"Friends in low places..."
Of course it was inevitable. The passage of time, really.
It was a response to age. One grey day you wake up and see yourself slowing down. You see it in the mirror. In your eyes. You see it and you start to wonder who this hunched, wrinkled thing is staring back. You feel it and you agree that your days are numbered. That the universe doesn't do for you what it does for others, for those selfish beings among us. You understand that you're not a young man anymore and the end is coming. And since it's coming, you intend to face it bravely, strongly. Most of all, on your own terms.
You decide to make the most of what you have left.
Battle after battle. Fight after fight. Casualty after casualty.
Until at last your enemy has it. Flies off. Leaves the world he so cherished behind as he searches for new meaning in the void.
Engineered to do so.
By your hand.
You watch him go and in that moment you clamor for happiness. For internal fulfillment: the end of your life's work and what a life it was. You feel a fire in your chest and you smile for the first time in years, and you think it was always going to happen this way. That it was inevitable.
After all, the day finally came; of course it was inevitable, your long awaited victory. a day when your enemies and the world at last became aware of their heroes—and their deaths. Their true nature.
The enormity of their mission.
A day when each of them would leave behind who they once were. And become something different. Something better.
Beyond good. Beyond evil. Beyond your wildest aspirations.
After all, no one can help their nature. At a certain point, development and acculturation leave us no choice. We are who we are. And so they assembled. From the endless deep. From the outer dark. From the unknown regions.
They came.
To the Slaughter Swamp, fourteen miles outside Gotham City. To a futurist marvel, scowling in the twilight. Blacklisted technology from twelve planets, the far future, and one alternate dimension, all cobbled together into a fortress. Hiding in the swamp. Out of synch by one second with the rest of the universe and undetectable.
By them.
Banded together from remote parts came ten of the world's most sinister villains, dedicated to one goal: the conquest of the universe.
Lex Luthor. Doctor Doris Zeul. Gorilla Grodd. Edward Nigma. Doctor Jonathan Crane. Thaal Sinestro. The Black Manta. Leonard Snart. Barbara Ann Minerva. And Vril Dox of the planet Colu, now calling itself the world computer Brainiac.
The Legion of Doom.
Leonard Snart was Captain Cold. Master of Absolute Zero. Hereditary archenemy of the Flashes in Keystone and Central City. Dressed in a blue parka with thin sunglasses on a harsh face. Snart was old in his youth. He was in his forties now and that was old enough dammit. He was old and alone, his sister having died years before, and certain Rogues, his ancestral pseudo-family, having also drifted apart between now and…Barry. He answered Luthor's call with characteristic forbearance, taking the call in a side-room where Rory and McCulloch couldn't hear him. He agreed to it. "Mister Luthor has something it would be in your benefit to hear," Teschmacher had said. And so he came. He slid out of Keystone under cover of night, and hoped to be back the next. Not that he was in the habit of explaining himself to McCulloch or anyone. But questions were questions and he'd just as soon not deal with them. The job, you see, it creates demand. And he'd heard the lecture before. Luthor always peddled condescension as opportunity and Snart was sure this was more of the same. And yet, if there was to be opportunity, Snart felt a pang of selfishness. He wanted the opportunity to himself.
Doris Zeul was dying. Before that, she was a human who, though dying, planned on living forever in the mind of gorilla. Other things happened after transference, the most significant of which was her upgrades. She became a giantess, with corresponding strength and power. But she was still dying. Raging at the machine, and at Wonder Woman, for just being so much damn better in the first place. And unable to do anything about it until at last she collapsed in mid-fight with Wonder Woman. It was Diana who brought her, foolishly, to Cale-Anderson Pharmaceuticals. "Help her," Diana had told Dr Cale. "She doesn't deserve this." And then Diana was gone. Dr Cale took one look at the lump on the parquet and wondered what to do. Then she cocked an eye when Zeul stirred. Six months later, Zeul resurfaced. Better than ever. She thanked Dr Cale for her efforts at saving her. And the good Doctor Zeul did not harass Diana again for a long time. Until Luthor's call. Even then, she was hesitant.
Barbara Minerva was a socialite. Nothing better to do. Heiress to British rail money, she nonetheless applied herself at University and became an archeologist. Top of her field, at the cost of sabotaging careers she deemed less interesting, and became the name in Subsaharan tribalism. Eventually, during Grant Summer, with a team twelve grad students long, all of whom would've killed for a letter of recommendation, locals attacked her camp and killed everyone. Almost killed her too. Eventually they took her to their temple and after a ritual of truly bizarre proportions she became, and Luthor to this day finds this all wildly absurd, an avatar of the god Urtzkartaga. Minerva found herself empowered with the heathen god's powers, although at the price of being forever made into an abomination. A Cheetah. Thereafter Minerva returned to the Western world at much the same time Wonder Woman did. It was natural they became enemies, and things had changed little since. She answered Luthor's call from Borneo, and was in the Slaughter Swamp that night.
Thaal Sinestro was of the planet Korugar. A former Green Lantern, surely the greatest of their kind, he had ages ago traded their ways of reverence for the path of relevance. He became an independent. Had a storied career that involved Earthbound service to the Secret Society and later, this Legion, which saw him wipe out the Freedom Fighters in the Infinite Crisis of Man and the Multiverse. Later still he made his own Lantern Corps with which he savaged half the universe. It took a fleet of other multicolored corpsmen, Hal Jordan, a Cyborg Superman, a Daxamite, and remnants of the Justice League to stop him. Thereafter, Sinestro retreated to the anti-matter universe of Qward. From such a distance though, he answered. First. And arrived first. He merely asked Luthor what the situation was and when Luthor said only, "Hal Jordan," Sinestro took a seat, folded his arms and waited.
The Black Manta was, like Sinestro, also ridiculously easy to contact. He had been conducting a shadow war for years in Subaquatica. Hunting down the remnants of Arthur Curry's family and killing them. He had achieved precisely nothing of note in this new crusade. Nothing of note, really, since his murder of the junior Arthur Curry, and even that was so long ago that the sheer scale, the terror of it, was beginning to fade. The community was beginning to forget who he was. In spite of what he was. So he dropped what he was doing, snapped Vulko's neck then and there, and came to the Slaughter Swamp. He said little. Merely sat at Luthor's right side and observed the room.
Edward Nigma was dying. On the early edge of his second terminal cancer diagnosis, and no Lazarus Pits to save him this time, he had taken Luthor's call from the waiting room at Dr Tsongas' and was, he felt, fairly open with the billionaire. "You see, I'm dying, you one-percenting, balding, hubristic personification. A dying super villain sends the wrong message." Oh he'd had cancer years before and right before the vomiting and emaciation had begun he found the last surviving Lazarus Pit and, petulantly, used it. But the magnificent Riddler had no idea of the Pit's true nature: the chemical bath drove him crazier than usual and in the life-death of synaptic overload he'd deduced who the Batman really was. Collaborated with Crane's old student on a magnificent revenge scheme, one that might have worked had literally any of a hundred variables occurred slightly different. But alas. Things happen, break down…and Nigma found himself here in this dotage. This mockery of a life. Already too weak to walk, his hand hooked into an IV strap on a thin metal pole he carried slightly behind him. Truly, his glory days were numbered. Crane tended to him as they sat, and every so often nudged him towards speaking. So Nigma was not long for this Earth, and knew it. his contributions mirrored his own fast-developing sense of nihilism. And meanwhile, to his dead super villain concept, Luthor merely said, "I think it sends just the message I want, Edward."
Crane was in better health. Better spirits overall. Still in tremendous pain from a mauling he'd received years before at the hands of Gotham's famous crocodile man. Yet after six months spent in Santa Prisca recovering and countless reconstructive surgeries later, he re-emerged. But quieter. Entered private practice far away from Gotham and began counseling some among Luthor's old "human weapon" teenager crews. It was good work. He had been at Batman's throat for so long he'd forgotten what pure therapy, pure research in an unfettered world, was like. Oh, he still peeled their minds back like tin cans to expose the terrors within, only to set them free back into a world that couldn't help them. And then the Scarecrow watched them cower and die as their fears got the better of them. Still. No great schemes. Not anymore. Not even fear toxin anymore, either. Just words. Words after all win wars, and what better war could there possibly be than turning normal people, the people the Batman professed to love and save, against him and all he stood for. Against the spread wings of a bat bringing false hope to a city, to a world, that didn't deserve it?
Brainiac. What now called itself Brainiac, the World Computer, the Collector of Worlds, Warlord of Kandor, and Conqueror of Thanagar, was once biological, and a pedestrian sort at that. The greatest mind on his home world of Colu, Vril Dox became obsessed with knowledge and the acquisition thereof. It was no time at all before he'd figured out both how to transcend the limits of his own frail being and also to facilitate such growth into his new program: the acquisition of knowledge. Power. At any cost. So it was that he shed the poor protein shell of Vril Dox and uploaded his brain into a robot husk, while retaining a single neuron of what Vril Dox used to be, deep within the skull-carapace. Expanded his line to include living data. And began conquering. He wasted no time, and by the time Luthor's call had reach him three dimensions away, he had already laid waste to Oa, in it's relative future. From there, anywhere. Eventually, total acquisition and, after the end of humanity and the fall of the last man…the end of all things. So it was that his gaunt robotic form, skeletal and glowing dim green in this low light, appeared from nowhere at Luthor's left side and said nothing.
So there they were. Sitting in the great hall of the Legion of Doom, slouched and hunched and insulated, human islands devoid of both conversation or sympathy for one another, around a crescent table. Some of them shot childish dirty looks at the others. Others avoided eye contact entirely.
Finally, green electrosizzle erupted from behind the lectern at the center of the crescent and out of the wave came Luthor. Black suit, Brooks Brothers, single breast, double-vent, perfectly formed around a statue of a body, a green tie in a prince albert clipped neatly on a spread collar oxford. His head gleamed in the dim light, and he frowned as he beheld the Legion. He always frowned.
"Gentlemen," he said. "Ladies. Welcome back. I notice three missing from our number. We all recall Bizarro met his final end two years ago, and we miss him dearly. Winslow Schott, murdered in a daycare bombing in Metropolis, dead three years. And of course beneath this hall, in the muck, lie the atomized remains of Solomon Grundy, may he rest in peace."
"Not to mention," Crane said, "our friend Doctor Holland."
"Correct, thank you, Dr Crane," Luthor said.
Grodd slammed one giant simian fist on the table. In a savage rumble he barked out, "Get to the point!"
"Yes," Minerva said. "Is this a Shriner's meeting, Lex, get on with it."
Luthor stopped. He glanced at Minerva but only briefly. He stopped on Grodd. Narrow eyes and pursed lips. About to say something, but waiting.
Grodd's face twisted as he snarled. "You brought us all here, sub-human. I would know why."
After a moment Luthor spoke: "We're going to kill the Justice League."
Grodd stood and snarled out something foul—perhaps, Luthor thought, the native language of Gorilla City. Whatever that was.
They watched him go. Luthor's eyes narrowed. At the far end of the room the wall hissed and recessed back upon itself. Rancid, fetid swamp air poured in. Nigma covered his mouth with one hand. Minerva waved the stench away.
They all watched Grodd stomp out. They watched him as he reached the end of the dirt path and the stagnant waters on either side that twisted through Fogg's Woods to a translator hidden in a weeping willow.
They watched Grodd stop. They watched him stare at the slender man in a fishing vest and ratty bucket hat, fishing in the swamp with a child's Dora rod and whistling Otis Redding.
Grodd stopped.
"You," he barked. "Out of the way."
The slender man stopped whistling and turned to look at Grodd.
"Oh hi!" he said and popped to his feet. Mud-caked Chuck Taylors, knee high socks over white straws for legs, hideous pastel board shorts and a fading ocean sunset of a hula shirt under the vest and hanging shakily about him. He wore gold-rimmed aviators, even in the gloom, and cocked them up onto his forehead as he beheld Grodd.
"Ohhhh," the Joker said. He called over Grodd's shoulder. "Hey, Lexie, looks like you found the catch of the day!"
Grade snarled and pivoted and saw Luthor in the threshold. Arms folded, leaning against the wall. Shit-eating grin. Looking down his nose at Grodd.
"I see you've met my junkyard dog," Luthor said.
"You!" Grodd snapped. "Think you can threaten me?! I'll club you and eat your bones!"
Luthor didn't move. "Joker," he said. "Show this poor ape the future he deserves."
Grodd snarled. The Joker tapped his shoulder and Grodd lurched around slowly to face him.
"Problem there, big guy?" Joker said and started chuckling.
"You will let me pass, human. Or I will cleave the flesh from your bones."
Joker cocked his head. He could still see past Grodd's big honkin' monkey biceps: the wall was still open and they were all watching. Not that he cared to impress—never—but a laugh was a laugh.
He flashed a thin smile and put out his hand.
"You know what, Grodd of War, I'm sorry, I really am. I've been a pill tonight and I wanna make it up to you. Why don't we just shake hands and part ways. Ya know. Like men."
That did it.
Grodd seethed and felt the hair on his neck stand up. His customary primal rage took over. He imagined himself in slow motion, lunging toward the Joker, his great hands removing the human's throat from the rest of his body and salivating on the human's entrails.
Joker just smiled.
And pivoted. And grabbed Grodd's ginormous monkey paw and clamped down—
The joy buzzer kicked in—
—Grodd made a face—
—The Joker giggled—
—And—
—Grodd—
—Exploded.
Charred bits of gorilla and fur rained down around the clown and he lost his mind, howling mad in his own glee.
The gate closed softly. Hissed and slid back to reform the wall.
The rest of them sat. Slowly they turned back to the lectern.
"Anyway," Luthor said.
"You have information?" Snart said and sat back in his chair.
"I do," Luthor said. "Clark Kent is Superman."
Sinestro said, "Who?"
At the back of the room, Nigma laughed a groaned, worming around in his wheelchair. He leveled sickly jaundiced eyes at Luthor. "He's a journalist. The Daily Planet. He's been trying to bring Lex down for years."
"How," Snart said. "Did you come by this information?"
Luthor smirked. "Friends in low places."
"And now you want to do something about him," Nigma said.
Barbara Minerva hissed.
"Are you serious?" Snart asked.
"As cancer," Luthor said. "This is the opportunity we've wanted for years."
"But you brought us here," Zeul said. "That implies permission. You've never asked before—none of us have. What's changed."
"My viewpoint," Luthor said. "I'm asking you to share the spoils. Don't you want to live free? And don't you want the last laugh?"
"What if he survives," Black Manta said. "He always survives."
Crane looked up. "Not always."
Nigma sneered through his withered face.
The group stirred. Whispers and doubts.
Snart touched his chin. "So he's been hiding in public this whole time." Slowly he shook his head. "I don't know."
Minerva growled. "Diana first."
Doris Zeul stood. She had one fist on the table and another at her side. She turned her nose up at the rest of them. "Stop this now," she said. "You might say something you regret."
Snart sneered. "A change of heart, Giganta?"
"He is listening to you all," Zeul said. "Pretend Superman can hear this entire conversation. Pretend we go after him, or all of them, and they bring hellfire down on us. For the rest of time."
"They won't," Sinestro said.
She looked at Luthor and then around the room. Crane was staring back at her. Sinestro. Minerva. Nigma was checking his IV.
She breathed. Looked at the floor. She whispered, "it's wrong."
Sinestro narrowed his gaze upon her. His high brow furrowed and his widows peak became sharper. "What do you think you're doing? Hearts and minds have no place here. We all swore to that."
"We don't have to kill them," she said. "Just. Send them away."
"Send them away?" Black Manta said. "You think they'll stay gone? You think that's in Aquaman's makeup?"
"I don't know," she said and touched a hand to her head. "Make them afraid. Or distract them. Send Superman on some wild goose chase. Then you can do what you want, Lex."
"What we all want," Minerva said.
Luthor raised an eyebrow. "Superman has been exiled before. He came back."
"Yeah but this is different, you said so yourself," Zeul said. "I, Lex, I just don't see why we have to kill them."
Crane cleared his throat. "Doctor Zeul, while the rest of us watch Rome fall, you're complaining about the emperor's health. You should be more concerned with the alternative."
"Which is?"
"A thousand years of darkness," Nigma said. "Raise your hands if you're at least mildly titillated by all this."
"You're right to be afraid, Doctor Zeul," Crane said. "Self-effacement is never easy. And there's nothing worse than lying to yourself about what you are. Isn't that right. Giganta."
Luthor smiled. Consolation and condescension.
Zeul sat and turned away. A half-sulk.
Barbara Minerva sat back, watching her.
Crane spoke up. "The Batman presents the greatest threat. If we kill Superman, the Batman will start a war of retaliation we would not win. A wiser alternative is to distract him. Create some proxy war that will consume him."
"Something in mind?"
"Someone," Crane said. "A most excellent pupil. One who would not dare against bigger fish. He could remove the Batman."
"Superman first," Minerva said, mulling it over. "Send a message. Knock out the powerful first. Clean up the lesser ones."
"I want Aquaman," Manta said. "I'll cut his head off myself."
Snart shot him a dirty look and mumbled, "Jesus."
"Leonard?"
"Just…Jesus, David. I mean, when did you become…like that."
Through the chrome helmet came something like a chuckle. "We were always monsters, Len. Or weren't you looking."
"Is that cold, cold heart melting, Leonard?" Nigma coughed up from the back.
"Mister Snart," Luthor said. "I asked you here on your reputation. If I wanted a sure thing I'd have asked McCulloch: a hungry dog is a loyal one. So imagine my reticence when you ask assurances from me. I want assurances from you. Because there is no stopping this. Once we commit, we go forth bravely. Do you understand?"
"This is an old refrain," Sinestro said. He was unconvinced. Slouched and disengaged. He looked at Luthor through a distant haze. "We have all been bested before. What makes this so different."
"Because we're all dying," Nigma said. "Look at us. Look at Crane here, hobbled after a run-in with the wrong monster. Look at my IV, you fey despot. And look at those crow's feet around Luthor's eyes. We're all dying and you know what that means. Nothing left to lose. When is a bad guy in the right position to strike, gentlemen?"
"When," Luthor supplied, "Prison can't even hold him."
Nigma smiled and nodded.
"What about the speedster," Sinestro said. "He killed someone once. He could do it again if properly motivated."
Nigma cracked a smile. "How do you kill a time-traveller with any sense of finality?"
"Killing him is the only solution," Snart said and stared at the floor. Ashamed to have even said it. "Stops him running for good. But all these years of cat and mouse become nothin' at all. Can we do that? Are we willing?"
Minerva rolled her eyes. "We've done worse and you know it."
"Imagine a world without Superman," Luthor said. "We've seen it before and what a world it was. Remember it? A world without hope. Without a savior. Our kind of world."
There followed a silence. No one spoke.
Luthor said, "Am I the only one who has the courage of his convictions? Or any convictions at all?"
Slowly they looked around the room. Among each other.
"It would have to be unanimous," Snart said.
"Authoritative," Minerva said. "Crippling."
"Vengeance for all they've done."
"Murder is not enough," Crane said. "Kill their legacies. Turn their worlds inside out and lay their legends bare. Make them nothing at all. Weak. Powerless. Afraid."
"Alright," Black Manta said and stood. "That's enough. No more of this Shakespearean bullshit." Then he looked at Luthor. "Just kill them."
They all looked among each other.
"Who first?" Sinestro asked.
Continued…