Disclaimer:

All characters are property of DC Comics and are used her for entertainment, not for profit.

I guess you could call this story mildly Elseworlds-ish since it's basically the "regular" DC universe, except with a few character and plot changes. Nothing as dramatic as "Superman turns to crime" or anything, but if you notice little inconsistencies between this and the comic book DCU, that's why. I do TRY to stick with the mainstream DCU as much as possible, though. ^_^

This story takes place during the Obsidian Age storyline which took place in summer 2002 in JLA. But if you haven't read it, don't worry; you don't have to have. ^_^





WATCHING THE WATCHERS




Prologue



Superman was dead.

This wasn't unusual, of course. Superman was dead, or presumed dead, quite often. The first funeral had been a novelty and quite touching in its own way, but every subsequent disappearance had been greeted with less fanfare, to the point where the Daily Planet now listed Superman's obituary, when it was required, in the regular "Births and Deaths" section rather than on the front page.

This time there was a difference, though. It wasn't just Superman who was deceased, but the entire JLA. Batman. Wonder Woman. The Flash. Green Lantern. The Martian Manhunter. Even Plastic Man, who wasn't nearly as given to dramatic disappearances and reinstatements as the others, was gone. And like the rest, he had been missing for months.

Shortly before the huge, confusing Crisis that no one could quite remember right, someone in the cape-and-cowl set had coined a saying. (Guy Gardner later claimed credit, but no one believed him.) Originally a not-so-subtle snipe at the then Detroit-based Justice League, people had eventually stopped smirking when they said it, to the point where it was now recited as solemnly as any eulogy:

"The JLA is dead; long live the JLA."

The world needed the Justice League too much to ever let it die. And indeed, the League had regenerated after each seemingly mortal blow. Members died and members left and new heroes rose to the challenge, inspired by the past and looking toward the future.

But this time there was a difference in the roster rollover. This time the previous JLA, the Big Seven (or the Big Six plus Plastic Man, if you wanted to be nasty) had had a member who, in the manner of a true cynic, had prepared for the worst. Someone who believed in planning ahead. In protocols.

Batman had quietly, coldly chosen a League to serve him posthumously. It had brains (the Atom and Nightwing.) It had brawn (Firestorm and Faith). It had precision (Green Arrow and Major Disaster). It had, for the first time since Zauriel's departure, mystical support (Jason Blood.) And it had Hawkgirl too, although it was anyone's guess exactly how she fit in. The Bat's reasons were his alone.

One thing was clear. They had not been chosen by the Big Seven; they had been chosen by Batman. Batman, being a student of human nature, had probably realized that this fact in and of itself would cause problems. Batman, being Batman, probably hadn't cared.

But in the restaurant known as Warriors, a colorful group displaying various degrees of sobriety cared very much . . .