and executed the despot who had formerly ruled this land. The pellucid waters of a reflecting pool mirrored the palace's graceful domes and arches. Mosaic tiles, adorning almost every centimeter of the palace, created elaborate geometric designs. The Kahndaqi flag flapped triumphantly atop golden spires. The flag displayed three interlocking golden pyramids against a black background. The national anthem played over loudspeakers.
Black Adam's heart swelled with patriotism. He had been born in Kahn-daq, over three thousand years ago. Indeed, the capital city was named after his beloved wife, lost to him so many lonely centuries ago, and the three triangles on the flag represented the immortal souls of Shiruta and his two sons, Gon and Hurut. The brutal death of Shiruta and his family had first taught him that evil had to be rooted out swiftly and severely. Recent events had only reinforced that painful lesson.
With a wave of his hand, he ordered the music silenced. His people looked up at him expectantly. Like the rest of the world, they had suffered much during the Crisis, but Kahndaq endured, in no small part because of the decisive role Black Adam had played in the final battle. He had fought beside Superman and the other heroes in Metropolis, laying waste to the treacherous Secret Society of Super-Villains. Thanks to him, several villains would no longer trouble the world.
Which was as it should be.
"Friends and countrymen/' he addressed the crowd in Arabic. His deep voice required no artificial amplification. "In my attempt to protect our homeland, I turned my back on the rest of the world. And we were all the worse for it." Indeed, the entire planet had been stricken by catastrophic storms and earthquakes due to one madman's attempt to remake the universe. "I witnessed the true evil that lives within so many, and I realized that Kahndaq must teach the rest of the world how to deal with that evil. Ours is a glorious mission. I will be your ambassador of justice, and I shall lead the world by example." He crossed his arms atop his chest. "May the gods be with us ... because they will not stand a chance against us."
The crowd cheered enthusiastically, save for one dissenting voice in the middle of the mob. The man's angry words were all but lost in the deafening uproar, but Black Adam's keen senses detected the disturbance at once. His dark eyes zoomed in on the insolent one.
"You are no messenger, Black Adam!" the man shouted, shaking his fist. The madness of the true fanatic gleamed in his wild eyes. "You and all of Kahndaq are heretics poisoned by lies." He yanked open his worn khaki jacket, exposing a belt of crude explosives strapped to his waist. "My people reject your wis—"
Perfect, Black Adam thought. I could not have asked for a better example.
With the speed of Heru, known to the infidels as Horus, he dived down and effortlessly plucked the would-be suicide bomber from the crowd. He yanked the explosive belt from the man's body and hurled it into the sky, where the fiendish device detonated harmlessly over twenty thousand feet above the palace. The explosion was barely visible to the crowd below.
"—dom," the bomber gulped, as he suddenly found himself held aloft above the gaping mob. Black Adam showed him more mercy than he deserved.
Fie ripped the man's right arm from its socket.
The severed limb splashed down into the reflecting pool, turning the azure waters crimson. Bright arterial blood spurted from the bomber's shoulder. He shrieked in agony.
The West had its own heroes, of course, such as the so-called Justice League, but they too often lacked the will to do what must be done. Their sentimental and juvenile "morality" rendered them unfit to truly protect the world from the dangers ahead. Black Adam did not intend to make the same mistake.
"You have three more chances," he informed the prisoner, "to tell me who sent you."
Dr. Thaddeus Bodog Sivana watched Black Adam dismember the terrorist on the flickering screen of a modified RCA television set. The archetypal mad scientist, he peered at the TV through the thick, Coke-bottle lenses of his glasses. Acid burns and chemical stains marked his rumpled white lab coat. His bald dome gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights of his secret laboratory. His scrawny body was hunched in front of the screen. The television's old-fashioned rabbit ears antennae picked up bootleg signals from orbiting spy satellites.
"Bah, this is no fun to watch," Sivana muttered to himself. "Where's Captain Marvel?" Bored with the televised carnage, he leaned forward and changed the channel to the daily news. "Black Adam is much too serious for me." Although they shared a common enemy in the Big Red Cheese, Sivana had always considered the ancient Egyptian superman insufferably pompous—and a living anachronism to boot. "And now he thinks he can 'change' the world." The mad doctor cackled at the very notion. "Ha! Magic doesn't change the world. Science does!"
Heaving himself up from a rickety rocking chair, Sivana walked across his laboratory, which was cluttered with the detritus of countless diabolical experiments and inventions. A killer robot gathered dust in one corner of the converted basement, next to rusty cans of atomic rocket fuel. Cobwebs shrouded a bulky shrinking-ray projector that Sivana meant to get around to repairing one of these days. Vacuum tubes, spark plugs, 3-D glasses, wrenches, screwdrivers, microscopes, and a brand-new protein resequencer were strewn across, the disorganized shelves and counters. Blueprints for time machines and electrodynamic death traps were taped to the walls above the various work spaces. Sparks leaped between a pair of upright electrodes. Beakers and test tubes bubbled over with devilish concoctions. Rotating reels of magnetic tape chugged noisily inside a genuine 1957 supercomputer. A miniature flying saucer was suspended from the ceiling. The stuffy air smelled of ozone and Suspendium.
Sivana gravitated to a shelf at the rear of the lab. A clear plastic cylinder, about the size of a Quaker Oats container, glowed atop the shelf, its contents bathed in unearthly blue radiation by a lamp installed in its lid. Sivana flashed a buck-toothed grin as he affectionately patted the vertical cylinder. "Science always trumps magic. Isn't that right, my little friend?"
A tiny green caterpillar, no more than three inches long, wriggled inside the tube. Bulbous yellow eyes peered back at Sivana through the transparent plastic. Tiny forelegs waved in protest. A miniature microphone was strapped to the larva's thorax. Brownish red splotches ran along its back, so that it bore a distinct resemblance to the species Papilio polyxenes. Twin antennae twitched atop its head.
But before the wormlike creature could respond, the basement doors were thrown off their hinges by a powerful blow. A corner of one door clipped Sivana in the head, knocking him to the ground. His glasses clattered across the floor.
A pair of looming figures entered the lab. "Doctor Sivana?" a guttural voice inquired.
"W-what?" Rising to his knees, the dazed scientist groped for his lost glasses. He squinted myopically at the intruders, but all he could see were the blurry outlines of two towering male forms. He got a vague impression that one of the invaders was covered in fur, the other in scales. One thing was for sure: Neither of them was Captain Marvel. "Wh-who are you? What do you want?"
His fingers closed on his glasses just as a shaggy hand grabbed onto his right shoulder, yanking him to his feet. Reptilian claws sank into his other shoulder.
"You," an inhuman voice growled.
Safe inside its protective cylinder, the caterpillar watched silently as two monstrous beast-men dragged Sivana from his lab. Its antennae twitched excitedly for a few moments, then settled down as it became obvious that the mad doctor was not coming back anytime soon. The tiny invertebrate turned its attention to the television set, which continued to blare in the background.
"Gathering since early morning, thousands are expected to show up for the memorial service, scheduled to take place in Metropolis later today...
The caterpillar watched the broadcast with interest.
A gigantic bronze statue of Superman, an American eagle poised upon his wrist, dominated the open plaza at the center of Centennial Park. Dozens of super heroes were gathered in the plaza, ready to take part in the solemn memorial service being held this afternoon. Costumed heroes enjoyed VIP status, while photographers and TV crews swarmed the sidelines. A few of the more enterprising journalists, including Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen, braved the throng of heroes, collecting interviews and photos. Police barricades held back hundreds of ordinary citizens who had come to show their support and gratitude for the extraordinary men and women responsible for ending the Crisis, and to honor the memory of those who had fallen in battle. Handmade signs proclaimed THANK YOU!, JLA FOREVER!, and similar sentiments. Cheers greeted the arrival of each new hero.
Booster Gold savored the applause as he touched down amidst the other heroes. Pretty good turnout, he observed, checking out the impressive assemblage of costumed champions. Looking around, he spotted Martian Manhunter, Zatanna, Green Arrow, Black Canary, S.T.R.I.P.E., Stargirl, Blue Devil, Ragman, Nightmaster, Enchantress, Power Girl, Black Lightning, Gypsy, Vixen, Plastic Man, Geo-Force, Aquaman/the Ray, Bulleteer, Hourman, Wildcat, Mister Terrific, Tasmanian Devil, Doctor Mid-Nite, Katana, Jakeem Thunder, Metamor-pho, Mister Miracle, Nightwing, the Doom Patrol, the Teen Titans, various members of the Green Lantern Corps, and a few heroes he didn't even recognize. Firehawk came flying down from the sky, her glowing wings ablaze. Huntress swung onto the scene. Metamorpho gave Booster a friendly wave, but seemed to be busy chatting up the buxom new Bulleteer. Just as well, Booster thought. He was too excited to make small talk right now. Not when it was almost time to make history instead.
“SUPERMAN, BATMAN, AND WONDER WOMAN ARE DUE TO BEGIN
in less than a minute, sir.” As ever, Skeets hovered above his shoulder.
“I’D SUGGEST WORKING YOUR WAY TO THE STAGE.”
Booster spotted a podium set up in the shadow of the looming Superman statue. As he navigated through the crowd, he overheard snatches of conversation.
"Assume Superman's going to deliver the eulogy," the Flash said.
"Oh yeah, he has to," Black Lightning agreed, "Who else?"
A green-skinned teenager looked about in confusion. "So, where are Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman?"
"They'll be here, kid," Booster assured Beast Boy. "Just relax."
He took a position near the front of the crowd, facing the vacant podium. The absence of the Big Three did not concern him. Knowing Superman, he was probably putting out a raging forest fire in Brazil or something, nothing that would keep him from showing up on time for the ceremony. Batman and Wonder Woman were bound to arrive at the last minute as well. He had no doubt that all three heroes would be here shortly. History said so.
“four seconds To the big moment, sir,” Skeets alerted him. Booster checked his hair, using Robotman's polished exterior as a mirror. Skeets counted down the seconds, “three, two . . .«
"One," Booster said. "Ta-daaa!"
Nothing happened. The podium remained unoccupied. Superman, not to mention Batman and Wonder Woman, were nowhere to be seen. ,
Huh? Booster looked around anxiously. He spun around, searching the crowd for that world-famous red S. His eyes worriedly scanned the sky;
His initial outburst, and odd behavior, caught the attention of the, heroes standing nearby. "What's he doing?" Metamorpho asked. The Element Man's body was a jumble of multi-colored ores and minerals. "Announcing himself?"
Firehawk shot Booster a disgusted look. "He would."
Booster was too flummoxed to even register the flaming heroine's dig, let alone take offense at her contemptuous tone. He turned to Skeets for answers. "Where are they?" •
“they shod i o i □□□ i be here, sir.” Static distorted the floating robot's voice, “the time—*
"Is 4:32!" Booster yelped. More heroes took notice of his increasingly agitated state. Elasti-Girl and Robotman backed away from him, looking uncomfortable. Aquaman scowled at Booster's unseemly conduct. "And I don't see them anywhere!"
J'onn J'onzz, the Martian Manhunter, tried to intervene. The beetle-browed green humanoid, whom Booster had known for years, was a respected pillar of the super-hero community. His deep, sonorous voice conveyed a sense of gravity. "Booster, a little decorum, please ... ?"
But good manners were the last thing on Booster's mind. "No! You don't understand, J'onn!" he protested. Ignoring the concerned stares of his fellow heroes, he shouted at his robot instead. "Skeets, check the historical records again!"
“I’M PROCESSING THEM AT TERABYTES A PICOD! ! OODSECOND,
sir.” Another glitch in his voice indicated that something was seriously amiss. Usually, you couldn't shut the chatty robot up. “they all indicdoi i ote a
4:30 APPEARANCE.”
. "4:35 and counting, Skeets!" Booster's goggles projected an internal chronometer before his eyes. "Your clock is off!"
This was a disaster. Of all times for the stupid robot to come down with a computer virus or something! A cold sweat broke out beneath Booster's uniform as he saw his glorious future slipping away....
“atomic time, sir!” The levitating robr1 1"o— t- -r-_----»#—n,-
The gleaming orb listed to the right, “something’s wrdooiidng!
SDMI 1 DTHING’S WROOOO—”
Skeets' voice devolved into a burst of incoherent static. Sparks flashed around the robot's invisible antigravity field. Electricity crackled loudly as
Skeets shorted out before Booster's eyes. The robot crashed to the pavement, clanging against the scuffed stone tiles. Coruscating energy briefly flashed across the golden surface of the sphere.
"Skeets!" ,
By now, everyone in the plaza was aware of the disturbance. Huntress, Negative Man, and several other heroes shushed him. He could tell from their expressions that most of them thought that he was acting crazy or disrespectful or both. Power Girl, never the most even-tempered of heroines, looked like she wanted to knock his block off, but was being held back by Hourman and Wildcat. Klarion the Witchboy tsked in disapproval. Doctor Mid-Nite's pet owl hooted indignantly.
"Booster, will you settle down?" J'onn said.
"No! You don't understand! Where are they?" He was ranting like a lunatic now, but he didn't care. All that mattered was that history was going wrong. "Where the hell are they?"
J'onn spoke to him in a soothing tone. "Where are who, Booster?"
"I'm talking about Superman and Batman, you extraterrestrial chucklehead! And Wonder Woman!" He yelled hysterically at the imposing green alien. J'onn was a telepath, but he generally refrained from reading his comrades' minds. Booster tried to explain just how bad things were. "The future depends on them! I know, I've seen it!"
Attracted by the commotion, a photographer ran forward, holding a camera. Booster spotted the newcomer out of the corner of his eye. He recognized the man's red hair, freckles, and trademark bow tie. "Jimmy Olsen?" He lunged toward the startled photographer. "Take the picture!"
"Booster!" J'onn shouted in alarm.
"Take the picture, Olsen!" Booster demanded, heedless of the Martian's cry. This was his last chance to make things right. Maybe, he reasoned desperately, the Big Three had arrived while he was busy arguing with Skeets and J'onn. Maybe they were at the podium right now, just like they were supposed to be. "They're here!" he shouted at Olsen, afraid to glance back at the podium for fear of what he might see. "They have to be here!" Grabbing onto Olsen's camera, he yanked the lens toward the podium behind him. His fingers searched for the camera's shutter release button, trying to force the frightened photographer to take the shot. "This is your Howitzer!"
"Great H'ronmeer!" J'onn exclaimed, invoking an ancient Martian deity. His elastic arms stretched out and wrapped around Booster. Alien muscles, whose strength rivaled that of Superman himself, pulled Booster away from Olsen. The contested-over camera slipped from both men's fingers. Booster's eyes widened in horror as the historically crucial camera broke to pieces against the pavement. Panicking, he fought to free himself from J'onn's powerful grip. Metamorpho and Geo-Force hurried over to help restrain Booster, who was completely out of control. "Hold him!" J'onn ordered his allies. The rest of the heroes looked ready to step in if necessary. Hal Jordan's power ring flashed ominously. Green Arrow' fitted a tranquilizer arrow to his bow.
What's the matter with these people? Booster thought in frustration. Don't they realize how important this is? He thrashed frantically against J'onn and the others. I have to fix things before the future changes forever!
"Booster!" a new voice called out. A figure cautiously approached the fracas from one side. Booster caught a glimpse of a civilian in a powder blue business suit. "They're not coming! They're-nggghV'
Flailing wildly, Booster accidentally elbowed the poor guy in the nose. Oops! The clumsy mishap briefly startled him out of his frenzied state. He stopped struggling long enough to find out who exactly he had just clobbered. Sorry about that, pal.
He saw a mild-mannered reporter wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. A press pass, pinned to the lapel of his blazer, identified him as working for the Daily Planet, the same newspaper Jimmy Olsen was employed by. Booster suddenly remembered that the reporter had been trying to tell him something right before their’collision.
"What do you mean they're not coming?" he asked angrily. "How the hell do you know?"
"I just know/' Clark Kent said. A trickle of blood flowed from his nose. Oddly enough, he didn't seem too upset that Booster had just walloped him by mistake. If anything, he looked more worried about Booster. "And I'm sorry."
Tell me about it, Booster thought. J'onn and the others let go of him as he gradually quieted down. He realized glumly that there was nothing he could do here.
The future—his future—was screwed.
The loft looked like it hadn't been cleaned in weeks, mainly because it hadn't. Unwashed dishes were piled in the sink. Fast-food containers, crumpled beer cans, and empty liquor bottles covered nearly every inch of counter space. Dirty laundry carpeted the floor. An open cardboard box, advertising Nachie's Gotham-Style Pizza, occupied the small table in front of the sofa. Roaches fed on the few remaining slices. The only illumination came from the city lights shining through the window curtains. The stuffy atmosphere was badly in need of air freshener. A trail of discarded clothing led to the king-sized bed at the far end of the loft.
Renee was oblivious to the general squalor as she dozed in the bed, entangled with a fetching young blonde she had picked up earlier tonight. Sweaty, disordered sheets hinted at the strenuous activity that had left both women spent and momentarily at peace. The blonde was curled up against Renee, breathing softly as she slumbered contentedly in the ex-cop's arms. Renee thought her name was Carla.
Or maybe Carol.
Renee was only half awake when a man's shadow fell over the bed. A gloved hand lifted a plain white bra from the floor, the faint noise causing her to stir uneasily. Shadows cloaked the figure as he stepped closer to the bed. A voice asked quietly, "Who are you?"
What the hell? It belatedly dawned on Renee that a stranger was standing at the foot of her bed. Her eyes snapped open and she reached across the startled blonde to grab the semi-automatic pistol resting on top of the nightstand. Twisting around, she sat up and fired two rounds at the intruder. Gunshots blared inside the loft. The blonde screamed in terror.
The flash of the muzzle, as well as the lights from outside, revealed a startling sight: a man with no face. Smooth pink skin covered the intruder's face from his hairline to his chin. Only two shallow indentations existed where his eyes should have been. A bump gave a vague suggestion of a nose. There was no mouth at all, just an unbroken expanse of flesh.
For a second, Renee thought that maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her, but then she heard the blonde cry out in fear. "Ohmigod, he doesn't have a face!"
Her shots hit him directly in the chest. In contrast to his bizarre countenance, the man's attire was unremarkable. Renee caught a glimpse of a suit and tie beneath a rumpled brown trench coat as the intruder tumbled backward. Her bra flew from his fingers, and he seemed to fall to the floor, dropping out of her line of vision. She listened for the sound of a body smacking against the woodwork, but heard nothing except the terrified young woman beside her.
"Ohmigod! Ohmigod!" the blonde kept shrieking. She grabbed onto Renee, getting in the way. "Where was his fac—?" ■
"Shut up!" Renee snapped. Breaking free from the other woman's panicky embrace, she scrambled out of the bed. Years of training and experience asserted themselves as she assumed the high-ready position, gripping the gun in both hands. Circling around the bed, she expected to find the intruder stretched out on the floor.
But all she found was the fallen bra.
"Wh-where'd he go?" the blonde asked, clutching a sheet to her chest. She sounded just as bewildered as Renee, and a whole lot more frightened. "You shot him, right? You ... you hit him?"
Less concerned with modesty, Renee moved about the apartment, searching for their uninvited visitor. Goose bumps tingled upon her bare skin. She was fully awake now, with enough adrenaline flowing through her veins to power most of Gotham. A digital alarm clock informed her that it was 4:30 in the morning. Her pistol was raised and ready.
"Do you see him?" the blonde asked anxiously. "Did you get him?" She huddled fearfully on the bed, hiding behind the thin sheet as if it could actually protect her. "What do we do now? Do we call the cops?"
Renee tuned her out. Given the small size of her apartment, it took her only a few minutes to determine that the intruder was nowhere in the loft. It seemed impossible, but somehow he had escaped unobserved. Kind of like the way Batman always disappeared into the shadows when he was no longer needed.
But that wasn't the Bat, she thought. Nor did the faceless stranger fit the description of the Joker, the Riddler, or any of the other grotesque lunatics that infested Gotham. Just what we need, she thought sourly. Another freak. During her years on the force, Renee had encountered just about every one of Gotham's costumed lunatics—hell, she had even been stalked by Two-Face for awhile—but this one was new to her. First, Two-Face. Now, No-Face. She shook her head in disgust. Why me?
As her eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom, she spotted an unfamiliar piece of paper sticking out from beneath the flung bra. Holding on tightly to the pistol with her right hand, she knelt down and picked up the paper. An empty whisky bottle lay on the floor nearby.
"What is it, Renee?" the blonde called out. What exactly was her name again? "C'mon, Renee! You're freaking me out."
The loose slip of paper appeared to have been torn out of a pocket-sized notebook. Renee stood up and stepped toward the window to get a better look at the handwritten message scrawled upon the slip:
520 Kane Street ?
•
The question mark was at least twice the size of the address above it.
That's the Riddler's trademark, she recalled, thinking like a cop. But this didn't feel like one of Eddie Nigma's usual word games. Besides, the last time she checked, the Riddler had a face....
"Renee?" The blonde sounded a little less panicked, but desperately wanted to be told that everything was all right now. She crawled across the bed toward Renee, the sheet wrapped tightly around her. Renee doubted that this particular blonde would ever set foot in her apartment again, let alone her bed. "Uhm, hello ... ?"
The former detective had other things on her mind right now. She stared at the puzzling note, examining it as if it were evidence at a crime scene, which she supposed it was. But who was the intruder and what was he after?
"Put some clothes on," she told the blonde.
A large bronze globe spun atop the Daily Planet Building as Booster Gold zoomed past it into the skv. Photographers on the rooftop snapped shots of his heroic ascent. He hoped they managed to get his good side.
“hurry, sir!” Skeets urged him. The compact robot was up and running again, looking none the worse for wear despite his temporary crash at the disrupted memorial service, “there’s a falling jetliner coming
IN FROM THE NORTH!”
"Are you sure about this?" Booster asked. He couldn't help recalling how Skeets had gone haywire before.
“ABSOLUTELY, SIR. LAST WEEK WAS A GLITCH, I ASSURE YOU. MY SELF-REPAIR PROGRAMS HAVE ALREADY ELIMINATED THE PROBLEM,”
Certainly the robot's voice sounded back to normal, “nowthati have successfully REBOOTED MYSELF, I CAN STATE C O N C LU S IVE LY TH AT TH I S IS A JOB FOR BOOSTER GOLD!”
Booster hoped so. "Okay, I'm on it."
He let the robot guide him over thirty thousand feet into the air. A field of fleecy white clouds billowed beneath him. A clear blue sky spread out above. Booster looked to the north, yet saw nothing but empty air and sunlight. A powerful headwind blew against his face. There was no sign of any imminent aeronautic disaster.
"Are you positive this is the right place?"
His confidence in Skeets' predictions had been shaken by the Big Three's no-show at the memorial service. A week later, Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman remained MIA.
What else might history have gotten wrong?
“THE JET’S FLIGHT PATH IS A MATTER OF HISTORICAL RECORD,”
Skeets insisted, “you’re positioned perfectly, impact—”
The wind roared in Booster's ears, so that he had to strain to hear what the robot was saying. "Speak up!" he shouted. "I can't hear you over the wind!"
Skeets turned up the volume, “impact in five seconds, sir! ypur
FORCE DAMPERS ARE FULLY CHARGED! BRACE YOURSELF!”
"For what?" Booster squinted into the wind, grateful for the goggles protecting his eyes. He assumed a stationary position in the sky. He held out his arms in front of him, as though to catch a beach ball. He still couldn't see anything amiss. "You said north, right?"
All at once, the wind shifted and the smell of burning jet fuel flooded his nostrils. A gigantic shadow blotted out the sun. What in the world . . . ? He almost had a heart attack as, without warning, a burning 747 came barreling out of the sky behind him. Narrowly missing him and Skeets, the rushing jetliner flew over Booster, less than a yard above his head. The back draft generated by the plane nearly sucked him in. Skeets beeped in surprise.
"Oh God....."
The jumbo jet was plunging toward Metropolis at a horrifying speed. Thick black smoke gushed from both wings. Flames erupted from the burning engines. No loud thrumming came from the dead turbines. A whistling wind carried the smell of gasoline.
Choking on the fumes, Booster dived after the plane. Force-field projectors in his gauntlets locked onto the jet's wings in a desperate attempt to slow its breakneck descent. The effort was intense; only the future tech in his uniform kept his arms from being yanked from their sockets. It was like trying to drag a rocket back with your bare hands.
"God...."
Skeets darted beneath the undercarriage of the plummeting 747. A metallic probe extended from inside the robot, making contact with the plane's aluminum alloy skin. Twenty-fifth-century technology' allowed Skeets to establish a cybernetic link with the jet's internal circuitry. An override command persuaded the plane to lower its landing gear.
His work done, Skeets withdrew his probe and scooted out of the way.
Good job, Booster thought. But would the robot's assistance make any difference in the end? Bits and pieces of the plane flew off the disintegrating wings. Loose flaps and panels went spiraling off into the sky behind it. Burning debris pelted Booster, bouncing off his protective force field and body armor, as he chased after the endangered aircraft. Terrified faces were pressed against the windows, staring aghast at the flames. Booster's mouth went dry. There had to be at least three hundred passengers aboard.
The plane tore through the cloud cover, shredding the damp mist. Metropolis Airport came into view below. The sprawling complex seemed to grow larger by the second as the jet rocketed toward the ground like a missile. Booster's headpiece picked up the frantic transmissions coming from the cockpit of the plane:
"Mayday! Mayday! Metropolis Tower, we have experienced a major instrumentation malfunction! Enact Emergency Landing Protocol 2X-2L!"
Booster had no idea what that protocol involved, but he doubted that it would do any good. At the angle the jet was descending, a fiery crash seemed inevitable—unless he did something about it in the next few seconds. Putting on a final burst of speed, he caught up with the blazing plane and came up beneath it. He pressed his palms against the fuselage and pushed upward with all his might. Energy flashed and crackled around his body as he pushed his suit's technology to its limits. Repulsive thrusters fought a losing battle against gravity.
An empty runway came rushing up at him. Need to keep the nose up, he realized. Just a few moments more. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give up. I can do this. The heat from the burning engines drenched him in sweat. I'm Booster Gold, dammit!
The flaming 747 hit the tarmac at high speed. The tail section scraped against the asphalt as the plane skidded down the runway, throwing off a rooster tail of white-hot sparks. Scarred metal screeched in protest. Staring down at the runway, only a few feet below him, Booster prayed that the jumbo jet would hold together.
C'mon, he thought. Superman could do this with his eyes closed.
Finally, just when Booster thought the plane was a goner, the jet squealed to a halt only fifty yards from the end of the runway. Fire trucks, ambulances, and other emergency vehicles came racing onto the scene. An inflatable slide sprouted from the side of the plane. Trembling passengers slid to safety. There appeared to be no casualties.
Booster let out a massive sigh of relief. Shaking, he flew out from beneath the jet and landed several yards away from the rescue operation. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the tarmac. He was sweaty and breathing hard. His heart was still racing.
That was a close one. •
A news crew came running toward him. Booster realized that they must have been on hand to cover the crash. "Booster! Channel Seven News." A female reporter, whose name Booster couldn't recall, thrust a microphone in his face. "Can we get a quote?"
Rising to his feet, he waved the news crew back. Despite the opportunity for publicity, he wasn't quite up to providing a choice sound bite just yet. "Right with you, folks!" he promised, mustering a cocky smile. "Just give me a moment to ... reflect on our luck."
“sih!” Skeets zipped down from the sky. “it wasn’t luck—*
"No kidding!" he snapped at the robot. Stepping away from the news team, he lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. "'North?' What the hell was that?" Skeets' faulty directions had nearly gotten them all killed. "You're still fragged!"
“not to worry, sir.” Skeets declared. »my apqldsies. merely one
LAST RESIDUAL BUTCH IN MY SELF-CORRECTING PRDBRAMMINE,” The
metal probe had receded back inside the robot. His polished casing appeared completely seamless, “everything’s in order now,”
Booster looked over at the jet, now liberally coated with flame-retardant foam. The passengers and crew had made it to the ground safely, but he was all too aware that things could have easily turned out very different. Hell, a few more feet and he would have been splattered all over the nose of the plane. He glared at Skeets.
"You'd better be right about that!"
Mystery solved, Renee thought.
520 Kane Street turned out to be an abandoned building down by the waterfront, in a bad part of town. A thick layer of dust and soot smeared the front windows. The entrance was boarded up. The nondescript structure offered little indication of its function, but she guessed that it used to be a warehouse, or maybe a shipping office. In any event, it was nothing but a potential firetrap now. A sign posted above the door read, Private Property—Keep Out!
The neighborhood around the building wasn't much more hospitable. A solitary street lamp created a small oasis of light amidst the nocturnal darkness. Renee's car, a beaten-up old sedan, was parked across the street, which she seemed to have all to herself. There was nobody else around, not even a few homeless vagrants. Waves lapped monotonously against the dilapidated pier to her right. A salty breeze blew litter past her ankles. Cardboard boxes and rusty trash cans were piled against the building. Greasy puddles filled the potholes in the.pavement. Rats scurried in the shadows. Renee glanced up at the sky. It was odd not to see the Bat-Signal shining overhead. She wondered if the commissioner knew what had become of the Dark Knight. Not that it's any of my business anymore.
She used her sleeve to wipe some of the soot away from a filthy window. Scowling, she peered through the glass, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just murky shadows and cobwebs. From what she could see, the place had been empty for a long time.
Fine, she thought. Curiosity satisfied. She had wasted enough time checking out the address on the slip. The mother of all hangovers had kept her from driving down here earlier, but apparently she needn't have bothered. So much for playing detective on her own; it was time to get back to the serious business of drinking herself into oblivion. She briefly flirted with the idea of tracking down the blonde from the night before, but figured that ship had sailed. Chances were, Carla would rather go straight than hook up with her again. Renee took one last look at the abandoned building. Why would anyone bother to slip her this address?
"Kind of a dump, isn't it?"
A voice spoke up behind her, accompanied by a faint chemical odor. Renee spun around to find the faceless stranger emerging from a column of thick blue smoke. The swirling fumes briefly took the form of a question mark, before the breeze blew them away. Her jaw dropped in surprise.
"Son of a b—!" She hastily drew her pistol from beneath her jacket. Before she could take aim, however, the stranger grabbed onto her wrist and shoulder. Gloved fingers expertly twisted the gun from her grip. Some sort of fancy jujitsu move flipped her into the nearby trash cans, knocking them over. Metal lids clattered onto the pavement as she crashed to the ground. Rotting garbage spilled on the asphalt beside her. "Uhh!" she grunted, wincing from the impact. That was going to leave a bruise.
“Do you shoot everyone you meet," the stranger asked, "or is this a personal thing?" He loomed over her, holding onto her pistol. The glare of the street lamp revealed a head of light brown hair above his blank countenance. He seemed to be wearing the same suit and trench coat as before. Renee fully expected to be gunned down with her own pistol, but the stranger casually dropped the gun's magazine into his other hand. The act did little to quell Renee's anger at being ambushed like this.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded.
"I asked you first." He lobbed the emptied gun back to her.
She caught the pistol, then scrambled to her feet amidst the strewn trash. A greasy fast-food wrapper clung to her jeans. "I shot you," she insisted. "I know I shot you."
"Are you sure?" He opened his coat, showing her the bullet holes in his lapel.
Renee squeezed the grip of her pistol. Even though she knew it was empty, the feel of the gun in her hand was reassuring. Her memory replayed those frantic moments in the -loft when she had fired a t the intruder. Was it possible that he had somehow managed to dodge the bullets via some tricky kung fu move? "Pretty sure."
"So you are a detective after all." Even though he didn't have a mouth, she could practically hear him grinning. Smug bastard.
She frowned at his assertion. "No, I'm not. I've got a new job. It's called being a drunk."
He sounded dubious. "Do I judge you by what you say or by what you do, Renee?"
"How do you know my name?" she asked suspiciously. What is it about me that keeps attracting these freaks? And how come it's never Catwoman that comes slinking into my life? ,
"I'm hiring you. Two hundred dollars a day plus expenses." He reached beneath his coat and extracted a thick roll of bills, bound together by a rubber band. He shoved the roll in Renee's free hand. "First three weeks, paid in advance."
She blinked in surprise, completely taken aback by this unexpected development. She flicked through the bills, seeing plenty of crisp green hundreds. Benjamin Franklin smiled up at her. What the hell? she thought, trying to make sense of it all. This guy breaks into my home, nearly gets himself killed, just to offer me a job?
"Don't judge the building by how it looks," he advised her. "Judge it by how it's used and by who uses it...."
Her nose caught a whiff of that same chemical odor. Opaque blue fumes began to rise from the stranger's clothing. Renee had seen Batman exit under the cover of a smokescreen too many times not to realize what was happening. Especially after the stranger's disappearing act in her apartment the night before.
"What? Wait!" She lunged forward, trying to stop the faceless mystery man from vanishing again, but her hands grabbed onto nothing but a dense blue mist. "I still have questions!"
She could forget about getting any answers, though. The stranger Was gone once more, leaving behind a column of smoke in the shape of a question mark. The puzzling symbol fit her mood perfectly. She contemplated the roll of banknotes in her hand.
What was that all about?
A marble statue of a beautiful woman and two smiling children dominated Black Adam's private sanctum. Clad in the garments of ancient Egypt, where he had fought on behalf of Pharaoh Ramses II, they occupied a position of honor within the spacious chamber, posed before an open balcony that looked out over the entire city. Massive stone columns, engraved with intricate arabesques, supported the ceiling. An imposing mahogany desk rested in one corner, beneath a large framed map of the world. Potted ferns and palm trees brought a touch of nature to the grandiose decor.
His arms clasped behind his back, Adam grimly contemplated the statue of his murdered family. Even after three thousand years, the pain of their loss still gnawed at his soul, spurring him on in his sacred crusade to stamp out evil wherever he found it. The sun set behind the statue, briefly granting the figures a radiant halo. Adam wondered if Shiruta's spirit still waited for him in the Land of the Dead, or if she had given up on him millennia ago.
Time weighed heavily upon him. Plans were in motion, but there was little for him to do at the present. A long, lonely evening awaited him.
"Black Adam." A servant addressed him from behind. "You have visitors."
He turned to find the aged servant, his head bowed in respect, escorting three unfamiliar personages into his presence. Two men, both wearing Westem-style business suits, flanked a dark-haired young woman whose body was clothed in a shapeless violet gown. A blindfold was fastened over the maiden's eyes and her arms were tied behind her back. Black Adam did not find it remarkable that his guards had permitted the strangers to venture all the way to his office. Indestructible as he was,,he required little protection ... as past assassins had learned to their regret.
"Who are they?" he asked the servant in Arabic.
"We're friends," answered one of the men, a stocky fellow whose insincere smile reminded Adam of an unscrupulous camel merchant. A dark mustache and beard failed to conceal his greasy complexion. He held a black metal case before him, while his companion held onto the woman by her shoulders. The speaker's accent betrayed his American origins.
"You speak Arabic," Adam observed.
"I'm not just brawn," the man declared. His phony smile stretched even wider. "The name's Rough House. This is Noose."
The other man was tall and lanky, with sandy red hair and a smirking expression. "It's a pleasure, your highness."
"I am not a king," Adam clarified. He considered himself Kahndaq's champion, not its monarch. He regarded the men warily, his arms crossed atop his chest.
"Regardless," Rough House declared, "we've come here to offer you gifts." He opened the metal case, revealing a quantity of gold ingots. "Two million in African gold." He nodded at Noose, who pushed the barefoot woman forward. "And the most beautiful virgin in all of Egypt." An odious leer exposed his vile character. "Guaranteed."
Adam contemplated the pair's offerings. "May I ask why you have brought me these 'gifts'?"
"To congratulate you on the opening of your embassy in Metropolis," Rough House explained. Adam was scheduled to attend the opening later this week. "And to say hello on behalf of our employers. Intergang."
I see, Adam thought. Intergang was an American crime syndicate that was well known for applying advanced technology to the practice of organized crime. Although he had never personally dealt with Intergang before, he was more than familiar with their infamous reputation. Then again, he recalled, he himself had often been unfairly maligned by the Western press. It seemed unlikely, but perhaps the notorious syndicate had also been misrepresented? He resolved to hear the men out before rendering judgment.
"The world is still recovering from the Crisis," Rough House continued. "My bosses are hoping to take advantage of that. We're already essentially running Bialya, as you may be aware."
"Perhaps," Adam allowed. Bialya, Kahndaq's neighbor to the south, was a rogue nation that been ruled by a succession of military strongmen for several decades now. Adam had heard rumors that a foreign crime syndicate was pulling the strings of Bialya's latest puppet ruler, one Colonel Harjvati. Apparently, those rumors were well founded. "Go on."
"Now we're looking to expand," Rough House said. "And Kahndaq is essentially the bridge between Africa and the Middle East."
Noose expanded on his accomplice's spiel. "There are a lot of people willing to pay truckloads for the kind of weapons Intergang can supply. Thanagar-ian. Apokoliptian."
Black Adam caught the references to two warlike alien civilizations. Apparently Intergang's tentacles extended beyond the boundaries of Earth's solar system. The thought of such weapons falling into the wrong hands gave him pause.
"We're more than willing to cut you in on the action," Rough House offered, "in exchange for, what shall we call it? Safe passage?"
Noose must have let his grip on the young woman relax, for she suddenly twisted free of his grasp and lashed out at her captors. "Let me go, monsters!" she shouted defiantly. Her unshod foot kicked Noose in the shins even as she rammed her slender shoulder into Rough House. Adam admired her spirit. Clearly, she was unwilling to be traded like chattel.
"Hey!" Noose reacted in surprise. He grabbed for the girl, his face contorted by anger. The genesis of his nickname became clear as his flexible fingers stretched like vines around the maiden's throat. Struggling to free herself once more, she gasped for breath. "Dammit, hold still! Hold still, you stupid—"
"Noose!" Rough House said sharply "Don't damage his gift." He glowered at the other man until Noose ceased throttling the squirming girl. The lanky gangster retracted his fingers, and held on to to the girl by her chin and hair, clearly intent on making sure that she didn't get loose again. Satisfied, Rough House turned back toward Adam. He acted as though the brief disturbance was not worth mentioning. "So. What do you say?"
Black Adam scowled. I have seen enough, he decided.
Without warning, he reached out and pulped Noose's head like a balloon filled with red gelatin. Blood and brains splattered the pristine marble floor. Rough House looked on in horror.
"I say no."
The cocktail party took place in a lavish penthouse suite overlooking Centennial Park. Stylishly dressed men and women sipped champagne, mingled, and networked throughout the suite. Picture windows offered a spectacular view of the city at night. Thirsty guests flocked to the free bar.
"To the future, Mr. Gold!" a dapper young CEO toasted Booster. Crystal champagne flutes clinked together. "And to the stock options that will make you a billionaire once we go public."
Sounds good to me, Booster thought. He had just signed a potentially lucrative endorsement contract with Akteon-Holt, an up-and-coming new pharmaceuticals company. The party was to celebrate his new relationship with the firm. The company's logo was already in place upon his uniform. He smiled in anticipation of depositing a sizable payment into his bank account. Last week's jet rescue had raised his price significantly. •
"I'm curious," Leonard Akteon asked. "What made you so certain that a relatively small company like mine was worth your time?"
"Skeets," Booster admitted, gesturing toward the robot floating nearby. "I was on the lookout for a new sponsor, and he recommended you as a man on the rise." In fact, according to Skeets, Akteon-Holt was destined to become one of the economic powerhouses of the twentieth-first century. And I'm getting in on the ground floor!
"Shame," a new voice broke into the conversation. A trio of men in dark suits and sunglasses barged through the crowd toward Booster and the startled CEO. "Mr. Leonard Akteon?" The leader intruder flashed a badge. "Agent Rogers, Secret Service." A second agent held out a warrant. "You're under arrest for securities fraud."
"What!" Akteon almost choked on his champagne. "There ... there must be some mistake ...!"
"Yeah, yours," Agent Rogers snarled. "The SEC has had you under investigation for some time now. Their case is open and shut." His men clamped a pair of handcuffs onto the businessman's wrists and began to escort him toward the door. Stunned partygoers, including Booster, looked on in dismay. "So much for 'Akteon-Holt.' Hope you didn't spend too much on letterhead." Rogers sneered at the dumbfounded guests witnessing the perp walk. "Party's over."
Booster watched numbly as Akteon disappeared through the exit, taking billions of imaginary profits with him. He wheeled around to confront Skeets.
"You ... you .. !" -
The robot seemed equally taken aback by what had just occurred, “sir, i ... i ddn’t . . . that wasn’t suppdsed To happen!” At least Skeets wasn't having a complete breakdown, complete with sparks and static, like he had at the memorial service, “perhaps i am malfunctioning, shall i
ATTEMPT A TOTAL REBOOT?”
"No," Booster decided. That hadn't worked before. "I want you to find someone for me." He stepped out onto the balcony outside the penthouse and launched himself into the air. Agent Rogers was right; the party was over. "Get me everything you can on the current whereabouts of a man called Hunter."
I should have done this before, he thought. The first time history went wrong.
"Rip Hunter."
The brownstone had once housed the Themysciran Embassy, before the Amazons of Paradise Island withdrew from this plane of existence, leaving only Wonder Woman behind. Now the Kahndaqi flag flew above the building, as the crowd outside waited for Black Adam to make his promised appearance. Police officers had set up wooden barricades to keep back the mob of reporters and demonstrators swarming the scene. Picketers held aloft signs protesting Black Adam's illegal takeover of Kahndaq, as well as scores of alleged human rights violations. Other demonstrators attempted to remind the media of Black Adam's frequent clashes with Earth's true heroes, both before and after he became a de facto head of state. REMEMBER THE FREEDOM FIGHTERS! one handmade banner implored; rumor had it Black Adam had taken part in the grisly massacre of an American super-hero team early on in the Crisis. FREE KAHNDAQ! another sign demanded. BLACK ADAM IS A WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION ! '
Lois Lane was among the reporters covering the embassy's opening. She dictated some background material into her handheld tape recorder:
"One of the most controversial individuals in the world today, Black Adam claims to have lived and ruled Kahndaq during the Nineteenth Dynasty as the historical figure Teth-Adam. Scholars and Middle Eastern leaders dispute these assertions and have called Black Adam a 'pretender' and 'one of today's greatest evils.' "
She hit Stop on the recorder, then played back what she had dictated to make sure it had recorded properly. Satisfied with the sound quality, she put away the device and went back to mingling with her fellow reporters, who were busily speculating about Black Adam's motives and intentions. No one was quite sure what to expect today, including Lois.
"Heard rumors from D.C.," Vicki Vale of the Gotham Gazette was saying, "that he's about to open up his country to super-villains. Anyone wanted for a crime gets a free pass."
Lois was skeptical. "Why would he do that? From what I know, he doesn't want anything to do with them."
"Well then, what does he want, Lois?" asked Steve Lombard of WGBS-TV.
Flashbulbs suddenly went off all around them. The protestors booed and chanted louder. Lois looked up at the balcony overlooking the embassy's front door. "I think he's about to tell us."
Black Adam floated above the balcony, defying gravity as easily as Clark usually could. He gazed down at the people below, his inscrutable expression giving little hint as to what he had in mind. His muscular arms were crossed atop his chest.
"Thank you all for coming." He spoke English with a slight Middle Eastern accent. "Over the last year> I have dedicated myself exclusively to the people of Kahndaq." He paused dramatically. "That ends today."
Uh-oh, Lois thought. I don't like the sound of that. According to Clark, Black Adam had all of Captain Marvel's powers and none of the Captain's innate decency and restraint. That’s a dangerous combination, especially these days.
"The world has celebrated the aversion of disaster," Black Adam declared. "They have praised the heroes who stood up to save them. Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman. But where are they now?"
Lois scowled. Don't go writing my man off just yet, she thought. Superman will be back before you know it.
Or so she hoped.
"I hope to gather allies. Brothers-in-arms who will deliver messages to everyone out there looking to take advantage of the heroes' absence."
He glanced down at the balcony, and Lois belatedly realized that Black Adam was not alone. A stocky man in a business suit stood upon the balcony, looking apprehensively up at Black Adam. It took Lois a second to recognize the sweaty individual as Rough House, one of Intergang's super-powered enforcers. Was Black Adam in cahoots with Intergang? If so, that was serious bad news for the rest of the world, Talk about an unholy alliance!
Then again, Rough House didn't look too comfortable up on the balcony. He tugged nervously at his collar. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. He looked like he wanted to bolt from the balcony, but was afraid of provoking Black Adam. He swallowed hard as the floating superman continued to address the world. His eyes darted from side to side, as if searching desperately for an escape route.
"The first message is simple," Black Adam said. "People like this man don't deserve to live."
"What?" Rough House's eyes went wide with panic. He backed away fearfully, holding up his hands. "Wait, your highness! Please!"
Black Adam paid no heed to the hoodlum's pleas. Swooping down from on high, he plucked Rough House from the balcony ... and ripped the man in two. Blood spattered Lois and the other reporters as the severed halves of the dead man's body rained down onto the sidewalk in front of the embassy. Crimson gore sprayed over the signs of the protestors, mocking their pitiful efforts to censure the ruthless dictator. Lois gagged as she wiped Rough House's blood from her face. Her fingers came away red. A few feet away, Steve Lombard vomited onto the pavement.
He wasn't the only one.
"It's time for heroes who don't just patrol the world," Black Adam declared. "They change it."
He took off into the sky, rapidly disappearing from view. Lois had no idea where he was going next, but she doubted that it boded well for the rest of humanity.
Looks like Black Adam isn't just Kahndaq's problem anymore.
Even when she was on the force, Renee had hated surveillance. It was so boring, it practically redefined the word. "Bor-ing: adjective, tiresome. See also: Surveillance."
She was camped out behind the wheel of her dented red sedan, which was parked across the road from the abandoned building at 520 Kane Street. Cigarettes and coffee rested upon the dashboard, vital necessities for the long hours ahead. The hot and muggy night made her wish she could run the car's air conditioner for awhile. Perspiration glued her white T-shirt to her back. Her Smith & Wesson rested securely in her shoulder holster. She rolled down the window to let in a little fresh air.
Stakeouts were hard on the body too. Sitting in the same place, focusing on the same thing for five, six, maybe even eight hours at a time definitely gave you a whole new appreciation for over-the-counter painkillers. She rescued a bottle of generic aspirin from the glove compartment and poured a couple tablets into her palm. She washed the pills down with a mouthful of cold coffee.
In theory, surveillance could not be performed alone, at. least not well. Guess that means I've been doing a lousy job of it for the last two weeks, she mused. Times like this she regretted taking the no-faced guy's money. That was my first mistake.
Two weeks so far, and nothing to show for it. She hadn't seen anything that would explain her faceless employer's interest in the old building. Outside, a stray cat crossed the street beneath the flickering light of a malfunctioning streetlamp. A junked car, parked a little further down the block, had already been pretty much stripped to its bare chassis. No one stirred upon the trash-covered sidewalks. As far as she could tell, the only person paying any attention to 520 Kane was her.
She lifted a pair of binoculars off the passenger seat beside her. Peering through the telescopic lenses, she took a closer look at the building. Was there anything going on over there?
Nope. Paint was peeling. That was abotit it.
Sighing wearily, she pulled a notepad off the dashboard and scribbled a terse notation to the effect that there was absolutely nothing to report. She glanced over the previous nights' entries:
Day 9: Nothing.
Day 10: Nothing.
Day 11: Wino urinated on wall. (Wow!)
Day 12: Nothing. ,
Day 13: Nothing.
Abundant doodles attested to her continuing boredom. She found herself wishing the wino would come back, just to break the monotony. I'm going stir-crazy in here. She started to light up a fresh cigarette.
"How many packs a day?" a voice asked her from behind.
"Jeez!" Renee jumped in her seat, smacking her head into the roof of the car. "Ow!" she exclaimed, almost dropping the lit cigarette. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw No-Face sitting in the backseat. "I hate you."
He leaned forward and plucked the notebook from the dashboard. His eyeless face glanced over the notes. "Nice doodles."
"Bite me," Renee replied.
He pointed at his lack of face. "Can't. No mouth."
Ha-ha, she thought sourly. By now, she was almost used to her nameless employer's bizarrely blank countenance, although she still couldn't make up her mind as to whether he was,wearing some sort of incredibly sophisticated mask, or if he was just a meta-human freak like Clayface or the Man-Bat. Either way, she had no idea how he could see or breathe.
But apparently that wasn't a problem for him.
"You didn't answer," he reminded her. "How many packs a day?"
She gave him a dirty look. "What're you, my mother?"
"You know, there's cyanide gas in cigarette smoke." His disapproving tone made up for his lack of facial expressions. She took a drag on the cigarette anyway. "That's the same stuff they use in gas chambers."
She blew a puff of smoke in his (non) face.
"Very mature," he commented.
"I thought so," she said, enjoying the moment. Too bad the smoke couldn't make him cough.
He lobbed the notebook back onto the dashboard. She heard the back door open. "Keep up the good work."
"Hey! Wait a minute!" she protested. They hadn't even discussed the pointlessness of her assignment yet. "You saw my notes. There's nothing going on here."
"Not yet. But there will be. I'm sure of it." He got out of the sedan and started to walk away. "We'll talk again later."
"Don't hold your breath!" Renee shouted from the car, not caring if anyone heard her or not. This whole gig was a waste of time anyway. "Four more days, buddy! That's it! Four more days...."
He disappeared into one of his damn smoky question marks. She supposed she should be grateful that he didn't set off his portable fog bank inside the car. And he gives me a hard time about smoking? She didn't know what kind of chemicals were involved in his vanishing act, but she doubted that they were good for the lungs.
Four more days, she reminded herself.
"Then I'm done."
Four nights later, Renee started to drift off into sleep.
It was the rain's fault. A spring shower had started up sometime after midnight, and the persistent beating of the raindrops against the car roof was like a lullaby. Like a gentle, soothing lullaby ...
Her head drooped back against the driver's seat. Too many late nights and not enough caffeine, along with the muggy atmosphere, made it hard to stay awake. Her eyelids sagged. A black tank top and shorts made up her evening's attire, along with the gun holstered over her shoulder. Dozing behind the wheel, she barely registered the sound of heavy footsteps splashing through the puddles outside.
Footsteps?
She awoke with a start, just in time to see a hulking figure in a heavy overcoat step inside 520 Kane Street. The front door swung shut behind him
"Dammit!" she cursed. She couldn't believe her carelessness and bad timing. Two weeks of waiting for something to happen and she almost slept right through it. Good job, Renee. Way to earn your money!
She threw open the car door and dashed toward the building. A raised arm shielded her eyes from the rain. Arriving at the front door, she spotted broken two-by-fours lying upon the sidewalk; the building's mysterious visitor had apparently torn down the boards nailed up over the door. She pressed her back against the front of the building, in order to avoid presenting an easy target, then reached out and gave the door a gentle shove. To her surprise, it swung open easily.
Unlocked, she realized. So whoever's paying a visit isn't planning on staying long. ■
She stepped warily into the darkened interior of the building, which turned out to be an old warehouse after all. Empty crates and wooden pallets cluttered the corners. Broken loading equipment was rusting away. Dust and cobwebs shrouded an abandoned fork) i ft.,Rat droppings sprinkled the rough concrete floor. From the looks of things, the deserted warehouse hadn't been a going concern for some time. The glow from the street outside filtered through the filthy windows, giving Renee barely enough light to see by. She kicked herself for not bringing a flashlight.
The one thing she didn’t see was the big guy in the overcoat. She looked around in confusion. I couldn't have been more than thirty seconds behind him, she thought, so where the hell did he go? Wiping her wet hair away from her face, she peered into the murky recesses of the warehouse. She listened intently for the man's heavy footsteps. Water dripped onto the floor behind her.
"Don't even think about it," she whispered.
Her faceless employer spoke up softly. "How'd you know it was me?''
"Guy who came in was in front of me," she explained, keeping her voice low. "You're the one who likes to sneak up on people."
"Touche." He came up beside her and extracted a flashlight from his trench coat. A glowing white beam lit up the darkness.
"Question is," she said, "where'd he go?"
"Take a look." He shone the light onto the floor in front of them, revealing wet shoe prints leading toward a brick wall at the rear of the warehouse. The prints were surprisingly large, size triple-E at least. Renee whistled softly. The guy they were looking for was one big customer.
So where was he anyway?
"Curious," her companion observed. The beam from the flashlight fell upon a solid brick wall. A dead end?
"He didn't just vanish," she assumed, thinking out loud. "There's got to be a secret door or something like that."
"A secret door?" He sounded skeptical. "What is this, Dungeons & Dragons?" ■
"Got a better idea?" She noted a light switch upon the wall. "Let's see if, there's still power to these lights," She flipped the switch—and a trapdoor opened up beneath them.
She yelped out loud as gravity seized them. They plunged through the trapdoor into the basement. No-Face hit the floor first, landing flat on his back. He cushioned her fall as she smacked d own on top of him. Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the hidden basement. She caught a glimpse of wooden crates piled high against the walls. The flashlight, jolted free from No-Face's grip, rolled across a scuffed steel floor.
Fie gasped beneath her weight. "Elf needs food badly," he murmured, sounding dazed by the fall. "Seriously, Renee, you've got to get off of me...
She wasn't listening. Lifting her head, one hand on the floor, the other splayed across his blank face, she stared in shock at the basement's other inhabitant.
"Oh hell," she muttered.
Green scales glittered beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. For a second, she thought it might be Killer Croc, but even Waylon Jones had never looked so inhuman as the hideous monstrosity standing a few yards away, still cloaked in that same heavy overcoat. Over seven feet tall, and at least four hundred pounds, the creature looked part human, part reptile, and part insect. A chitinous, jade-colored exoskeleton covered its gorilla-sized frame. Bony knobs protruded from its misshapen skull. Multifaceted black eyes were sunken deep into its armored sockets. Segmented claws emerged from the sleeves of its soggy overcoat. Fleavy work boots concealed its undoubtedly freakish feet. Saliva dripped from its massive jaws.
"Finn?" the creature emitted an inarticulate grunt. It looked just as surprised at the humans' abrupt arrival as they were. It turned toward them, clutching a heavy crate in its scaly talons.
Renee rolled off No-Face and jumped to her feet. She drew her Smith & Wesson from its holster. "What the hell is that thing?"
"How should I know?" her employer said. Still stunned from the fall, not to mention providing a cushioned landing pad for Renee, he struggled to get up. A groan escaped his nonexistent mouth.
Roaring like an enraged animal, the monster hurled the crate at Renee. She dived out of the way so that the box smashed into the wall behind her. The crate came apart, spilling out a supply of high-tech guns and rifles that looked like they had been shipped straight from outer space. At least fifty pounds of metal firearms crashed onto the floor, missing her by inches. She fired her gun at the charging monster. •
"You wanted me to watch this place!" she reminded No-Face, shouting over the blare of the gunshots. "I figured you knew what was going on!"
Silly me.
The muzzle of her weapon flared as she gripped the weapon with both hands. Two double-taps, four bullets. All good hits, but they didn't even slow the creature down. Angry growls assailed her eardrums. Moving with unexpected speed, the monster was on top of her in a blur. She didn't even have time to squeeze off another shot. A powerful hand seized her right arm. Sharp claws dug into her skin, drawing blood. She heard bone shatter and knew it was hers from her scream. Excruciating pain raced up her fractured arm. The Smith & Wesson went flying.
A swipe of the monster's arm cracked her ribs and sent her tumbling across the room. The titanic blow knocked the breath from her. She crashed down onto the hard steel floor, landing amidst the jumble of futuristic weapons.
Out of the comer of her eye, she saw No-Face enter the fray. He gave the monster a kung fu kick to the gut, but that only seemed to make the creature more angry. Growling ferociously, the monster grabbed No-Face by the throat and slammed him into the floor. Renee heard his head bang against the steel tiles.
She looked about frantically for her pistol, but all she saw were the weirdo ray guns scattered all around her. They looked like nothing she had ever seen before, outside of movies and television. Were these even for real? For all she knew, the alien ordnance were just props for some new sci-fi blockbuster, but they were the only weapons at hand. She snatched up the nearest firearm and prayed that a trigger was still a trigger....
The monster's claws remained wrapped around No-Face's throat as it yanked the stunned human from the floor. The man's feet dangled in the air, his blank countenance only inches away from the creature's snapping jaws. The monster snarled at the intruder. Drool dripped from its jagged fangs. The inhuman beast was only seconds away from biting the man's head off.
"But how do you really feel?" No-Face quipped.
Skzam! Energy crackled loudly as an incandescent golden beam struck the monster in the back. The shimmering ray instantly vaporized the creature, leaving nothing but a slimy green stain on the floor. No longer held aloft by the monster, No-Face crashed to the ground. He looked up to see Renee standing nearby, the futuristic pistol in her left hand. Her right arm dangled limply against her chest. Glowing white plasma flickered around the ray gun's muzzle. She stared at the weapon, impressed.
"Damn," she murmured. 1