Chapter 19

September 14th, 2010

"You know we're not trying to imprison you or anything like that?" Superman had meant it as a statement but it had the cadence of a question. "You don't have to stage a grand escape."

He and Naruto sat at the top of the giant model Earth perched on top of the Daily Planet building. Superman had bought a footlong sandwich and they each held a half as they watched as the sun finished its slow descent behind the Metropolis skyline.

"It's just I worry about you, the decisions you might make," said Superman before taking a bite of his sandwich.

"We're all responsible for our own decisions, you've gotta know that. I'm not a kid and I haven't been one for a long time. I own my choices." Naruto set his sandwich down between his legs, done with it; Superman's toppings of choice—extra ketchup, extra pickles—were repulsive enough that one bite had done him in. "You have to understand that no matter how little you may know or how much you may worry, I live my life exactly the way that I always have: with conviction. I only ever do what I think is right."

"I know, I know. You're a man and I'm not your father... But, as your friend, all of this stuff with your, uh, injuries—it's understandable if you're angry." Naruto scoffed at the notion that he needed permission to feel however he damn well pleased. Superman continued, "But you have to let that anger go. Or it's going to drive you forward and forward ever closer to a line. It's a line you can't uncross and I don't want to be the guy who didn't do enough to protect you from that moment. I came out looking for you half—expecting to find you'd gone on some kind of revenge rampage." He laughed. "I guess you're a stronger man than I give you credit for. Just, if you're feeling—I don't know, if you think you might do something you'll regret, talk to one of us. Please?" He glanced over at Naruto who'd pulled shuriken and had started to do some sort of dexterity exercise with his mechanical fingers. He rolled the shuriken over his knuckles and in between his fingers with uncanny skill. It made a sort of metallic tink, tink, tink sound at regular intervals. Naruto thought about the events that were already in motion, under Superman's nose—under the League's noses.

"Sure," Naruto said. He gave Superman a toothy grin and his eye squinted from the largeness of it. He turned back to his exercise just as the shuriken slipped from his fingers and caught it with his left hand. Superman sighed. He couldn't help but think that there had been something disingenuous in that smile.

"So, now that that's out of the way, I guess I should ask about that arm." He didn't come out and actually ask but the question was implied.

Naruto looked at him again and this time he had a sly smirk on his face.

"Got it from a friend of yours."

"Oh yeah?" asked Superman, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Which friend?" he asked.

"Sure. You know, the rich, bald one." Naruto's lips were pursed in restrained amusement as Superman sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"You took a gift from Lex Luthor?" he asked incredulously.

"More like a bribe, really." Naruto's amusement was showing, his smirk grew wider.

"And what was he bribing you for?" Superman was smiling despite himself, trying to hide it behind his shallow act of annoyance, fingers still rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, you know, I might have led him to believe that I was gonna kill him." Naruto shrugged and stood up. He started walking briskly away from Superman, walking the curve of the giant model Earth as though the model had a gravitational pull all its own.

"What?!" shouted Superman as he rose from his position and flew after the ninja. Naruto laughed as the Kryptonian chased him down the building. Elsewhere, his clones worked in his place.

The building was shabby and run down. It was a condition that was endemic to all the buildings in the Gotham Narrows. The neighborhood was rough, but Lawrence Crock was a rough man. The Narrows were a little too close to Arkham for his liking—for the liking of any of the residents—but he fit into the criminal population just fine. No one asked any questions in the Narrows and in a place crawling with crooks and murderers, no one would notice one more hiding in their ranks.

Crock's apartment was just as shabby as the neighborhood. A run down studio, the wallpaper, yellowed and faded—peeling in some places. The lone window in the room was cracked, obscuring his view of the street below. There was one couch, an uncomfortable pull out, facing a small, dusty flat screen (undoubtedly the most expensive thing in the place) standing on the floor. It was a shithole.

He turned from the window and to the television. It must have been a slow news day; the nightly news was playing footage of the hero, Shinobi, apparently milling around a university campus in Star City. The footage paused, giving the viewers a look at the hero's right arm. An arm Crock was sure wasn't there when he'd seen him last. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach percolated a feeling he might have identified as dread if he were prone to introspection.

"Slow news—" He started to remark before there was a banging on his door, loud and insistent. His gaze snapped to the door where the banging continued. He darted over to the couch, pulling a large knife out from under it. He held the knife in a reverse grip and kept his breathing steady as he approached the door.

"Come on, bitch. Open the door, I know you in there," someone shouted drunkenly from the other side of the door. Crock relaxed minutely, and continued toward the door with slightly more confidence. He reached the door and placed his eye against the peep hole. He barely registered that the aperture was being covered on the other side, his breath hitched only slightly if at all, but the door was already off the hinges, striking him in the face and upper body and sending him tumbling back onto his couch.

He rolled off of the couch onto all fours and turned, already in motion to throw the knife at the intruder, but his arm was caught in an iron grip. He reached with his left arm to grab a weapon—any weapon—from under the couch but was stopped short by the blade at his neck and, what he assumed was a second blade pressing sharply into the base of his skull. His arm was abruptly released (although the blades remained in place) and he turned his head carefully, watching as Shinobi paced the small apartment, knocking on walls and listening for any hollow compartments.

Crock was distracted from that as another Shinobi plopped himself heavily on the couch in front of him. He got a good look at his face—or, rather, the mask and eyepatch that covered most of it—and it seemed, from the way the mask contorted and his eye squinted just slightly, that Shinobi was smiling at him. He looked away and saw that a third Shinobi, the one holding what looked an awful lot like Deathstroke's sword to his throat, was also grinning at him. He assumed the fourth, holding a sword to the base of his skull was doing likewise. A small tremor ran through his hands. Hands that had been as still and steady as a surgeon's not so long ago. He rocked back slowly, sharply aware of the swords at his throat, and sat on his heels—almost sitting seiza. His gaze fell back on the Shinobi sitting on the couch as the one that had been inspecting the walls of the apartment stood behind the couch, his eye also turned onto the assassin.

"Come on," spoke the seated Shinobi as he leaned forward. "You're not really surprised."

"Guess not," Crock replied, and he heard the same amusement in his voice as he'd heard in Shinobi's. Something passed between them, indescribable and unspoken. As much a joke as a certainty. He'd felt it before, but he'd never been on this end of it. His terror fled him and he was almost relieved. This was fine. This was a good death.

"Okay then." The one on the couch nodded at the sword wielder in front of Crock. The clone's blade flashed to the side, nicking Crock's neck as it went.

"Tell my daughters—" but whatever he was saying was cut off by his head hitting the floor. There was a gush of blood and it splattered on the walls, across the television, couch, and floors. The body knelt, headless in an empty room as the final wisps of smoke dissipated and the news droned on about the returned hero Shinobi.

A/N: I dunno, man.