Department of Extra-Normal Operations:
Metahuman Research
Volume MCMXL: The Justice Society of America
Presiding Agent Johns
20 June 1998

[Transcript truncated for reference]

"...The modern age of superheroes began in the Nineteen-forties. Strange accidents and stranger circumstances turned mortals into champions. The Green Lantern and Flash are some of these examples—detailed sub-files are appended. However, they chose to serve mankind rather than lead it. The Justice Society of America set out to protect the world rather than change it. And by the world I mean their country. Regional priorities. One understands, to some degree. Provincialism has usually been the means and ends of the super-human and these relics from a bygone age present no differently to us. As of this writing the JSA continues their mission of benign prevention, although our psychohistorical models project some degree of challenge and geopolitical strife occurring because of their so-called mission. The relevant data, appended and summarised for reference, comes from work begun in Metropolis circa 1987..."

In Starling, on a slope at the back of the Marble Cliff cemetery where a black iron fence separated the dead from the Pacific Ocean beyond, Oliver Queen stood at Roy's grave.

It all felt so strange.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the letter. Thumbed open the envelope and stared at it. In the way you stare at things but don't really read them, like reading the same page over and over again. He felt like he was there now. In that stage of incomprehension. Someone had done a good job getting him there.

He looked at the sky and breathed. Late May and it felt like late November, sickly-looking clouds in the sky, the ocean black and angry there on the horizon. Could an ocean be angry? He wondered. Maybe.

He thought of the island. Maybe it was angry then. Maybe he was. In his way.

Angry enough to escape. And the sea, the skies. The planet itself trying to keep him there. But no. I'm not dying here. I'm not dying at all, even. I'm Oliver Queen and I live forever do you understand me. He screams it at the sky one black evening as a typhoon rolls over him. He screams it. I live.

We.

We live.

Oh Roy.

He laid one hand on the headstone and dug his calloused palm into the stonework until it hurt. He felt old. He was old. Old and angry.

Goddamn it.

Do you remember, Roy?

We used to play.

It was a grand adventure. The Arrow Cave. The Arrow Mobile. Good old days fighting the Cavalier, the Catman, Deadshot, and the goddamn Duke of Oil. And the devil himself. Maybe that was the problem. Scratch that. I know it was. Because who.

Who would do this.

Oh my god. Who would do this? Only the very brave or the very stupid and Roy I just wasn't either one of those. Bruce and Clark can take it. But us. Me. I killed you. Bringing you into this life.

He collapsed before the grave.

I wasted your life. You wanted vengeance—or satisfaction—and I wanted an accomplice. I've wasted my life and—

I sent you to your death.

No.

He remembered.

"I'm going to the inauguration."

"No."

"Try yes."

"You're lucky the debate didn't set him off. No."

"Ollie you don't call my life anymore."

"Like hell I don't, you're my responsibility."

"Whatever."

"Do you know what the hell you're doing!?"

"Tell me!"

"This isn't some asshole in a purple suit—"

"I don't give a shit, I got him in the debate I'll get him here. Christ Ollie we all know what he's done—"

"And Clark is the one who can deal with him, I am not pissing off Lex Luthor when he can bring the establishment down on all of us."

"Ah Jesus you used to be so fearless. Good old Green Arrow who takes on the costumed idiots and Seattle gangbangers all the same, what happened."

"Get old, Roy, see what happens."

"Bullshit, you used to scream into hurricanes man—"

"What do you wanna bet he knows who you are and he's already trying to kill us?"

"We'd know about it!"

"Would we?"

"Oh my god—"

"Would you want to know? If your own government was hunting you? If it wanted to kill you. You've never gone up against Luthor. Jesus, he's not some corrupt alderman, Roy, we can't just barge in and arrest him."

"Ollie."

"He's—"

"What's got you spooked?"

"He knows who we are."

"So?"

"He can ruin us."

"He's just a man, Ollie, what's he gonna do. Put on that stupid armor and play king of the mountain?"

"No it's true. And every six months or so he comes at me with a buyout offer. He dangles it over me. If he was any more serious he'd find some copyright infringement and sue us into bankruptcy. Then…"

"Then what, Ollie, come on."

"…We'd have nothing."

"It wouldn't come to that. He's not insane."

And now, Oliver breathed. Put his head up and breathed. The air was cool and bit at his face. He stuck his hands in his pockets and straightened up. He frowned. It was like he could see everything. And nothing. Everything that was going to happen. And.

He had nothing. Standing here alone in the Marble Cliff cemetery.

Oh Roy.

He knew there were other worlds. He even knew that on one of them he and Bruce stood up to Lex Luthor and killed him.

He bowed his head.

The thought occurred to him once. Months ago. Kill him. There were ways. There was still the Arrow Copter and if he got desperate enough he thought he could run a suicide mission, crash it into the White House, into the People's House, and finish him for good. It would be a mercy. A saving grace. Justice for everything the bald bastard had ever done. To his city, to the planet. To Clark.

He shook his head. Clark wouldn't approve. Mercy would have consequences—even as Ollie contemplated killing Lex Luthor he could not contemplate standing before the Justice League.

He looked around. The cemetery was quiet. He thought it was odd, maybe only a little though, that he seemed to be the only one. Just him and the dead, and the slow breeze in the trees.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came. What to say. What not to say.

I don't know if—

If you're there, Roy.

God I'm so sorry.

I wasted everything.

He felt in his pocket again. The letter was there. He closed his eyes, pressing tears away. He pulled the letter out and read it. Must have been for the millionth time: To finally 'get' LL? You must have known it wouldn't work. Why send him to his death.

He slumped. Slid it back in his pocket. What—defeatedly? Dejectedly? How furious his mind was working in these moments. Trying to make sense of this.

"Ollie."

He turned.

"How the hell did you do that?"

She smiled and cocked her head. "You used to love it when I snuck up on you."

Dinah.

Then she was next to him, her hands on his hips, his hands on either side of her face. Feeling her warmth. She was calm and perfect, a ship at rest in a storm. Zen. He loved it. And—

"I missed you."

"I know," she said and kissed him. "I wanted to check on you."

"I appreciate it."

She glanced at the headstone. Back at him. "You know he loved you."

"I know."

They pressed their foreheads together.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

"Come home."

He chuckled, a single airy noise. "Is that what checking up is?"

"Ollie, you know how you get on your own."

"…I can't."

She bit her lip. Waited.

"Dinah, there are people behind this."

He took his hands off her. But kissed her in that last transitive moment, as she leaned into it and felt the closeness of him. Then it was over. As soon as it had started.

"I have to go," he said and slid past her.

She spun and said, "Where?"

But he didn't answer.

Chase.

Had been summoned to DC. The call came late the previous evening. "Get dressed," said Bones. "Car downstairs, private jet to DC." She said, "I didn't realize I rated so highly." He said, "Ditto. But something is up and I intend not to piss off the powers that be. So get your ass down there."

And so she did.

She thought maybe she knew the driver—the private car that picked her up at Reagan and took her into the city. He was oldish, maybe forties, the lines of his face kind of folded together and bunching over the collar of his shirt. Drab yellow under a drab blue solid print. Deliver me, she thought, from 1978. Good old fashioned fiery red hair in a boring crew cut. Tacky gold rimmed aviators. All the bullshit.

She made a face and wasn't aware she was doing it until he looked in the mirror and said, "Something on your mind, Agent Chase?"

She cocked her head. "Do I know you?"

"Jenner," he said.

She regarded him. "Didn't you used to drive for Luthor?"

"Maybe," he said and looked back at the road.

"Hmm." She looked out the window. "Metropolis station, ninety-six to ninety-eight? Cadmus cleanup?"

"Possibly," he said. "Busy couple years."

That much was true.

She hadn't been at Metropolis station in ninety-six, or any time before that. But she knew it. She was aware there was some history with the underground genetics firm Cadmus and one of their science weapons cut loose and started bombing the city. Other sources she didn't bother paying attention to said it was Luthor himself, in a mad fit and trying to destroy his city. Frankly she didn't care. It was both above her and beneath her. Which was to say...she didn't care for Luthor one way or the other. Like everything else. She had a job and created the dossier on his communications and was, as near as she could tell by now, on her way to present it to Waller. But she wasn't enthused about it. Cameron Chase was thirty-five and felt somewhere around sixty: that exhausted lack of care that comes with retirement after a long life. Busy couple years indeed. She had moved out to New York on Bones' recommendation, had taken case after case to such an extent that they all seemed to blend together in her memory. If she thought too long about it all she was hard pressed to say she was earning her keep. Or making much of a difference. It put a chip on her shoulder. Years from now she'll blossom more fully into a hard edge, but for now she's numb. Very numb.

Go here. Go there. Do Bones' bidding. Work the cases.

Cut yourself off.

From feeling things.

It's no kind of life.

She breathed. And slid down in the seat, rested her head on the leather.

And had Jenner's number.

"I'm a Special Agent," she said. "And you didn't even try to hide who you are from me."

"Because it doesn't matter."

"You think so?"

"You would have asked me to pull over by now. Arrested me. Which tells me you're not fishing for evidence through conversation."

"I get the sense someone's tried this with you before."

He seemed to shrug.

She leaned forward. "People believe in him. And yet."

Jenner nodded. "What do you think is worse? That he raised the dead and rigged an election or that people actually voted for him. He's not that bad you know."

"I know," she said. "I'm also aware of other civilian elements working against him."

"Don't care," Jenner said. "I just drive. I hear things. And I keep my mouth shut."

She looked at him.

He looked in the mirror. "Lady, I've known him since we were kids. Lots of people come and go. If you think I'm gonna roll on him for you or some reporter who thinks she runs the planet—it's no contest. My job isn't worth that. Neither is yours."

"Why tell me this?"

"Because I know what you're working on," he said. "Everyone does. And let me tell you. It will go precisely nowhere, lady. No one cares. No one's paying attention."

She looked out the window.

He was right.

There was no greater motivator than human selfishness—and no greater, what, stagnation than apathy. Do what you want, when you want, and get away with it for years because no one is looking. No one cares. She thought about herself. The things she could do. If she wanted to.

Such an alluring and forbidden thought.

And yet. Jenner did not fear her.

It was nice not to be feared for once. Especially in this profession. Men directed it. Men controlled it. To be who she was—a woman—in this field connoted weakness. She combatted it by learning about her field. As much as she could. Learn the issues. Become, what, a policy wonk. Learn their world so completely that you surpass them—and if they challenge, put their entitled asses in place. That's how she was raised.

She remembers what Dad used to say. You take your place, Cameron. Take it from them if you have to.

The car slowed.

Jenner said, "Your stop."

She threw the door open. "You know you have a choice, Mister Jenner. Make it."

It was a lie that came out of nowhere. Or from a very small place where she wanted to part on some badass moment with him, even if it was to feed him a canard. She didn't wait for a reply—and figured she wasn't going to get one. She shut the door and went inside.

The Department of Extra-Normal Operations lived in a nondescript back corner of the Justice Department. Waller's office was at the end of a long hallway with blank stucco walls and her door, simple unmarked cherry wood. Inside, a Herman Miller catalogue. Her personal style. Dim lamps were specks of lights on her desk, the rest of the office unappointed—white walls, a leather davenport against the far wall that looked not so much as even looked at, much less sat in. Chase opened the door and shut it back behind. Waited just inside the threshold. And in the instant before speaking, she beheld her.

Amanda Waller.

Born in East Saint Louis. Rhodes Scholar. PhD in Political Science. Served in three administrations. She was people who knew people. Who knew things.

"Director," Chase said and smiled.

Waller looked right back at her.

If Luthor was a great white shark, Amanda Waller was a wolf. Stalking through a barren forest and when she sees you she just kind of—

Lowers her head.

You stare at her. And she—

Stares.

Right.

Back.

"Agent Chase."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Save the pleasantries," Waller said and stood. She was shorter than Chase. Chase slunk back all the same. "I asked you here to discuss the dossier Bones had you compile."

"Yes," Chase said. "I'll be happy to discuss anything you like, ma'am."

Waller leaned back in her chair. It creaked with the motion. She tented her fingers like a Bond villain and said, "You are working on a story."

"Yes."

"That story has come to an end."

A moment passed. Chase straightened up and looked at the wall behind her.

"What," Waller said. "You want an explanation?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Waller leaned forward. Looked at the blotter on her desk and then back up at Chase.

She said, "I'm going to ask you a question and I'm going to preface it with this: I'm a survivor. I always have been. I survived East Saint Louis. I even survived Oxford. The world's at a tipping point. If you can't sense it I can't help you. But I will tell you I will survive it."

Chase narrowed her eyes.

Waller said, "And I'll survive Lex Luthor. The government continues. Empires rise and fall, statues crumble, but intelligence never dies and that's my real work, Agent Chase. It's the secondary mission of DEO. Luthor knows about it but is more focused on Superman. That's always been his function. Mine, and yours, is to survive."

Chase felt her jaw slack. "Ma'am?"

"The dossier you compiled is going into deep storage. Everyone knows it to be true."

"Then why bury it. With respect, should we not expose the crimes?"

"He is already on his way out," Waller said. "It's a matter of time. There are elements in the government that are more focused on surviving the torrent of his downfall."

Chase rolled her eyes. Waller must have caught it because she said, "It's no joke."

"No," Chase said. "But when you use words like torrent of his downfall I confess it's difficult to take you seriously."

"No one took him seriously," Waller said. "Instead we just took him at his word. And now here we are."

"I don't—"

"His entire life he's only been interested in power. You see the news. You know what's happening in Kahndaq and Bialya. Someone will do something stupid, and things will escalate. Luthor will do the only thing he knows how to do, at which point…all someone has to do is go get Superman. And Superman, Agent Chase…Superman always keeps his word."

Chase breathed.

"So what do we do."

"Like I said. He's just a man and we are playing a longer game. My question is: you're familiar with the agency known as Checkmate?"

"Yes."

"DEO has just absorbed it. A host of other agencies, as well, with a new governing body. Eventually we want to form a new line of defense. A global peace agency that will make the planet safe and help guide it into the twenty-first century. Luthor dreams madly of this and has funded our projects from the beginning. But he and Superman trip over themselves playing dress-up, while the world falls apart around us. Do you understand what I'm saying, Cameron?"

First name basis. Such a thing implied intimacy where Chase knew there was none. Which meant Waller wanted something. Butter her up and she'll do anything you ask. The old abuser's trick. That was it. The mighty iceberg cracked and she allowed herself a sneer. "You're offering me a job."

Waller nodded. "You fit the profile. And you have distinctive insight that will help us."

Chase said, "What do you need?"

"Just your consent," Waller said. "And for you to keep up appearances until such time as it's no longer necessary."

Chase looked at her. "You're so sure?"

It was a loaded question. She knew Superman fairly well from the years of reporting and her own few interactions with him. Same went for Luthor; between the two of them he skewed more unstable. Slightly.

"Statistics," Waller said. "The math between Luthor's actions and Superman's actions point to something significant occurring before the end of the year. By then, we will be removed from the situation."

"Removed."

"I understand it's a sudden change. If you accept, there's a jet waiting for you at Dulles. If not, you return to Philadelphia and you speak nothing of this—or you'll die in Leavenworth. Do you get me, Agent Chase."

Chase straightened up. She wasn't even sure why.

She look Waller in the eye and said, "Yes, ma'am."

Waller lowered her head. Stared right back. And smiled.

The day started off poorly. By evening it was worse. He was too. He supposed his mood, such as it was, came from the news about Wayne. Almost instantly the news had spread. Luthor had received the note while he was on the South Lawn and by the time he was back in the office it was on every network. He had missed his window of opportunity.

Of control.

He leaned against the Resolute desk and watched coverage of it. They were treating it like the end times. Of course. Predictable. WGBS—Edge and his toads. GCN. The majors. Even his beloved WLEX and the recently promoted Woodburn were beside themselves.

"Wayne Enterprises cuts off military contracts!"

"Wayne snubs Luthor!"

"Crisis in DC!"

And variations thereupon. Lord they were jackals. But well trained. Point them at something and they descended upon it. It was a trick he learned long ago, managing the Slum with the Newsboys. Tell someone something consequential and the word not only spreads but the importance thereof, as well. Reality becomes amplified and in the telling and re-telling of it by voracious talking heads, the truth blurs. Becomes something inelegant and irrelevant. It doesn't matter what you think or How Things Look, what matters is How It Feels, How You Feel.

It was the death of the age of reason.

One Luthor couldn't be too distressed to see go, if for no other reason that his adult life had been built on bringing that death to fruition. To manipulate events in such a way as to not only gaslight but to actively distract from one's true goals. Such an alluring thing.

And of course, after all these years and all his struggles, it was still only his will that mattered. His above all else.

Which is why Wayne's protest vote pissed him off so much.

A protest vote anyway, he thought. Who does that.

More elementally, a protestor.

Is there any lower form of life.

He scowled and pushed into the Situation Room.

Everyone was there. And of course they all stood as he entered. He wave done hand and said, "Sit," with a bite in his voice, as if to some errant dog. And they did. Good boys.

He summoned a smile and sat and surveyed the room. In the millisecond before it all began, he surveyed them.

Pete was there on his left. On his right was the Secretary of State, Albright, a holdover like many others, and a decent guiding hand. There was Jefferson Pierce, the Education Secretary and secretly—although Luthor knew it from years before and his own metahuman research—the also-ran superhero Black Lightning. There was Frank Rock, a decorated veteran of unspeakable renown who served in Europe and routinely criticized Luthor at every available turn. There was Defense Secretary Sam Lane, a good old fashioned Luthor Loyalist. Waller was there, seated far away, a slight reach from Pierce. There was Gore too, the recently confirmed Secretary of Energy. And the rest. He didn't bother remembering them. No one was waiting on the Interior Secretary to change the world, after all.

And there was Mac. Seated against the far window, at Luthor's distant right side. Not at the table but among a row of chairs right by the window and overlooking the Rose Garden. Luthor stole glances at him every few moments. Mac looked nervous.

Albright was on: "…So that's the concern in the area, Mister President. Cascading issues and strong egos in the balance of power."

"It's always been that way," Pete said. "What can we do to combat it?"

"Short of troops on the ground?" Rock asked and glared.

Pete stuck on him and said, "No."

"No."

"Oh Jesus," Pete said. "Every time we have this discussion you think I wanna send troops in, Frank, what the hell."

"Hey! Watch your mouth, son, you wanna go back to Kansas on a stretcher?"

"Frank." The voice was Luthor. He was leaning into the table, supporting his head on one bent arm. His head towards Pete, his eyes angled at Frank. He said, "Drop it."

"I'm not prepared to take troop movements to the Joint Chiefs," Rock said. "I'm not."

"No one is asking you to do that," Luthor said. "I asked you here on a courtesy and courtesy you'll receive. Now let's calm ourselves. Madeline here was saying?"

She cleared her throat and went on: "Well, where do you want to start, Mister President? Bad or worse?"

"Give me bad."

"Bialya," she said. "The Queen Bee is making overtures to Syria and Iraq. Our intelligence points to a potential alliance."

"And?"

Albright seemed to shrug. "Could be something, could be nothing. She's always been unstable. Thinks she can horse trade her way to power."

"One sympathises," Luthor said.

"Instability throws the doors open to outside forces. Intelligence suggests the League of Assassins is in the country attempting a coup. Slow burn, though."

"Hmm."

"What do you want to do?"

Luthor thought about it.

He knew the Demon's Head, the great Ra's al Ghul, ancestrally. And well enough to know that he would—

"Let it ride for now," Luthor said. "Tell our sources to stay quiet and observe. If the League approaches them, give the order to comply. Let's wager the Demon's Head already knows our strength in the area. Maybe we have an ally if things get difficult."

Pete looked at him aghast. "Sir."

"What?" Luthor leveled those horrible green eyes at him. "Would you prefer we back off completely, allow the region to devolve into civil war? No. Watch and wait. Madeline. What next."

"Kahndaq," she said. "Our sources on the ground, coupled with allied intelligence, point to some kind of metahuman coup. Happened within the last twelve hours."

"Why weren't we briefed when it happened?" Luthor asked

"It was deemed second-level," Albright said. "Not an immediate threat."

He waved a hand and said, "Fine. What else."

Albright made a face "Sir, this is where things get rather strange, so I'm going to ask your forgiveness."

"Madeline," Luthor said and grabbed a pen, flipping it around among the fingers of one hand. "I'm what they call a level twelve intelligence. Do not talk down to me."

Albright sighed. Looked at the files in front of her and said, "There's a legend in the region, of a savior, or a messianic figure named Teth-Adam. Only we have reason to believe he's no myth any longer, and certainly no mere mortal. Our intelligence on the ground indicates this Adam figure has come back to lay his claim on his ancestral homeland and protect it from external enemies. Of which, I don't need to tell you, there are many in the region. So we have a meta-problem on top of a geopolitical one."

Luthor breathed and made a face. Stole glances at Lane and Waller as Albright spoke.

"I believe I have some additional insight on the matter," Waller said and flung open a manila folder. "If I may, Mister President?"

Luthor offered his hand and leaned back in the chair. Crossed his arms and listened.

"Where to begin," Waller said. "Well. This Adam figure is no myth, Madeline, I agree. In fact he's very real. DEO has compiled a detailed dossier on his actions, both independently and as they relate to the so-called Captain Marvel in Fawcett City—who is also sometimes referred to as Shazam in the media. Up until now their shared exploits have been apocryphal at best, but, well, here we are in a twenty-four-hour news cycle and everything is reportable."

Rock rolled his eyes. He said, "This is the national interest?"

"Now now," Luthor said. "Patience, General. Amanda."

Pete said, "What's the relationship between this Adam character and Captain Marvel?"

"We believe," Waller said. 'Which is to say, it is DEO's position that the Captain and Adam, colloquially known as Black Adam, have been engaged in some kind of power struggle since time immemorial. There is a detailed mythography in the packets Mac is handing out just now, thank you, Mac, but suffice it to say, it's also DEO's position that their struggle constitutes a national security threat."

"DEO is concerned," Pierce said. "That Adam and Captain Marvel are going to start a war?"

"No, Jefferson." Waller leaned in. "We believe war has already started in Kahndaq. Adam has laid waste to the palace and deposed General Muhunnad. Shiruta burns, Mister President."

"Muhunnad was a dictator," Lane said. "Not a loss."

"A head of state's removal destabilizes the entire region," Albright said. She looked at Waller. "Adam is sending a message."

Waller nodded. "We believe it's one of unity. To the extent we've intercepted his public announcements, he proclaims Kahndaq's borders to be open to those willing to rebuild or seeking asylum."

"Interesting."

"However," Waller said and almost sneered. "All of this pales in comparison to the fact that the Justice Society has seen fit to intervene in the situation."

Luthor smiled.

Pete frowned.

Albright was making notes.

"How long," Pete said. "Have they been on site?"

"Little less than five hours," Waller said.

The room fell silent.

Luthor spoke up. "I don't think Black Adam is interested in making the Middle East safe for democracy. In point of fact I strongly doubt he has anything in mind beyond vengeance or satisfaction."

Pete looked at him. "They're not the same thing, Lex."

"No," Luthor said. "Amanda, what's the allied response to both Adam and the JSA?"

"Wait and see," she said. "Tel Aviv, Cairo, and Riyadh all report cautious optimism."

"Really?" Pierce said.

Albright said, "Yes, this matches State's information as well. Mister President, I think we should support the regime change."

Luthor leaned back in his chair. "One less dictator in a volatile region presents fewer problems for us. Or so we hope. Particularly if his message is conciliation. Sam, what are your thoughts?"

"Well," Lane said. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say I'm not interested in a lengthy deployment. But…if we had to…"

Luthor looked around. Waller nodded. Pierce nodded. Even Frank Rock nodded.

Luthor looked at Mac there against the window. Fidgeting in place, almost. The rumples of his suit ill-fitting as usual. It reminded him of someone.

Someone he knew. Or thought he knew.

Who went around as one person yet presented himself to the world—

In plain fashion. As one of them.

Someone who so desperately wanted to touch humanity. Who was not part of it and so longed to join it. Someone looking in on us as if from a store window.

And perhaps.

Perhaps they saw something they wanted. Or needed.

Something they could—

Some people they could—

Take advantage of. Lord their power over.

And power, he well knew, was not something to be shared.

Gods, he well knew, do not share their power.

They fly around in little capes and—

He took a single sharp breath.

"Mac."

Mac jolted in place. His jowls fluttered as he spoke and he fumbled his hands, a nervous tic Luthor had noticed early on.

"You seem unsettled."

Pete looked at him.

Waller turned and looked at him.

Rock looked at him.

Lane turned and looked at him.

Slowly they all did.

"Are you well, Mac?"

"Y-yes, Mister Lewthor. Heh. Tip-top."

Luthor did not move.

"We've met before, haven't we."

"Eh, I don't think so. Where was it you think we met, Mister Lewthor?"

"My building," Luthor said. "Don't you remember?"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. You've changed since then."

"Mister Lewthor, I'm not sure what you're—"

"What is your name?"

The room fell silent.

"What the fuck is your name?!"

Mac's eyes darted around. Looking for some help from someone. And yet…

"Nathaniel Mackelvaney," Luthor said. "You applied for the job. Personal Assistant to the President-elect. It was supposed to be temporary, transitional, but we liked you enough to ask you to stay. And stay you did. Found your way into every meeting. Because I wanted you here?"

"Uh…"

"We never ran a background check on you. Your position doesn't require any oversight except mine. Didn't you ever wonder why?!"

Mac breathed. Regulated it within himself. He wiped his face and glanced around the room.

In the next moment, Pete and Sam Lane gathered themselves around Luthor. "Sir," Pete said. "Step away from him."

Luthor waved Pete off. He pulled a zippo from his pocket. Lighted it and set it on the desk.

Mac sort of—

Froze. His whole body stiffened as he beheld the lone flame. So small and powerful. So terrifying. It stole his home once, his family, his—

"Fire is a coward," Luthor said. "Hiding in the smoke. Who are you hiding in there, Mac?"

Mac stood. Smoothed the contours of his suit against him.

Luthor leaned back and smiled. The Great White Shark had found its prey.

"if you feel like you have to spy on me, that's fine," Luthor said. "But tell the Justice League I've got nothing to hide."

Then he breathed, clean air fuming through him. The room was still.

And Mac—

Changed. The rumpled fatness of him smoothed away into something taller. Broad masculine strength and skin the color of dark jade. Eyes that burned red and tried their best to stare into Luthor's soul. Only such a thing didn't exist. Only this fool thought so. This…creature. This alien. This Manhunter.

The jade humanoid grew a cape that came up around a narrow skull and twin red crosses over it's chest.

They all froze.

Lane and Pete were covering Luthor. Pete was pulling him to the door. They were all staring at the Martian Manhunter. Albright and Pierce and the rest slunk away to the far side of the room.

Waller stood. Luthor wrestled himself free from Pete and walked right up to the Manhunter.

He was almost shaking. His face locked into a stone sneer. He stared right in the thing's dead Martian eyes. He breathed.

"Do you understand what you've done."

"Do you?"

Luthor smirked. "Director Waller," he said and kept his eyes locked with the Martian's. "Get this thing out of my house."

"No need," the Martian said. "We will be watching, Luthor."

And it was gone. Faded or passed behind the chairs. Into the wall. Through it.

Luthor stared at the wall for time uncounted. He moved only when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Pate.

"What is it?"

Pete looked shocked. Sweating and nervous. "Do you wish to take action sir?"

Luthor thought about it. He moved to the window and stared beyond. The roses were coming in nicely. Something deserved to.

"Sir," Pete said and stammered it out. "He forced entry."

Lane spoke up somewhere behind them. "It would be justified."

Luthor looked at him. At all of them. He waited.

Together, the Cabinet shared a silent agreement on what was to be done. The Justice League had just thrown down the gauntlet.

Without a word between them, they agreed to fight back.

Continued…