Author's Note: Another installment in my own little Infinite Crisis, with parts stemming from events in my two fics: Dreamers and Demons and Restitution (which dealt with the Superboy/Lex Luthor dichotomy in some fashion). Not that those stories are required reading for this story, but if you're a completist, you may be interested in some of the events that happened therein: Black Adam and Deathstroke killed Maxwell Lord, who was in cahoots with Luthor. Luthor himself continued his control of Superboy and made the Teen of Steel destroy (in this order:) Titans Tower in 'Frisco,Checkmate's Brother Eye satellite and lead an unsuccessful raid on the JLA Watchtower.

Okay, enough of that. Some of what you'll see below is information taken from various books in the DCU going on now (mostly Villains United, The OMAC Project, a little bit of Teen Titans thrown in, and some JLA...for good measure), and some of it is proprietary; of my design, such as the Talia monologue below. In any case, enjoy and hopefully when this one's done, you'll think I'm not as crazy:).


The House of Secrets. Headquarters of the Secret Six.

Deadshot and Catman.

Pawns.

"Denver omelet okay with you?"

"Sure. And no amount of peppers is too much if they got 'em."

Thomas Blake, the man who calls himself Catman, turns from the refrigerator, toward the island in the middle of the kitchen, wearing a thinly veiled smile.

Floyd Lawton eases a hip onto one of the bar stools in front of the island, and pulls a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo from his pants pocket. Blake sets the egg carton down, pulls out two eggs and cracks them over an already steaming pan on the stove.

Lawton screws a Marlboro between his lips, lights it, and pulls the smoke into the back of his mouth. Slowly. Let it sit there for a second or two, let it insinuate. Let it calm you down. Blake flips one browned egg over on itself and cocks his head back towards Lawton.

"You really do have a death wish, don't you?" Blake asks, vaguely amused.

"Funny thing, that," Lawton replies. He expels the smoke from his mouth and watches it curl and dissipate in the air. "Most people who've told me that are dead."

"Life's been good to you, hasn't it?" Blake turns the other egg on itself.

"How so?" Lawton asks calmly.

"You must have quite a reputation."

Lawton looks away, raises the fading cigarette to his lips and inhales. "Something like that. I'm sure you could say the same thing?"

"Life's not fair, Floyd. Knew that already." Blake turns around holding a plate in his hand. "There," he says, pushing the plate to Lawton. "Your pepper-jack omelet."

Lawton hesitates, gives the omelet a scrutinizing look. "Thanks," he says, after a pause.

Blake waves a dismissive hand, takes a seat of his own at the island and cuts into his own omelet.

"So."

"You'll excuse me, padre," Lawton says. "I'm not big on the small-talk."

"Likewise," Blake says through a mouthful of egg. Lawton's eyes narrow and his lips thin into a disgusted sneer.

"Jesus, Blake, look at you. You look like you haven't eaten in weeks."

"So?"

"You spend all that time in Africa, living off the grid and look what its done to you. Completely messed up your eating cycles."

"I'll say again, Floyd." Blake's voice carries a hit of…annoyance. And something more. Scorn? Or anger. "It happens. I've gotten used to it."

"You wanna roll through life, that's your bit," Lawton challenges, stubbing out his cigarette in his omelet. "Guys like you got nothin' to live for. What the hell are you doin' here?"

"Reclaiming a life," Blake says plainly.

"Oh yeah?"

"Four days after I sent Psycho and Talia on their way, they sent Deathstroke to my camp. He killed my lions."

"And that's a problem?"

"I have no pride left," Blake says pointedly. "Wilson took it all away."

"And now you want it back?" Lawton asks, lighting another cigarette.

"Yes."

"You're willing to stand up to Deathstroke? A symbolic victory, is that it?" Lawton inhales…and pushes the smoke out.

"He stole my life. You wouldn't know," Blake says distantly.

"Yeah," Lawton snorts. "Right."

"Gentlemen."

The voice comes from somewhere behind Lawton. The source is female. The female. The middle-management one with the nice caboose. Scandal, or…something to that effect. No one knows who she is, or where she came from. Lawton certainly didn't know, and quite frankly he'd never felt the need to ask. She recruited him after all, and he certainly wasn't in a mood to question the Boss.

Assuming she is the Boss, of course.

"Evening peaches," Lawton says lightly, stubbing out the cigarette. "Denver omelet?"

"Get dressed. We have a mission."

"Where to?" Blake asks, finishing his omelet.

"Gotham City," Scandal replies curtly. She doesn't seem in a mood for twenty questions. "The Hill."


Calais, France.

Talia Head and Black Adam.

Partners.

The cold night air wisps along the shoreline on the French side of the English Channel. Years ago, this strategic body of water was the sight of Britain's greatest naval victory, and France's worst defeat. The Battle of Trafalgar, arguably the most significant European naval battle, the greatest engagement of the Napoleonic Age, and the pivotal battle in 19th century Europe was fought on Spain's southwestern edge.

Nelson's plan was to run his ships easterly into the French fleet; break the enemy line with two or three columns in order to cut the center and rear of the fleet from its van, and to then concentrate his forces on the ships in the rear part of the line.

Divide and conquer.

To successfully rout the enemy, one must take them by surprise. Do something that will utterly confound them, set them back in their paces. Only then can victory be assured.

It was a story her father had long ago told her. The Viscount Nelson's brilliant military strategies at work against the inferior French military. How the French were never strong enough—never possessive of the strength of character—to repel an enemy. Britain's obvious strength notwithstanding, the thought of the French not giving the fight their all…was vulgar in the mind of Ra's al Ghul. If you couldn't do your job to the utmost, there was no purpose in doing it at all.

It was advice Talia Head had remembered. And used, to her credit.

"Are you certain you wish to do this?" The voice asked. It belonged to a man called Black Adam. The ruler of Khandaq, a small yet infinitely strategic Middle Eastern country.

"It doesn't matter what I think, Adam. Luthor gave the order, and I'm in a position to obey."

"Is that so?"

Talia turned to her right side, where Black Adam hovered mere feet above the ground. His arms were folded over the lightning symbol on his chest; the dark hues of his uniform camouflaged in the darkness surrounding them.

"I wonder," Adam said quietly.

"You have something to say?" Talia's voice was heavy. Her father's advice crept into her head. Do this right, or don't do it at all. Your only goal is saving the world from itself. Nothing else matters.

"Are you always in a position to obey, Talia?"

Talia's head crooked toward Adam half a degree and one of her eyebrows arched slightly. "When it suits me."

Adam turned away from Talia. His eyes rolled across the horizon, towards the water. Half a mile out in the Channel, a Chinook helicopter hovered over the water, the wind from its blades kicking up clouds of water. On the Chinook's underside, a searchlight flashed to life, and cast itself down on the waves. A single black cable hung from the belly of the chopper; a frogman's head bobbed in the water, his yellow oxygen tanks floating on the surface.

"And they know what they're looking for?" Adam asked. He sounded genuinely concerned.

"They are KOBRA troops, Adam. They have been trained for this."

"My concern is not for their training. It is for their competence."

"One and the same, my friend."

The Daughter of the Demon turned away from the water, waving an expressive hand.

"In any event, the body should not be difficult to locate. It simply a matter of…perspective."

Perspective.

Her father had quite a unique perspective.

Destroy the world, only to create it in his image. Free of the slovenly ways and means of mankind. But, as with most things, there were objectors. Men who stood in the way of progress. The way of Ra's al Ghul.

Ra's exterminated some. But more came. One, particularly, objected to her father's plans on a personal basis: his young ward had been kidnapped as part of a test of the man's mettle.

Batman. Bruce Wayne. The former suited him more appropriately.

He was a very great man, this Batman. Perhaps the best.

Of any human on the planet, surely he was the greatest of his kind. But he was not a kind man. Compassion was an emotion lost on the Batman…and on Ra's al Ghul. They were so similar, and so different.

Talia gave a last look at the waves. In the dark of night, the spotlight shining down on the water, she saw the frogman tugging at the cable; motioning for the rigger in the Chinook to start reeling in.

They'd found him.


Continued...