Zatanna sighed deeply as she finished preparing the penultimate section of her supply cabinet. Replenishing her reserves of magical ingredients for her spells was not only costly, but time-consuming as well. Magic was a precise art, thus its components required careful treatment and storage. Certain items needed to remain in isolation, or in homogenous groups, in order for their essences to remain pure and retain their enchanting properties.
Additionally, most of the tasks to prepare the components necessitated careful and cautious attention, and as temperamental as the ingredients could be, Zatanna had little choice but to work by hand.
Exhaling slowly, Zatanna reached her arms above her head and stretched, doing her best to relax her tense muscles, sore from spending most of the day leaning over a workbench. After she finally completed her cataloging, she would gather the freshest relaxation herbs in her collection and treat herself to a long, warm bath.
Just as she reached for her knife to start dicing the final batch of wormwood root, a prickle of unease jabbed at her consciousness. Snapping to full attention, Zatanna concentrated as an odd sense of displacement rippled within her, spreading from the core of her being to the tips of her fingers. And suddenly, there was an inescapable feeling of incongruousness, that she was out of step with space and time.
Summoning all her will, Zatanna narrowed her eyes and let her magic hum through her body, allowing it to build, until in a burst of energy, she broke through the surrounding spell. The power of the opposing magic shattered, then resonated, its fragments nearly bowling her over with their sheer magnitude, astonishingly strong even as the enchantment collapsed. But Zatanna stood determined, refusing to give any of her ground; she would not be a slave to anyone else's will.
As the magic around her ebbed away, Zatanna's mind whirled. She knew when she was being conned. And another sorcerer, a powerful one, had just tried to dupe her- but to what end?
Wasting no time, Zatanna crossed the room to her summoning circle. Murmuring an incantation, she closed the circle from any metaphysical attacks, and with another chant, brought forth a portal. An antique metal chest emerged, and Zatanna swiftly disabled the fortifying spells and seals that at once prevented unlocking or magic from altering the contents.
Carefully, Zatanna removed her Gloine nan Druidh, and scowled fiercely when she saw the runes on the glassy stone were aglow.
The lit runes could only indicate an enormous out-pour of a malicious spell. Another sorcerer had used an enormous outburst of Chaos magic to alter their Earth. To tamper with lives, with events, with time.
As for the reason, Zatanna did not know. Yet.
Resealing the chest and the portal, Zatanna stepped out of the circle, forgetting her own weariness. A new challenge had arose. She needed to trace who had been playing games with the universe's alignment, and why.
A knock on the door of Vernon Questor's office interrupted his examination of the profit return on the trial ventures of Dayton Industries.
"Come in," he called, straightening in his chair.
The door opened, and a young blonde maid with whom he'd spoken earlier stood in the doorway. "Excuse me, sir. I know you're concerned for Mr. Logan's state of being and wanted a report when I brought him dinner this evening."
"How is he, Madelyn?" Questor inquired.
"He refused dinner, sir," Madelyn said apologetically. "He sent it back down to the kitchen."
Questor sighed. "Thank you, Madelyn. That is all."
"Very well, sir," Madelyn said, before exiting and closing the door on her way out.
Steeling himself for the upcoming battle, Questor momentarily mused on the current state of the Dayton family, to which he had now served as an assistant for several years. More than a decade ago, Steve Dayton, one of the wealthiest individuals in the world, had married Oscar-winning actress Rita Farr. They both had continued their respective careers, but became parents quickly afterward. Garfield Logan's family had perished in a boating accident, and Steve and Rita, his godparents, instantly adopted him and proceeded to raise him as their own.
Rising from his desk, Questor started on his journey from his first floor office to Garfield's fourth floor living quarters.
The next decade passed by with few surprises. Though rambunctious throughout his childhood, Garfield had excelled in academics, sports, and extracurricular activities. True, meeting curfew was rarely a goal of his, and he all too often forgot to ask for parental permission before vacationing in another country with his friends. But overall, he was surprisingly low maintenance for a teenager.
Last week, however, Rita had been killed during an attack on Metropolis. As of now, the reports released by the authorities stated the aggressors were invaders from another planet, known as Apokolips.
But no matter what the cause, Rita Farr was dead. She had been in Metropolis for an awards show, to receive another honor for her latest film.
Steve was devastated. Overcome with grief, he had taken to his rooms and had yet to emerge.
In his father's absence, Garfield had assumed management of his mother's funeral and various memorial services. He seemed numb with shock and grief in his quieter moments, but capable of feigning appropriate emotions for all tasks required of him. During public appearances, he was grief-stricken but collected; with his fellow mourners, he was heartbroken but gracious; for business decisions, he was solemn but resolved. So readily and ably had Garfield taken to the many masks of the upper class that Questor doubted the boy himself even realized the manner in which he was automatically tailoring his interactions to each individual audience.
Upon reaching Garfield's quarters, Questor paused outside of the elaborately carved mahogany double doors and buzzed the ultramodern intercom made from the latest technology of Dayton industries. "Questor here. Mr. Logan, do you have a moment to speak?"
There was no response, but the door's electronic lock retracted, which Questor interpreted as permission to enter, and did so.
He ascended the brief polished marble staircase, the landing of which was built over a small pond, supplemented by a miniature waterfall. The stairs led into the parlor, a room that consisted of soft white walls, dark wooden furniture, and enormous windows, all adorned by gleaming gold ornaments. The room was a classic blend of opulent and contemporary.
Garfield was awaiting him on one of the many lavish white sofas that surrounded the seventy-eight inch plasma screen television. He was still wearing his suit from a memorial service he attended in the afternoon, but by now, he had loosened his tie and shed his jacket.
Though the Dayton heir's posture was impeccable, and for all purposes, he appeared relaxed, Questor could detect weariness and despair in his demeanor. Hardly unexpected, however, for a teenager who had just lost his mother for the second time and whose father had all but succumbed to grief.
As Questor approached, Garfield's attention did not divert from the news- yet another review of Apokolips's attack, this time detailing a new hero known as "Cyborg" who had emerged during the event to help the Justice League successfully repel the invasion.
Questor cleared his throat, and Garfield turned to him. His usually energetic persona was subdued, and his bright blue eyes were circled with dark shadows and seemed far older than his years.
With the remote, Garfield switched off the television. "Hey, Ques. How's my father?" His voice was hoarse, but whether it was from grief or overuse due to the number public addresses he had given in the past several days remained uncertain.
"I think he still needs some time," Questor replied tactfully. "As for you-"
"I'm fine," Garfield replied. "I checked my father's calendar for tomorrow, and he's supposed to be interviewing with some Daily Planet reporter about the purchase of STAR Labs in the morning, and meeting with the board in the afternoon. I'll be taking over both of those duties while he's incapacitated."
"Let me take the board meeting for you, at least," Questor offered. "Lord knows you have enough on your plate already."
Garfield shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Questor. I'll be fine."
"Mr. Logan, I insist," Questor said firmly. "I know you want to help your father, but you won't be of use to anyone if you work yourself into exhaustion."
Garfield's eyes blazed with anger. "I said I'd be fine!" His tone was sharp and angry.
Questor did not reply immediately, searching for the best way to maintain composure and defuse Garfield's temper, but before he could respond, the teenager spoke again.
"I'm sorry, Questor. It's not fair of me to snap at you when you're only trying to help me," Gar apologized.
"Mr. Logan, you're distraught. In the wake of recent events, I can't fault you for not being perfectly in control of your emotions," Questor returned sincerely.
"Nevertheless, it was wrong of me to take it out on you." Garfield sighed. "I'm sorry, Questor, I truly am. I just keep thinking of all of my obligations. I'm supposed to make an appearance at the dedication of that inner city playground, and then I've arranged to meet with several officials from our finance and PR departments to establish a memorial charity in my mother's name. I don't want anyone to think I'm neglecting my responsibilities."
"If you couldn't manage your duties at the moment, it would be perfectly understandable," Questor responded, his tone not unkind. "And if I might be so bold, Mr. Logan, personally, I don't think burying your grief in a multitude of activities is either healthy or ultimately productive."
Garfield looked at Questor directly and offered a wan smile. "I'm not going to have a mental breakdown, Ques. If for no other reason, I simply don't have the time for it."
Questor's firm tone returned. "Be that as it may, I must insist that I take your place at the board meeting. After all, it's my responsibility to ensure you are not overwhelmed by your role in the company."
"All right," Garfield conceded quietly. "Thank you, Vern."
"Good night, Gar," Questor said with a smile. He took his leave, and before he was halfway to the door, the television was clicked on again, with yet more news about this "Cyborg" character.