The news of the Toyman robots in New York spread quickly across the Eastern seaboard. In suburban neighborhoods, school children who had been enjoying their half-day had expected to come home to turn on their televisions to watch reruns of animated recreations of the world's most famous heroes and their exploits. Now they had to settle for the real thing.
Every channel was now saying the same thing, the same emergency message:
"The Legion of Doom has returned. The Super Friends have been alerted to this new threat and will respond immediately. Stay in your homes or places of business. Do not travel to see relatives or loved ones. Stay by your televisions or radios to await further instructions as this crisis resolves."
While the populace gathered around the glow of their televisions within the Hall of Justice, the Man of Steel made his final preparations. Barry and Arthur had left a few seconds before, speeding away in a crimson haze, leaving the others to go about their assigned tasks.
Clark stepped on a lighted panel in the floor, activating a counterweight beneath it. With that action a circuit was completed and up above a chute in the ceiling of the meeting hall revealed itself, opening the way to the Hall's roof.
"Are we ready?" Clark asked.
The Apache stepped forward and nodded. In a blur of motion produced by a bout of super-speed, Clark quickly wrapped Apache Chief in his red cape, picked the man up in his arms as he would an infant, and flew with him upwards through the specifically-designed chute to the roof beyond; the unique thermal properties of the cape acting to protect his passenger from windshear and cold that was produced by his flight long enough for them to reach Manhattan.
In the Meeting room there was a chute for every member of the Justice League that could fly. As Clark flew through his, he was greeted by the warm, bright glow of the large solar panels lining the walls of the shaft. To anyone else the shaft would be nothing more than an elaborate tanning booth, but to Clark the solar radiation emitted by the panels was the very life's blood of his powers. Flying through it, the amplified rays invigorated him, charging up his cells and giving Clark a lasting boost to his already considerable abilities.
Today he would need all the help he could get.
Diana watched them leave.
Whenever Clark was out of the Hall it seemed to Diana that her perceptions of her surroundings underwent a subtle alteration. Lights seemed brighter and harder, and the ordinary and odd comforting sounds of their headquarters acquired a new and unfamiliar edge.
To distract herself she turned back to the monitors, and the situation developing on them.
She had of course, met several of her gods, several times over, even fought against and beside them. This was often when they put on their best Olympian pose. What some called legends and myths were history to Diana, and that history revealed that this pose hid some very unsavory behavior, replete with pettiness often done with that worst of all excuses: because they could.
Once, when Diana and her mother had pulled duty at the gates of Tartarus underneath their island home, where the gods' gaze and listening ears were not in play, the Amazon Queen had half-joked: "The stories are all true, and they are not even half the truth of how low they can sink when the mood strikes them. Medusa was simply the most blatantly epic of their targets, and she still rose in her madness to become like unto that wretched clown you told me of, in regards to the realms we tread in. As for the gods, my daughter, they are rapacious, insatiable, fickle beyond knowing, utterly uncaring for all but the most perfect of their mortal offspring...and those are just the women."
That hideous duty was a draining one, and so her mother's humor provided a break from the knowledge that soul-sucking horrors lay just behind a seemingly simple stone wall that by rights should have given no more pause to those primordial horrors than the wooden gate on Skull Island had held back the Mighty Kong.
Yet being of a different tradition, Diana, when watching that old film at Bruce Wayne's private theater one Halloween, had not been so much frightened as astounded at the artisanship that made that ape seem real on-screen, and how much the tale resembled a dozen fables she had known almost from when she was formed.
Man's world still knew of the gods, but it had none. Not like she had them. That is, until, she first met him. That first adventure, when those exterrestrials had them all transmogrified, nearly petrified forever, ended with his appearance. Here was a god for their age, she thought.
But while there were gods of the hearth, and those of the harvest, and those of the sun, this one was born of the farm, his edges rounded by unavoidable loss, and as much of the people as he was above them. This god ran in the pantheon of Washington, Lincoln, Bunyan, Appleseed, and all the others lathered up by folk-tales and spun new from whole cloth.
Two of her comrades from her first foray into Man's World so many decades back had shown up to offer aid in one mission. One was a bearded old man who literally embodied the rough-hewn country that measured its life in two meager centuries, rather than millennia. The other was the half-dead angel of judgment that Zeus himself addressed as a peer. When Diana had asked why they had made themselves strangers of late, they merely glanced at Clark and said in unison: "Because we are not needed right now."
Just listening to Clark tell his story, she heard the creation myths resound over and over, and grew misty. She glanced over at another woman hearing this, and both smiled smiles so schoolgirl their faces grew rapidly red. Tellingly, this other woman, though a noted reporter herself, kept this confidential. This woman had been less successful in keeping her feelings for him a secret. Then again, maybe she didn't need to. This lady, often as noted for falling as Diana was for flying, had beaten the Amazon champion without even half-trying.
So she kept things to herself. He was just a comrade, just a Super-Friend, just another god she fought beside, and if one of them was brainwashed, against.
Thankfully, there was plenty happening on the monitors to make that lie seem almost real. But monitors, especially a whole bank of them, can only relay what is looked upon. A pair of ordinary eyes, though warrior-sharpened, can miss something vital if it is not recognized as such. So can a pair of eyes for whose owner X-Ray vision is as a parlor trick.
The best trick must be performed correctly, of course, or else the trick is on the performer.
In mere seconds, Clark was out of sight of the Hall of Justice, weaving between the gleaming skyscrapers of Metropolis. Another second and he was oriented to the north-east, and then he was a blue bolt, streaking across its skyline in a precise trajectory. To some people, the ability to fly without visible propulsion was less mysterious than the means by which the person in flight charted his destination. This ability of Clark's to circumnavigate the globe was still unknown, though Dr. Emil Hamilton had once speculated that certain ions in Clark's brain aligned with the Earth's electromagnetic field, much like a compass did. To Clark himself, it was far simpler. It seemed that he had only to visualize a place, and he just knew how to get there. Clark didn't question this or any of his other powers. He was simply glad that he had them and that he could use them to travel where and when he was needed most. If he hadn't been born with the ability to fly, he would have used the strength in his legs to leap there if need be.
In a few more seconds of flight he had already crossed the miles separating Metropolis and the eastern seaboard, faster than any commercial jet, and as he flew, Clark reflected on just how little he knew about this particular iteration of Toyman.
Jack Nimball, the second man who used the title, had originally come seemingly from nowhere. Clark didn't know much about Nimball other than his real name that had just recently been unearthed through Bruce's fact-finding missions. He just showed up at the Metropolis airport one day, dressed in that ridiculous, bright yellow and black jester's costume, and began shrinking planes to convert them into toys. Clark happened to be at the airport, doing a story and had managed to chase him, but failed to capture him. He did succeed in capturing the device that Nimball used to shrink the plane, and a quick X-ray scan revealed that the shrinking ray was derived from the technology utilized by Brainiac. A week later Jack Nimball reappeared, having joined with the newly formed Legion of Doom, along with other old foes of Clark and his friends - all led by Luthor of all people. He wouldn't put it past Luthor to have somehow manipulated the events that led to the creation of a second Toyman. It wouldn't be hard: simply find a talented toymaker with an infantile mindset, arm him with exotic, alien technologies, dress him in a jester's costume, and christen him Toyman the Second. 'Here, Nimball. You're one of the villains now,' Luthor might have easily been heard to say.
If this had been Winslow Schott, things would be different. He knew all about Schott, from the day he first called himself that particular appellation, knew his round face, blond hair, portly figure, blue eyes that should be merry but were always downcast and dark-ringed. For a time Schott had been almost as persistent and tenacious a nemesis as Luthor himself, always conducting elaborate schemes involving modified toys. He took what was beautiful and delightful about them and turned those things into warped versions to procure the wealth of others for himself. All until one day when Schott seemed to wary of the constant defeats and retired, choosing to become a legitimate toy manufacturer. He started his own company, employing over thirty people, and for a time, it had appear that Schott was truly repentant and reformed. Everything seemed completely on the up and up. Schott had arranged all the necessary paper work, permits and paid all utilities, bills and taxes for his new company on time. He paid his employees great wages and seem to genuinely care about them. All of which changed when Nimball came onto the world scene, claiming Schott's legacy and title for himself.
Jealousy could be a hideous thing, made even worse when the sufferer was also certifiably insane. When capable of building mechanical toys of mass destruction, the results would be devastating…even murderous.
He heard from Colonel Wilcox's sources that Schott had undergone a complete change in personality at the news that a man using his old title and methods was at large. Schott's madness had started long before he met Clark, and had simply come to a head then, like a dam under pressure requiring only a small crack to undo it all.
Testimonies from his former employees at his toy company said that they had witnessed a new manic glint in his eyes, and he kept repeating to himself a certain phrase "Catch him...kill him…" He had locked himself in his personal workshop in the company's basement and wouldn't come out for days.
Soon after news of Schott's complete mental collapse was made public, Clark was informed that the clandestine agents of the SDI had swooped down on him before he could become a danger to anyone. His workshop had been filled with all sorts of new toys incorporating blades, bits of glass, explosive bursts and deadly poisons. He also had a color picture of Jack Nimball as the second Toyman on a dartboard on his wall; it was so covered with tiny holes that it had become almost unrecognizable.
Clark never saw Schott again after his arrest, but was informed by Wilcox that he was receiving the best psychiatric care available at a certain SDI facility.
Clark believed that if he hadn't been caught in time, he might have made good on his threat and Nimball would be murdered by his predecessor. The downside, of course, was that Nimball had been free to enjoy a good decade of villainy and depraved antics with his membership in the Legion of Doom, just like the situation occurring in New York to which he was now flying to stop.
But from deep within him, there was a small, dark voice, nestled deep in the back of Clark mind whispered a thought: It would been better had only Nimball died, if only nothing had been done…
"No," Clark whispered, banishing the wicked thought even as it emerged. Clark opened his eyes wide, shocked that he would think such things, even for the merest moment. "Death is something that no one deserves, not even someone like Nimball. Whatever he has done, or will do, he's still a man, and that's got to count for something."
"Yes," the voice of Apache Chief said from beneath Clark's cape. "I agree."
"Sorry, Apache Chief," Clark apologized. "I didn't mean to speak aloud."
"That is alright," the Apache said. "To speak aloud is good. Thoughts, like precious treasure, were meant to be shared by one's friends. Not locked away."
Clark smiled. "You're quiet most of the time. But when you do speak, it always seems you know exactly what to say when it's most needed."
"Let us stop him once and for all, Superman. They have all been given enough time to see the wrongs that they have done."
"We will, Apache Chief," Clark told him. "That is a promise."
A thick layer of clouds hung before him, and Clark sped through them. Past them he could see the Hudson river, and finally the city and its boroughs beyond. What caught his eye was the gleaming curvature of the domed habitat in the harbor; the first of its kind and also the most ahead in construction and completion. It was just yesterday that he had been there, giving Colonel Wilcox a guided tour of its facilities. Seeing it now, Clark felt pride in its presence and function, while at the same time hoping that it would never be needed. Only time would tell.
Clark flew onward, wishing that he could leave his doubts behind, but he knew that he could not. Perhaps it was a symptom of his past, having so narrowly escaped destruction that he would always carry that sliver of a shadow within his soul, bringing its lingering darkness to his thoughts.
Grand Central Terminal, Manhattan.
Nearly a million people used the station every day. At the time of the Toymen's arrival, there were still at least twenty thousand inside that had not yet been evacuated, or were in trains that had been stalled, or had been about to leave when the emergency had been announced.
Several dozen members of the NYPD, Precinct Seventeen, had assembled a road block consisting of squad-cars on the Park Avenue viaduct, just above Pershing square. Behind the barricade the impetuous bronze image of Cornelius Vanderbilt rose before the immense limestone facade of the south end of Grand Central Terminal upon its raised granite pedestal.
All present had their weapons and equipment out: shotguns and service pistols, all trained to the south where the golden gleam of the robots were making their advance towards them. They were only a few dozen yards from the station and a hundred yards or more from the approaching machines. It had only been a minute so since they proceeded down 39th, and turned onto Park Avenue. They moved slowly, with ponderous steps. Being fifty feet tall they didn't need speed, only enormous strides taken to cover the distance. Every step made reverberations through the viaduct and an cacophony of twisted metal as one of those ponderous steps landed on one of the many abandoned yellow and black taxis left on the street. The slow advance gave the machines an aura of inexorability, like the gradual movement of a hurricane before it deluged a populated area.
National Guardsmen from Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn had been alerted and deployed, but it would still take them at least another fifteen minutes to get there. It was now up to these few daring officers to attempt to slow the advance of the marching robots.
Police-captain Arthur Hall squinted at the approaching titans from behind his squad car. While the sight was alarming, Arthur Hall had seen far worse in his twenty-two years of service. Nothing like the day when the sun went out in New York, followed by that giant ice monster. Just giant toys. That's all they are. Easy-peasy. Just think of them as toys, and this will go a little easier.
He personally insisted on leading the squads sent to this place of confrontation after they had gotten the call. All available units were to arrive at the scene. It had been just a few minutes since the word came over the radio, but luckily there had been enough officers on patrol to make up this sizable barricade. Not in any hope of blocking the advance of the fifty-foot robots, but rather to make a stand, buying the passengers and transients of the Terminal more time to evacuate.
The concrete and asphalt cracked with every step they took. It was a wonder that the viaduct could support their weight at all, and the way they were walking it seemed that Grand Central was indeed their intended destination. The exact reason for it Hall couldn't fathom, but knowing Toyman, Hall had an inkling that he wanted to turn it into the world's largest train set.
He gripped the bullhorn in a steady hand, unflinching, putting on a brave front. In a moment, he would use it. Hall could tell by the faces of his men what they were feeling: bleak desperation. The troopers were not cowards, by any means. All of them were hardened New York coppers, trained to handle a variety of situations, but faced with a threat such as this there could be only one thought in all their heads: 'What are we doing here? We don't stand a chance of even slowing them down, let alone keeping them at bay.'
He raised the bullhorn, and yelled into it. "Let 'em have it!"
They did so, with everything they had. The men raised their weapons and fired. For a twenty seconds, there was nothing except the rapid fire of service pistols, combined with the sounds of shotguns firing. Gas grenades were launched at the Toymen's feet, sending up clouds of tear gas and smoke. Again and again they fired, the smell of powder filling the air.
The golden titans strode forward undeterred and unintimidated, the barrage of bullets doing little except produce incandescent sparks on their golden surfaces. Pretty to look at, but ultimately ineffective.
As another abandoned Taxi was flattened into scrap metal by the foot of the lead Toyman, Arthur Hall's chief deputy Simon Jansen said, "We might have as well be using peashooters for all the good this is doing."
"Thought you'd say that," Hall said as he walked to the trunk of his squad-car. Opening the lid, he pulled out something concealed in a black, leather duffel bag. "Which is why I brought this."
Returning to where he had been previously standing, Hall unzipped the bag and pulled out a long, cylindrical object fitted with a sight and two rubber grips.
"Tell me that's not what I think it is," Jensen said.
Hall gave the object an affectionate pat and smiled at Jensen.
"You kept it? the deputy asked.
"Yep," Hall replied.
"You didn't check it into evidence?"
"Nope," Hall said. "Been in the trunk ever since I took it from the Shadow Gang."
"Captain…" Jansen said."That's a Model Two Directed Particle-Wave projector."
Such weapons were highly experimental, rare, terribly expensive, and most of all, illegal. The high cost was due to their compact size, the cost of materials involved in building the miniaturized energy clip. Each weapon usually had to be custom-built, usually by dozens of scientifically-minded individuals putting years into each one. As such, any criminal who happened to their hands on one gained an instant rise in notoriety.
"Let's call it what it is," Hall replied. "An energy bazooka. Be sure to write me up later."
He hefted it to his shoulder, brought the targeting scope to his eye. Through the magnifying lens he could see the harlequins more clearly. Coated in gold they were, and scored with silver filigrees and bronze rivets. Fist-sized gems outlined delicate swirls across the torso, shoulders, and pelvis: there were red crystals that looked like rubies, azure stones that could have been sapphires, other types described patterns on the arms and legs - as fine a work as any Russian Faberge egg. If not for their size and apparent threat, one could easily mistake them for the things of whimsy that they were made to resemble. Perhaps giant nutcrackers or intricately wrought marionettes built specifically to adorn the playroom of the pampered daughter of some fabulously wealthy family with far too much disposable income.
If this works, then maybe, just maybe I'll finally be able to get my wife that replacement diamond for her engagement ring that she wanted. Hall thought. The one I lost.
"Try to aim for the legs, Captain." Jensen yelled."Bring it down!"
The muzzle of the weapon glowed ominously with a faint yellow hue. A second later, a mass of yellow energy rocketed from the weapon, heating up the surrounding air by a few degrees as it discharged. Like a bright comet, the trail of energy sped across the distance towards its target.
It happened so quickly: one moment the Toyman robot's right foot was in front, the next it was enveloped by the burst of yellow energy.
The Shadow Gang had used the weapon to get through bank vaults in their capers, and seeing it in action, anyone could see why. The particle beam seemed to just make things disappear.
There was a sound, and the foot of the robot was completely missing just below the robot's ankle. Gone. Disintegrated by the energy released by the projector. Down one foot, the crippled robot wavered, its arms extended as it lost its equilibrium and plunged forward.
Like the demolition of a building, it hit the ground face first, producing a deafening boom of impact. It shattered a side of the viaduct, crushing more of the taxis. Debris flew in all directions for dozens of feet, and a mushrooming puff of dust and smoke rose where it fell. The procession of the other robots stopped immediately, as though hesitant at this new development.
Just as they half-expected it to get up and rise, Hall noticed a movement around the area where the robot fell. At first he thought it was just the debris cloud caused by the disturbance, but then saw that it was billowing up from the robot itself. It was like a grayish mist, like tule fog on a cold morning in the countryside, rising rapidly in jet streams. Had the robot's fall ruptured a gas main? He doubted it.
The other robots responded immediately. As one they ceased walking, ceased any motion at all. More of the dense gray vapor was issuing from vents on their sides, as well as the gaps in the machines' joints.
"Gas!" Hall called out. "Masks out," he ordered.
The men complied, quickly and with not a little panic in their movements.
"Captain, I can't get my mask on." Jensen said, panic in his voice. He held up his mask, which Hall could see had a long split marring its surface. "I think it's broken! Darnit, I think it's broken."
"Use mine," Hall said, running up to him and shoving it in his direction.
"But Captain, I -"
"Do it!" Hall pushed the mask to his deputy's face just as the cloud of vapor rolled over them.
Hall coughed involuntarily. At the vapor's touch he could feel his skin breaking out into boils, his lungs turning liquid as the harmful gas entered his mucus membranes. Any moment now he would begin to vomit, and he would drown in it as his nervous system burned out in a spectacular and painful display….
...Any...moment...now…?
Wait… he thought. No. It's not doing anything.
He opened his eyes, coughed to clear his throat and tentatively took a small breath. The gas had a slight mineral smell, but not choking nor unpleasant to breathe.
"It's just steam," Hall said with great relief. "It's...just air and water. Fog." It almost made him laugh.
While not poisonous, the vapor quickly made it difficult for Arthur Hall and the others to see; the street and buildings surrounding the viaduct were soon covered in drifting clouds of the steam. With the fog came a sense of forbidding, more than the feeling that came when the robots first arrived. It was as though the vapor were a magical solvent dissolving the city's familiar structures from sight, along with the sun and sky.
Hall brushed away such thoughts, attributing them to the current circumstances, the lack of clear vision, working together to assault his imagination.
For a moment, there was silence. Only the sound that the officers made; their breath behind the masks ragged, nervous.
It was then that the assembled officers heard a new noise. At first it sounded like a metallic scream, but then the sound came again, and Hall realized that it was not any kind of vocalization sound; like a rusted sliding metal door being opened and shut. The ghost, echoing quality made it apparent that it was close, almost within arm's reach.
Something flickered in his vision, a glimpse of something huge and dark was moving in the mist. Hall peered at the spot directly ahead where the movement had come. Perhaps it was his imagination again? There was nothing, just the patterns made by the swirling of the vapor.
Then the viaduct shook beneath their feet with the force of some immense weight being moved. He looked again, and saw the shape more clearly: a bunched bulk with five yellow extremities coming off of a black center. It was difficult to tell its size, his vision impaired by the surrounding layers of mist, but it was definitely bigger than the police car.
Arthur Hall's mouth opened in astonishment and fear, but he could make no sound.
The shadow was the robot's hand, extending and flexing as though eager for contact. The colossus, crippled by the loss of its foot, had instead crawled through the use of its hands, like a wounded soldier in a trench. He could hear the whine of its servos and the pumping of its hydraulics as the hand flexed its fingers, the immense scraping of metal on concrete and asphalt as the strength of those fingers carved furrows into the pavement as the dragging continued.
The hand loomed before his vision, mere yards from the first of the police vehicles, its five fingers spread out, reached out… searched… attempting to grasp...then crush. He knew that the head and the rest of the body was beyond, but all he could see was that enormous hand reaching forward. One more lunge and the hand would come forward and land on the police car and anyone near it. Two of the officers broke ranks at the sight of the enormous hand as the robot bore down on them. Hall was tempted to join them, but instead he raised the bazooka for one more shot.
Arthur stopped, hesitated. He turned the weapon over, seeing that the level monitors lining its side were still in orange warm-up mode. Having never used it before, it was impossible for Hall to guess how long it was going to take for it to reach full power. He guessed that that wave readings were on their way to a steady buildup, but it was clearly going to take a while.
He decided to risk it anyway. Hall's finger gripped the trigger, and the now familiar vibration of energy build-up followed, but over that sound was another less familiar one, a hissing coming from somewhere overhead. Whatever was making it was far up in the mist and concealed by it. Hal looked up in its direction and caught a brief distortion in the misty air, almost like rays of sunlight cascading through a glass window in the afternoon, lasting only an instant before disappearing.
Abruptly, the metal hand ceased its advance, the appendage unfolded, toppled over, and remained still, like the remains of some enormous crab that had died on a beach. Hall could smell the stench of burnt metal on the foggy air, coming from the appendage. Lowering the energy bazooka, he saw that the spherical ball-joint socket of the wrist had instead become two hemispheres. It was cut completely down the center, the sides glowing red-hot and cut completely smooth; the hand severed with a surgeon's precision.
Then there was what initially felt like a very strong breeze, rising up completely unexpectedly. The fog was churned by the wind's force, eddying, losing its consistency before finally receding at the same rate that it had spread.
The remainder of the damaged robot was revealed, crawling face-down like a soldier injured in battle; the enormous bells in its cap dragged pathetically, its electric-blue eyes fixed forward, its shattered jaw hanging slack in an idiot grin.
What was also clear was that the wind-rush had been no breeze, but rather a breath, almost like the breath a child gave when they blew out the candles on a birthday cake after a wish was made, except this breath came from the most powerful lungs in the universe.
Instantly the haze of steam lifted and cleared, revealing the eleven remaining robots standing so very close to the terminal now. With the lifting of the fog, they had ceased producing any more of the vapor, as though they realized that it was no longer needed. They shone in the sun in their assembled ranks, waiting without moving an inch, staring straight ahead. There was tension in their stillness that Hall couldn't quite explain, a menacing air.
He floated in the sky, blue costume as bright as the sky, red cape flowing from his shoulders that been lifted by a stray breeze like paired wings, the pentagonal shield protecting his chest emblazoned with the gold and crimson S symbol, the yellow of it seemingly blazing with the brilliance of the noonday sun.
A hundred feet below him, the assembled policemen stared up, just staring, held in awe by this figure of legend, this champion of virtue and right. Their silence was broken when one of them gave a cheer, one that was caught up by the others, an applause soon followed. The officers yelled his name.
Gracefully, the Man of Steel descended to the barricade. He held out a hand to Arthur Hall, who took it.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"Superman," Hall said, somewhat gruffly. "About time you showed up."
"Hold this line, Captain. Concentrate on getting those civilians inside out of here. Leave the rest to us. We'll take care of this."
Without another word to them, Superman shot up above, and then floated at eye-level with the next robot at the head of the procession. His arms were crossed in a posture similar to a parent disciplining an unruly child.
Just a second before Clark had set his friend down and retrieved his cape, attaching to clasps on his collar in one motion. He nodded to him now, and motioned for him to wait. Not just yet, he silently mouthed.
"Nimbal," Clark called out. "It is Jack Nimbal, isn't it?" He tried to keep his voice and tone even.
The eyes of the lead robot gave no recognition. It simply stared back at him, silent, the idiotic grin giving the impression that it found amusement in everything Clark said.
"If you built any form of receiver in these robots of yours, then I hope that you can hear me because I will only say this once. You will stop this immediately. You will give the order to deactivate them, push a button, turn a dial or do whatever that is required to turn them off. You're scaring people, and that will no longer be tolerated. The rest of the Justice League and I have no more time for your games anymore. This endless cycle that the Legion perpetrates will end today, one way or another."
Clark uncrossed his arms, and spread his hands outward, palms up.
"If you don't comply, I will be forced to demolish all your hard work. You know what comes next when I'm done with that. I'll find you, and Luthor, and all the rest of the Legion of Doom. All I need do is focus on the precise radio frequency and I'll be able to locate where your central control is. And when I do, I'll put you away...but it won't be the toy box. It will be prison, Nimball. Prison." Clark emphasized the last word.
He then paused, taking a deep breath before finishing. "And for some reason I don't think you're quite ready for a place like that."
Silence followed. No response.
"Well?"
The action was sudden and immediate. One instant, the lead robot's right arm was at its side, the very next it swung forward in a wide swipe, telescoping as it did to reach from the fair distance between them.
The hand caught Clark by surprise and swatted him away like a bothersome insect. The force of the robot's blow didn't hurt him, but it succeeded in knocking Clark back in the direction of the Terminal. Uncontrollably he flew over the barricade and was on collision course with the Terminal's south facade.
Clark turned his head around just in time to see himself speeding towards impact with the trinity of stone deities of Hercules, Mercury and Minerva that surmounted the Terminal's clock, erected nearly fifty feet high above the street. Dimly he perceived the hands being set at a half past noon. In another second he would impact with Jules-Felix Coutan's landmark, and shatter it with the impact of his invulnerable form.
Now or never.
A split-second decision changed his trajectory, curving upward to avoid impact with the hundred-year old monument.
Wew, Clark thought. Wonder-Woman would never forgive me if I destroyed an image of her beloved Minerva.
Clark curved around, was speeding toward the robot that had struck him, his right hand pulled into a raised fist.
"Have it your way then."
With his arm extended and flying as swift and as hard as a living projectile, Clark rammed through the front of the robot, and its back bulged outward, burst and spewed metal shrapnel. It stood swaying, electric eyes dimming through lighter and lighter shades of blue. When they were utterly dark, it toppled forward onto its face, dead as a machine could get.
"Inyuk-chuk!"
With the magical incantation spoken, Apache Chief was standing now eye-to-eye with one of the other Toymen. His fist, now the size of a pickup truck, slammed into the metal countenance of the nearest robot and sent it down in smoke.
The fifty foot Apache turned as two of the other robots converged on him. He flexed his muscles, the movement now shifting like continental plates, and grabbed them both by the shoulders to knock them both aside.
And battle for New York commenced.
Perhaps Clark had been too hasty in his departure from Metropolis. Perhaps he had been too focused upon his destination. One could forgive him. Even a Superman can't be perfect all the time. Also at play was a sense of anticipation and finality, a settling of that final bit of old business before he made the world truly perfect.
Had he lingered in the Metropolis only a minute longer, or performed a simple sweep of his city as he routinely did, he would have noticed it instantly. Had he but glanced over his shoulder for the barest instant, he would have seen it. With so many enhanced senses revealing whole spectrums of hidden information, he would have recognized it for what it was. While this could seem an arrogant or dismissive habit, in fact it was a hard lesson of focus a young Superman had learned when a boatload of passengers had gone down in Hob's Bay while he divided his attention between this and a battle with his first-ever, magically-based foe; a warlock whose power-gem Luthor had robbed and used in one of the Legion's first schemes involving transforming the Earth's populace. In dividing his focus with this mostly-forgotten foe (he actually still said 'Up. Up. And Away.' in those times), he had permitted a tragedy and probably allowed his foe to cause more damage than he would have otherwise. But lessons learned in past wars can be blinding to the needs of current ones, and so it was here.
There was a storm coming to Metropolis.
It started as a waft of shifting, yellowish cloud descending on the horizon; still developing, still collecting itself, as though taking its time to gather strength. The first bolt of lightning had yet to occur, the insulating properties of the air still held for the moment. Once that first bolt fell the slow roar of thunder would follow, like an angry beast pacing the north-western sky.
New Troy, being surrounded by a large bay, was, of course, no stranger to such things. The only thing that made this different was that this particular storm was developing over land instead of water. It was approaching from the north-west, Suicide Slums specifically, gathering and charging with electricity as it moved over the city; the sky throbbing with yellow light as it moved.
Was it coincidence that it formed so near to Suicide Slums, a spot Superman had poured enormous energies into raising up? Did this malevolent force want to form near where even a hero had begun to despair, a place that even the recent changes and improvements still hadn't fully penetrated? It was possible (especially now), though at one time even one of the guiding forces behind this storm had legitimately tried to clean up the place, partly out of empathy, partly to show up the almighty hero. Ruthless, efficient, and thorough, even a true genius found there were some places too steeped in the worst traits of humanity to have an overnight or even an over-fortnight solution. Learning of this, the Riddler offered a rare moment of insight and true compassion.
"What causes even a fallen angel to fail, and has hungry lions surround you?"
The answer of course, was Pride. Nigma had revealed that he himself had targeted some check-cashing scams fleecing people in his city, disliking petty thievery, and also figuring more prosperous citizens had more to rob, eventually. But there were always foolish people looking to use these services, and eventually, even legit dealers smelled the money. Luthor took from this that there were some insights beyond ideology and alignment. This actually depressed him. The next week, his infamous time-travel scheme to erase three of the Justice League emerged, and most on both teams still had headaches from just thinking about the anomalies and half-memories involved. In fact, most of the Legion had opted to have those particular memories removed entirely. The methods used to achieve this are perhaps best not discussed.
There was always something you could miss, and it was likely best to focus wholly on the task at hand. Again, though, not all lessons applied the same way at all times.
Had Clark seen it, he would have forgotten about New York entirely to put all his energies into rallying the rest of the Hall's superheroes to combat this greater threat. Even before the League's efforts at world improvement, there had been options and resources they could use to keep Toyman at bay for the time being. But absent the knowledge that these should be used, why even activate them?
But he hadn't seen it and he didn't do anything other than move on the more apparent threat in New York.
It had begun.
That dreadful day had come round at last.
Special Thanks goes to GojirRob for advice and proving additional exposition for this chapter.
