I've been shafted.
Conner's turned his back on me—on all of us.
But something's not right. Something doesn't fit.
The rest of them—Luthor and the blue Captain Marvel especially—look vindicated. So assured of victory. I can hardly blame them though. Somehow, they've managed to incapacitate me.Luthor called it ametabolic inhibitor.
I lay on the floor, a few yards away from Luthor's little cabal. I still can't feel my legs. For once, I'm at the end of my rope.
Yeah. Conner looks…out of sorts. He knows he doesn't belong here. I know it. Maybe Luthor does too. But then again…that's what separates people like the Titans from people like Luthor. We may both make our respective stupid mistakes.
But Luthor makes them more.
He's paranoid. Untrustworthy. He can't trust anyone around him, and he can't control himself. I keep that in mind.
Conner's uncomfortable. I can tell just by the way he's sitting on the arm of Luthor's quasi-throne. His arms are crossed over his chest, but he's slouching, staring distractedly at the floor. Not standing straight and tall like the rest of them. Even Luthor's shifted in his seat to make himself look imposing. It almost works for him.
He knows he's safe.
"Do you know why you're here, Bart?" Luthor asks narrowly.
"Deathstroke wants another trophy for his wall. Guess my mug's that good enough."
"Not quite."
Inexplicably, suddenly, I'm lifted off the ground. Something's grabbing my hair. I can't see anything. I can feel a death-grip on the back of my skull, hauling me towards Luthor like some animal to be sacrificed…but I can't see him.
"Zooommmm."
He drops me a foot or so away from the dais, right at Luthor's feet.
The drawbacks of having long hair are numerous. Chief among them: it's an easy out. Zoom could have made me into a little Luthor right there. Why didn't he? It seems he's here for the same reason as me: a higher purpose wants him here.
I keep that in mind.
I manage enough strength to sit up, still slouched, in a lazy kind of Indian-style. Luthor and his pals stare at me coldly, angling their heads from side to side like scientists. Creepy.
"So," I say lightly. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"
"Certainly," Luthor says, standing. As soon as Luthor's vertical, Conner slides into his seat. Conner isn't even focused on the situation; his gaze is locked on the floor. Almost like he's looking…through it. Of course. He's got x-ray vision. Silly me.
"You are here, Bart Allen, because we wish to help you."
"We?"
"Myself…and my society."
"Are they really your Society? You're being awfully territorial."
Luthor's eyes narrow, as if he's taken offense to what I just said. "Perhaps you refer to the misbegotten idea of a social hierarchy."
I roll my eyes. I've known this guy for about three minutes, and he's already first-naming me. Sheesh. Still…
"Social Hierarchy?" I feign interest.
"We're not like your Justice League."
"Yeah," I say skeptically. "Right."
"We are here for the higher cause. We're not corrupt and shiftless. We…seek to right wrongs."
"Like what?" Yeah, he's full of crap, but part of me wants to hear him out. Explain that one to me.
Luthor turns back to me and scowls. He apparently was born without a personality; otherwise, he'd be telling me what's on his so-called mind instead of shooting me soap-opera scowls. I suppose it's lucky for me that he's the one doing the talking. He's the one without superpowers. Otherwise, I suspect, I would have been turned into dust by now.
Yeah. Luthor's staring at me narrowly, through cold and analytical eyes. Like he's…cataloguing me.
"Wally never told you what happened to Dr. Light, did he?"
For a moment, conceptions go right out the window. I remember…something…
"How the League violated his mind? How they turned him from an A-lister…to a joke. Literally overnight."
"They wouldn't do that," I challenge.
"What's to stop them?" Luthor rebuffs innocently. "A gang of super-powered gods hovering above us with no checks or balances. Up there, in their orbiting Valhalla. They can hardly resist the temptations...to abuse their power. And what's to hold them back? Who's going to march into that Watchtower and say 'I disagree'?"
"You're wrong," I say. "They're not like that."
"You don't know what they're like. If they even value what you fight for…"
"Then what is this?" I say, pointing to Conner. I'm privately surprised that I've found some momentary strength. But it's not enough. "Is this how you snagged him in? Misinformation? Lies?"
"No," Luthor says idly. "I told him the truth. As you can see...he's taking his time digesting it. He certainly has a lot."
"What truth?"
"That you…and your Titans…are idolaters. You worship false gods. Fallible ones. No better than you or me, or the fat slob riveting girders into place down at the Novick Building."
"Point being…" I stand my ground. His silver tongue's got nothing on my smart-ass-edness. Is that even a word? Tim would know.
Conner's still silent. He has been the whole time. Like his mind is trying to digest the scope of what's going on now, along with whatever tripe Luthor's planted in him.
"You're wasting your time," Luthor says. "Trying to be the greater squires of lesser knights. You should be doing more. Aspiring for a great goal."
"Y'know, you're awfully hypocritical. Pointing out the flaws of heroes, while you yourself…are one of the worst villains any of us have ever seen. And I'm not even mentioning your daughter. Where is she, by the way?"
"Adam," Luthor says, turning to the blue Captain Marvel. "Break his legs."
The blue Marvel—still floating—leans forward a bit, and angles down the steps slowly. His arms are crossed confidently over the big yellow lightning-bolt symbol on his chest. His face is drawn downward in a grim scowl. The mark of silent determination. It's…eerie and impressive at the same time.
He lands noiselessly in front of me, and takes a knee. A broad hand, veined and browned from exposure to the sun I'm guessing, clasps itself around my ankle. Next thing I know, this Adam guy is holding my right leg up in the air like some kind of physical therapist. With one hand held around my ankle, Adam takes his other and places it on top of my knee.
Adam holds my knee in place and shoves my leg forward, like he's shifting gears on an old Chevy S-10.
I can hear my screams echo through the chamber. Muscles snap away from bones instantly. My throat burns from the scream. My vision cuts out for a few seconds, and I start massaging my broken joint pointlessly.
Even through the mask, I feel my face flushing red. I clench my teeth, trying to shift the pain away from my knee—or what's left of it. I inhale sharply…and tears stream down my face.
Adam lets my leg drop, lifts into the air. Through my cloudy vision, I see dark shapes tower over me. One of them sounds like Luthor.
"I'm sorry it had to come to this, Bart. Truly, I am. But it's the only way. It is only in losing everything that we become free to do anything. Right now, Bart. You can do anything."
"Wh…what…what do you want?"
"We're prepared to offer you something far greater…far more valuable than what you have now. A position where your work will be respected…desired…needed."
Luthor kneels and puts a hand on my shoulder, staring deeply into my eyes. He slips a thumb under my mask, and pushes it back off my face. My hair droops in front of my face. Luthor clears it away, his fingrs grazing my forehead lightly.
"We can help you, Bart…"
His voice is penetrating and calm at the same time. His burning green eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment part of me wonders what Luthor wants from this. When he says 'we'…he's really only talking about himself.
"Can you help us?"
I'm not entirely sure how Bruce Wayne does it. I know why he does it. I understand honor all too well. That is what this is. He fights for stolen honor. So do I. In this way, we're alike. In many others, though, we're different. Night and day.
That costume of his. Not mobile. It doesn't allow for easy movement.
But it serves its purpose just the same. I don't intend to cavort around this town doing his work, and I wouldn't expect him to take contracts on…the scum of humanity. Batman, he may be. But he's still unwilling to make compromises.
That's what it's about, really. Life…is making balance of what you have. Making compromises. Ensuring that—for it all to ride smoothly—it all fits smoothly.
Right now. Things….are smooth. It could be better. But in this line of work, I've had to compromise my share of things; truths that were escapable—easily overcome—but difficult to let go of just the same. In this line of work, I've come to accept my wins where I can.
This suit. It rides up with wear. It's no imitation either. When WayneTech R&D was bought out a few months ago, I gained access the technological secrets Wayne had kept tucked away in his warehouses and secondary "Batcaves" he hides around this city.
And the cape. I see why he wears it. I don't like it. But I don't have to. All I have to do…is what I must.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Rose?" I pull the skin mask over my face; the infrared sensor in my right eye socket switches on automatically, and I see her. Rose. My daughter. My…legacy.
She's all I have left now. After Grant…Joey.
"Are we ready?"
"Yes," I say, clearing my throat. "I think we finally are."
Continued...