Author's Note: The more I think about it, the more I think this is a chance for me to write a Crime Syndicate story with reasonable cause. Wouldn't you know it's a goal of mine. Enjoy:).
Brainiac's Skull Ship.
"Brainiac," the Kryptonian says through narrow eyes and clenched teeth. "Tell me where he is."
"Surely, Kal-el, you do not mean Luthor."
"No," The Man of Steel intones. "I already heard that part. I want to know what you did with Batman. I saw you and Luthor disappear with him at Goodwin. Where is he?"
Brainiac's emerald eyes narrow. "I expected you would."
Behind Brainiac, Deathstroke levels his shotgun at Superman. The Man of Steel glances crossly at the Terminator.
"Don't be stupid," Superman says forcefully. "Drop it."
Underneath his mask, Deathstroke grimaces. He holsters the shotgun and stares expectantly at Superman.
"Now, Brainiac. Tell me what I want to know."
"You would deign to know the whereabouts of your Batman?"
Silence. Superman folds his arms over his chest and stares balefully at Brainiac.
"Very well, then," the automaton replies. "Batman has been taken prisoner, along with this universe's Luthor."
"This universe's Luthor? What do you mean?"
Brainiac clasps his spindly hands together at what humans would call the waist.
"Recent tampering with the dimensional barriers has allowed easier thoroughfare between worlds. Alexander Luthor of the Crime Syndicate's world crossed the barrier, infiltrated the underworld, and masqueraded as this universe's Luthor. He, naturally, is quite adept at the role. Now, I seek to retrieve this universe's Luthor and destroy the anti-matter impostor.
"Why? He mistreated you?" Superman asks idly. "Is that it?"
"He neglected to acknowledge my obvious superiority, Kal-el. It is a mistake few have successfully endeavored."
"Fair enough," Superman says with a sigh.
"It is a goal no less noble than yours. Based on our past encounters, and your natural predilection to help your friends, I gather that you wish to save Batman from the Syndicate. We wish to find the anti-matter Luthor and deal with his treachery accordingly. Our goals intersect, Kal-el."
Silence. Brainiac waits precisely thirty seconds. "I believe my proposal is implicit."
Superman's shoulders slump in defeat. "Yes," he whispers.
"You cannot save Batman by yourself; you haven't the ability to breach the gulf."
Superman grimaces. It's a deal with a devil.
To save Bruce…
"You must choose," Brainiac prods. His microprocessors calculate a growing sentiment in the Kryptonian; what a human would call finality. Desperation.
"All right," Superman says with cosmetic difficulty. "You're sure you can do this?"
"Yes," Brainiac replies without hesitation. "However, you must do something for me."
The Anti-matter Universe. The Panopticon.
Power Ring.
Owlman keeps a torture chamber somewhere on the lower levels of the Panopticon. He keeps it hidden, probably in a tesseract, to keep the rest of us from meddling in his pet projects. He tells us to stay out of there on a daily basis, as if stepping foot inside would kill us (though I'm sure he's not averse to that outcome) and for the most part we tend to agree with him. Except for Johnny. Stupid Johnny…thinks he can get in and out of any place without being noticed. Last time Owlman found him sneaking around, Johnny crawled away with a broken femur.
Mainly, I just try to keep out of Owlman's way when I can. One thing's for sure, though, about him. Above his secrets and torture, the man is dedicated. Sure, it's a borderline dedication between psychosis and a zest for his job. But its dedication just the same.
Yes, Owlman likes his secrets. Likes to think he's more powerful than the rest of us by using that big melon atop his head for something other than brute force. He underestimates the power of my ring. I could move mountains and shift orbits with this useful little contraption. He can't hide anything from me.
But in spite of that, Owlman's actually invited me down to his little Bedlam in the bowels of the Panopticon. I guess he needs a witness to watch him interrogate—torture, really—the shit out of the positive-matter Luthor.
Said Luthor is strapped to an operating chair with IV tubes running in and out of his arms, shackled at the wrists and ankles to prevent substantial movement. It's an impressive setup, for its brutality.
A few meters away from the chair, Owlman hunches over a microscope.
"Fascinating," I hear him say. I start walking toward him, slowly at first; no need to surprise.
"What is?" I hear myself say. Dammit. Think next time.
"This blood sample," Owlman says, not looking up from the microscope. "Remarkable levels of leukocytes. White blood cells. Our friend here must have quite the immune system."
"Since when are you a doctor?" I ask, half-joking.
"Oh I'm not," Owlman says idly. He stands from the microscope, rubs his hands together and pulls a stool to the operating chair. "But in between sessions, I figured that if he's giving me such generous donations of blood I may as well do something with them."
"Admirable." I fold my arms over my chest and shift my weight nervously. I'm almost afraid to ask why he summoned me down here. "So what do you intend to do with our esteemed Mr. Luthor?"
"Process whatever valuable information he has, add it to the databanks, and then kill him."
"How very arcane."
Owlman ignores it. "Hand me that scalpel. The tray next to you."
And sure enough it is. A silver tray bolted to the side of the operating table. I wrap my hand around the scalpel handle and extend it over to Owlman.
"Thank you," he says, and takes the scalpel. That's…unexpected.
Owlman tightens his grip on the blade handle and lowers it to Luthor's neck.
"Coming to are we, Mister Luthor?"
The bald man's eyes flutter open and he instantly realizes the sharp end of the blade pressing against his throat. He calms down and inhales deeply. If I didn't know, I'd almost say he's been through this type of thing before.
"What is this?" Luthor grumbles.
"An exercise in humility," Owlman sneers. "You have much to answer for."
"I don't know anything," Luthor says through clenched teeth.
"Sure you do," Owlman says with a toothy grin. "So consider this exercise a chance for me to hone my surgical skills." Owlman eyes the scalpel thoughtfully. "And tell me why you're here. Come to recruit us to help you defeat the League?"
Owlman clutches the scalpel between his thumb and forefinger and dangles it above Luthor's eye.
"I'll warn you," Owlman says forebodingly. "I have been known for momentary lapses in voluntary muscle control."
"Wait," Luthor snaps. "What you need…I can get it to you. Money, wealth."
"I sincerely doubt that," Owlman says with a sigh. He's treating this like some game. "And since you're new here, I'll tell you that I already have those things. So your bargains are useless."
"Let me help you," Luthor continues, unimpeded. "Before, all that stood in your way was another version of me—a noble one. Let me kill him, and then you can breach the gulf into my universe and deal with the League. You can rule two Earths at once."
"Sorry," Owlman says distantly. He lowers the scalpel to Luthor's wrist. "I'm quite happy to monitor this Earth."
The Panopticon. The Observation Deck.
Ultraman and Superwoman.
"Ah, look at that. We got a runner."
"What?" Ultraman glances over Superwoman's shoulder to the marbled green surface of the Earth below. "Where?"
Ultraman's fingers dance across a computer terminal at his side. A 3-D hologram lights up in front of him. A civilian huddled against the bulk of a police car, trying to hold his own against oncoming officers.
"A dissident," Ultraman says narrowly.
"Everyone's a critic," Superwoman jests. She runs her hand across Ultraman's shoulders and kisses him on the cheek. Ultraman ignores it, or seems to. "What do you want to do?"
Ultraman's eyes spark to life—a fiery red. An instant later, a bright beam of red issues from the Panopticon, heading to the Earth to strike its target. Superwoman stares crossly at the Earth, and then looks at the viewscreen. A pile of ashes, surrounded by a thin arc of burnt concrete, takes the place of the gun-toting civilian. Ultraman looks at the screen thoughtfully for a moment and turns to Superwoman.
"Obey or die, sweetie."
Superwoman leans in close, whispering in Ultraman's ear.
"Which category do I fall in?"
A beeping sound from somewhere behind Superwoman interrupts the short embrace. She turns around and slams her hand against the keyboard. A mugshot of Johnny Quick appears on the screen, with an annoyingly happy smile beneath his visor.
"What is it?" Superwoman asks pointedly.
"Hey, does Brainiac drive a Skull Ship…anymore?"
"No," Ultraman interrupts curtly. "Goodbye—"
"Because you want to know something?"
"What?"
"There's a Skull Ship coming around the far side of the Moon."
Ultraman's eyes narrow and he comes to a realization. "Shit."
Continued...