Disclaimer: I don't own DC Comics, and thus none of their characters. Batman, Barbara Gordon, Selina Kyle, Harley Quinn, Terry McGuiness, The Joker, Nightwing and all other DC characters belong to someone else. Not me. Too bad, really. I'm not making a profit off of Bob Kane's fine creation.
I DID create the characters comprising the team the Untouchables, as well as Daniel Thorne, Art Berg, Dr. Ronald Prescott, Nightmare, Shock, Kara West and Alex Luthor. They're mine, so please ask permission before you use them in your own stories. I'm not stingy, but if they show up in fanfiction without permission I will do something quite bad to the author, like hit them over the head with a Vienna sausage for several hours.
Author notes: Just your standard "next generation" type of DC story. My first DCU fic, so please be somewhat gentle. Focuses mainly on the Batman universe. I owe my inspiration to Frank Miller's peerless graphic novel The Dark Knight Returns (four readings and counting.) I do hope you'll enjoy my little romp through the DCU, torturing characters and ignoring established continuity left and right. It was a lot of fun to write…hope it's fun to read.
Author Disclaimer: Outside of avid readings of several Batman graphic novels and obsessive viewing of the cartoon (TAS and Beyond), I know LITTLE TO NOTHING about the canon DC Universe. I'm a Marvel/Vertigo fan, and because of my lack of geeky trivia knowledge regarding mainstream DC I pretty much had to make this story AU. I also had to make up all of the geography ect. in the scenes which take place in Bludhaven. If you see something you think is "wrong" (unless it's glaring, like Batman fighting crime in a tutu and whistling 'Dixie'), please don't email me about it, and go on and on about how stupid I am. I really don't care. Really. Don't. Care. Thank you.
AU notes: Several main points of the story are AU. Really more what you'd call a mishmash of continuity than an actual AU. Bear with me… ::ahem::
-Takes place 25 years in the future. Gotham City (for those of you with visual minds) is more Batman Beyond than DKR.
-Bruce Wayne is about the same age he is in DKR (I believe it was 55.) All other ages, unless stated, are ambiguous.
-Terry McGuiness is the new Batman. All other Batman Beyond continuity is ignored.
-Cassandra Cain was never Batgirl
-Circumstances outlined in The Killing Joke regarding Barbara Gordon have changed. You will just have to read and see how much…
-Tim Drake's gone. No mention of him will be made. He's irritating. Get over it.
-Alfred has passed away. Sad, but realistic, unless Alfred was really an immortal and has gone away with his friends Duncan and…uh…that guy Christopher Lambert played.
Everything else will explain itself in the course of the story…unless I get too much sugary food in me and start writing unintelligible rambling. Then it won't make any sense at all. If that happens please email me saying so. Or just hit me a sharp blow to the head.
Summary: 25 years after Bruce Wayne has hung up his cape, Gotham City is in dire need of heroes. It finds them in the Untouchables.
Archiving: Yes. You can take my fanfic and love it and stroke it and call it George for all I care. Just PLEASE email me BEFORE you archive it and let me know where it's going. (I may not be thrilled to find it on HotBatSmut.com, but you never know.)
Feedback: Reviews and constructive criticism is always appreciated, and it may make me squeal and jump around. Flames will be watched for a long time while the author exclaims "FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!" in a psychotic tone. Then, flamer, I will probably hunt down those near and dear to you and kill them all. … Just kidding. I think.
Rating: PG-13 for language and violent situations. A little blood, a few instances of the f-word. Basically what you'd see in your average Lindsay Lohan film these days…
---
THE UNTOUCHABLESUnhappy is the land that is in need of heroes.
-Bertolt Brecht
---
GothamCity
25 Years Hence
Gotham City Hall exploded at approximately 12:02 p.m., the height of the lunch rush.
The blast demolished the new James Gordon Criminal Justice wing and killed fifty-two people outright. Debris blew hovercraft out of the sky and the cloud of dust caused a multiple-craft crash, which resulted in a street-traffic pileup that was even worse. Eventually, firefighters and EMTs would pull nearly two hundred bodies from the wreckage of one of Gotham's oldest buildings.
Around three hours after the blast, an old-style VHS cassette arrived at the Gotham City Police Department's main headquarters, earmarked for Police Commissioner Daniel Thorne. On the tape, a group of urban terrorists known simply as Anarchy claimed responsibility for the bombing and demanded that the mayor, district attorney and Commissioner Thorne himself vacate their positions and turn the rule of Gotham over to the gang. Otherwise, Anarchy would begin systematically destroying the city's landmarks. Hundreds more would die.
Commissioner Thorne opened his bottom desk drawer and poured himself a generous shot of bourbon before contacting the GCPD's SWAT team.
---
Barbara Gordon sat in her darkened loft apartment and watched the city hall burn, it's flames brighter than the midday sun. One of the last stone-and-mortar buildings in the city, it had stood for almost a hundred and fifty years, a testament of the sometimes hard-to-find justice that existed in Gotham.
Barbara watched while the death toll began to mount. Fifteen years ago she would have been scrambling for Batman, the Justice League, anyone she could help apprehend the criminals. But that was then and this was now. Barbara sat impassively and waited.
The mayor was on TV now, microphones shoved into his red, sweaty face, trying to explain what had happened. She snorted with disgust. If no one had been able to stop the bombers before it happened, they sure as hell wouldn't be able to after the fact.
Finally, one of her many phone lines rang. Barbara checked which extension it was out of habit, although she knew only one person would be calling her now. Her contact in the GCPD. She picked up. "This is the Oracle."
"It's Cassie, Oracle." Barbara rubbed her numb legs once before speaking.
"Go ahead." Cassandra Cain spoke. She'd been a promising gymnast at one point, and under Barbara's tutelage a superb detective. Now she was a GCPD beat cop, and Barbara's best ally inside.
"It was a small bomb, suitcase-sized. Bomb squad doesn't know how it got past the detectors. They're betting plastic casing with some unknown chemical compound inside that was able to fool the scanners. Plastic-based, maybe, some sort of artificial polymer."
"Interesting," said Barbara, already typing furiously in her database. "What else?"
"Anarchy doesn't have the brainpower to put together something like that," said Cassie. "It's a solid bet they had an outside contractor."
"That's all?"
"That's all, Oracle." Barbara's lightning-fast fingers began accessing bank records, criminal records--anything she could use to tie Anarchy and their contractor together.
"Then get off the line. I don't want to be traced."
"Good luck," said Cassie.
"One more thing," said Barbara. "Has you-know-who been snooping around yet?"
"Yeah, the boy in tights was down here," said Cassie. "Came and went about two hours ago." Barbara glanced at the television again. The fires were out, only wisps and clouds of gray smoke rising from the rubble.
"Keep your eyes open," said Barbara, and hung up. She would research the information that would help the police catch Anarchy and the bomber, just like the old days. Unlike the old days, once Barbara had the information, she would also sell it to the highest bidder. That voice that was always in the back of her mind whispered she was contemptible, putting a price on human life. Depraved, mass-murdering human life, but all the same… Barbara shut her thoughts off and concentrated on her computers.
It usually helped to shut out the whispers, at least for a little while.
---
"This is completely unacceptable!" Daniel Thorne decided that he may have been the youngest police commissioner in Gotham City's history, but he didn't have to put up with being yelled at by a lawyer in a bad suit.
"Art, if you'll calm the hell down, we can talk about this like two reasonable men." District Attorney Berg, aka Art to his friend and sometimes adversary Thorne, slammed his palms on Thorne's desk.
"I have two hundred dead, a public in hysteria and a city council howling for my blood! I will not calm down!"
Thorne sighed. "We're doing everything we can, Art, and then some. Just be glad the death toll was as low as it was, and be glad that the damned gangs haven't carried through on their threat to level more of our fair city!"
"I find it hard to believe you can't even find the people responsible!"
"That's because the people responsible are buried under twenty tons of rubble right now, Art!" Thorne pressed the point between his eyes with two fingers. "They suicided, right along with the rest of the victims." Art slumped down in the chair across from Thorne's desk, putting his head in his hands.
"I'm a dead man," he muttered. "I'm up for re-election next year..." Thorne was about to make a comment on Berg's priorities when his intercom buzzed.
"Commissioner?"
"What is it, Judy?"
"A letter just arrived for you, special delivery." Thorne pressed the button to release his door and his secretary came in, handing him a thick envelope.
"What's that?" asked Berg.
"If I knew, I'd tell you," said Thorne, ripping the package with his letter opener. A thick printout tumbled out, letters and numbers in what looked like some kind of code. There was also a photograph of a slim young man in glasses, holding a serious expression. Thorne turned the photograph over.
"There's writing on the back," he said. It was scrawled in a block hand: HE CAN HELP YOU, and signed with an enigmatic O. Thorne felt the blood in his body drop several degrees, but he skillfully hid the change from Berg.
"What's all this?" said Berg, rifling through the printout. Thorne looked at it and then back at the picture.
"I don't know." He turned the picture so Berg could see the face. "But apparently he does."
---
Nighttime had fallen over the city, but Barbara didn't notice. She rarely did, her windows covered with black paper and taped over securely to prevent any natural light from coming in. Her accident years ago had left her with debilitating migraines as well as paralyzed from the waist down, and she had finally learned that keeping herself in the dark was the only viable cure.
Barbara waited for Cassie to call and confirm that Commissioner Thorne had received the report Barbara had complied on the chemical compound that had made the bomb, as well as the man who could direct them to the sorcerer who had dreamed it up.
After nearly seven hours of searching, Barbara had had to admit defeat for herself. Whoever Anarchy had on their payroll was slippery, shy, and good at covering their tracks. The huge sum Anarchy had paid to their outside helper was funneled into dummy account after dummy account, finally bringing Barbara full circle without her ever being able to find the real depository of the money.
Whoever this person was, Barbara concluded, they were almost as smart as her.
Her phone rang, and Barbara saw it was Cassie's line. She picked it up.
"This is the Oracle."
"We meet at last...as it were." Barbara's hand gripped the phone hard. A male voice, not Cassie's. Still young, but raspy from cigarettes and carrying the weight of authority.
"Who is this?"
"I should ask you the same question, Oracle. You know, I heard stories about you, from old Jim Gordon, but I figured he was going senile. Wasn't until tonight, when I opened that package, that I really believed it." Barbara let out a breath at the mention of her father.
"Commissioner Thorne."
"So you're as good as they all say. I'm gratified."
"You can't trace this line," said Barbara, more aggressively than she'd intended. Thorne chuckled.
"I wouldn't dream of insulting you like that." He let the silence sit for a moment, and then spoke again. "Don't worry about Officer Cain. She did her best to keep your secret from me, but I appealed to her better instincts."
"Cassie can't be bribed."
"Did I say that? I'm not in the habit of taking or giving them, Oracle," said Thorne sharply. "Turn on your television." Barbara touched the remote built into the arm of her wheelchair. "Channel 7," said Thorne. Barbara clicked to the correct channel.
"What am I supposed to be...?" She started to say "looking at", and then understood.
"Once again, we warn you that this newscast contains graphic material that may not be appropriate for all viewers," said the female reporter. Barbara could see the mayor's house in the background. Hanging from the white porch columns were three bodies, illuminated almost obscenely in the glare of the police searchlights.
"I want to meet you," said Thorne. "I want to talk to you, face to face."
"Out of the question," said Barbara reflexively, before she could really think it over. As the news camera panned over the gutted bodies of the mayor of Gotham and his family, she felt a roiling in her stomach, one she thought had died away years ago, after the accident. After violence had lost any ability to shock her.
"I need help," said Thorne pleadingly. "Two hundred people died today. Anarchy just strung the mayor of Gotham up in the streets. Batman..." he sucked in a breath. "Batman was nowhere to be found."
"I'm not Batman's secretary," said Barbara coldly.
"But you are someone who can help me stop these monsters."
"I gave you everything I have," said Barbara. "Use the printout; it will lead you to Anarchy's contractor."
"That isn't good enough," said Thorne. "I asked you nicely, Oracle. Now I'm going to appeal to your sense of self-preservation, which, if I understood old Jimmy Gordon right, is highly developed."
"I'm listening," said Barbara.
"Help me or I'll bring you in," said Thorne. "You think you're invincible, but I'm willing to be that between the GCPD and Batman, we can track you down."
"Then you'd lose. Batman is nothing," said Barbara with venom.
"Just think about it," said Thorne. "I know a lot of inmates in the penal system who'd love to have a crack at the woman who put them there, Oracle." The line clicked, and Barbara felt angry. She was supposed to hang up on him.
---
As the police surrounded him, shining their flashlights into his face, the light refracting off his glasses to almost blind him, the boy considered how stupid they all were.
Yes, he had broken a window, climbed into someone's private property and was in the process of stealing several thousand dollar's worth of chemicals and equipment, but he wasn't a criminal.
Criminals did things for pedestrian reasons like money or power or simple kicks.
Stefan Freze had a mission.
"Hands up!" the cop in the lead shouted at him. Stefan did as he said. He wasn't stupid. If these police who had cornered him didn't believe his protestations that he'd done nothing wrong, they weren't going to believe he wasn't armed. Ending up bleeding on a cold cement floor would get him nowhere.
"Please don't hurt me," said Stefan softly.
"Shut up," responded the arresting officer. Stefan looked longingly back at the chemicals he had been about to take. Now he'd have to find another warehouse, once he was bailed out. And fast. His supplies were getting low. They were always low.
As Stefan was hustled into a police cruiser, he thought that if he was more like his father, things like this wouldn't be a problem. But he wasn't, and now he was going to jail. He'd have to tell his mother how he'd failed...again. The cruiser took off and Stefan watched the lights of Gotham flow underneath him. He decided that when he got out things would be different. He was finally going to make his parents proud.
Stefan had a legacy within his grasp, and he was going to take it.
---
Of all the places he could be right now, sitting in front of a fuming Bruce Wayne was last on Terry McGuiness's list.
"You're a disgrace," Wayne told him bluntly. "I trained you to be a symbol of justice, of order, and this is what I get?! The bodies of the mayor and his wife, their son and their dog crucified on the ten o'clock news?!"
Terry tried to stay calm, to let Bruce vent his anger and take his scolding, but his rebellious streak wouldn't allow it. "I can't be everywhere, Bruce! I'm not Superman!"
"You're damn right you're not, McGuiness--in fact, that underpants-on-the-outside loony could probably do twice the job you did tonight with a lead-lined bag over his goddamn head!"
Terry's lips compressed into a thin line. "Maybe if I'd had more than two minute's notice I could have done something! Maybe if there weren't more gang members than actual citizens in this shithole of a city I could actually do some good!" Bruce pointed a finger at Terry, his eyes blazing. He was graying at the temples, and his frame was less broad than it was during his days as Batman, but he was still the most intimidating figure Terry had ever laid eyes on.
"No excuse, Terry, not from you! You're Batman! I chose you! You're better than these animals!" Terry exploded, standing up and getting into Bruce's face.
"You're right, Bruce, I'm Batman! Not the Bat League, not the Bat Society, the Batman! I'm one man, Bruce, and one man can't stem the tide from this cesspool!"
Bruce glared at him. He wasn't scolding any more, just angry. "Shut up, McGuiness, if you know what's good for you. I could have your street punk ass back in jail like that." He snapped his fingers harshly.
"Go ahead!" Terry dared him. "See how long even this so-called law and order lasts without a Bat to keep it that way!" Bruce deflated. Terry knew he'd scored a point.
"Just go home, Terry," Bruce said. "And next time--if there is a next time--maybe you can try to be effectual enough to keep people from dying in mass quantities." Terry muttered a curse under his breath and left, slamming the massive front door of Wayne Manor behind him with a strength that impressed even Bruce.
---
In his bedroom, Thomas Kyle Wayne listened to his father curse out Terry McGuiness, the new Batman. Their screaming matches weren't infrequent, and Thomas took a perverse satisfaction each time a little more of the bond between the new Bat and the old crumbled.
After all, wasn't he Bruce's son? Didn't he deserve more attention than some ex-delinquent in a dumb costume?
Thomas knew the answer was no. His father would always be dedicated to Batman above all else. He was a fanatic who worshipped on the altar of justice, and had no time for secular matters, like a family, or a son.
Thomas had grown up the child of a billionaire, with all the privileges and comforts that came with it. He'd realized by the time he was thirteen that his father was Batman, and soon after that that he'd never succeed him. It wasn't a matter of approval or disapproval on Bruce's part. Thomas simply didn't rate enough on his scale to even be considered.
Thomas tried not to let the resentment eat at him, as he watched Bruce and Terry bond in the way he supposed his father had once bonded with Tim Drake and Jason Todd and Dick Grayson, but never with him. The only comfort Thomas had was that some day the bonds would break, just has they had with Tim and Dick. Or if he got really lucky, McGuiness might bite the dust.
Because of this fact, Thomas felt his slow-burning hatred towards Terry ease a little each time Terry and Bruce had it out. McGuiness would be gone, eventually, and Bruce would have to face the fact that Thomas was all he had left. He'd have to accept that his son was ready and willing to take on the mantel of the Dark Knight. He wouldn't have a choice.
Then Thomas would have what was rightfully his.
---
Barbara couldn't remember the last time she'd been outside--she supposed it was close to six months ago. A uniformed police escort helped her into the handicapped van, and she caught sight of her reflection in the window. Her hair was going gray again--she made a mental note to add Clairol 39 to her next shopping list.
Barbara didn't know why she cared about how she looked--a little premature gray was nothing to get hysterical over. Besides, she wasn't trying to impress Daniel Thorne--if anything, it should be the other way around.
The edifices of Gotham flew past Barbara as the van's powerful engines propelled it along the flying lanes. She looked down, noting the city still looked gray and unwelcoming even from this god's-eye view. Maybe there had been something to Thorne's plea, after all.
"Ma'am, we're here," said the driver as they touched down on the parking pad at the downtown division. The huge building was home to county lockup as well as Gotham's largest precinct. Barbara allowed herself to be helped into her wheelchair and coddled down the ramp. She felt wind whip her face on the high platform. The same sensation as gliding along on a grappler cable. Or freefalling.
Barbara shivered. "Can we go inside, please?" An officer wheeled her in, even though she was completely capable of moving herself. Daniel Thorne was waiting just inside the doors.
"It's a pleasure, Oracle." Barbara looked him over. He was more intense than on television, with black hair and burning dark eyes that missed nothing. The predatory cop's gaze, best when rendered in blue or brown.
"Call me Barbara," she said. Thorne's eyes widened slightly, but he did nothing to betray her in front of the dozen or so officers gathered in the stairwell.
"Let's talk in my office, Barbara."
"I'd rather go to the holding cells," Barbara said. "I saw on the morning logs that you brought in Stefan Freze for B&E."
"You said he could help us," said Thorne, searching her for a reaction. Barbara didn't give him one.
"I assume you brought me down here to interrogate him. That is the 'help' you were talking about, right?"
"Call it a test," said Thorne. Barbara glared at him.
"I don't test well." Thorne hit the button for the lift and wheeled her in, cutting them off from prying ears.
"Cut the crap, Gordon. After last night, we need each other." Barbara swiveled to look at him.
"I just have one question, Daniel."
"What's that?"
"What makes you think I give one rat's ass about this city? It's a hell on earth and nothing I do can change that." Thorne looked down at her, his eyes almost sad.
"Because I believe there's something better than what's outside these walls. I can see it but I can't make it happen on my own. But you did. You and Batman." Barbara drew in her breath.
"I don't like hero worship."
"You have to help me, Barbara, because you still believe it too. Otherwise, you would have folded up the Oracle tent years ago." Barbara dropped her gaze to her hands. She wondered if Thorne believed his own bullshit. She hoped he did, because she was risking everything.
"Take me to see Freze," was all she said, not making Thorne any promises.
---
"I don't understand. I haven't done anything wrong," said Stefan, sitting with his hands folded. He refused to look at Barbara, his blue eyes boring a hole in the tabletop just in front of his face.
"I'm not saying you did, Stefan," said Barbara.
"Then I don't understand why I'm being detained." Stefan didn't know who this wheelchair-bound woman was, but she wasn't a cop. That made him nervous in ways he couldn't entirely identify. She looked like someone who knew a lot of secrets. Maybe even his...
Stefan blinked once. He was letting himself get paranoid. Paranoia, his father had always reminded him, was the downfall of any brilliant man. Stefan forced himself to look the woman in the face, and made his voice steady.
"I'd like to speak to a lawyer." The woman's mouth quirked once, and then settled back into its thin line.
"I can arrange that, Stefan. Or maybe we won't have to get lawyers involved at all." Stefan paused, weighed the new information. He had been right--they wanted him for something more than a simple robbery. Who could have possibly let his secret into the open? He had no contact with anyone, save his mother.
"I work alone," he said, deciding to nip the redhead's idea in the bud. "I couldn't give you anyone bigger than me even if I wanted to." The woman let out a harsh laugh.
"You're a smart kid, Stefan, but you stink at this tough-guy act." She reached into the saddlebag on her wheelchair and produced a thick sheaf of papers. Stefan drew his hands away when she placed it on the table. "I'll make this simple--you tell me what this is and who made it and I'll get you out of here."
"You can't do that," said Stefan. "I may stink at the tough-guy act, but you suck at pretending to be a cop." She laughed a real laugh this time, the fine lines around her eyes folding in on each other.
"Did my sparkling wit give me away?" She lowered her voice. "Seriously, now. I'm not a cop, you're right. But I am well-connected to the system. GCPD doesn't want to muck around with a kid like you. They have bigger fish to fry right now." She pushed the papers closer to him. "And if you help fry 'em, you'll be free to go." Stefan searched her face, as his father had taught him. Victor Freze said good men's eyes always betrayed them if they were lying. The red-haired woman's betrayed nothing. She was telling the truth.
Or she wasn't particularly good.
Stefan unclasped his fingers, stiff from gripping each other with nervousness, and took the printout. He could tell right away it was some kind of chemical compound. He pushed his glasses up his nose and flipped the pages quickly. "This is highly unstable."
"It's plastic-based explosives, works like napalm," the woman said. "What we want to know is who made it." Stefan slowed his rapid page-turning, his fingers tracing the lines of chemical makeup.
"Only a few people I know of would have the technical expertise to manufacture this. Most of them are dead."
"How old are you, Stefan?" asked the woman suddenly. Stefan blinked.
"Nineteen." She shook her head.
"To have such an intellect at that age. We should all be so unlucky." She placed her hand palm-down on the table. "That said, if you don't put that mind to good use and come up with something a little more specific, I'm not going to be able to keep you out of the pokey." Stefan felt sweat break out under his shirt and cursed silently. He was behaving like a frightened child. His father would be ashamed.
"There is...one person I know of. Strictly in an academic sense, of course." Stefan added the last because the person was a well-known terrorist bomb maker. He didn't want anyone thinking he'd associate with people like that.
"Name," said the woman, leaning forward. She looked almost excited.
"No one knows his real name. If you want to contact him you ask for Marionette."
"Fitting...a puppet manipulated behind the scenes," said the woman. She backed her chair away from the table. "You did well, Stefan. I'll talk to Commissioner Thorne." She left, and Stefan sat back in his chair, wondering what exactly he had just done.
---
In the center of the morass that was Gotham City, an eye of the storm existed. Inside it's smooth steel walls and across acres of lab-grown grass, the city's elite and privileged youth pursued their higher education.
Once a small city college with meager funding and a less-than-prestigious faculty, Gotham State University had grown in the last forty years to the premiere college on the East Coast. Thanks largely to generous funding from it's most successful alumni, Bruce Wayne, it now boasted a campus larger than some small towns and the best faculty, staff and facilities money could buy.
GSU was often described as an oasis from the city that surrounded it, and it returned the favor by being largely oblivious to the city. The holographic monitors in the student lounges were usually turned to sports or MTV, almost never to the news. No students strolled the blocks surrounding the campus--they had everything they needed within the force-field protected walls, patrolled by armed guards.
Today was the exception. Every eye in the Central Lounge--the place to be seen if you were part of GSU's in-crowd--was riveted to the holovision, which was broadcasting the local Channel 7.
"Effective today," the deputy mayor was saying, "A city-wide curfew is in effect for all persons under the age of twenty-one, in an effort to reduce the gang violence and general crime that is plaguing our city. Any persons found on the streets after ten p.m. will be detained and possibly arrested."
Cries of outrage started almost immediately.
"They can't do that!" exclaimed a delicate blonde with long, flowing hair pulled back attractively over her ears. "What will we do?!"
"It's not like Gotham has a lot to offer, Mandy," shrugged her friend, brunette and not nearly as attractive. "Compared to Keystone City this place is like...Beirut or something. Total drag. The campus is much better." Mandy Kent buried her face in her hands and sank to a nearby couch.
"But Kara, Alex and I were supposed to go out clubbing tonight! I think he's getting ready to ask me to his parent's beach house!" Kara West patted her friend's shoulder.
"It'll be okay, 'Manda. I'm sure he'll still ask you if you're alone in your dorm room...heck, he's probably more likely to, if you catch my drift."
"Why can't you just call up your sister and make her and her little justice friends do something about these stupid gangs?!" Mandy cried. Kara rolled her eyes.
"Please. My sister only got into the Junior Justice League so she could be on magazine covers. Besides, I think they're in space right now or something." Mandy moaned, as if all hope was lost.
"I can't have Alex dump me now! The fall formal is only a few weeks away!"
"Did I hear my name?" said a male voice from behind the two girls. Mandy turned and then jumped up, hugging the tall blonde who stood behind them.
"Alex!" He kissed her on the cheek.
"Hey, honey." He frowned. "What's making you look so sad? Tell me so I can fix it." Mandy pointed at the television.
"The stupid curfew! We can't go to the club!" Alex rubbed her shoulders."I only wanted to go to the club so I could spend time with you, baby. But if you were really set on going, let me call my father. He's good friends with the deputy mayor." Mandy perked up almost instantly.
"Really?" Alex smiled.
"Really. They went to Metropolis Business School together." Mandy kissed Alex this time, being careful not to leave a smear of her discreet pink lipstick.
"You're the best." Alex grinned modestly.
"I'm just me, baby." He checked his watch. "I gotta get to class. See you tonight! Wear something sexy." He winked at her and walked away. Kara sighed.
"Man, is he dreamy. And well-connected. I guess being the son of Lex Luthor is good for something, right?" Mandy smiled at her friend.
"It's the best. Now come and help me pick out something to wear!"
---
The armored police ground vehicle rumbled along the street, it's rubber wheels laced with Teflon biting into the cracked pavement and propelling it with a jagged grinding sound over potholes.
Inside was a fifteen-man team of Gotham City SWAT. Most of the men had seen more combat than war veterans. They were not strangers to the devastated landscape that rolled past outside--wooden buildings and metal-plate shanties strung with jury-rigged electrical wires, storefronts turned into armored bunkers, and the miserable swirl of humanity that populated it, colored with the jagged edge of gang graffiti.
Thirty years ago, an earthquake had swept through Gotham, leveling large portions of the city in a few moments. Fires did the rest. Rebuilding had erased most of the damage, except for this small sore on Gotham's smooth metal visage. It had once been the heart of the old downtown district, but in the months of lawlessness and looting that followed the quake it had become the stronghold of the street-level underworld.
On the map, it was the Central Ward. The cops called it No Man's Land.
Slums and hideouts were all that was left of the theaters, shops and homes that had once stood. Cops and reporters who ventured past it's borders disappeared. It was the urban equivalent of an enchanted forest, populated with creatures evil beyond imagination.
The SWAT transport stopped in front of a boarded-up department store, the skinny wood building leaning crazily to one side, about to topple. Hard leaning on several informants had yielded this spot as location of Marionette, bomb maker extraordinaire and rising star in the Gotham City underworld.
"Here," said the captain of the squad. His name was Evans, and he'd been a SWAT commander for five years. Spent more than his share of time in No Man's Land, and busted more than his share of scum. Evans didn't fit the profile of the hardass SWAT cop—he was small and wore contact lenses. Behind the lenses he had soft eyes that didn't miss anything. He lived alone and he'd been Daniel Thorne's first choice to lead SWAT Squad One when Thorne became commissioner.
Evans clicked his helmet holo-link and saw the face of the self-same man. "Sir, we're position." Thorne nodded.
"Recording?"
"Yes, sir," said Evans. In-helmet recorders monitored every move the team made from the moment an op started.
"Let it be known that I, Daniel Thorne, officially sanction this police action. Move ahead, gentlemen." Evans had trained Squad One into the elite of the GCPD, and they knew the drill. They exited the transport at three-second intervals, sticking close to the armored sides of their transport. They knew they were here to apprehend a terrorist. One who made bombs. That was making more than a few of them nervous.
Evans checked the clip on his rifle and muttered into his helmet mic, "Begin operation to capture terrorist suspect code-name Marionette. At this time op is green." A red light in the corner of his HUD let him know that his helmet recorded was monitoring his every move. He put his comm back on the squad frequency and barked one word. "Go!"
Moving in two fluid columns, Squad One charged up the rickety side stairs and kicked down the door, training their rifle at the one person in the room. "Hands on your head!" Evans screamed.
There was a moment of silence. Both Captain Evans and the person he supposed was Marionette blinked in surprise. The captain hadn't really been expecting a mad scientist in a white coat, but he hadn't been expecting a teenage girl in pajamas either. He briefly wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake.
Then he saw the jury-rigged lab equipment, the bottles and boxes marked HAZARDOUS and the "oh shit" expression the girl was wearing and decided that he'd probably been right. He jerked his head and five of his men trained their guns on the girl. She raised one eyebrow, her face a stark white in the glare from the SWAT team's rifle-mounted lights.
"Is there a problem, officers?" Evans took the cuffs off his belt and pulled her arms behind her, closing them quickly. Her arms were skinny with small biceps and bony elbows. She was still practically a child. Evans backed off and motioned to another member of Squad One.
"Pat her down."
The man began a thorough search of her person. On special SWAT ops, any claims of assault by the victims, be it sexual or physical, was null and void. The bill had been enacted just last year.
"You might want to Miranda me," Marionette told the officer snidely. "Correct me if I'm wrong but I think I still have one or two civil rights left."
"Shut the fuck up," responded the officer. "That do it for you?" The girl licked her lips with an almost predatory expression.
"I dunno, baby...was it good for you?"
"Get her out of here!" snapped Evans. He motioned to the rest of the squad. "Have a look at this stuff." The girl stopped and looked back as the squad started to move deeper into the room, examining her equipment. Her expression wasn't smirking anymore.
"I wouldn't do that."
"Move," snarled the officer holding her.
"Okay, okay," said Marionette, "but don't go saying I didn't warn you." Evans felt the tingle across the backs of his hands, the danger sense developed from fifteen years of duty on the force and in the streets, but it was too late. An explosion ripped through the room and threw the SWAT team to the four corners of the wind. Evans was dead before he hit the floor, along with seven members of Squad One.
The blast threw Marionette to the ground with her captor on top of her. The SWAT officer suffered third-degree burns to most of his back. Marionette was just scraped.
As flames spewed from what was once her laboratory, she lay face-down on the floor and laughed.
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A/N: If you like the story, please leave a review. Critiques are welcome as well. Should I continue? Enquiring minds want to know…