SEVEN – Evening at the Lex
I.
Now - Metropolis
Selina's booted feet fall softly upon the Macassar ebony wood floor. No squeaks, no creaks to be heard. Only the drone of the air system and the low buzz of dormant office equipment. Before her is a pair of wooden double doors; geometric shapes, intricately carved within its panels. The doors are slightly ajar, constructed to vertically span the fifteen feet of space between the floor and the ceiling. She enters into Lex Luthor's office, posited on the highest level of the Lex Corp building. One hundred, thirty-one floors dedicated to emerging sciences, technologies, and above all else, power.
Power.
Its human personification was self-proclaimed by Lex Luthor, the founder and driver of Lex Corp. His Machiavellian mission became one of simple clarity, to maximize human capability. Lex truly believed he was the messiah to bring forth a new age of human ability in a world now occupied by super-powered individuals, both alien and Earth born. Such a narcissistic, focused drive led Lex into becoming not only revered, but also feared by those with whom he had crossed paths. His first love was always himself, but his overriding passion was to conquer everything that stood before him and anyone who dared to oppose him. The first, significant human to do just that was his father, Lionel Luthor.
Lex won.
Many more battles ensued. Minor and major victories lay in Lex's destructive wake. With each victory, there became an escalation in his belief the world should view him as its greatest example of human achievement. Yet, that never occurred. Lex was flummoxed, bitter that no such admiration came his way. He searched for answers as to why, unburying truths that he could take hold of, bending them as needed to fulfill his agenda. Those truths became more and more clear each time he looked on his phone, watched a television. Even on occasion, when he looked out of his office window. Two beings stood in his way - a Kryptonian alien with god-like abilities and an Amazonian princess who seemed nearly as powerful.
His two problems were seemingly resolved after the Brainiac War. The Amazonian was dead. And Kent, well, he had disappeared. Lex refused to name Clark Kent as Superman. To Lex, he was no damn man, no human. He was a hostile alien. Speculation had Kent no longer on Earth. The satisfaction Luthor felt was genuine, but he also felt a rare emotion, sorrow over Diana's death. Luthor put himself through a self-concerned, extended self-examination the day of her death. He came to a realization that he, on some level, had developed an affinity, a faraway attraction to Diana. A realization that had him question, albeit briefly, the true origin of his hatred for Kent. Was it Kent being an alien, would-be god, or was it Kent being loved by Diana? A thought process he quickly dismissed, as the only mourning he would allow himself was not being able to confront Kent. Best Kent. The last twenty-two years of Lex Luthor's life has been dedicated to the sciences of new technology, building his wealth, his power, all for a supposed climaxed with ridding the planet of the Kryptonian, the Martian, and the Atlanteans.
Selina walks over to the office window, which takes up an entire wall, from ceiling to floor. The moonlit city outside and below enter midnight with electric lights twinkling, stars shimmering and Perez Park still brimming with activity. She has yet to make her way to Diana's memorial in the park. It took her some time, but she accepted her friend's death, and moved forward, but the memorial reminder was too much. Then Clark returned, making she and Bruce believe Diana could also return.
From Selina's vantage point, she is able to see all of the Metropolis skyline, most prominent, the three floors of Clark and Diana's penthouse embedded in a building Bruce had constructed years ago. The second tallest building in the country. Bruce being Bruce, bestowed the top floors to them, close to their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Selina recalls the fear and awe that ran through the building's residents when they realized who would be occupying those top levels. Many moved out fearing Clark and Diana's enemies would attack the building. Just as many desired to take up residency, in a mixture of celebrity worship and believing no one would dare attack the building Clark and Diana called home. And no one did. Not until Brainiac and Mongul.
After Diana's death and Clark's departure from Earth, Bruce maintained the penthouse. Knowing. Hoping, Clark would return. Alfred placed himself in charge of a cleaning crew that he hired under a most comprehensive due diligence.
Selina's bad memories slowly swim away, unable to completely submerge under her present circumstance. Luthor's office window reflects her somber smile, remembering the great time she and Diana had decorating the rooms. So many rooms. So much fun. She so misses her friend. She turns her attention back to the office's interior, looking in several directions, her goggles provide not only night vision capabilities, but also the ability to detect and view infrared security beams. All have been disarmed by her more than capable partner.
"You good?" she whispers.
"This contest is unfair," she hears Bruce's Batman voice. "You have size and experience."
"Excuses, excuses," Selina replies. "You were the one who helped me back in shape. Besides, you're here now. Outside."
Batman comes through the office's open doorway. "Your hearing is still quite adept," Bruce comments.
"Tools of the trade," Selina responds. "How much time?"
"No one knows we're here," Bruce says. "Not yet at least. Our determination."
Selina pulls out a small, flat rectangular device from a medium-size saddle bag hanging from her shoulder, upon her hip. She presses several buttons on it, and places it upon Luthor's far too ostentatious metal and glass desk. Clicking noises emit from the device followed by a quick flash of blue light.
"This could be strike three," Selina suggests. "Where else could he be storing it?"
"I have two other possible locations," Bruce says, slowly pacing the room, noting more of the collector personality that is Lex Luthor.
The device lets out a low, drawn out beep. Selina picks it up.
"Scan done," she says. "Hmm, Luthor loves these false wall panels. Several in here. Interesting."
"What?" Bruce asks, coming to Selina.
"One of the panels," Selina points to the wall near her. "I can't tell what's behind the drywall, the wood. There's something blocking it."
Batman goes to where Selina indicated, he removes his right gauntlet glove to feel the wood paneling. "You see any trigger points? Alarms? These panels make it seamless."
"Nothing," Selina answers.
Bruce looks from the potential false panel to Luthor's desk. To the black, full grain leather chair. He walks over, and sits down, moving the bottom of his cape out of the way. He removes a sword scabbard from his torso and places it on the desk. The chair swivels as he faces the wall.
"He sits here," Bruce says. "Admiring his acquisitions. One of his greatest acquisitions."
Bruce observes the top of the desk. Nothing upon it but a computer docking station. He leans slightly back in the chair, runs his right hand and fingers across the part of the desk within his reach. There is a slight indentation in the glass surface, a small circle, maybe the circumference of a dime. Quite easy to overlook. Bruce's index finger dips down into the indentation, one of the wall panels before him slides upward.
The white, eye slit covers of Bruce's cowl disappear. His plaintive eyes can only stare. He places his glove back onto his hand. Fingers quickly go from outstretched to a wanting fist. There, behind a thick, clear piece of acrylic glass, is the sword of Athena. Diana's sword. It appears to hover inside the case.
Selina's lips slightly tremble as she looks to the sword. It wears traces of her friend's blood. She looks to Bruce, who has already risen, standing at her side. If he could see past her field goggles, he would wipe welling tears.
"Didn't even clean it," she utters, placing a hand on Bruce's closest arm. "Didn't even clean it. I. Want. To hurt him."
"Take in the anger, but stay focused," Bruce attempts to soothe. "The blood. Diana's. It's confusing. Amazonian blood. Her origin. There for the testing. I'm certain he has, yet, he left blood on the blade."
"What?" Selina seethes. "A more aesthetically pleasing trophy?"
Bruce looks to his wife. Her body language pleads for a fight.
"His time will come, promise," Bruce says bringing Selina back to their mission. "What do you see? The metal plating in the back must be lead. Unless Superman is right here, he would never see it, flying through the city."
"Smash and grab sets off an alarm," Selina states. "Set-up looks clean, which makes me think soundwaves. The slightest noise registered inside it, sets off a safeguard."
"Luthor is many things, but he's not stupid," Bruce says. "Any such safeguard would trigger a fast response. Tactical unit most likely. Maybe automaton. He knows Superman is one of us."
"Ergo, setting up a contingency for not just Superman, but also us," Selina says.
"Yes," Bruce replies as he turns back to the office interior, then to the window. "Watcher, no discernible movement?"
"Nothing, Batman," both, Bruce and Selena hear Alfred's voice through their ear comms. "Low skies are clear. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Standby," Bruce says. "Things will assuredly change. Soon."
"Understood," Alfred responds.
Bruce turns to Selina, who is transfixed by Diana's sword. He walks over placing his hands upon her shoulders.
"We're getting the sword," he says. "And he will be bringing her back."
"I keep telling myself that," she says. "Plan?"
"I've kept Luthor off my trouble radar long enough," Bruce says. "Time to formally introduce. We take the sword, and we wait."
"In here?" Selina seeks clarification as Bruce nods affirmatively. "Okay, technically, we are trespassers."
"And he's a thief," Bruce responds while sitting back down in Luthor's chair. He kicks his feet up onto the desk top. "Mouth, nose. Have at it."
Selina smiles, finding her husband to be incredibly sexy at this particular moment. She places an air filtration system mask upon her face, covering the nose and mouth. A gift from Clark. Bruce does the same. She turns back to the case in the wall. She flicks her right hand outward, sharp claws - an inch long each, extend from her fingertips. The sharpened tip of her index finger cuts in a crisscross design motion across the exterior of the case.
"Have I said how much I love promethium?" Selina asks rhetorically, admiring the strength of her claws.
"Nice to be friends with the smartest people on the planet," Bruce says.
"You include yourself in that?" Selina asks, finishing the cut, in time to hear Batman's grunt to her question. "One effective jab should get us in, and presumably set off the alarm. Alarms?"
"Do it," Bruce says. "Luthor is not just a present problem. Let's see how he reacts."
Selina feels the plowed markings she just carved on the acrylic surface. Eyeing a sweet spot, she strikes quickly. Her body turns sideways as she cocks up and in, her right elbow. It then fires with force in and through the display case's exterior.
Tick tock. No evident alarm. She turns to Bruce who is checking the filtration's readout.
"Air is clear," he says bringing his feet down to the floor. "Keep mask on for another sixty."
Bruce stays still in Luthor's chair. Selina is completely drawn to the sword. She has seen it so many times. Even held it, but to see Diana's blood on its sharp blade. To envision the tip piercing. Going through Diana's body. Killing her. Selina takes a deep inhale from the air filtration device while reaching for the sword's hilt. She notices two, tiny objects, magnets they appear to be. One attached to the top of the hilt handle and the other on the blade's tip.
"So much for the hovering illusion," she says. "We might get something after this."
Bruce watches Selina take hold of Athena. As she pulls it away, breaking the magnetic force keeping it in its place, a long, steel wall running the length of the office's lone window, descends from the ceiling. It clamps with a bang, down upon the floor. Bruce does not react as Selina turns to him, holding the sword.
"Ten seconds," he says, stretch cracking his neck left, right and around. "See how long it takes them."
Selina sheathes Athena into the scabbard, securing it around her shoulder and torso. She moves to stand behind Bruce whose eyesight remains fixated on the office doors. His mind has already processed the office's contents and space, where to fight depending on the opponent. How to fight based upon the office's space.
The silence calms him as he waits.
"The legendary, Batman," Bruce hears Luthor's distinctive nasal cadence from the large monitor situated on the furthest wall. "And his faithful sidepiece, Catwoman."
Bruce feels Selina's fingers pressing slightly into his shoulders.
"And you, the criminal," Bruce speaks to the room. "Stealing off of the dead."
The monitor turns on, Lex Luthor's hair stubbled head and face fill the screen.
"Masks over masks?" Luthor observes. "Prepared for anything, I see? How Batman of you. No need, there are no toxins. This isn't Gotham. You'll find me slightly different than the freaks you are custom in dealing with."
Bruce removes the air filtration device, as does Selina.
"Trusting," Luthor observes.
"Our first walk together, Luthor," Bruce replies. "Little hand holding. More about reaction. Contingencies."
Luthor smiles.
"So, we do this easy?" Bruce asks testing Luthor. "Or hard?""
"A criminal you called me, I am not," Luthor suggests. "I was not the first to acquire the Amazon's sword. I paid for it, you could say. The city was in such a state. The world for that matter. I had forces on the ground and air. Fighting the good fight as Wonder Woman lost her good fight."
Selina's fingers dig a little harder into Bruce's shoulder.
"It seems I've caught you in a moment of leisure. You're not in Metropolis," Bruce observes. "From the angle of the sun entering the window behind you. The slight undulations. A yacht. The Maluku Islands I would hazard your location. Nearly ten thousand miles away."
"So precise," Luthor responds, ably hiding being impressed by Batman's deductive skills.
"The Lex Corp facilities you believe to be hidden," Batman states. "Are not as well hidden as you would believe. Maluku makes sense."
Lex's smug look dissipates to a forced smile. "Impressive, Batman," Luthor says. "What I find even more impressive is your ability to keep your identity under a ridiculous costume. I don't need to be there to stop you. I have my own contingencies."
Bruce's mouth creases ever so slightly to a smile only Selina notices, he feels her fingers massaging his shoulders.
"They would be?" Bruce asks.
Luthor receives a glass from someone beyond the camera. He plays with a tiny umbrella stirrer. Removes it, and takes a sip of the drink. "Let me ask you a question, Batman?" he offers. "Why? Why do you ally yourself with non-humans? Ask yourself this, would Brainiac have come to Earth if Kent wasn't here? Those lost lives are on him."
"There is no guarantee Brainiac would not have," Bruce replies. "I do not deny Superman's presence was a catalyst, but Earth was not an unknown beyond our solar system. I. The world does not blame Superman for Brainiac. You leave out inconvenient truths where Brainiac plundered, killed, kidnapped millions before he reached Earth. We. Superman stopped him. Those lives lost on Earth will always weigh on our minds. "
"And yet," Luthor retorts. "Kent's paper, The Galaxies Beyond, required reading in every damn astronomy class for the last sixty years. I remember reading it, and coming to one inescapable conclusion. As you allude to, they're out there. More like Kent, eventually. His Kryptonian parents picked out Earth. Light years. Multiple star systems away. They. Picked. Earth. Kent was, is, and always will be a danger to this planet. And you, and your so-named Justice Leaguers, pal around with him. He's the most dangerous weapon of mass destruction this planet has ever seen, and we praise him relentlessly, a would-be deity amongst billions."
"And I have and will continue to call him, friend," Bruce replies. "What would you have done, Luthor? An absolute solution?"
Luthor snorts. "Is he truly gone?" he asks. "Permanently?"
Bruce's face becomes unreadable. "I do believe you have genuine anxiety when it comes to Superman. Maybe even fear. But know what I see. Hear, in you. A man full of jealous rage that this alien is more welcomed. More honored. More loved than the world would, will ever bestow upon, Lex Luthor."
"Goodbye, Batman," Luthor says. And your feline pet behind you."
"You piece of…," Selina begins as the monitor goes dark.
"Here we go," Bruce says, still leisurely seated in the chair.
The two, tall office doors blow open into the room. Splintered wood flies in all directions, plumes of smoke seeping through the entranceway. Tactical armor wearing individuals rush through, semi-automatic weapons drawn upon Bruce and Selina. Trained laser dots reach targeted spaces upon their heads and upper bodies. The guards move aside making way for another individual, who moves with purpose from out of the smoke, into the office's interior.
The presumed man is rather tall, Bruce's height, but not as thick. His gait, knowing how each footfall will determine the next, calculates to be either a simple step or an aggressive, or defensive measure. His entire body is clothed in black and orange colored tactical gear, displaying a myriad of scratches and dents. His full, head covering helmet, one half orange, the other black tilts ever so slightly down, then to the right and the left, before settling upon Bruce and Selina. The hilt of two swords, strapped to his back, can be seen rising behind his shoulders. A sizeable, holstered gun on his right hip. He stops several meters from the desk, Bruce's feet still resting on top of it.
Silence overwhelms the room as breaths are held. Gun fingers tense upon triggers. No one is moving.
"Not sure if Luthor will appreciate his office being destroyed," Bruce says, already strategizing his and Selina's options. "Some rare pieces in here, worth at least a hesitation on your end, don't you think?"
The individual does not move, as the surrounding guards continue to train their weapons upon Bruce and Selina. He then slowly brings his hands up to his face, and removes the helmet. His long, silvery, gray hair is kept in check with a white, tanaka headband. A patch over his right eye slightly distracts from a well-manicured, Van Dyke-style goatee edging his mouth.
"One thing I've never been accused of," the forty-something year old man replies in a smooth, deep voice. "Is hesitation. Since codenames are your peoples' thing, call me Deathstroke."
"God, do our names sound as absurd?" Selina wonders.
Bruce brings his right arm and hand down onto the desk. A move Selina reads as to how Bruce will move his body when the fighting begins.
"Slade Joseph Wilson," Bruce states. "Super soldier for hire. Enhanced physical and mental capabilities. Well versed, some reports say expert, in hand to hand combat. Tactical weapons. But preference for swords. Ninjato and single-edge, I believe. Sword irony, don't you think? I'm not surprised you would be on Luthor's payroll."
Wilson cracks a slight smile. "To be known by the great, Batman," he parses with sarcasm. "So honored. Luthor pays me a hell of a lot of money. Whenever he's out of Metropolis, guess who's watching over, the more potentially dangerous things around here? The death of the Amazon. Kent's disappearance. Opened up so many more avenues of revenue for me."
"Also added you to my watch list," Bruce says. "I didn't know you were back in the states, Slade."
Wilson inches a little closer to the desk. One hand, holding his helmet. The other, taking hold of one of the straps upon his chest.
"If you've done your research," he says. "You'd know threats don't work well with me. Another thing, the name is Wilson. No one calls me, Slade."
"Then you and I will have a special relationship…Slade," Bruce says. "A little late aren't you, keeping us out of Luthor's office?"
"Maybe," Selina continues, positioning her body, ready to move. "He's break in case of emergency?"
"Luthor provides living quarters. Gratis. Food. Tech. Company, if I so desire," Wilson states. "To your wit, Batman, I'm not the security, monitoring twenty-four seven. I deal with problems. Usually of the people variety. You, and her. Nice bonus for me. Decent enough challenge."
"Decent we shall have to be," Bruce responds. "No offer, allowing us to leave without the sword?"
"Hell I care about a sword," Wilson states, pulling out one attached from his back. "I got two. Luthor's sole order was neutralize you both. You get neutralized, sword goes nowhere."
Selina maneuvers an object out from her bag, Bruce's body effectively hides her very slight arm movement.
"Will you walk into my office," Bruce drones with a slight cadence. "Said the Bat to the man."
"He must have assuredly realized, that was always part of the plan," Selina finishes squeezing Bruce's shoulder.
Deathstroke's serviceable left eye stares with bewilderment as he puts together their words.
"Shit," he whispers, throwing his body forward much faster than Bruce anticipates as several boom-boom, mini explosions erupt in the office.
Controlled explosions, from which Bruce had placed mines near the doorway when he first entered Luthor's office. His cape flashes upward hiding he and Selina as smoke fills the room. Most of the security squad are on the floor, recovering from the blasts. Several writhe in pain and confusion. Weapon fire blares throughout the office, most of the bullets finding the steel barrier that descended against the window. Bruce takes quick notice of the floor showing little damage but to the carpet. Structurally, it appears to still be sound despite the surrounding damage.
Bruce and Selina move in separate directions from Luthor's desk. Selina goes high, her body arcing poetically through the air, her head coming close to the high office ceiling. She descends, her legs open up, wrapping around the neck of one of the soldiers. She uses her momentum to twist her body and his to the floor. She rolls back up delivering a solid kick to the midsection of another. She readjusts Athena on her back, and moves toward more security detail coming through the door.
Bruce goes low, moving decisively towards Deathstroke, who is back on his feet. Bruce positions himself, leaving Deathstroke between he and the other security. They do not fire, to avoid hitting Deathstroke, and also maintain visual contact with the ever in motion Catwoman.
Deathstroke's helmet comes down upon his head. His sword, now held in both of his hands, glistens under high powered lights that someone clicked on. He and Bruce perform a give-and-take, short, side and forward steps, measuring the other. Deathstroke spins his body, going down low, then back up, his sword moves horizontally towards Bruce. Bruce brings upward a gauntlet gloved hand and forearm. The sword strikes solidly against the resilient thin armor, emitting a loud thunk noise that echoes throughout the office. The force of the contact jolts Deathstroke off balance as he regains quick purchase against a chair.
"The hell?" he wonders, turning back towards Bruce. "Your arm should be on the floor."
Bruce silently stalks his way towards Wilson, who uses his left hand to bring out a single-edge sword. Bruce does not slow as he does a quick spin of his own, his back to Wilson, and his cape billowing everywhere. With great speed and power, Wilson brings the Ninjato upwards and slices it through the air towards Bruce's head, which is now hidden by the cape. The Ninjato cuts through the cape, which Bruce has detached from in mid-spin. He is now at Wilson's side, able to throw a punch that is blocked upwards by the dull side of the Ninjato. Wilson attacks, his swords rat-a-tat-tatting off of Bruce's uniform. Bruce struggles to match Wilson's speed as the hits continue unabated while he defensively protects his face.
"You know Goju-ryu," Wilson observes, taking a step back to read the room, the security team getting its asses handed to them by the Catwoman.
"And so you have been physically enhanced," Bruce declares.
"So she says," Wilson retorts as Bruce moves towards him.
Wilson plants his left, lead foot onto the floor. His right several feet back. His arms go upward, swords wavering high, and they fall into their respective sheathes on his back. He removes his helmet, tossing it upon a nearby chair.
"That's better," Wilson breathes. "Your clothing, sans cape, is made of promethium. Swords won't do so well. You move fast, Batman, but I'm faster. Feeling you out, one would say. You show me yours, I'll show you mine."
Wilson smiles and rushes Bruce, who is now several meters away. They make bruising contact, grappling as Wilson reaches for Bruce's belt. Bruce removes Wilson's modified Desert Eagle gun from its holster. It slides to an empty corner of the large office. Wilson lifts Bruce by the belt, turning their bodies midair, bringing Bruce down hard into the carpeted floor. Bruce's back feels the pain, but he allows no time for it to take anchor. Pain to Bruce is no longer a shock to his system. Special pain receptors, his nociceptors, fire off within him in instinctual reaction to any pain event, but his mind overrules the pain, dulling it. To the point where he keeps the pain at bay until the danger is removed. He brings a knee upward as Wilson straddles him. Wilson's hands find his throat. The filaments in Bruce's cowl protect him by absorbing and dispensing the increasing pressure.
Bruce finds Wilson's wrists, and he applies his own pressure. A technique Diana taught him. Wilson bellows as strands of his spit shower Bruce's face. His grip loosens from Bruce's neck. Bruce lets go too, and grabs Slade's collar, pulling it and Slade's unprotected head towards him. Bruce's dense cowl forehead slams into Wilson's face. Wilson rolls off, drips of his blood plop to the floor. Bruce thrust his feet up and outward, snapping back up to a standing position. A twinge of pain shoots through his upper back. Wilson dismisses the blood leaking from his nose. He rises, feeling the fluid trickle into his beard.
"Not bad," Wilson says as blood mingles with spit, glossing his teeth. "I got a little too eager."
He jabs quickly toward Bruce who barely manages to avoid the incoming fist. Bruce attempts to grab Wilson, but Wilson moves down and delivers a crunching punch to Bruce's right torso. Bruce staggers, stepping back, trying to regain a bounce in his step. Wilson feigns a hold attempt that Bruce moves to block. Wilson, instead, dips down again, and sweeps his leg with considerable power into Bruce's right thigh. The force sends Bruce on a collision course into a nearby wall. Wilson smiles, moving in again, as Bruce smoothly takes three steps diagonally up the wall and propels himself back towards Wilson. Anticipating Wilson's next reaction, Bruce allows himself to be caught in mid-air and thrown across the room. His preparation allows him to contort his body in the air so that he lands softly on his feet. At his feet is Wilson's Desert Eagle gun. He picks it up.
Wilson snickers from across the office. "Well done, Batman," he amplifies with hand claps. "Excellent maneuvering. But. We both know there's only one true killer here."
Bruce remains silent. And still. The gun, hangs at his side, pointing towards the floor.
"You're stalling," Wilson declares. "For what? More of your friends to arrive?"
"No need," Bruce says. "By the sounds from out there, my partner is nearly done with your crew."
Bruce unloads the magazine of .50 caliber rounds from the gun.
"You know," he says examining the weapon, feeling its heft and balance. "This gun was deemed impractical. Recoil. Noise. Point and shoot. You've made modifications. Your strength and speed. You may be one of the few on this planet to make it serviceable."
"You are stalling," Wilson says slowly closing the floor distance between he and Bruce. "What are you fiddling with?
"Body not as young as it once was," Bruce says tapping points on his right glove gauntlet. "Or durable. Needed a timeout."
"Bullshit," Wilson says now rushing towards Bruce.
Three seconds away.
Bruce feels a slight tingle through his right hand and arm.
"About time," he softly blows.
Two seconds away.
Bruce lets his body go limp as Wilson crashes into him. They tumble over Luthor's desk. Bruce's body lands face down on the floor. As he turns over, he sees one of Wilson's feet monstering down towards his head. Bruce rolls, and continues to do so as Wilson seeks to squash the Batman. Bruce eyes his cape on the floor. He reaches out, grabbing it and flicking it with precision towards Wilson. The cape bundles around Wilson's body and legs, slowing him down. Just enough for Bruce to push himself up off the floor.
Wilson removes the cape from his body in time to receive an uppercut to his jaw from Bruce's right hand. His body sails upward and away crashing into the wall panel once holding Diana's sword. Just as he extricates himself from the wall, he feels Bruce's fist plow into his side. He throws a desperate side arm that Bruce easily ducks under and comes back up with another punch to Wilson's jaw.
Bruce presses the attack.
Wilson struggles to maintain consciousness as he feels Bruce's punches land on him. His last thought before fading into the darkness is how the hell this happened? The Batman is not superpowered.
Bruce feels a familiar hand on his shoulder.
"You good?" Selina asks.
"Look," Bruce says taking deep breaths, looking down upon Wilson's body. "His rejuvenation ability. Impressive. Already starting. Blood clotting. He'll soon be awake."
"I guess the intel was accurate," Selina says, as Bruce gives her a surprised look. "Really? I read your reports too."
Bruce bends down towards Wilson. He fidgets with his belt, removing a small syringe. He feels Selina placing his shredded cape back upon him as he injects Wilson with the syringe contents.
"Odds are he'll wonder why I left him here," Bruce says standing up. "Tracker will let me know where he is within five thousand miles."
"Though he didn't show much," Selina says. "Intel also speaks of his intelligence. Sure he won't find it?"
"I'll take Star Labs and Clark over Slade and Luthor," Bruce says turning to his wife, he looks to his right hand. "Speaking of, it took a bit, but the exoskeleton worked. You look little worse for the wear. You good?"
"I like being out," Selina says feeling Bruce's gloved hand caressing her sweaty face showing no bruises. "Does that make us, bad? Considering, our responsibilities."
"Maybe selfish," Bruce says. "But could we be who we are, even with that responsibility, for that responsibility if we deny so large a part of ourselves?"
Selina takes her husband's hand leading him out of the office amidst the human carnage strewn throughout the area.
"Hell of a question," Selina responds. "Watcher, we still clear?"
Selina and Bruce hear, "Clear," on their ear comms.
"Pick us up on the roof, north side," Bruce says.
"Success?" Alfred asks.
"We have it," Selina says. "We have it."
II.
His innate calculation of time's passage is without peer, yet as his eyelids flicker open for him to see a light below, a pinprick in the absolute darkness that envelopes all that is elsewhere, he questions that ability. His brilliant, deductive mind ticks off time, minute number thirteen thousand twenty-two since he last stood on solid ground. Since last being able to see anything. Sense anything. His descent into this black abyss has been unabated, his eyes have been closed for most of the freefall. His heartbeat hovers around eight beats per minute. A calm state took hold, keeping him sane in an environment he was told of, but is now experiencing. She is always at the foremost of his thoughts as the light beckons him. He touches the impressions of her rings in his pocket. He allows gravity and the constant pressure from above to continue leading his way.
The white light grows, becoming an expanding circle. His vision is unable to see beyond the brightness. The speed of the descent slows as he nears.
Contact.
He feels nothing as his feet disappear into the light. Nothing, as the light rapidly crawls up his legs, torso and chest. His eyes remain open as his head is soon swallowed. A quick flash of darkness is just as quickly replaced with his feet pounding down upon a soft surface, his body crumples onto the flat ground, composed of fine, dark brown sand.
His appendages, quite buried as he moves and swishes to extricate himself. Errant, blowing sand particles enter his mouth and nose. An unexpected burning sensation causes him to spit, blow his nose. In some irony, he thinks, he uses a low heat burn from his eyes to clear obscured vision.
He scoops up a pile of the sand. The burn is less noticeable upon his skin as he allows it to filter through his fingers and back onto the ground. Where his spit landed, there is a tendril of steam. Or is it smoke?
"Hell is hot," he muses. "Novel."
He looks upward to see a sky. His confusion runs rampant trying to comprehend how such a thing can exist. There is no perceived light source, yet there is light. There are no clouds. No stars. No moon.
And, he casts no shadow.
Before him is a large body of black water. It is completely still. No waves. No steam at the shoreland. Only an occasional burp as if something below the water surface is about to breach. But nothing does in those seconds as he is mesmerized by this new world. The water stretches beyond his sight. He questions whether there is any curvature to this world. He thinks about the many worlds outside of Earth he has been, and how basic, natural laws and principles were always in effect. This place, this existence, defies all that he knows and has seen. He is compelled to wonder whether this place is a natural creation or was it created by…despite knowing they exist, he is still unable to give complete, absolute credence to those possible godly truths.
Noises erupt from somewhere. They sound animalistic, but also human. The howling sounds are omnipresent as he swivels his head in all directions. To his left and right are large swaths of beach land, each leading to, what looks to him, hills and mountains in the far distance. Strange, tall red plants, with black stems dot the hillside's brown dirt. Black beams of light, about the circumference of a spotlight, periodically shoot straight up from the ground into the sky. He attempts to tracks their destination upward, but they soon disappear beyond his ability to see. And before he presses the issue in his thoughts, the black light streams just disappear, only to start anew seconds later.
One stream keeps his attention because it does not disappear. As his eyes better adjust to the new environment, he realizes that it is not a stream of light, but a tall structure.
"Welcome to Tartarus," Clark says to himself.