Author's note/disclaimer: I probably should have mentioned at the beginning of the first chapter that I planned to write one chapter every 18 months. I didn't plan any such thing, but clearly I should have said so anyway. I'll own up to my tardiness, but I don't own any of these characters. Additional note: in this world, there is no New York City. Well, there is, but it's Gotham City. It's why Toby being from Brooklyn meant he had a differing view of Batman's existence.

These Hallowed Halls

by Nathan Perry

Aboard the Watchtower, Kyle looked at Wally with a confused expression on his face. "What the heck was that?" he asked, pointing to the monitor showing CNN replaying the exchange between Clark and the White House Press Secretary.

"I dunno," Wally answered, "but can we put the movie back on now? Watching the news to see Clark go a few rounds with Zod is one thing. Watching it to see him poking the White House is another. Change it back, they're gonna form Voltron in the next scene!"

----- ----- -----

Several thousand feet below the surface, a twenty-two year old in a leather bomber jacket worn over a Voltron t-shirt exclaimed, "Got it!"

"What precisely is it that you've 'got?'" the taller, older man asked from just inside the door as he entered the room.

"The data signal relay," the young man explained, pushing his glasses back up onto his nose and swiveling his chair to face away from the bank of monitors making up one of the walls. "Like you said, they had to be tuned in, which where they are means that it has to come from satellites. Now, CNN, BBC, those they can get from any number of sources, but satellites beaming signals for regional sources like Agence Afrique, LARNA or Television New Zealand are only going to be coming from satellites in geostationary orbits over those regions. For an installation on the moon to be able to hook into those feeds when they're on the other side of the Earth, they had to have some kind of relay network set up. I've got it."

"Well well Mr. Stevens," Luthor said, his lips curling slightly upwards, "It seems you have indeed got it."

----- ----- -----

"I've got it," Sam said as he entered Toby's office. Toby finished the sentence he was typing before looking up from his computer. The Deputy continued, "The sticking point, from a legal standpoint, at least, was that there was no legal status that applied to them."

"And you've found a way to get around the fact that our laws weren't created with superheroes in mind?" Toby asked.

"Yes. Officially recognize the Justice League as a foreign nation and ally ourselves with them."

Toby sat silent for a moment, then leaned his head forward and pressed his fingers against his scalp. "I'm being quiet because I know there's no point in asking if you're serious."

"It's the perfect solution," Sam argued, "There are emergency statutes which allow for the operations of allied forces on American soil with our permission."

"And it allows us cover if they do something we don't like in that we can talk tough and call them foreigners in the press. There's just one problem Sam, diplomatic immunity! Any one of them that can claim diplomatic status, and do you want to bet that's not going to be all of them, can be completely free from prosecution."

"And that's different from the current situation how, exactly?"

"There's precedent. Caprezzo's v Justice Society. Gotham State, 1948. It was a lawsuit from a restaurant claiming that the actions of the JSA had harmed their business."

"And what was the result of the suit?"

"Found for the defendant, the restaurant was a front for the Gambino family, but the point is that in hearing the case, it established that the business had standing to sue, and that the Justice Society could be held liable."

"The Justice Society was based in Gotham, wasn't it?"

"What's your point?"

"The Justice League operates from the moon. I don't think we've got jurisdiction there."

"We could claim it. It's got our flag on it."

"I'm taking this to Leo,"

"I'll go with you."

----- ----- -----

"I'll go with the pasta salad," Bruce said.

"Anything to drink?"

Bruce glanced briefly in Leo's direction. "Some spring water, if you've got it." Ordinarily he'd ask for the most expensive scotch available and just not drink it, but aside from not wanting to leave scotch lying around the office of a recovering alcoholic, the Chief of Staff might get suspicious if he didn't drink any. "Thank you Marilyn," he said.

Margaret nodded and stepped outside. After a moment, she glanced back inside and said, "Sam and Toby."

"Send them in," Leo said. "This'll just take a minute," he said to Bruce as the two filed in. "Bruce Wayne, Toby Ziegler and Sam Seaborn." Handshakes followed and Toby glanced curiously in Leo's direction. "He said no," Leo said, answering Toby's unspoken question. Sam smiled in response. Toby very much did not.

Leo stood and walked out of the office with Sam and Toby. After a few minutes, the three of them returned. Toby's mood hadn't appeared to improve. "Mr. Wayne," Sam began, "we don't actually want you to cancel any of your contracts with the League."

"Well that's good," Bruce said genially, "Since I wasn't going to, we can all get what we want."

"We want to tax them," Toby said flatly.

Bruce frowned, "I don't understand."

"We're considering recognizing the Justice League as a foreign government," Sam said. "Some of the materials and equipment your company provides carry export tariffs."

"Most of the materials and equipment my company provides is produced here in the United States. It sounds like you're providing me financial motivation to move production facilities overseas," Bruce said.

"And we very much hope you won't do that," Toby replied. "It certainly wouldn't look good given that the entire point of recognizing the League is to allow them the freedom to operate in this country, like they did in Gotham just the other day."

Bruce had to tamp down the glare that threatened to appear in response. Leo interjected, "Bruce, we're not trying to stick it to you or your company. We're trying to let these people do what they do better, but in doing that, there's a downside for companies that do business with them, and for the most part, that's you."

Bruce nodded slowly in response. Sam picked up the thought, "The League has been in a sort of legal limbo for years. They exist, but they have no status. Suppose a company like yours sold them faulty whatevers for their space station. They'd have no recourse for redress."

"They could just send Batman over to threaten them," Toby commented, eyes rolling skyward.

"No legal recourse," Sam said.

"I suppose I'd rather be sued than have Batman threatening me," Bruce said in as light a tone of voice as he could force.

"Yeah you would," Toby answered.

Leo shot him a look before saying, "Bruce, you stuck to your guns when we asked you not to maintain your contracts. We'd like you to keep doing that even if it costs you a few million off your bottom line."

"And this meeting was what?" Bruce asked.

"Us asking you to reconsider the status of some of your contracts and you saying no," Leo answered.

Bruce nodded. "I've got it."

----- ----- -----

"I've got it!" Tim said as the kitchen timer rang once, placing one steadying hand on the granite countertop of the island as he vaulted over it. After landing easily, he reached towards the oven when his hand was smacked soundly by a wooden spoon.

"Alfred say not let Tim touch," Cassandra said, wielding the spoon like one of Dick's escrima sticks. "Say Tim ruin whole batch."

"Oh c'mon," Tim protested. "They're done! You heard the timer."

"The timer, Master Timothy, is an approximation." Alfred said as he softly crossed the tile towards the oven. "Unlike one of Master Bruce's chemical processes, cooking is an art. A recipe can tell you approximately how long something should take to cook, it cannot tell you how long it will take. It cannot determine exactly how much milk will be burned out of the chocolate by the melting process. It cannot determine to the milliliter how much liquid six large eggs will add to the mix."

"Moreover," Alfred said, his voice hardening, "it cannot determine how much heated air will escape the oven due to overeager young crimefighters opening the oven to smell the cookies. Nor can I, hence the need to set Miss Cassandra to guarding said oven."

----- ----- -----

"You want have a guard where?"

"The refrigerator."

"Donna-"

"I'm a girl on a budget, Josh. Eating out every day isn't an option. Even the mess isn't cheap, and their salads are tiny.'

"Donna-"

"Y'know not for nothing, but properly done, a salad can be a meal."

"Donna-"

"I make great salads. Salads that are meals. And they're being stolen."

"Donna, ignoring the fact that I have no authority to order the Marines to do anything, we are not going to have a full-time guard for your lunch."

"It'd only need to be part-time. I'll eat my lunch by noon."

"I'm really not having this conversation." Josh stood up from his chair, brushing his hair backwards and taking a few paces around his office.

"Well if we can't post a guard, maybe we can ask the Secret Service to catch who's doing it."

"Where in the Treasury Department's list of responsibilities does your salad appear?"

"How about the NSA?"

"Donna-"

"I work sixteen hour days and we spend forty billion dollars on intelligence, and that's just the part of the budget we know about. Surely we can kick a few man-hours my way?"

"Leave now,"

"I make great salads."

"Well yeah, why else would someone be stealing them all the time?"

"I want my lunch," Donna said, walking out of one door of his office at the exact moment Toby walked in the other.

"What'd he say?" Josh asked.

"He said no," Toby replied, clearly frustrated.

"Well that's good, isn't it?"

"Oh sure. It's fantastic. A stink's being raised about the connections between one of the largest corporations in America and the Lunar Lookouts, the President's right-hand man asks him point-blank to distance himself and he says no. It's wonderful. I'm sure no one will think to ask why we didn't do anything but ask."

"Because we have absolutely no legal grounds for doing anything else?"

"And you don't think that sounds like covering? Like letting a huge contributor off the hook on the basis of a technicality?"

"Off of what hook, exactly? There's no accusation of a crime. There's no evidence of a crime. There's no evidence of any wrongdoing whatsoever."

"It's going to be spun that there is."

"So spin back, suggest that it's more of the same Mckinley-esque politics that people are sick of."

"It won't work."

"Why not?"

"Because," Toby said quietly, turning and walking out of the office, "it's not the Republicans who are going to be the ones spinning it."

----- ----- -----

Senator Stanley Simmons (R-AL) made his way from his office through the halls of the Capitol Building towards the meeting room. Senator Simmons was not having a good day, but good days had been few and far between. Some way or another, news of the meeting between Leon McKinely and Steve Pennington, Simmons' Chief of Staff, had leaked.

Simmons supposed he could have been more temperate in his response, but could he be blamed for losing his cool? Simmons could read the writing on the wall. After 76 years and two heart attacks, Majority Leader was as far as his career was going to advance. Simmons figured that if he couldn't be President, he could pick the next President.

McKinley would have been perfect. Bipartisan support, clean as a whistle, and a natural orator. Of course, for all McKinley had done, he still wouldn't have had the inside-the-beltway experience that a President needs, but a certain Majority Leader could easily help with that. But that was long gone. With that ridiculous speech, McKinley had effectively ended his career in politics before it began, which would have been tolerable if it hadn't leaked that he was trying to encourage McKinley to run for President.

There just weren't that many people who knew about Pennington's meetings with McKinely. So, Simmons assumed the worst. 'Maybe I was wrong', Simmons thought, 'but the bastard should have covered his tracks better.'

As Simmons arrived in the conference room, barely noticing the presence of Secret Service agents waiting outside the door, he glanced around the room. The Speaker of the House was present, as was the House Majority Leader, both Majority Whips and the head of the Republication National Committee, all seated around the table. A television on a stand hooked up to some gadget that Simmons didn't recognize was present. "So this is all of you asking me to resign, I suppose?"

"Stan, settle down," the RNC chair began, "we just-"

"I will not step down," Simmons said hotly. "If the caucus wants to vote me out, it can vote me out, but you all know that if that happens, we'll be the minority party in both houses after the next elections."

"Senator," came a baritone voice from the television, "No one here is asking you to step down as Majority Leader."

Simmons turned to look in the direction of the television. "What the hell's the matter with you people, you let someone else in on this meeting? Who?"

"Senator," that same voice said. As Simmons studied the image, it seemed to be a headshot of a man, but the man was so shrouded in shadow that he had no idea who it was. "You wanted to choose the next President. McKinley failed, of course. If you like, you can give up and let the voters decide your party's next nominee." Even without any visual cues or apparent body language, the scorn which infused those two words was apparent. "If you do, you'll end up with that halfwit Ritchie and you will lose."

"And I suppose you've got a better idea?" Simmons asked.

Lex Luthor leaned forward until his face was clearly visible on the television screen and said, "I do."