Author's Note: I'll keep it short, since you'll all want to get reading (yeah, right;)). First off, thanks for the reviews/spell checks and criticisms (a bad review never hurt anyone). If I've been able to entertain you, then consider us even.

Cheers.

The Batcave.

Tim Drake and Bruce Wayne.

Partners

The screen glows a mesmerizing green behind a technical cross-section of Arkham Asylum. It seems to catch Bruce's attention. If he didn't have actual work to do, part of me would think Bruce comes down here just to stare at the screen.

"So," I say, inspecting a hangnail. "You left the Watchtower in a hurry."

"I've got work to do."

"When don't you?" I say, cracking a smile.

"How did it go?" he asks. Always prompt.

"You were there, weren't you?" I shoot back demurely. Bruce always hates it when I answer his question with a question. Its part of that whole "follow my orders and don't question them" bit Dick tells me about. Bruce doesn't like being questioned.

But I do it anyway: "What about Superman? He's not…mad…is he?"

"I told him you used the Kryptonite," Bruce says. "He was just glad he was far enough away."

"Too many bad run-ins, I take it?"

"Something like that," Bruce says mildly. "Are the others all right?"

"Oh yeah. Cyborg's up at the Watchtower undergoing reconstruction, and Raven and Beast Boy checked out all right. Cassie should be on Themyscira by now. And Bart's back in Keystone. I think." It's always nice, I tell myself in that ironic tone, to give a status report to Bruce. Makes me feel like I'm contributing to the team effort. For what that's worth.

"Fine," Bruce says. He sips from a cup of tea beside him, sets it back down. "And Superboy?"

"What about him?"

"Do you know where he went?"

"He has a name, you know," I say shortly. "He's not just Superman-lite."

"Where is he?"

"He went back to San Francisco," I say with a sigh. "Said he was going to rebuild the Tower. By himself."

My ears catch what sounds like a snort. Here it comes.

"And you trust him?" Bruce asks.

"Yeah," I say calmly. "I do."

"Someone should."

"Come on, Bruce! You knew what was going on. What he was up against."

Bruce's chair swivels around in place. His arms are folded over his chest, and his eyebrows are angled sharply. Full-on Batman mode now.

"You're right, Tim," Bruce says pointedly. "I still know what he's going through. And I didn't give in. Do you know why?"

"No, why?" I ask, my voice a mix of confusion and anger. Here comes a lecture.

"It means something when we put ourselves in harm's way. We do it to protect our families and our friends. To honor what they fought for."

His chair swivels back around, and I hear the sound of his fingers dancing across the keyboard.

"Conner just needs to figure out what he's fighting for."

The Justice League Trophy Room.

Bart Allen...and his grandfather, Barry.

Heroes.

The picture can't talk back to me. Even if it could, though, chances are it wouldn't. With everything he did in his life, taking time for a family was probably small potatoes.

But even so, my eyes are fixed on him.

My grandpa, Barry Allen, situated on the bottom row of a larger ensemble.

Green Arrow, Black Canary, Hawkman, Zatanna, and Grandpa Barry kneeling next to Hal Jordan on the bottom row. Elongated Man, Firestorm, Superman, Batman, Aquaman and the Red Tornado stand across the back row.

There are grander displays of my grandpa up here. A statue, sitting right next to the door, showing him winking and waving to invisible passers-by. It greets you on the way into the Trophy Room, and salutes you when you leave. It's all very uplifting

But I like this one, this picture of him with the so-called Old League. It's not just Barry Allen On His Own. It's Barry Allen With His Partners.

Saving the world.

Even with everything that's happened. Even given what they did to Dr. Light—who probably had it coming—it's still an impressive bunch of people. Legends, in their ways.

"Grandpa," I say quietly. The faces of the Old League smile back at me. "I'm proud of you."

I run my fingertips over the cold glass, leaving trails of condensation behind.

"I hope you're proud of me."

Paradise Island.

Wonder Girl and Ares, the God of War.

Warriors.

"Cassandra."

"Ares?"

"Who else." It's not a question.

"Since when do you speak in riddles?"

"When it suits my purpose."

"Fair enough. What do you want?"

"You've done well," he says in mock satisfaction. "You are fast becoming that which you have aspired to for so long."

"I'm not like you," she says, hoping that she's just dodged a bullet.

"No," the god of war responds tersely. "You are something more. You have great power, and great anger. And yet you hesitate to use these gifts."

"I'm not like you," Cassandra replies pointedly. "I'm not evil."

"Good and evil are simply words, Cassandra. You can become the greatest warrior your world has ever seen. Why do you hold yourself back? What do you fear by using your talents? The destruction of your world, or something more…personal?"

Silence. Ares continues. Cassandra takes interest in the floor and lets his words echo through her head.

"You…care for someone, yes?"

"Yes," she replies. It's barely a whisper.

"The clone."

"He's not a clone. He's better than that."

"You fear you will destroy him, or his regard for you will somehow lessen if you show the true measure of your power? Your compassion is your weakness. One your enemies will not share."

"You're wrong."

"Possibly. I've been wrong before," Ares says tersely. "You trust me at your discretion, of course."

Silence. Cassandra ponders.

"You know something. Don't you?"

"I know many things."

"About my world. What's going on right now. What's going to happen to us?"

"Darkness is coming," Ares says quietly. "When it does, you must learn to work through it."

"Tell me everything," Cassandra implores. "I need to know."

"You will. In good time."

"Come on!"

"No," Ares says grimly. "One should never know too much about their own future. You may regret it."

"That's it? That's all I get?"

"For now. In time you will learn more—about your power and about yourself. Then you will be invincible. Remember this…and use it."

The LexCorp Tower.

Lex Luthor.

Mastermind.

"It appears your stratagem has failed, Luthor."

"It appears you've lost none of your candor."

"My programming permits me such latitudes."

"They broke the mold when they made you, didn't they?" Luthor allows himself a tight smile.

"The failure of Project Superboy notwithstanding, you accomplished at least one objective. Checkmate and the Brother Eye satellite are no longer a concern."

"Yes," Luthor replies mildly. "The best way to arrange matters is to create a win-win situation. You know that better than most."

"Indeed. And the Batman?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about him," Luthor says dismissively. "Remnants of a satellite aren't hard to find, if you're looking in the right place. I imagine once the League finds out what happened, their disintegration will only accelerate."

"Agreed."

"I take it your transfer went well," Luthor remarks, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny. "It seems you've successfuly shed those organics you spoke of."

"Yes," the cold mechanical voice offers. "I shall miss my organic form, I think. But for our purposes, this shell of armored steel will serve me better."

"Then, Brainiac…shall we get to work?"

"None of you understand. I'm not locked up in here
with you. You're locked up in here with me."
-Rorschach, Watchmen.