He didn't have far to run.
The plant was only so large, and his pursuer was slowly dislodging the pratfalls resting above the chemical containers. If he didn't get out of here soon, there won't be a "him" tomorrow.
His nemesis always seemed to be one step ahead of him.
He had programmed the phaser to find the correct world.
The pratfall shook as he grasped the closest railing, balancing himself. The end was here. Just a few feet away.
He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Pain, exhaustion, and the shock of the quake all rattled the interior of his body as though he had been struck by a boulder.
The window was right there. Victory!
He gathered what was left of his strength and made a great leap.
Good timing too, as no sooner were his legs in the air that the pratfall was lost to the chemical pit below.
His free hand reached out to the window as gravity already began to pin him down.
Closer...closer...closer...
His finger brushed the edge of the open window as his weight failed him.
So, this was how it ended? Running like some common thug, only for disintegration by volatile chemicals?
Disgraceful when he thought about it.
So be it.
His final act of defiance.
As he fell, he turned the knob that activated the warp program.
With luck, the device would find a world of heroes.
With a quick toss, the device was about to begin it's maiden voyage...Only for a bladed projectile to intercept it in the air.
"NOOOOO!" He shouts, as the last thing he sees is his final hope dashed, as an explosion takes it out of this world...before he promptly follows suit.
A productive week. The most powerful opposition was destroyed. Time to move on to better things.
Bruce Wayne emits a loud sigh, as he brings the wine to his lips, and takes a slight sip.
The Owlman, he called himself. After his parents were killed during a hostage situation by police forces, Bruce Wayne dedicated himself to battling the forces of law and order. It wasn't the police force's fault per say that the perp was a homicidal maniac that would've killed them anyway. It was the fact that they didn't shoot when they had the chance. That they would negotiate with evil as opposed to striking it down when it manifested itself. That they would propose a fake peace in which people lived blissfully ignorant to the despicable world around them. THAT was what made heroes...Hell, law itself...flawed. One couldn't scribble common sense on parchment and pray to powers-that-really-aren't that people would follow. They will NOT follow.
Then it dawned on him. Evil was more powerful than good. Evil was everywhere. Evil did the things good wouldn't. Evil got things done. Evil controlled. Evil saved, in it's own twisted way. And...Evil was fun. Did that make him a hypocrite? Maybe. He didn't care.
Bruce used his parents' inheritance to travel the world. Learned martial arts, educated himself in Criminology, Psychology. Every discipline. To use the law's techniques against it.
He chose to don a costume that would strike fear into the hearts of inferior men. Kindness was a cowardly, superstitious, fledgling feeling that left the same impact a dust particle left on the air.
Needless to say, he skinned the perp alive after that. Tossed the body and skin into the police station as a message. Got Commissioner Gordon's attention, it did.
Started a minor crime spree. Robbery, murder, grand arson. Tangled with heroes like the Jester and Alleycat.
Grew emboldened; moved past rookie mistakes. Defeated hero after hero, time and again.
And now he was here.
Back to the present, he supposed.
Sitting in front of him was Clark Kent. A big burly jock of a man. The type you'd expect to be the captain of a college varsity team.
Of course, nobody would believe he was an alien invader.
The Ultraman, he called himself. Emissary of a militaristic planet known as Krypton. The planet was considered one of the most powerful in the universe, only for bureaucratic corruption inadvertently causing it to destroy itself through an ambitious general's insane mental breakdown. Kal-El of Krypton chose to flee the planet, leaving his family and people to their well-deserved fate. Smarter than he looked, thought Wayne. Less competition that way.
Like Wayne, he donned a costume; caused chaos. Despite having the same disposition, they couldn't have been two different people.
"So, why am I here?" Asks Kent irritably. "What's stopping me from vaporizing you and helpin' myself to your vault?"
Kent seemed to have three expressions: Royally pissed off, impatient, and bloodthirsty barbaric smile.
"Kryptonite-laced wine, for one." Says Wayne, giving a hardened stare to his benefactor slash possible business rival. "That, and an opportunity."
Kent's eyes go wide as the wine takes effect. Wayne hadn't put much in there. Enough to tire Kent out, but not enough to induce incapacitation.
"You mother-!" Kent starts.
"Relax, this isn't a fight." Says Wayne. "But a man has to protect himself, you know. Besides, if our positions were reversed under the same circumstances, you'd have done the exact same thing. That's part of why I asked you here."
Kent's eyes relax somewhat, though the sting of being outsmarted was written on his face like a child's scribbles. That was a start.
"You got me there." He relents. "Now start talking. And keep it short. I like short."
"Good man." Says Wayne. "Alfred, some more wine. The...non-drugged brand. I think Mister Kent won't be an issue. As I was saying..."
Wayne sits back down, resting one leg over the other. His toes curled in anticipation as he looked the Kryptonian square in the eye.
"Have you ever worked in a team before, Mister Kent?" Asks Wayne.
"Why would I need to do that? I'm already the strongest super on Earth." Replies Kent.
Kent was arrogant, but he wasn't entirely wrong. The Ultraman was well-known among the villain community as one of the best. Even though he's only been active for what, two and a half years now? A phoenix rising from the ashes, if you will. Unfortunately, his ego and knowledge of his strength made committing grander crimes insignificant to him, as all he had to do was fart to send lessers running, screaming. Made learning his secret identity child's play. Of course, Wayne kept that tidbit to himself until just recently. After all, Kent never had any REAL competition. Until now, anyway.
"So, you think robbing armored cars daily and killing sprees are the epitome of power?" Asks Wayne sarcastically. "I know you aren't the 'rule the world' type. Neither am I. But, haven't you dreamed of something...bigger?"
Kent was starting to get annoyed. The only reason he was even here was because Wayne and him were neck-and-neck in the villain pecking order right now. Whether out of respect or some ill-planned bout of espionage gone wrong, Kent came anyway. It was clear there were SOME gears running in that viking mind of his.
"What are you gettin' at?"Asks Clark.
"A syndicate." Replies Wayne. "Not those petty-ante mobs you see in old TV shows or video games. A fighting force. A force of ambition. A team of super-powered individuals that will take the things one super alone never could."
"A team-up?" Asks Clark skeptically.
"Precisely." Says Wayne."But not for a single job. I'm thinking something more...permanent."
"Why?" Asks Kent, whose body was beginning to stabilize. Wayne shot a glance to Alfred as the butler took his wine away. "We're costumed killers and thugs. The whole idea is to rely on yourself for this kinda thing. Wouldn't gathering killers and thieves into a group be the same as paintin' bulls-eyes on every one of 'em?"
So Kent wasn't entirely dumb. Ironic, considering he accepted the laced wine of a complete stranger, but somehow dabbled in social tactics.
"Maybe." Replies Wayne. "But that's why the team will have both a leader, and an overarching goal. A glue that forces these so-called killers and thieves to tolerate one another and work together. I never said we all had to like each other."
"Sounds like a sinkin' ship waitin' to happen." Replies Kent. "Besides, why would we trust one another? A good team only works if it's members work in tandem. And villains ain't exactly a social lot."
"Oh, but the trip to land would be worth the...atmosphere." Says Wayne. "Besides, trust is earned, not established. And if trust doesn't ensure obedience, intimidation or blackmail are always viable substitutes. After all, intimidation is what's sitting your rear on that couch right now, isn't it?"
Wayne sports another smile, as Kent briefly raises a fist.'
"And spare me the 'tough guy' act. You were threatened by me, which is why you're even here." Wayne adds in monotone. "And that's fine, we've both been running each others' demises through our heads since our eyes first met. But I intend to take this...another direction."
Again, Wayne looks him directly in the eye. It irked Kent to have a social equal, Wayne knew that much. But if Kent really wasn't interested, he would've just killed Wayne the moment he strolled on in. He wasn't exactly a hard fellow to read.
Kent stifles a yell as he sits back down, crossing his arms like a temperamental child. An audible CRACK is heard as he does so. Shame. That couch was twenty thousand dollars.
"Sigh...Say I'm in. How would we go about this?" Clark finally asks.
"Before a team can be formed, members must be scouted. We can't just grab any Joe KickaDog off the street. We need useful benefactors." Says Wayne, swirling his wine. "My sources have notified me of an island called Themiscyra. An island full of female tribals who repel any and all male presence. I caught ear of one in particular, named Diana. Like you, she has super-strength and speed; and a psychopathic personality you might find charming. Only problem is, she's never left that island. That's where we come in."
"An island full of babes?" Asks Kent with a mixture of confusion and intrigue. "How does that work exactly?"
"I don't know. My source was impaled by a weapon before she could give me any more details." Replies Wayne. "Only through audio communique do I have the Intel I have now."
"So, are we stormin' the place?" Asks Kent.
"Nothing so savage." Replies Wayne. "Besides, storming it would be suicide. According to classified government documents, the island has a reputation for killing any and all invaders. And nobody's conquered it yet. Even with your strength, it's best to assume she's at your level. A full-on assault would be risky, and will only prompt her to reply in kind. Thus, more competition and a wasted opportunity."
"Okay Smartypants, what do you suggest then?" Asks Clark, extending an arm in exasperation. Poor man had no finesse.
"I intend on planting a custom-made bomb along the base of the island. That will ensure they don't attack us on sight. Intimidation will force Diana to consult with us to disarm it. Then we give the proposition. If things go south, I have a getaway planned, with the two of us detonating the bomb. The subsequent explosions will cause a fallout within the island that will render it uninhabitable, as well as sink it into the sea. Either way, we have collateral."
"And where do I fit into this, exactly?" Asks Kent. "I just the muscle?"
"Yes and no." Replies Wayne. "Yes, your battle prowess will help should we need to fight, but the male presence will throw Diana off of her game. Change in routine has an odd effect on people, especially xenophobes like the Amazons. I'm coming too, but I need to stay out of the thick of things to maintain the bomb. Your also my Plan B. Should the bomb not work, you're to demolish the island before Diana turns on us. In essence, you are a mobile nuclear strike."
"And how am I getting paid?" Asks Kent.
"Didn't you hear what I said? This goes beyond monetary gain! Money is nothing to either of us!" Says Wayne. "We both do this for the sport. The exercise is your payment. Besides, you've been skulking around Metropolis restlessly for the past month. This is your first real job in ages. Isn't it?"