VELOCITY
A Justice League Fan-Fiction by neomage
(DISCLAIMER: Justice League, Justice League Unlimited, and all characters therein are owned by DC Comics and the Warner Bros. animation studios.)
Chapter 11
Justice League Watchtower, 7:20 p.m.
CLANK!
The lights to the training room were switched on rather noisily, flooding the whole area in fluorescent white light. It was a rather large space, with numerous weights set in piles off to one corner, exercise mats spread out here and there, and various pieces of exercise equipment were carefully spaced apart from each other. There were treadmills, weight machines and exercise bicycles, and gymnast poles and rings hanging from the ceiling; along the walls, several staves were hung up.
Booster Gold and Dr. Light entered the room, altered a little for the purpose of their exercise. He was shirtless and minus his gauntlets, as well as carrying a towel and a water bottle; she was clad in a white monk-like robe and was barefoot. Skeets hovered in behind them. "Dr. Light, are you certain Booster will be able to manage your teaching?" it asked.
"What do your sensors indicate?" Dr. Light asked.
"Factoring in your Japanese heritage and the fact that martial arts masters from that country tend to be much stricter for the most part than elsewhere in the world, as well as Booster's stubborn nature…"
Booster growled a little, but held his tongue.
"…and also factoring in the limited time you have to instruct Booster, the chances of this training session actually succeeding may well be 35 percent," Skeets finished.
Dr. Light smirked. "Then I suppose we'll have to work with that 35 percent and hope for the best, won't we?"
"At least those are higher odds than what you gave me for actually beating Green Lantern…" Booster grumbled to Skeets.
"Now, then, Booster!" Dr. Light spoke up. "Let's head over to one of the training mats, shall we?"
"Yes, ma'am!" Booster was immediately attentive.
Skeets managed the equivalent of a chuckle. "Whipped…"
They headed over to one of the bigger training mats closest to the wall, where the space was considerably wide. Booster hung up his towel on the staff-rack and set his water bottle on the ground. "Okay, I'm ready," he announced.
"We will see," Dr. Light replied. "Now, at attention, Booster."
Booster complied, standing upright before her. Nodding, Dr. Light crossed her arms in front of her. "All right, then," she began. "You've already shown an aptitude for offense…but your defense isn't quite as sharp—and that's when I'm countering your attack. Let's see how it is when I'm attacking you head-on!"
Suddenly, she launched forward with a spinning left kick to the head. Somewhat unprepared, Booster managed to duck in time—but as Dr. Light spun around, she raised her right foot and brought it down heel-first onto Booster's shoulder, grounding him. "AGH!" Booster cried as his chin hit the mat.
"Whether the opponent's attacking speed is fast or slow," Dr. Light said coolly, "your reaction time must always be swift. Now, get up."
Booster raised himself on one knee—but as he started to rise, he felt a sudden hard kick to the chest that knocked him down again, this time on his back. "Hey!" he shouted.
"Too slow, Booster!" Dr. Light scolded him. "At this rate, your opponent would be able to pummel you fifty times before you could defend once! In combat, one should NEVER allow one's opponent to have any chance to strike—one's defenses must always be up and the senses aware! Now, get back up!"
Grimacing, Booster flipped back onto his feet—just in time to see Dr. Light coming at him fast, her right hand upraised in a chopping position. Immediately, Booster rolled to her right side, ending up a little bit behind her…but as he stood back up, he felt a sharp blow to the back of his neck that sent him tumbling face-first again. "Gyaa!" he cried out as he landed, hard.
"Let me tell you what your mistake was this time," said Dr. Light, turning to look at him. "You saw my upraised hand and immediately assumed I was going to chop at you by swinging my arm down. Never assume that there is only one way to attack with any given weapon, especially when that weapon is in the hands of a master."
"You treat your hand as a weapon?" Booster asked, somewhat doubtfully, even as he spun his body to face her and jumped back up.
Dr. Light nodded gravely. "Do not assume that weapons are only those things that can be equipped to one's person," she told him. "The most dangerous weapons a warrior can possess are the ones he has equipped from birth—namely, his hands, feet, body and brain. The hands and feet serve the same purpose as a sword and shield: to deliver attacks, and to block attacks from the opponent as necessary. The body serves as a kind of director for hand and foot attacks that you deliver—by shifting your body in one particular direction, for instance, you are better able to parry a strike coming at you from a certain angle. As for the brain, you will know that it sends signals to various parts of the human body so that one can act accordingly…without the brain to send the message to the legs, a person cannot walk; without the brain sending messages to the other internal organs, the heart cannot pump blood, the stomach cannot digest food, and the nervous system cannot detect pain."
"Uh-huh," Booster nodded, trying to get the information to sink in.
"There is another important thing to note regarding the natural weapons of the body," Dr. Light added. "Unlike a sword and shield, which are usually paired together but can also act as both offensive and defensive weapons independent of each other, the natural weapons cannot work out of coordination with each other. Without the body's positioning of proper angles, the hands and feet cannot deliver the proper amount of striking force, nor will they necessarily strike at the intended target. Without the hands and feet to defend, the body will become one big open target. And without the brain directing all of these, then…simply put, the fight is lost before any effort is even put in."
"Okay…" Booster nodded again.
"Hopefully you're a good listener," Dr. Light remarked. "I'm going to put that to the test right now! Let me see if you really were listening to anything I've said to you just now!" And with that, placing her arms in a battle-ready position, she charged at him again.
Narrowing his eyes as Dr. Light punched forward at his chest, Booster sidestepped a little to the left, and she missed completely. Dr. Light responded quickly, bringing her arm around in a backhand attack. Booster put up his right arm, blocking that attack—but as he glanced down momentarily, he caught sight of her free fist coming straight for his ribs! Uh-oh! Not good! his whole body seemed to scream to him.
On impulse, Booster bounced off the mat a little, jumping backwards and causing Dr. Light's incoming fist to miss entirely. In the same movement, though, Dr. Light forcefully raised her knee in yet another attack. Booster saw that one coming, but could do little more than raise his own leg to intercept it, causing her knee to slam right into his thigh. And then…the momentum of the blocked attack, coupled with the fact that Booster's feet were completely off the mat while Dr. Light was just managing to balance herself on the toes of one foot, caused both of them to tumble to the ground!
"Oof!" Booster grunted as he landed on his back on the mat.
"Aaaah!" Dr. Light cried out in the same moment, as she landed right on top of him.
For a long moment they just remained in that position, breathing deeply from the exertion of a few moments ago. Then Dr. Light, raising herself on her hands, looked down at Booster. "Well…it seems you were listening somewhat, after all," she noted. "But nobody gets a full lesson on the first tutoring. That had to have been beginner's luck."
Booster managed to shrug. "Maybe…but it was beginner's luck in my favor."
"Touché," and now Dr. Light smiled.
Booster smiled back—and only then did he notice the position they were in. "So, uh…you gonna get up anytime soon?" he queried.
Dr. Light blinked a full three times before she realized what he was talking about. "Oh! Uh…of course." And she hastily picked herself up, brushing herself off with a great show of dignity. "All right, then, Booster, get up! We still have work to do!"
"Right!" Booster swiftly got up as well.
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Elsewhere on the Watchtower…
Flash was in the sickbay, bare-chested and fidgeting while the medics flipped through X-ray shots and medical files. "So…?" he cocked an eyebrow at them.
"Well…we're just about finished here now, Flash," the head medic told him. "But from what the preliminary test results show, your body doesn't seem to have undergone any major change within the last few hours. In fact, the only abnormality we've been able to detect is your body metabolism…and we already know the status of that one, due to the nature of your powers."
Flash nodded in understanding. Ever since he'd first gotten his super-speed, his metabolism had shot up to such a high rate that he constantly had to eat large quantities of food just to keep his energy levels stabilized. "So everything's okay, then?" he asked.
"Yes, pretty much so," the medic answered.
"Well, well, Flash…Superman told me you'd be here."
Flash looked up at the sound of the familiar voice. "Oh, hey there, G.L. What's crackin'?"
"Nothing much, really. Just waiting around to settle a little matter with Booster Gold," Green Lantern replied.
"Booster? What, did you guys have a bet or something?" Flash wondered.
"Not exactly," Lantern admitted. "Guy's got a big inferiority complex. So, I offered to settle things with him down in the training room, once he's finished with his chores around the Watchtower."
"Heh…sounds fun," Flash chuckled. "Just don't be too hard on him, G.L. He's not such a bad guy."
"You can say that—the two of you are cut from the same cloth," Lantern scoffed. "The only real difference is, you have at least a tiny spark of maturity in you."
"Ha, ha," Flash grunted, the sarcasm dripping from his voice.
A brief moment of silence followed. Then Flash sighed. "Uh, listen…about what happened today down in Central City…what Hunter said…"
"Hunter? Oh, you mean the cop that was so against our getting involved in that fight at City Hall today…and the same cop who chewed us out after we beat the Thinker this morning…" Lantern raised an eyebrow. "Since when were you and he on a first-name basis?"
"Hey, c'mon now," Flash protested. "We happen to work at the same place, you know. And besides, it was his idea."
"Well, I don't trust him." Lantern's voice was stern. "I'm gonna let you know that from now. He doesn't strike me as the kind of guy you should be spending any sort of time with. Besides, what do you think he'll do if he finds out he's been working alongside a member of the Justice League all along? I know you've heard the kind of comments he's made about us."
Flash's eyebrows rose at that. "Would you give me some credit, at least? I'm not about to tell him that kind of info about myself!" he argued. "And besides that, sure, he doesn't like costumed people all that much, but he's not a bad cop! Except for that one little detail, he's a pretty swell guy!"
"Uh-huh…and how long have you known him to be able to make that value judgment?" Lantern challenged.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Flash demanded.
"There, see? My point exactly. You DON'T know the guy all that well." Lantern snorted.
"And you do?" Flash asked testily.
All this time the medics had been standing to one side, watching somewhat nervously as the two League members squabbled back and forth. "Um, gentlemen…maybe you'd like to take this elsewhere?" the head medic suggested. "This is the sickbay, after all. There are patients here who need their rest."
Lantern sighed. "It's fine. I'm done here anyway." And he turned on his heel and began to march out—then he paused at the doorway. "You're too trusting of this guy, man," he flung over his shoulder at Flash. "Just make sure that doesn't get you killed one day." And then with that, he was gone.
Flash scowled at the now-empty doorway. "Geez…"
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Blacksmith Corporation, Central City, 7:35 p.m.
The gigantic corporation building was located close to the center of Central City's downtown complex. Standing a little distance apart from the other buildings in the complex, it stood approximately twenty-five stories tall and boasted an entrance to an underground parking lot. On the face of the building, printed out in big silver letters, was the word BLACKSMITH, in full caps. Underneath that, in somewhat smaller print but still in full caps, was the word CORPORATION. Compared to the other buildings nearby, this one seemed to touch the moon itself as it shone over Central City, so majestic it seemed.
On the twenty-fifth story, Amunet Black looked out her office window at the streets below. Her office was an impressive one: sea-green carpet all around the floor, pale tiled walls and ceiling, exotic-looking plants set in pots at each corner of the room, and a big cedar-cut desk on which papers and books were neatly stacked. On the walls some very beautiful paintings were hung; a large couch stood by one wall; and from the ceiling a giant fluorescent bulb shone, illuminating every single thing.
"Such a wondrous sight," Ms. Black sighed, taking in the view of Central City from her vantage point. "So beautiful, indeed…"
Just then there was a knock at the door. "Enter!" she called, without turning from the window.
A moment later the door opened, and standing there was a handsome young man dressed in butler's attire. "My apologies for disturbing you, milady," he spoke in a respectful voice. "The preparations have just been completed. The Protector equipment will be transported to the Central City Police Department first thing tomorrow morning. Also, the Mayor's office just called—she is inviting you to lunch with her at the Goût Bienfaisant. Reservations have already been made for 12:30 tomorrow."
Then his voice took a low tone. "And, on a more low-key note, milady…"
At that Ms. Black turned her head slightly. "Yes?"
The butler nodded meaningfully. "Our technicians have just completed the 'Razer' prototype, with all the specifications you emphasized. The expert who will be giving the field test is booked to arrive on the 8:00 flight tonight."
"I see…" Ms. Black nodded. "And the clients?"
"They are currently on standby with the payment," the butler answered. "The arrangements have already been made to have the funds wired into a dummy account…all that will be required from there is your go-ahead, milady."
Ms. Black nodded again. "Very well, then. Have the technicians perform one final series of checks on the prototype, to eliminate all possible flaws that may be present. Also, ensure that the room for our…guest…is ready for when he arrives. And call back all the clients and assure them that they will certainly see the merchandise in action tomorrow…and that they will by no means be disappointed."
"Understood." The butler bowed slightly but respectfully. "Will that be all, milady?"
"Yes, thank you." Ms. Black then frowned. "No—on second thought, there is one other thing I would ask of you. Have the chef prepare a meal for me and for our guest. Lamb, medium-rare…a Greek salad…mashed potatoes…white rice with red beans…and a bottle of '94 red wine."
"Understood, milady," and the butler bowed again. "I shall inform the chef at once." And then he turned and headed out the door, leaving Ms. Black to stare out the window once again with a slight smirk on her face.
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Central City Police Department, 7:40 p.m.
Hunter sat at his desk in his office, his cane leaning on the wall nearby. Piles of paperwork lay in front of him; close by on the desk were a cup of coffee and a bag of sweets. Somewhat absently, he reached into the bag and pulled out a cinnamon roll, covered with icy frosting. Biting into the treat, he glanced down at the sheet of paper in his other hand.
Subject name: MICHAEL AMAR. Alias(es): MURMUR. Past occupation(s): SURGEON. Current status: INCARCERATED IN IRON HEIGHTS PENITENTIARY.
His eyes narrowed as he read on. Criminally and psychologically insane. Was responsible for numerous serial murders throughout Central and Keystone Cities. All victims of subject's crimes were found heavily mutilated. Strongly recommended to keep in isolation, with as minimal contact as possible.
Mechanically, Hunter dipped the roll into his coffee and bit it. Chewing slowly, he scowled as he read through the file again. "Just like back then," he muttered. "Just like when HE was committing his crimes…"
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"Put the gun down!" the policeman ordered, even as his own gun was pointed right at the man standing on the doorstep. "Don't make us have to shoot you!"
Standing off to one side, Hunter looked from the police squad to their target and back again. The other person in question was clad in a yellow raincoat, even though it wasn't raining outside, and underneath that he wore a white shirt and blue jeans, both stained crimson. On his face he wore a sinister black mask. "You'll never take me alive!" the man roared, raising his gun.
"NO!" Hunter heard himself scream, even as the cops' guns began blazing…
----------
Tossing the file to one side, Hunter pushed the rest of the cinnamon roll into his mouth. Dutifully chewing, he reached for another file and leafed through it. And as he read this one, he reached for his coffee and took a few sips. And as he read, his scowl became even darker than before.
Subject name: JAMES JESSE. Alias(es): THE TRICKSTER. Past occupation(s): CIRCUS PERFORMER. Current status: INMATE OF KEYSTONE MENTAL HOME. Moderately imbalanced. Suffers frequent delusions of super-villainy. Possesses a child-like mentality interspersed with general knowledge. Appears aware of psychoses on occasion; seeks treatment if encouraged. Chances of adaptation to normal life are fair, good with continued therapy.
Hunter's grip on the coffee cup tightened as he read this one. "They honestly think this guy can be integrated back into society?" he growled. "He's just faking it all…like HE did…"
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Hunter was sitting on the ground near two fallen bodies, both covered in white sheets. Ruefully, he glanced down at a photo in his hand—that of a man in clown makeup. Standing to one side, even as the paramedics did their work, he caught sight of a few others, all glaring at him.
"I didn't know," he said softly. "I swear, I didn't know…"
But that wasn't enough to stop the people in question from turning their backs on him. And as he looked at this action in dismay, he reached forward for them—and flinched as a sharp pain shot through one of his legs. And the photo slipped from his fingers…and fluttered onto the covered face of one of the fallen bodies…
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"Costumed freaks," Hunter growled. "It's always the costumed freaks…they always wreck everything…always get away with ruining everything…"
His eye suddenly seemed to catch something on the other side of the room. Setting his coffee and the file down on the desk, he reached for his cane and then gingerly stood up. He hobbled over to the far wall, his gaze all the while never leaving the thing he was looking at. And then…he found himself face-to-face with the item in question, and an even uglier snarl than before found its way onto his mouth.
And yet everybody's so ready to trust these menaces…and especially THIS one…
Right there on the wall was a clipping from the local newspaper, the Central City Chronicle, with the big bold headline: Flash Museum Opens Tomorrow! Below that caption was a photo of a grinning Flash, with his eponymous museum in the background blaring the lightning bolt logo. Hunter stared…and stared…and stared…and the longer he stared, the bigger the vein bulged in his forehead.
"You think you're better than us, huh?" he growled at the picture. "What makes you so great, huh? What makes you so great that you deserve your own museum? What makes you better than any of us, you pest? Huh?"
His grip on his cane tightened some more as he continued to talk to the picture, as though it could hear and respond to him. "Trying to steal our thunder, are you? Trying to make yourself look good and us look useless…who do you think you are, eh? A god? Well, guess what, punk? You might have everybody else in Central City fooled…but you can't fool ME!"
With that he pulled his free hand back and clenched it into a fist—and slammed that fist against Flash's picture with a solid THUMP as it hit the wall. "Just you wait, you freak…just you wait…" Hunter whispered, his breathing now raspy. "One of these days…I'll find out who you really are…and what you're really planning…and then I'm going to expose you to everyone as the sham and the fraud you truly are! And then…I hope I get to be the one to slap the cuffs on you!"
A sudden loud knocking at his office door caught his attention. "Yes?" he barked, straightening himself up.
The door then opened, revealing a puzzled Morillo. "Hey, Zolomon, you all right?" he queried. "I thought I heard banging, or something…"
Hunter shook his head. "No…no, it's nothing," he told the other officer. "I was just going to retrieve something over here, and I nearly slipped. That's all."
"Oh…" Morillo shrugged. Then his eyes roved over to the bag of treats on Hunter's desk. "Say, uh, you don't mind if I help myself to your sweets there?"
"No, help yourself," Hunter invited.
Nodding, Morillo walked over to the desk and reached into the bag, pulling out a big fat donut. As he did, he glanced at the files Hunter had been looking at. "Geez, man, you're scaring me with your obsession over these guys," he jokingly remarked.
Hunter shrugged. "It's what I do. I'm the meta-human profiler, after all."
"Well, just make sure you don't lose any sleep over it. Even coffee can only do so much, you know." Morillo turned and headed for the door. "Well, I'm going home. See you tomorrow, Zolomon."
"Sure, sure," Hunter waved him off.
Morillo began munching on the donut, closing the door behind him as he left. Alone again, Hunter's look darkened. "You have NO idea how much I've lost over these kinds of punks…so much more than sleep…" he whispered ominously.
CHAPTER 11 COMPLETE! CHAPTER 12 COMING UP!