It was dark as pitch, the place where Solomon Grundy awoke. Dark, hot and uncomfortable. The air stale, tomblike.

He had died. He distinctly remembered the passing from the sleep-darkness to that other shade of black, the eternal night that had been beyond the power of words to describe. Now he was returned to this lighter darkness, and that was, in many ways, a relief.

He looked around uneasily, trying to get his bearings, but only darkness greeted his gaze. Where were the others? He could see or hear no one. What had happened and how long had he been dead?

Grundy tried to flex his muscles and discovered he could not move-bound tight. Both arms were lashed behind his back, and his feet were manacled with thick cables encircled his limbs and torso. They ranged from three to twelve centimeters in diameter and were attached to a great metal harness. The harness held him upright and his limbs motionless.

Rage grew inside of him. From deep within his great chest, a low, muffled growl built to a mighty defiant bellow. The sound that echoed back seemed to suggest that he was enclosed in a small place, a room with metal walls.

The creature began to thrash about wildly, and the bonds that held him began to creak and groan under the strain, but they held.

Impossibly they held.

His fists clenched, trembling, and he glared about at the dark, as if it had betrayed him. His face was the image of rage, malevolent and fearless and unyielding, the hated heart of will bent towards vengeance.

Grundy was dead and this was his coffin.

"But death needn't be the end," a voice said suddenly from the darkness, the tone oddly resonant, yet, commanding. It was the same voice that Grundy heard in that hellish arena, the one he heard just before the black-clad faceless creature force-fed him that abominable saline substance and mutilated his face with that horrendous mask of metalwork and screws; a mask that had been removed since then. That line of thought brought Grundy's thoughts to the man responsible for his predicament.

Luthor.

Solomon Grundy doubled his efforts then. He wanted so desperately to escape, to tear these walls asunder, bring down this loathsome fortress, and then wrap his hands around his treacherous leader's neck just before he destroyed those hellish creatures that resided here.

This was not death, but confinement. Much worse, it was solitary confinement. He desperately hoped it was only temporary.

The more he thought of Luthor's treachery, the angrier he became. He heard the sound of metal flexing, bending a half millimeter, but the bonds held and even the supernatural strength of undeath had its limits here.

"No...No...you mustn't do that," the voice said gently and sternly. "Anger at any one person or thing should be redirected a new person or thing, and be used to achieve control or dominance, or any goal one seeks."

Grundy stopped raging. His eyes moved from one side to the other. The voice, with its calm sincerity, had an immediate impact. Disobedience seemed an impossible response to that reasoned tone.

"Anger should not be an emotion that gradually arises again at each new justifiable cause, but should be held in the heart and nurtured, under control but sustained, so that the full power of it can be instantly tapped as necessary, whether or not there has been provocation."

The voice was insistent,"Cyrus Gold, listen to me, and heed well my words."

Solomon Grundy hissed and his eyes rolled in their sockets back and forth. That name...

"Listen to me," the voice repeated. "Cyrus, everything will pass. That which is dead can live again. This is the last day."

Cyrus Gold was dead.

He was Cyrus Gold.

He was dead.

No. He wasn't dead.

Grundy wasn't dead. He knew this, and yet the voice wanted him to think that. He remembered crime, blood on his hands, the metallic taste of a bitten coin on his teeth. He remembered old enemies, the thrill of crimes committed and riches taken from his merchant dealings.

But there were holes in his memory, he could not recall Gold's specific crimes.

But he remembered dying.

There were dark paths before him of broken stone and bleached bone, steps leading down into greater darkness where fires awaited him, and then he remembered living again, first hearing the sounds of slow water and serpentine life and then crawling from dark waters, rising from where he had sunk, finally raising himself above the water level where he had fallen on his face in the slime, slithering as a serpent.

And then he had gotten to his feet, now inhabiting another superhuman form, a form far, far more marvelous than the first with a skeleton of wood and clothed in pale, decaying flesh that was invulnerable and impossibly strong and undying. He went out into a world unprepared for one such as he; a ravaged humanlike thing emerging silently from shadow.

In those early days, that thing that was once Cyrus Gold had sought wealth, for he remembered its value to those mortal fools who cared more for money than anything, rarely realizing that the price paid in the end was greater than the gain. Yes, they enjoyed the day and night and not lived to see the dawn.

The Legion welcomed him.

The voice broke him out of his reprise. "Once it was the monolith that brought you back," the voice said and then paused. "And my power dwarfs that of the monolith."

Madness. The Monolith of Evil once destroyed the sun. Nothing could exceed its power.

"Nothing?"

Solomon Grundy shuddered. He knew he hadn't said it out loud. He was still, but his limbs still twitched nervously, and he only half-aware of straining against his bonds, their edges scouring the numb skin of his un-living flesh.

"One pinprick and this will be over, you'll be back and you will never fall into that void again," the voice replied with all the reassurance and affection that a caring parent gives to an afflicted child. "The grave has no power to my favored. Those that serve me."

Grundy found his rage then and roared. "I won't serve you!"

"Words spoken often," the voice replied calmly and insistently.

Solomon Grundy felt something then. It was indeed a pinprick; an hypodermic injection. though one sharp enough to pierce even his resilient flesh. Grundy wondered if the needle was made of the same alloy as his bonds.

He twitched.

Fluid flowed out of the syringe, into his veins, co-mingling with the languid, conagulated blood in them.

The unseen syringe withdrew from his arm.

And then there was pain.

Grundy stiffened, monstrous hands curled into tight fists, his teeth clenched, and his jaw muscles bulged. Between those clenched teeth, lips peeled back in a grimace of pain. He let out a strange, low groan. The arm into which he had been injected felt as though it were on fire.

"Luthor!" The words hurt his throat as though they were a language other than his own. He then turned his attention to the voice. "What...what have you done?"

"Improved upon the monolith's work," the Benefactor's voice said. "I told you that my power exceeds that of your rock of strength. Believe me, for I can tell no lies. Your conquering leader should have realized that."

He shivered more violently as the fiery fluid bled into his chest, and then through his body, scorching into his legs and pelvis, stomach and head, before delving into his brain.

His eyes snapped open and drew in a huge, shuddering breath.

Solomon Grundy stretched and heard and felt his wooden joints crackle as he loosened up. He felt stronger than he ever had before.

And starving for something fresh, red, and bloody.

Such hunger, he thought. In all the years, he had been in his unique state of existence, Solomon Grundy had never felt hunger, or thirst, or pain. He was dead, and powerful and monstrously invulnerable. Now he felt all those things magnified, but now he was hungry. He worked his mouth and swallowed continuously, involuntarily, hard, difficult swallows that caused him pain.

Rapid hunger.

Painful. Tearing at him.


Hunger...

The scarlet-clad man felt it now. He would have to eat again soon, but he ignored it and continued his endless marathon run. What he felt was nothing compared to those in need, those that needed the aid only he could provide.

Through war, famine, disease, and the corruption of man, most of the south and central African states had been reduced to wastelands of anarchy. Those who ruled, ruled by the power of the gun, and those with the guns controlled what food was grown or shipped in from other countries willing to share. Most starving people died where they fell, and within moments their twisted and shrunken bodies were stripped of what little they possessed. For many no medicine was available for the sick, no place for them to seek aid, and no way for any help to travel to them.

The world was a fiery blur to him now. The speed force was in his veins, feeding him power to dampen the gravitic fields around him whenever he used his great speed, allowing to move without ripping up everything around with the frictional energy of his body.

On his shoulders he carried the stacks of precious grain. The stockpiles of grain in the United States were massive, and none could resist this new active Justice League's demands. In time, the Flash and Superman and El Dorado would transport the precious topsoil from under the poles to blanket the world's deserts and everything would be that much closer to perfection - a utopia.

The League's orders were clear. The world's masses would be fed until those nations that were impoverished gained self-sufficiency. He felt none of the usual pain in his legs even running almost continuously for many days.

Strangely, though, he felt energized, as if the dynamism siphoned off his body was draining back into a vast energy supply somewhere else, from which it had come. He felt less and less connected to his body.

His powers seemed to be increasing, getting stronger. Instead of feeling fatigued, he felt energized. There were no doubts in his mind, only a relaxing dreamlike blur of purpose fulfilled.