Chapter 1 – An Eye for an Eye
The Grey soldiers carried their wounded comrades on stretchers. They carried them into a chemical factory that was no place for wounded soldiers, but none of them had any choice.
As the soldiers moved through the factory, their wounded comrades moaned in pain.
"Hell," remarked one of the Grey soldiers. "She did everything but kill them."
"S—she doesn't kill," replied another soldier whose shoulder threatened to buckle under the combined weight of the stretchers. "N—neither does the Superman."
"But there are worse fates than death," said another soldier—this one had his ear ripped off, and his face was bandaged up like a walking mummy. "I mean, most of these poor men have their femurs broken in two. Their femurs."
"What's so special about that?" answered another who smoked a large cigar.
"It's the strongest bone in the body," said a stout-looking soldier. He was the shortest and had most of the weight on him from the stretchers. But he never complained. "Stronger than concrete."
"What does that make u—us then?" muttered the soldier with the sore shoulder. "If we all have the black serum inside of us, shouldn't that make our femurs stronger?"
"I agree," said the soldier with the missing ear. "Nikolai said our strength is triple that of regular men. Our bones should be three times as strong."
"Which means the Princess hit these men with three times the force," said the stout-soldier. "And she barely lost a sweat. Think about that."
None of the men spoke after that. They were all gripped by the same fear: fighting the two warriors responsible for the wounded on their backs.
In silence, the Grey soldiers moved through the network of steel catwalks of the factory. The deeper into the factory they went, the more the chemicals clogged up the air like a gigantic sauna. And everything smelled like sulfur and boiling fat.
The men all had the same expression on their faces: misery. And who could blame them? The factory was a terrible place to make a camp for a small army.
The Grey soldiers carried their fallen comrades to an impromptu fort that served as a medical infirmary. One of the five soldiers, a lieutenant, left the men with a report underneath his arm. The Lieutenant made his way through the camp of the grey army. Thousands of soldiers sat in odd nooks and crannies of the factory, all of them dressed in ragged cloths that they had found on their travels.
And as the Lieutenant walked through the sweaty vapor of the factory, he saw the same expressions of doubt across the faces of the grey soldiers. It was the faintest stirrings of mutiny drifting in the collective mind of the grey army: what was their commander doing? Why were they hiding?
Finally the Lieutenant came upon their leader Roland who stood out on a railing above a large reaction vessel. He was dressed in all grey fatigues, with a grey cloak and grey scabbard to match. He wore his Grey hood down, exposing a long ponytail and bronze, Latin features.
Methodically, Roland rolled up his grey sleeve and inserted an empty syringe into his forearm. Red blood slowly filled up the syringe.
"Are you just going to stand there, Lieutenant?" asked Roland.
"Roland, sir," began the Lieutenant. "We've recovered all of our fallen comrades from the Ace Chemicals building."
Roland removed the filled vial of blood and reached for an empty vial. "Any lasting casualties?"
"No, sir. But each one of them was in—is in—critical condition."
"Critical condition?" said Roland, still drawing blood. "It seems that the princess is anxious to meet me again."
"Sir, that's two out of the last five factories they've attacked," said the Lieutenant. "And we keep getting reports of the Bat attacking our men as well."
"The Bat is not back, Lieutenant," said Roland, "At least, not in the way you mean."
All around them, the factory pounded with the sound of labor as men and women in protective suits poured barrels of chemicals into the large vats below. The vents pumped air into the factory, just as the steam from the vats rose up to meet it, and the sweat from the workers joined in the reek of vapor. It was like some industrial jungle.
"And what about the report I asked of you?" said Roland. He was filling up a third syringe.
The lieutenant cleared his throat. "I have not yet been able to pinpoint the location of Talia Al Ghul's whereabouts. Nor her father's. I have, however, recorded the base of operations for the Amazon and the Kryptonian—"
Roland twitched, as if he had been suddenly pinched by something invisible.
The Lieutenant pretended not to notice this and continued.
"And, um, I've included a detailed plan-of-attack on their premises that includes contingency plans for dealing with these two superhumans. It's all here, if you're interested, sir."
The Lieutenant held out the report to Roland.
Roland slowly put down the syringe. His breathing was unusually relaxed.
"That is not what I asked you to do."
"I thought it would be wise, sir, to create a plan-of-attack," said the Lieutenant, still holding out the report to Roland. "You always say we should know our enemies. Observe and destroy."
Roland put the vials of blood aside. Slowly, his hands went to his scabbard.
"And what about their families? Did you include them in your plans?"
"M—my initial opinion was that they were of no consequence, sir," said the Lieutenant, glancing at Roland's hand anxiously. "We would destroy them with ease."
"Family," said Roland in a quiet, reflective tone. "Never underestimate it, Ellis."
The Lieutenant blinked. "Sir?"
Roland drew the sword in a flourish. "I'm using the name you had before you joined my army. Do you know why that is?"
The Lieutenant gulped. "I—I have a guess, sir."
Roland twirled the sword dexterously in his hand. "I'm all ears."
"Because you are expelling me from the army . . . sir?"
"But if you're out of my army," said Roland, now pointing the sword at the Lieutenant's throat. "Why are you still calling me 'sir'?"
"I—I don't know, sir. I mean, um—"
Ronald let the sword fall to his side. A big grin overcame him. "Relax, Ellis. It's been a long week in this insufferable factory, and I wanted a laugh."
Roland slid his blade back into his scabbard. "Relax, soldier. That's an order."
The Lieutenant tried to laugh but all that came out was a garbled croak. "Y—yes, sir."
Roland took the report from the Lieutenant. "Has anyone else seen this?"
"No, sir. Only you."
"Thank you, Ellis."
Roland laid out the report on the table and studied it. Unbeknownst to the Lieutenant, a geyser of fury was threatening to erupt inside Roland's mind.
"You have an eye for this sort of thing, Ellis," said Roland quietly. "Good work."
"Thank you, sir."
"Just one question." Roland picked up an empty syringe from the table. "Do you think I may have one of them?"
The Lieutenant frowned. "Have one of what, sir—?"
The geyser of fury erupted in Roland, and Roland blurred through the factory steam like he was lighter than air. The poor Lieutenant never stood a chance.
Roland seized the Lieutenant's scalp and pulled back. The Lieutenant's face jerked upward, vulnerable.
"Stupid oaf," snarled Roland. "You almost ruined everything!"
Roland brought syringe down in a hammer fist. The Lieutenant screamed.
"Years of planning," hissed Roland. He twisted the syringe in his hand. "YEARS!"
The Lieutenant's screams died in the vapor. Nobody was coming to help. And the few onlookers who managed to catch a glimpse of what was happening, pretended they hadn't seen anything at all.
Finally, the Lieutenant stopped struggling. After another ten seconds, Roland released the fistful of hair he had grabbed. The Lieutenant fell to the ground, lifeless.
In Roland's hand was a bloody syringe. And a warm eyeball stuck in the needle.
Roland closed his eyes. He was losing control. The crazed rage made him powerful, it made him feel good, but it hijacked his will, too. He hadn't meant to do that. He was getting worse.
"Nikolai," said Roland, breathing shakily. "M—my dose."
From a small tent came lumbering a big and imposing Russian. His head was bald from scarring and tattoos, as was the rest of his brawny body.
"Here, boss." Nikolai handed Roland a syringe filled with glossy black liquid. Roland injected himself with the liquid, and his mind cleared instantly. As if a wave of cool water wiped away all the chaos.
Nikolai eyed the syringe with the eyeball skewered in the needle. "Kabob?"
"Bon appetite." Roland threw the syringe over the railing of the catwalk. It landed faintly somewhere in the steam below. "I might have over-reacted."
"Kak zhal," said the Russian. He looked down at the body with a measure of pity, but then, the Russian's face turned a shade thoughtful. "It's like old rules: eye for an eye."
"Then I should have taken out his brain," said Roland. "He thought he had failed at his first job, so he tried to make that up with another."
The Russian grunted. "Finding Talia."
"Precisely," said Roland. "He couldn't find her. Which means she's left Gotham."
"But she will be back," said the Russian. "And with help."
A small, restrained smile graced Roland's lips. He was back in control. "Talia thinks she can stop me by bringing back her ace-in-the-hole. But I have a few tricks up my grey sleeve, too."
Roland picked up the vials of blood he had set aside and put them carefully into a briefcase. He handed the briefcase to Nikolai.
"You know what to do," said Roland.
Nikolai took the box in one hand, and with the other, he threw the dead body over his shoulder.
"Things will get bad, Roland. When He comes back, He will come for you."
"And why do you think that is?"
Nikolai hesitated.
"It's not a trick question, Nikolai."
"He will come for you because of what you have done to her. What you have done to her son. What you have done to his family."
"Exactly," said Roland, obviously pleased. "Talia is a fool. So is the Princess. They don't understand him, not like I do. He has never had a family, and so he will do stupid things to protect it."
The big Russian let out a dissatisfied grunt. "Still big risk. What if he doesn't react the way you expect him to?"
Roland glanced at the briefcase. That's why.
Nikolai bowed his head. "Of course."
"And before you leave, re-issue my command throughout the camp," said Roland. He had regained his calm and still posture as the watcher over the factory. "Nobody moves on the Trevors. Not until I give the command."
"We are like ducks sitting in pond," said Nikolai, shaking his head morbidly. "Waiting for the hawks to come."
"We are spiders, Nikolai," said Roland, the faintest of smiles on his scarred lips. "And we are waiting for a bat to fly into our web."