League of Justice – Page 3

League of Justice #1.3: “This Mortal Coil”

Smallville, Kansas

Clark was like any other boy, the first few years of his life. He burped, he messed his diaper, he learned to talk, he learned to walk. It was when he learned to fly that Ma and Pa Kent knew he really was from another world. Clark was five, and was hanging from the ceiling fan in his bedroom, spinning in a slow circle and giggling incessantly.

“Clark! Come down from there this instant!” Martha wasn’t going to put up with any horseplay. Not in the house, anyway. Clark released his grip on the fan blade and floated downwards. Martha snatched him out of the air.

“You know better than to do that!” It was only then that Martha realized what exactly had happened. She was so used to being unsurprised by anything that it took a few seconds for the surprise to hit her. She clutched Clark tight, who by now was squirming to be let go, and ran into the kitchen. There Jonathan was enjoying a ham sandwich for lunch.

“Jon…our baby can fly.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘our baby can fly’!”

“Yes. I heard you. Doesn’t look like it.” Jonathan gestured to the struggling toddler, still in his mother’s arms.

“He was hanging from his ceiling fan and when I told him to get down he just floated into my arms.”

“Well.” Martha expected her husband to say more, but he didn’t.

“Well what?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never encountered a flying baby before.”

“I’m not a baby.” Clark entered the conversation with indignity on his face. “Can I go play?”

Martha looked at Jonathan and he looked back. Eventually he turned to Clark. “Yes. But stay on the ground and inside, ok? No…” he searched for the right way to explain things to a child “…floating. Understand?”

Clark looked at him curiously for a second before he nodded and twisted out of Martha’s arms. He scampered off towards the playroom.

“So…our boy can fly. Or float, at least. That’s new.”

“Jon…what is he?” Martha, for the first time, appeared to be frightened.

“Our son, Ma.” Jonathan reached out to hold her hands. “No matter what else, he is our son. We always knew he was different. Now I guess we find out just how different he is. After all, he did come from somewhere else.” Jonathan gestured towards the ceiling, indicating the heavens. Then he paused. He remembered the capsule little Clark had arrived in.

“I wonder if there is anything in his basket.”

It took Martha a second to understand what he meant. “The capsule? Didn’t you say there wasn’t anything inside?”

Jonathan shrugged. “There was nothing inside where he was, but I never really looked anywhere else. I didn’t even open it myself. The canopy lifted on its own when I got close. It must have been set to automatic or something. I wonder now if there isn’t anything anywhere else in the thing.” He gave a half smile. “Well, we better look I suppose.”

Martha nodded. “Bring Clark, will you?”

“Why?”

“Well, it occurs to me that the canopy reacted to you approaching that night, and it would make sense that was a general sort of, I don’t know, trigger, to ensure the boy’s safety. Look, I don’t know, but whoever could build and launch that thing must have been smart and must have known about earth before they sent their child here. That’s what I figure. You wouldn’t just send your child off haphazard like. No mother would, without ensuring his safety.”

“Yeah…but what does that have to do with Clark?”

“Well, if there is any sort of information, about Clark or his parents or whoever sent it, doesn’t it make sense that it would only react to him? Maybe to keep it information secret until he needs to know it.”

Jonathan smiled. He loved that he married smarter. And prettier. “Sounds good to me. Clark! Come here!”

With a pounding of little feet, Clark ran into the kitchen and threw himself at his father’s leg. He clamped on and smiled, looking up.

“We are going on a little adventure. Your mom and I have something to show you.”

“A present?” Clark grinned, excited now.

“Sort of.”

The family headed towards the barn, little Clark suspended between his parents holding on to each by a hand. He would stand still while they strode forwards, then jump to land just ahead of them. Once in the barn, Jonathan led the way to a corner behind some old, rusted equipment. There he shoved a hay bale out of the way, revealing a cross patterned metal door. Grasping the handle, Jon heaved, opening the door. There was a quick rush of air as that beneath equalized with that above. A light flickered on, showing a ladder leading downwards.

“Ok, careful now.”

Jonathan descended first, then Clark, eagerly, but with halting steps as he slowly assessed each step before reaching with his foot. Martha came last. At the bottom of the ladder they turned, and saw a large, mostly dark room. Off to the side was an egg shaped object underneath a dusty blue tarp. Jonathan grabbed an edge of the tarp, and pulled it. It slid off the object, revealing Clark’s capsule, still as shiny as the day it crash landed.

“Wow.” Clark was wide eyed. He toddled towards it, reaching out a hand to touch it. As soon as he got within a foot, the capsule seemed to shimmer, and then, from nowhere, there stood a tall man, with a rugged white beard, long white hair, dressed in blue with a long, red robe. He spoke, in deep rich tones.

“Welcome, my son, Kal-El.”

Clark ran back to his mother, hiding in her dress, peaking out at the man. The man turned and assessed Jonathan and Martha.

“Identify.” Was all he said.

Martha looked at Jonathan, who himself seemed puzzled.

“Identify.” The man said again.

Jonathan looked at his wife. “I don’t think he is real. I think he is a hologram or something. A projection.”

At that, the man spoke. “I am a representation of Jor-El, of Krypton. I am father to Kal-El. Identify.”

Martha smirked. “I am Martha, of Smallville, and this is Jonathan. We are parents to Kal-El.”

The hologram man turned to her. “Martha of Smallville and Jonathan, I thank you for protecting my child. His mother and I were forced to send him into exile to save his life at the destruction of his home planet of Krypton. What you see here is how I appeared at Kal-El’s birth. I am an interactive information module. Over time, I am to inform Kal-El of his home world, of his nature, and of his history. Stored within this capsule is all the information Kal-El requires. It is time locked, so that when he is of age, he will know what he is meant to understand.”

Martha absorbed all of this. “But…he can fly. Is there information for us?”

The hologram Jor-El went silent and stared off absently. “Searching.”

After a moment he turned back to Martha. “It is suggested by the ancient scholars that at one time, when Krypton’s sun was yellow, it imbued the power of flight to all Kryptonians. Considered by many modern scientists to be mere myth, it appears my calculations were indeed correct. Earth’s sun has unlocked long dormant genetic abilities within Kal-El.”

Jonathan finally spoke up, but to Martha. “I guess it is some sort of computer. We ask it questions and it answers.”

Martha snorted. “Obviously.”

Overhearing, the hologram Jor-El spoke. “My interactions are limited. Please state a clear question.”

Clark stepped forward. “My name is Clark Kent!”

Jor-El looked down at him. “That is your earth name, and it serves you well. Your true name is Kal-El, son of Jor-El and Lara. You are from Krypton. You are the destiny of an entire planet, of an entire people. Return when you are of eight years and I will tell you more.”

The hologram of Jor-El abruptly vanished. Jonathan turned to go, but Martha called out. “Wait, what’s that!?”

The side of the capsule brightened, and a small door slid away. Inside was a leather bound book. Jonathan approached slowly and retrieved the book. The door slid back into place, once again presenting a smooth surface.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What is it?” Martha came to see for herself. Jonathan was laughing softly. “I guess babies do come with instruction books!”

On the cover of the book it said, in large, friendly letters:

RAISING A CHILD OF KRYPTON, TO THE CARETAKERS OF KAL-EL.

Martha suddenly turned. “Clark! Stop!” Eschewing the ladder, little Clark was floating up to the barn, content to propel himself by pushing down on the ladder rungs. Martha caught up to him rather quickly and swatted his butt.

“No flying!”

League of Justice 1.2: “We End the Heartache”

Gotham City

Rain was simultaneously beautiful and hideous when it fell on Gotham City. It was beautiful in the parts of the grand metropolis that still regained a facade of the respectable and the upright. It cleansed such structures and streets of the grime and filth of Gotham’s crime. It was hideous everywhere else. It overran gutters, flushing sewage down crumbling avenues. It liquified the grit and broken concrete, covering everything in a film of slime and oily ooze. Everything stank worse in the rain, and stuck to your clothes and hands and face.

Even so, Gotham in the rain was better than some places Dinah Drake had seen in the sun. When all you have are bad choices… Dinah mused. She was thankful for her tough motorcycle boots and armored leather. It gave her a layer of protection from Gotham’s muck. It didn’t make her smell any better, but it might reduce the number of showers she would need later. She wished she were astride her motorcycle, then at least she could also wear a helmet, but she needed stealth for this particular job, and her several hundred horses weren’t exactly quiet.

Taking advantage of her dark skin and black leather, Dinah moved from shadow to pool of darkness and back to shadow. Dinah had no idea who her father was, but he must have been of a lighter race than her mother. While still “black” to most people, Dinah was much lighter than her mother. Her mother’s blacker than night skin was velvety smooth, and as a child, Dinah had loved nothing more than resting on her mother’s chest, and staring into her deep, brown eyes. Moments of peace were hard to find in the Drake apartment.

Dinah pushed these thoughts from her mind, and concentrated. Up ahead was her target: Gotham Auto Loan and Pawn. No doubt another vulture picking over the down and out and nearly dead of the last of Gotham’s innocent, but poor, community. Who would be so desperate to remain in Gotham that they would put up their only way out as collateral on bad loans with such an obvious lack of a way to pay?

Dinah looked up and down the street. No one was in sight. This was the time. Closing the distance with quick strides that sent mini walls of water rushing away from her boots, Dinah rushed the door. Without breaking stride she kicked down the door and pulled a sawn off shotgun from beneath her jacket. Pumping a shell into the chamber, she barked at the geezer behind the counter.

“The cash. Now! In the bag!” She tossed a leather saddle bag at him. Going slowly, he fumbled with the keys to the drawer beneath the counter that held the larger bundles of money. The register, as Dinah knew, only held petty cash. “Move faster, old man.” Dinah spared a glance out the door, but still saw no one. Damnit! Where are they? A place such as this should be guarded by mob muscle. That they hadn’t shown was slightly more disturbing than if they had.

Finally the bag was filled. The man behind the counter slid it over to Dinah. She grabbed it, lowering her shotgun while doing so.

“Freeze, bitch.” The words were quiet, but dripping with menace. She felt the cold circle of a gun barrel press into her neck, tight against her spine. “One move and I’m raping a headless corpse. I’d do it to, cuts down on the struggling.” Where do all of these sickos come from? Gotham seemed to have more than its fair share of psychotic criminals. “What now?” Dinah kept her voice even.

“Hand the howitzer to Gerald.” Dinah held out her gun. The old man took it and aimed it at her. She gun at her neck backed away. “Spread em, bitch.” Dinah was spun around and shoved up against the wall. She saw then a doorway that she neglected to see when she busted into the place. Rookie mistake. You know better, girl! Her captor, whom she still hadn’t seen, patted along her arms and shoulders, down her back, and then, much more slowly, down her front, making absolutely sure she hadn’t hidden an armored tank division in her bra. Dinah endured the violation. She’d had worse, surprisingly, give this particular creep’s apparent taste. The hands reached her waist. He clicked his tongue.

“Too bad about the leather. I like me some smooth black skin.” Her penchant for jeans didn’t stop him from taking his time making sure she hadn’t stuffed an aircraft carrier down either side of her panties. He moved on to her legs. “Sorry, I left the fishnets and high heels at home, dick.” She took a risk with the insult, but the man just gave a grunting chuckle and finished his assault. “You are one stupid bitch. Now, you’re gonna scream for me.” He shoved himself against her, apparently not caring that he had a witness behind the counter. Still, Dinah obliged. She screamed.

An astoundingly loud and piercing sonic blast emitted from her mouth. The force of it snapped her head backwards and into the creep’s nose. It cracked audibly. In front of her the wall crumbled, cracking outwards from what looked like an impact crater from a non-existent projectile. Spinning, she savagely slammed a knee into the creep’s crotch and while he was sagging to the ground, Dinah screamed again, but with a lower volume and a higher pitch. In fact most of this scream was ultrasonic. The old man groaned and clutched his head. Blood trickled from his nose, ears, and eyes. Every bit of glass in the place shattered. He dropped the shotgun with a clatter onto the counter. Moving quickly, Dinah grabbed the bag of cash and her gun. She stabbed the barrel down into the creep’s face where it moaned from the floor. “Fuck this.” She pulled the trigger. The concussive blast shook the walls and counter. Dinah spun on her heel and ran out into the rain.

Death was nothing new to her, and besides, she felt less remorse than when she crushed a cockroach. Some breathers didn’t deserve the breath. Besides, living a desperate life had moved her past simple morals and quaint righteousness. A long time ago she had been left to fend for herself at the worst possible time in her life. A few years of selling everything and ruining her life out of survivalist necessity had hardened her to the choices she made. When all you have a bad choices, you choose the least worst option. Robbing thieves and murdering murders wasn’t even a bad choice in Dinah’s worldview. This was practically a good day.

A few blocks down the street, she arrived where she had hidden her bike. Securing the saddlebag, she revved the engine. Now that silence was unnecessary, she relished the roar. With a spin of the rear wheel, she shot off down the road. Water cascaded in crystal sheets. With the sun peaking out of the clouds behind her, ahead all she saw were shimmering rainbows.

For a second, the bleak dark world seemed to be a magical place.

League of Justice #1.1: “The Thousand Natural Shocks”

Central City, Missouri

Barry Allen hated running. He really, really hated running. As a young man he had been more interested in reading and school work, and as a result, never made time for athletics. The other kids on the playground used to love to race and run about, but the naturally slow Barry preferred to sit under the trees and work math problems. By the time he was a teenager, Barry had minted a catchphrase: “The quick of mind will always beat the fleet of feet.” It didn’t save him any harassment from the bullies, but it helped sooth his wounded feelings when his peers laughed at his discomfort.

As a young scientist, and PhD candidate, he was sometimes forced to run, especially when he overslept and was late for class. Again. Skidding to a halt inches in front of the large, glass doors that led into Garrick Hall, Barry stopped to take a few deep breathes. Garrick Hall was the main math and science building on the Midwestern University Campus. MU wasn’t as big as Metropolis University across Missouri in Kansas, but it was known for being a more intimate community of scholars. While every bit as prestigious, the “other” MU as Midwestern students called it, catered more to the rich and the famous and the upper class. Barry was a farmboy from Fallville, Iowa, and the smaller MU suited him perfectly.

Barry smoothed down his hair and absentmindedly tried to tuck in his shirt, but failed completely and completely failed to notice. Taking the steps two at a time, he scaled three flights of stairs, and walked down the empty hall to his classroom. He tried not to make eye contact with students in the other classrooms as he walked by. Finally he reached room 312 and opened the door as quietly as he could. He slipped into the back row of chairs and sat down.

The class was some variant of Organic Chemistry, and while Barry half listened to the lecture in progress, his mind worked an entirely different problem. Barry was currently obsessed with a new method to produce heavy water that would take half the time and a fraction of the energy currently needed to produce the coolant for nuclear reactors. He had been conducting an experiment all night, which is why he had slept late for class. He felt he was close to a breakthrough.

Later that night…

A bluish flame burned atop a chemical burner, and a cauldron-like flask bubbled. Elsewhere on the lab table, chemicals oozed through pipes or gradually mixed into compounds. Barry Allen was hunched over a laptop entering a large amount of data and simultaneously monitoring his experiments. He doubled checked some results, and toiled over a maintenance program on his supercomputer mainframe that was running a simulation. If he didn’t get the results he was looking for, he would be in serious trouble. He had procured a grant from the prestigious Wayne Foundation for the Sciences, but one thing foundations that granted grants wanted were publishable results. Without them it was hard to secure funding from their wealthy donors. None of that would matter, however, if Barry did succeed. He had secured a conditional contract for use of his formula from LexCorp, the industrial giant run by businessman Lex Luthor. Conditional meaning on the condition that his heavy water synthesis method was useful in some way. Luthor paid well, but only for working prototypes and applications. Otherwise he would blackball a scientist into oblivion. That was the danger of working for Lex Luthor: rich if you made it, forgotten if you didn’t. But Allen was running out of options to continue his education and fund his research, and couldn’t afford to turn down funding, no matter how shady the source.

Outside Allen’s lab, a heavy rain had begun to fall and in the distance, thunder rolled ominously. Barry barely heard it. He rushed from one side of his bench to another. Grabbing some large rubber gloves he grabbed some forceps and carefully lifted a test tube half full with green liquid. He slowly poured it into a flask that contained a purple powder, and ever so gently swirled the two substances together until they mixed. He turned to check the bubbling cauldron and noted the temperature on the attached gauge. Just a few more seconds. He set the flask down and removed his gloves. He pulled a tattered notebook from his pocket and opened to the first blank page. He scribbled a few notes before putting it down. Consulting the thermometer again, he saw that the liquid had reached the desired temperature. He picked up the flask, and stepped up onto a stool next to the lab bench. From here he was able to peer through the steam and into the cauldron. Taking care not to spill or splash, Barry poured his mixture into the boiling liquid. Instantly a thin stream of blue steam lifted into the air, but Barry ignored it. This was expected. What came next was entirely unexpected.

A loud crack of thunder shook the entire lab. From the corner of his eye, Barry saw a bolt of lightning descend from the dark clouds and arc towards the skylight in the lab. Everything afterwards seemed to take place in slow motion:

The lightning jumped to the skylight’s metal frame, shattering the glass. Barry hunched his shoulders and ducked his head against the rain and descending shards. From the frame, the lightning leaped to the top of the chemistry apparatus. It immediately spread throughout every metal frame and connection. It arced through the air, exploding the Bunsen burner and instantly boiling the liquid and the mixture therein. Barry felt a pricking in his thumbs and every hair on his body stood on end and repelled each other. A second and a third flash of lightning hit the exact same point on his set-up and this time shot right through his body. The flask he was holding shattered and for a nanosecond, the mixture within seemed to coalesce into a single point before expanding rapidly in every direction. Barry simultaneously inhaled the gaseous mixture, swallowed what was left of the liquid form, and felt the substance splash onto his skin, leaching into several slashes made by falling glass. A fourth bolt of lightning struck and with a loud bang everything went dark after a final eye searing flash.

League of Justice #1.0: “The Law’s Delay”

Gotham City

“Scum.”

The word once uttered was more growl than intelligible speech, not that it mattered. Once the gloved fist impacted the side of the head, the explosion of pain triggered a deep ringing that made hearing difficult.

“That’s the last time you’ll mess with the Phantom Stranger!”

Phantom Stranger? Is this guy for real? Despite the pain, scattered thoughts still filtered through the would be mugger’s mind. He would have followed that thought up with an audible retort, but the masked man that had gripped his shirt with one hand was landing another blow, this time across the nose, with the other hand. There was a crack and blood spurted. The crook decided cowardice was the better part of criminal enterprise, and blacked out.

The Phantom Stranger released his grip. His former punching bag sagged against the alley wall and slid to the ground like a bag of broken bones. In all likelihood, that was bound to be not just metaphor.

The Phantom Stranger reached down and retrieved an expensive looking leather handbag. He offered it to the woman standing on the other side of the alley, frozen in place.

“Here you go, ma’am. And next time, I’d park in a more well lit area if I were you. Gotham’s dangerous enough in the daytime.”

She took it without a word, and walked as fast as she could back towards the street. The Stranger watched her go.

The Phantom Stranger turned and climbed up a fire escape. Reaching the building roof, he strode to the edge and looked over the street. He watched as the woman made it back to her car, and only when she was safely inside and pulling away did he relax. He pulled off the ski mask he was wearing and ran a gloved hand through his hair.

Bruce Wayne flexed said hand, and vowed to sew more padding into the glove when he felt the familiar sharp pain of bruised bone. Criminals may be stupid, but skulls were still too hard to hit without consequence. Bruce briefly remembered the mugger in the alley. Usually he preferred to leave the thugs for the cops, trussed and waiting, but without evidence of a crime there was little point. Besides, Bruce was noticing that most of the crooks he did deliver to the police, evidence helpfully pinned to their clothes, didn’t end up behind bars. Someone seemed to have sway over the law which meant little jail time for offenders. Bruce was still working up his list of suspects, but it didn’t take a genius detective to connect dots. Crime in Gotham was a family business, and the Falcone family was large and prosperous and slightly beyond the reach of a seventeen year old vigilante.

Bruce’s phone buzzed. He edged back into the shadows before picking it up. The caller ID showed as “Wayne Manor”. Only one person ever called from that line.

“Yes, Alfred?”

“Ah. Master Bruce. How nice of you to answer. May I assume you are still at the library?”

By library Alfred Pennyworth meant Gotham Public Library, where Bruce had said he was going to be.

“Uh, yeah. Still studying.” Bruce was distracted, watching a bum in a ragged coat shuffle down the street. He couldn’t decide if the man was drunk or suspicious.

“That would be an achievement indeed as the library closed an hour ago. Where are you, Master Bruce?”

Bruce cursed. Caught again, and by his butler!

“Oh, right, uh, I mean I’m in the parking lot of the library. Still, uh, studying.” Bruce cringed. What a stupid excuse.

“Indeed. Shall I come collect you?” Alfred’s voice was cold as ice. He was upset. Because Bruce’s mother was dead and his father a coma patient, Alfred had assumed the role of surrogate parent.

“No. I’m on my way home.” The bum had collapsed against a dumpster and had presumably fallen asleep. No real threat there.

Bruce hung up on Alfred and retreated back down into the alley. By the time he emerged onto the dimly lit street, he had removed the mask and gloves of the vigilante known as the Phantom Stranger and had morphed back into Bruce Wayne, aspiring high school graduate. As a matter of fact, he should have been studying. Alfred was pushing him to finish with the same good grades he had always gotten so that he could apply to the prestigious Metropolis University, not that a Wayne would be denied entrance to any university in the country. Bruce’s family fortune guaranteed admittance.

Descending into the Gotham Metro, Bruce contemplated his chosen life, and not the public one that everyone knew. Even Alfred was unaware of the Phantom Stranger and Bruce’s penchant for late night pummeling. Ever since he was a kid, Bruce had felt a churning rage and frustration. He hated injustice and couldn’t stand criminal violence. He often wondered why it seemed more people didn’t stand up for themselves and fight. Without being fully aware, Bruce always felt like his parents’s death was preventable, and hated his younger self for remaining frozen while they were gunned down. He had promised himself he would never be that scared kid again.

He still remembered the first time he actually intervened against a bully, at school one winter a few years ago. The power and the sense of justice he felt was potent. Soon after, Bruce started looking for fights, and not just with school bullies. Leaving a Gotham Raiders baseball game one summer evening, Bruce noticed two guys grab a backpack from a older man after savagely pushing him down. They ran off with their prize, and without thinking Bruce was after them. Three blocks from the stadium he caught up to them. Up close, they were bigger than he was, and not at all intimidated by a kid, but Bruce didn’t even think. He demanded the bag back, and when they refused, grabbed for it. He acquitted himself well, but failed, and had to explain the blood and bruises to a curious butler later. After that night, he trained harder and decided to give himself a bit of an edge. Also he realized it wouldn’t do to be beat up as Bruce Wayne. He was, after all, fairly famous. And thus, the Phantom Stranger was born.

Arriving at the library stop, Bruce, exited the metro car and climbed the stairs to the outdoors. Summer was nearly here and he would soon graduate. Alfred would insist on another summer long journey to some far off country for a three month vacation or “cultural learning experience” as he called them, and then it would be off to Metropolis and college. Soon the Phantom Stranger would disappear from Gotham’s streets.

For some reason Bruce couldn’t quite pinpoint, that burned somewhere deep inside.

He swung his leg over his motorcycle, left in the library parking lot, and revved the engine. Pulling his helmet on, he glared into the darkness. With a spin of the tires, he gunned off for Wayne Manor. For tonight, the Phantom Stranger was off the clock. Bruce Wayne had finals to study for, and this time, for real.

League of Justice #0.9: “The Pangs of Despised Love”

I like girls. I always have. I like everything about them. I love the female body, that is just the most obvious part of their loveliness. And I don’t just love the bits that seem obvious to love: of course perky, round, bouncy breasts are enticing. Of course a firm butt is adorable. Of course smirky smiles and smokey eyes are dreamy, but you know, guys have those things too. When it comes right down to it, girls are just rounder more attractive guys. Men are the half finished, flat and hard precursor to humanity perfected: the woman. The one thing that sets us apart are our particularly naughty bits down below. I mean, hello! guys have nipples (it just is an unfair society that let’s them show them off whenever they feel like it). But girls have the sweet, magical, confusing, mysterious, lovely, and quite controversial (to some old white men) baby dispensers. Give a woman a little genetic material, nine months, and bam! a brand new human ready to be molded by society.

So do I love women only because they can make little humans? Please, I am not that simple. Besides, I love vaginas even when they aren’t birthing babies. I even love vaginas when once a month the machinery goes completely haywire, chemicals burst out of their containment fields, and the resulting blown fuses make a girl weep, laugh, rage, and whimper like the world has ended in the same ten seconds. How much fun is that? A girl gets to be a colossal bitch or cry about anything and get away with it because PERIOD: the do-anything-and-get-away-with-it badge of humanity. To make it even better, girls usually get chocolate and wine and space when this monthly meltdown occurs. Be crazy and get gifts? why don’t more girls enjoy their periods?

Anyway, I caused a little bit of turmoil in my house even before I got a body that went nuts for no reason on a regularly scheduled cycle because I told my parents that I liked girls. I wasn’t supposed to do that, but I didn’t know that then. My parents were these religious, buttoned up, southern Protestants. So to have their seven year old daughter walk up to them one Sunday afternoon after church and announce: “I love girls” and then flounce away to play Barbies was a little shock to them. My parent’s Bible told them that boys loved girls and girls loved boys but not any other combination. Carefully, over the next few days, my parents pried out what exactly I meant by what I said and when it became clear that this wasn’t the normal “eww, boys/girls have cooties” thing that every kid has at that age, they freaked out. But, because I was not a “butch” (what a stupid description) girl, they didn’t know how to “fix” me. I already loved dress up and make up and Barbies and pink so thankfully they just sort of let it go. They never acknowledged that the girls I started bringing home when I got to middle school and high school were anything other than “playmates” (hehehe) or friends, but I guess since a lot of my other gay friends were being disowned or worse by their parents, indifference wasn’t that bad.

What? Am I a lesbian? Well first: duh. And second: what the hell is up with labels? I happen to think there are some gorgeous men out there, and dicks don’t bother me, I just prefer playing with girls. It’s inborn, it’s a choice, it’s a sliding scale and a fluctuating identity. Boys don’t like girls until they do. Otherwise no one would have cooties. I am who I am.

It is like me being a military aviator. Does that make me a soldier? Well, yes, I suppose it does. But I don’t really feel like a soldier. I just love to fly, and Uncle Sam lets me fly as much as I want. In some ways I had more of an issue with “being a lesbian” once I enlisted. My recruitment officer didn’t ask, I didn’t tell, but everyone knew. In my experience, gay guys in the military have it slightly easier than gay girls. For one thing, the overzealous frat boy bro culture of the military allows for male bonding and affection that gives a homosexual soldier the opportunity to express his feelings but not get caught doing so. But girls are relatively rare in the military, and thus are the object of every non-gay soldier’s affection. The girl that doesn’t respond so well to such affection is noticed immediately. Also, I tend to catch the eye of straight chicks, too, so I narrow the available dating pool and that isn’t preferred either.

But I do what I’ve done my whole life: I do my thing, I live my life, and I don’t care. Besides, who I love or what I’m labeled doesn’t matter when I am cruising at 30,000 ft at twice the speed of sound. When that is happening, nothing else matters. Oh, and by the way, that is one time I absolutely love having a hard stick between my legs.

Anyway, my name is Hallie Jordan, United States Air Force test pilot. But you can call me Hal.

Who are you and where am I? What?

Last thing I knew I was in an inverted dive over the North Atlantic, having taken off from the U.S.S. Enterprise twenty minutes earlier. My avionics went crazy, the stick went dead and I was diving towards the deck about to be crumpled like a tin can. I see wreckage over there, which apparently means that part of my aircraft survived the impact with planet earth and given my parachute and everything I must have ejected, but I didn’t see any island when I was up there.

What? Invisible? We’ll just move right past the part where the whole island is invisible, are you telling me that the NAVY has no way to locate me? Great. So how am I supposed to tell that pompous design nerd that his plane can’t fly worth a damn? I had $20 that said the altimeter would fritz first and I can’t wait to make him pay up.

Anyway. Hi, Diana. Thanks for saving my life. You got anything to eat around here? I’m starving and I’d rather not eat my rations unless I have to. Great. Lead the way…

League of Justice 0.8: “What Dreams May Come”

Smallville, Kansas

The spacecraft was easy enough to hide. Jonathan Kent merely dug a bunker beneath the barn, and concealed the capsule within. But a baby was harder to contain. Martha Kent was determined to keep the child, and wouldn’t hear of any other strategy.

“What does a space baby eat?” She wondered aloud. She was rocking him, that much was easy enough to determine as he had been placed in his capsule naked. She had since wrapped him in a red blanket she found in the hall closet. Surprisingly the child wasn’t crying. He was staring around curiously, and Martha was struck with the feeling that he was more aware than any other babe she had been around. His age was hard to determine. His size made him to be a few weeks old, but his manner was that of an older baby. He had a handsome, chubby face, and thick black hair.

“Well, same as any other baby, I suppose. Give em milk, don’t you?” Jonathan was practical, as ever. That the baby had apparently come from outer space either didn’t register or didn’t perturb him in the least. Martha snorted from the rocking chair. “You do if you have mother’s milk. I guess we need some formula. Look in the cupboard. I think Mary left some the last time she was here.” Mary was Martha’s older sister who had six children of her own. They hadn’t visited in a few months, but when she had she was bouncing a fat new addition to the family. Martha walked into the kitchen, cradling the baby. Jonathan had found the formula, a powdered blend, and was mixing it according to the directions. “Oh! Goodness!” Martha exclaimed. “We don’t have a bottle.” “Yes we do.” Jonathan replied calmly. He walked over the corner and lifted a bottle out of a tattered cardboard box that was sitting by the door. “Just bought them. I was thinking of breeding a few calves this fall, maybe starting a herd.” The bottle was a little larger than the typical human infant bottle, but it would serve.

Martha sat back down, and introduced the bottle to the baby. Without hesitation he started sucking and drinking the milk with gusto. “Well, he certainly seems hungry. What did you do with his spaceship?” “I threw a tarp over it for now. What do you think, should we contact the government? Do you suppose they saw this thing come down?” Martha was cooing at her new charge, and didn’t answer right away.

“Well, I figure if they knew it had come down, they would be here by now to check it out.” “Maybe.” “And all they will do is take him away and study him. I doubt whoever placed him in that thing and sent him our way meant for him to live in a lab like a mouse and be studied. He needs a family.”

It was Jonathan’s turn to be quiet awhile. The baby had finished his milk and Martha was burping him against her shoulder. Jonathan stared into the child’s eyes for a moment. Then, in a moment, he came to a decision. He knew the right thing to do, and he knew what he had to do, and there was no contest between the two.

“How are we going to explain a baby? People tend to notice when you ain’t been pregnant and then have a baby.”

Martha stood up, love and joy shining from her eyes. Hiding an alien baby was not something done lightly, and her husband had done it for her. She blinked back tears and she bounced the babe in a rhythmic whole body bounce and thought. Jonathan was amazed at how nurturing was something women seemed to know instinctively. He was of course forgetting about the many children that Martha had practically raised, being the caregiver of the community that she was.

“We found him on our doorstep, didn’t we? My daddy always did say that honesty was the best policy. He just came in a big, shiny basket from out beyond the stars. But we can leave out that last bit. I never saw the need for total honesty.” Martha said this with a smirk and twinkle in her eye. It was Jonathan’s turn to feel a swell of love. “Works for me,” he said. “What are you going to do with the big, shiny basket?” Martha asked. Jonathan shrugged. “Always been meaning to dig a bunker under the barn for an additional tornado shelter. No time like the present, my dad always said.”

The baby had fallen asleep in Martha’s arms. She sat down again in the rocker and glided gently back and forth.

“What do we call him?” She whispered.

“You know, I’ve always liked your maiden name. It’s suitable for a boy, isn’t it? And then we give him our name.”

Martha patted her new son on the back.

“Welcome to earth, Clark Kent.”

All of Martha’s dreams came true, in an instant, when a mysterious capsule crashed to earth from the heavens.

League of Justice #0.7: “Sea of Troubles”

Bermuda, September 1941

Once upon a time, in a mysterious triangle of the Atlantic Ocean, on a hurricane battered bit of rock, a boy was born. The island has many names, and isn’t terribly large, but it is part of the Bermuda archipelago. The baby was born to a British submariner and an island beauty. Her skin was dark and beautiful, a blend of many hues and shades, like her heritage, a deep blend of the many strains of humanity that at one time or another had made The Islands of Bermuda their home. The young sailor grew up on the shores of the Thames and dreamed of an endless expanse of ocean. The girl grew up on shores of sand, always waiting for what the tides would bring. Their love was every bit as wild and tumultuous as the sea, but every bit as deep.

Their love was not to last. After surviving many daring underwater raids and sneak attacks, the sailor’s sub was caught in open water surrounded by German u-boats. The battle was valiant but futile, and the sailor and his mates never rose above the ocean waves again. Unknown to him, back on the shores of Bermuda, his wife was pregnant with their unborn son. When the commander of the base delivered the sad news, she wept for the brave father who would never know his son.

That fall, an ordinary healthy baby boy was born and took his first breath of salt tinged air. His first cries echoed across a stormy sea. He was a striking newborn: not overly large, but well formed and possessed of the same gorgeous skin of his mother. But atop his head was a wild tuft of golden hair. One of his eyes was dark, deep brown, the other was grey and blue, like the shades of the ocean, tossed together. His mother named him Arthur Curry, after his father.

Little Artie grew and thrived on the ocean, only dimly aware of the larger conflict that spanned the world around him. He was as often under the waves as on them, diving and swimming as strongly as any fish. However, as he grew into a bigger boy, he often grew sick and weak. His muscles failed him, and soon he could neither swim nor walk. The military doctors could not discern the cause of his affliction, and flew in experts from around the world. Never had a little boy had more love and attention, growing up among sailors he had more uncles and big brothers than most boys could ask for. He became their little mascot, and given how much time he spent in the water, the sailors had nicknamed him AquaBoy. The origins of his condition was never conclusively identified, but the result was clear. Artie’s muscle mass, and most of his bone structure, had partially liquified. He could not move or stand simply because he had nothing to stand on or move with. It was a grizzled old salt who proposed what would be Artie’s salvation: an aquatic environment. To protect his skin from over saturation, Artie was fitted with a suit. He was placed in a pool of water. Buoyed by the water, Artie could move with only the barest of movements, and the water held him up in a constant embrace. AquaBoy swam again, and the water became his forever home.

The old salt continued to look after Artie, who learned and grew like any other child. The salt, having a keen mind, devised an exoskeleton for Artie to help support his soft frame and to amplify his movements so that he could swim and move with greater ease. Living in an aquarium was a lonely existence for a boy, though the sailors joined him whenever they could. One day a orphaned dolphin wandered into a Bermuda bay. Worried that without a mother she would die, the sailors placed the dolphin in a tank and fed her. Someone then had the idea to bring Artie to the dolphin, and from then on they were never parted. He named her Sula. She would would propel him around and gently float beside him when he slept, and they played together. Spending every second in each other’s company gave them a bond and a communication that few companions of a single species could ever hope to replicate, let alone one aquatic, one terrestrial.

Arthur, on achieving his teenage years, not only surprised every medical professional by being alive, but astounded everyone with his brilliance and his mental agility. Being unable to travel, the experts in many subjects and fields came to him. By the time the AquaBoy became a man, he was one of the best minds in the world. He had been relocated from a small pool in a small building to a large complex with many areas and with outlets to the sea. Sula, herself only in her young adult years, had an passageway that led into the open ocean from the main aquarium in which they both lived. This was added after Arthur’s insistence, his caretakers feared she would leave and either be killed or never return. But Sula showed no signs of ever wanting to abandon Arthur and into adult life, they remain inseparable.

Into the 1980s, Arthur continued to astound those who cared for him. At this time chronologically in his forties, he still resembled a young man. Some attributed this to his lifestyle, but using the newest medical technology, his genes were sequenced and examined. Arthur’s main condition, a gelatinous skeleton, remained a mystery and was blamed on a mutation. But a side effect was discovered: Arthur aged at almost half the rate of a normal human. By fifty he was genetically closer to twenty five. Sula, however, remained a completely ordinary dolphin. Though well into her sixties, she was nothing more than a prime example of the species. Sometime around their combined sixty-second birthday, she defied some odds of her own by finding a love of a dolphin kind and later that year she gave birth to pair of calves, one male and one female. She had apparently mated with a false killer whale as her offspring were identified as wolphins. Arthur named them George and Gracie. As they grew, they formed the same strong bond with Arthur that their mother had. Aquaman seemed as happy with his aquatic family as they were their human companion.

As the world entered the 21st century, Sula died at the old, even for a dolphin, age of 70. Arthur, meanwhile, was still in his thirties and was becoming extremely interested in current events on the American mainland, mostly in the dark, crime filled Gotham City and just outside of Metropolis, in a small town called Smallville.

League of Justice #0.6: “That Flesh Is Heir To”

Near Smallville, Kansas

Thursday, August 12th

The hot summer night would have been oppressive were it not for the sweeping breezes that swooshed back and forth across the prairies. Kansas was beautiful in the summer: stalks of corn growing to the sky, thousands of stars lighting that sky at deep midnight when the summer sun finally set. The grass grew green under the summer rains, and the dirt turned deep red, rich with clay. One could smell the living earth and hear the countless souls that lived on the prairie: the endless cricks of crickets, the racketing of cicadas on the trees, the singing of the birds, the buzz of lazy flies.

Martha Kent relaxed on the porch of the Kent house, a low modest farmhouse rising out of a Kansas plain. Rocking back and forth in her rocking chair, she sipped on a lemonade, the glass slick with rivulets of sweat as the cool glass condensed the humid air around it. From inside she could hear the gentle clinking of dishes as her husband Jonathan cleaned up from dinner. The steak from last fall’s slaughter was tender and juicy, the corn from last harvest rich, and the greens from the spring garden were crisp. Martha loved eating what Kansas gave her, and what she and her husband had cultivated from Kansas’ bosom. If ever there was a woman of the earth, of simple things, it was Martha Kent.

She had loved her husband from the moment she saw him, an awkward gangly teenager just entering the ninth grade at Smallville High School. He and his family had moved from Metropolis, the midwest’s bustling city. Larger than New York and Gotham, the East Coast’s metropolitan jewels, Metropolis was a shining example of the American dream and prosperity. But things hadn’t worked out so well for the Kent family, and they moved into the country seeking a harder, but more rewarding, life. For his part, Johnny Kent noticed Martha Clark almost immediately: a wispy, but hard prairie girl. Lovely, but not beautiful, graceful, but not delicate. However it took a few years before his big city swagger turned into a country lope. John worked his way through almost every cheerleader and prom princess at the school before his city charms failed him completely. When he came back down to earth, Martha was there, as always, waiting. The two were passionate lovers throughout their final year of high school and married soon after graduation.

Jonathan and Martha moved onto the Clark family farm, at that point overgrown with weeds and neglect as her grandfather could no longer till the large fields. The newlyweds brought a breath of fresh air and blew off the dust of the plains. Soon the fences were mended, the barn painted, and new crops growing. Martha envisioned children, a large family, and a happy ever after. She got everything but the children.

Now nearing her 50s, Martha was content. She and Jonathan had lived a full life, and she loved only him more than Kansas herself. She missed the opportunity to raise her own children, but she became a surrogate mother in Smallville. Active in the community, at the schools, and in church, she always seemed to attract the kids that others didn’t know how to deal with. With the gentle love and persistent care of a farmer, she watered and tended those children until they grew into well-adjusted adults. Living on the plains was a hard life in more ways than one, but the honest labor and consistent love of the Kents softened many a growing heart.

The screen door creaked open and slammed shut behind Jonathan as he joined his wife on the porch. Leaning against the railing, back to the darkening fields, he sighed. He turned his head into the breeze and breathed deep.

“Kitchen’s all cleaned up.” He said just for something to say. That much was obvious.

Martha smiled. “Thank you, dear. It was nice to get off my feet.” John didn’t smile, but his eyes twinkled. To Martha it was the same.

“Beautiful evening.” He said, again to break the air. Martha giggled.

“I know it’s a nice evening. I’m out here enjoying it.” She teased. John wasn’t much for conversation, but he tried and that made Martha feel loved. She set her glass down, now mostly empty, and stood up. In a stride she was in John’s embrace. She relaxed into his chest, and stared off into the corn. As one, they breathed the warm Kansas air. There was no longer any need of conversation. John was relieved, as he had run out of things to say, and Martha was glad to communicate with love instead of awkward words. Some languages said things no words could convey.

*BOOM*

*crack*

Something flashed brightly in the sky before streaking behind the barn. Seconds later a fireball snapped into the blackness and a rumble shook the ground.

“What the hell?” John was already off the porch, running for the barn. A warm glow warned of fire. Martha went the other way, for the farm truck. She opened the door, jumped in, and twisted the spoon. The truck was old and beat to hell. Many years ago the key had broken off in the lock, and rather than fix it, Jonathan had welded an old spoon onto the ignition. The engine was worn, but it roared to life. Martha threw it in gear and sped off towards the glowing night.

She got there just as Jonathan was slapping out the last of the embers with an old blanket. Martha pulled a fire extinguisher from the truck bed and hosed down the grass, just to be sure. Fires weren’t anything to play with on an open field of dry grass and young corn. So intent was she with the putting the fire out, she failed to notice the shining capsule half buried in the dirt twenty yards away until she was returning the fire extinguisher to the truck.

“John: what is that?” Her voice was matter of fact. Being a solid woman of the earth, even the wildly unexpected didn’t usually faze her all that much. What John said next certainly fazed her.

“I don’t know. But there’s a baby inside.”

League of Justice #0.5: “By Opposing, End Them”

Gotham City, November the 15th

“Hahahaha! Eat it, suckers!”

The playground doors opened, and a bunch of middle school students ran out into the winter snow. Frigid temperatures and icy precipitation had come early to Gotham, dusting the usually dreary city in a covering of white fluff. For a time, the grit and filth of Gotham was buried. The pupils of St. Joseph the Apostle didn’t much care about anything but the snow. Recess was a chance to burn off scholastic boredom in a flurry of snow angels, snow men, and winter frivolity. Except today, a few high school students had remained outside during a free period following lunch.

Among the school’s bullies, they had carefully planned their afternoon torment of the smaller kids. They had built a wall of snow across the playground doors. Stockpiling snowballs, into which they had placed shards of ice, they lay in wait. The minute the recess bells rang, shrill in chill air, they armed themselves. Seconds later, the doors opened and kids ran out, expecting fun.

The first few, instead, got pelted. A snowball caught a girl in the eye. She stumbled and slipped on the ice, moaning. Two missiles of snow smacked into a young boy’s face. He screamed, and wiped away snow and blood. The ice inside the snowballs had cut into his face. A few more students ducked and weaved, but were assailed all the same. By now the front running children had scrambled to a stop, forcing the ones behind to run into them. The first wave of students tried to turn and run back into the school but were barred by those behind.

“I am Mr. Freeze!” shouted one of the bullies, standing up from behind the snow wall. He was unidentifiable behind ski goggles and a heavy white parka. “Die, sissies!” He threw more snowballs, most with cruelly accurate aim. He laughed as each snow bomb struck another small kid, forcing a whimper, a wail, or a shout of rage. His cohorts lay in the snow, mostly watching their leader, and lobbing the occasional snowball.

Seemingly from nowhere, a dark figure tore through the crowd and leapt across the snow wall. A blur of action, his long black coat swept behind his furious motion like a gigantic cape. Arms that ended in thick, black leather gloves were clenched into hard fists.

“Fuck you, Freeze!” The specter growled. A flying kick caught one bully in the chin. Kneeling in the ground, he spun and threw a punch into another antagonist’s groin, followed swiftly by a jab to the solar plexus. The boy crumpled into a whimpering ball. Standing up, the fighter faced the kid calling himself Freeze.

“Run!” The kid in black snarled at the kid in white.

“Not a chance, Wayne. Come and get it.” Freeze put up his hands in a mock boxer stance.

Bruce Wayne closed the gap in seconds. His fists blurred as he pummeled Freeze. The kid’s ski goggles cracked, and then were torn from his face. Soon bright red blood spurted from his nose, trickled from his lip, and gushed from a cut above his eye. He went down into the snow. Bruce didn’t let up. He slammed his knee into Freeze’s gut, and continued to smash him in the face. Freeze’s blood smeared across his leather gloves.

Fortunately for Freeze, teachers alerted by the middle school kids had pushed their way through the crowd. They rushed toward the fighting boys, and hauled Bruce away from Freeze.

“Bruce! Stop!” Two of them had to restrain the flailing Wayne. Three more knelt down over Freeze. “Better call an ambulance. This kid’s gonna need stitches.”

Twenty minutes later, Bruce Wayne was standing on the school steps, hunched in his black coat against the winter wind. A large Bentley turned into the school parking lot and pulled up to the front door. Bruce waited for a few seconds, but it soon became obvious that he had to let himself into the car. He walked down the steps and yanked open the back seat door. Swiftly he got in and slammed the door. He didn’t look up to see Alfred Pennyworth’s stern glare in the rearview mirror.

“Early release today, Master Wayne?” Somehow the old butler managed to make the casual observation into a sarcastic joke. Obviously he knew that his charge had been expelled for bad behavior.

“Yeah, snow day, Alfred.” Bruce still didn’t look up. After a few moments silence, during which the car remained motionless, Bruce looked up. His eyes met those of his butler’s. Alfred always appeared refined and gentle, but today there was a fire smoldering behind those eyes.

“You’re better than this, Master Wayne. Your father would be ashamed to have his son expelled for brawling.”

“I had to do something, Alfred. There were bullies -”

“There will always be bullies, Master Wayne. The trick is to stop them without being a bully yourself. Today you were no better than he was.”

Alfred turned back to the steering wheel. His foot pressed the accelerator, and the Bentley crunched snow and sidewalk salt as it pulled away from the school.

Bruce hung his head in shame. He’d beaten Freeze, but had lost the battle.

League of Justice #0.4: “Slings and Arrows”

A streak of green light flashed across Krypton’s dark sky. Jor-El, head bowed in thought as he walked, did not see it. He did, however, hear the gentle whumph behind him. Slowly he turned. Standing before him, clad in green robes and a darker green cloak, was Maskill, of the Green Corps. Maskill was the Lantern whose jurisdiction included Krypton. Like the Kryptonians, he was humanoid. He was an old man, worn and tired.

Jor-El bowed to him. “Hail, Lantern.”

Maskill bowed back. “Hail, Jor of the House of El.”

Pleasantries aside, the confrontation began. Jor-El exploded quietly.

“What the hell are you doing, Maskill? The Black Corps stands ready to destroy Krypton! Is this justice? You know I don’t agree with the expansion, not in the way it was handled, but Krypton is a democratic society. I was overruled! Certainly there are many millions more who are innocent of the havoc our emissaries visited on the galaxy. Should they die to pay for the injustice of a few?”

Maskill stood quietly, absorbing Jor-El’s anger.

“Perhaps General Zod was wrong to refuse the Green Corps’ overture of peace, but is it a crime to fight for one’s sovereignty? Now that the Black Corps has forced us back to our own planet, have we not felt our punishment? You know the Black Corps will only stop once every last Kryptonian is dead. Where is the justice of the Lanterns?”

Maskill waited for the fury to dissipate into the night.

“The White Lantern has spoken. The crimes of Krypton’s children are too great to be pardoned. You stole what was not yours to steal. Your excessive mining operations severely damaged the progress of many worlds. Who can say how long you have doomed them to primitive dwelling in your lust for consumption?”

“The time for that argument is long past, Maskill! Your White Lantern is a fool if he cannot see that wiping out an entire planet for its sins is not justice. It is genocide.”

Jor-El had unconsciously strode forward, closing the distance between himself and Maskill.

“Regardless of what was decided, our end is at hand. The Black Corps will destroy us! Will you stand by and let it happen?”

Maskill regarded Jor-El silently.

“It is not for the Green Corps to interfere once the White Lantern has ruled. What was decreed shall be.”

“Damn the White Lantern! Damn his decree! My wife is with child, yet unborn. Shall he die without tasting life to satisfy the justice of the Lantern?”

For the first time, Maskill betrayed emotion. A flicker of sorrow tightened his brow, if only for an instant.

“I did not know your wife was pregnant. But the White Lantern will not relent over one life. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one, especially one who is unborn. The unborn die on countless worlds in countless numbers. This is the way of life. Even those who taste the air of their spheres do not often taste it for long.”

“Dammit, Maskill. Will you do nothing? You have been my friend and mentor since I was a young lad. I’ve always heeded your advice, your counsel. Will you abandon me now?”

“I have already spoken, Jor. The Green Corps cannot interfere. One lantern does not assail another. To invite infighting is to invite chaos.”

Jor-El whirled suddenly, pacing back up the street, then down towards Maskill. He grabbed the Green Lantern by the shoulder and stared into his eyes.

“Will you do nothing? Not the Green Corps, you. Will you allow an evil thing to pass because another has deemed it in a greater good?”

Maskill said nothing. He stared back into Jor-El’s eyes. Moments passed, the air charged with emotion as the two men waged silent war. At long last, Maskill spoke, putting a hand or Jor-El’s shoulder.

“I will not abandon you, Jor of the House of El. Long we have been friends. I will plead your case before the White Lantern. It may be that he will relent and recall the Black Corps. Only his word can stop their destruction.”

Jor-El sighed mightily. He pulled Maskill close for an embrace.

“Thank you, my old friend.”

The moment was shattered by the roar of retro-rockets. The men parted to stare up into the sky. A small craft was descending through the sky. It’s markings identified it as belonging to the Kryptonian navy.

“Zod!” Jor-El breathed. Turning to Maskill, he spoke urgently. “You’d better leave before he lands. Zod has no love for any lantern. He will kill you.”

Maskill smiled playfully. “I’d rather like to see him try, actually.”

Jor-El was in no mood for humor. “I do not jest! Lanterns can die. Zod has personally accounted for many Black Lanterns in this war already. One old Green Lantern would not delay his wrath for long.”

Maskill stood his ground, shrugging, but saying nothing.

Before either could act, the descending vessel opened its bay doors, and five dark shapes leaped towards the ground. Commandos. In an instant, Jor-El and Maskill were surrounded. The commandos were encased in armor, the heads hidden behind dark helmets. Jor-El tried to take command of the situation.

“I am Jor of the House of El, an elder on the Council of Free Peoples. What is your business here? You may not accost citizens without charge.”

One of the five stepped forward, his face mask sliding upwards as he did, revealing the scarred visage of Krypton’s greatest warrior: Zod.

“You may be free to wander dark streets alone, but the green one is named a criminal against Krypton and is a mortal enemy of her people. Are you claiming allegiance to an enemy?”

“Zod, Maskill the Green Lantern is guiltless here. It is the Black Corps that threatens us, not the Green.”

Zod roared. “ONE CORPS! ONE THREAT! I care not for colors and shades of morality. THEY attacked US. Their black knife is at our throat. I am charged with defending Krypton to my last breath. Move aside, Jor, or suffer his fate. Decide immediately.”

Zod lunged forward, battle knife drawn.