Chapter 17 – The Pause

Something awoke Diana.

Her eyes opened onto not-complete darkness. She saw at once that she was in her own bedroom, in the small, modest cottage that had been her and her family's home for several months now. She saw the red LED lights of the clock on the bedside table read 4:55AM: the liminal point between night and the dawn in this part of the world. It was quiet. She relaxed, but not totally, thinking: what woke me?

This time at least it wasn't one of the troubling dreams that had bothered her in the past, praise Hera. Those seemed to have subsided, for the time being. She knew Clark was home, but she saw right away he was not in their bed. Instead she saw Jon, who lay sleeping on his side in the middle of the bed, one of his toy-trucks clutched in his small arms. Lately he had taken to jumping into bed with them, and following Clark around like a puppy whenever he could lest he try to take off again. Diana had no doubt that would not happen. He had also gotten the notion that his Pa was a truck-driver, perhaps his childish reasoning why he was away for so long (maybe he had been watching those long-range trucker shows on TV). For now, he wanted to be a truck driver, 'just like Pa' much to Diana's bemusement.

However, she didn't know where he was now, and she frowned, wondering where he'd got off to; despite his promise not to up and leave again, he still had the irritating predilection to take off unannounced. Then, she heard the faint clack-clack of a laptop keyboard, coming from the direction of the kitchen. She relaxed, fully this time. Only one cause of that noise.

Diana lay in bed for a few moments more, feeling too comfortable to get up right away. She was aware that these moments of quiet peace were few and far between, and she wanted to take full advantage. (Part of her thought, how soft she had become!) Well, so be it. She watched her sleeping son, in the quiet of the bedroom. His breathing was regular and even, his face peaceful and innocent in a way only a child's could be.

She marveled: Jon was growing up so fast, though he was not yet three. He looked more and more like his father every day. He was never ill, and he seemed to be developing normally, stronger and more invulnerable than a human child only slightly now, but demonstrating potential. Soon, she thought, he would be ready to start his warrior training in earnest. Eagerly, she reviewed the regimen in her head: he would begin by learning how to move properly, how to fall without hurting himself, how to maximize every move so that he would be fast as well as strong. He would be trained in the use of her people's traditional weapons. He would also need to learn how to ride. It was unthinkable, to her mind, to not be able to ride a horse from an early age, as she had. It never occurred to her that anything otherwise could be possible.

Diana's hand drifted to her belly, feeling its gentle swelling. She smiled to herself, thinking of the coming new addition to their family. She had worried privately that Jon would be her and Clark's only one, and she was delighted and relieved to know she was fertile. Although she had told Clark she welcomed a boy or a girl, still she had made offerings to Hestia, Hera and to Athena and Mother Gaia, praying for a female child. If they answered her prayers (she assumed anyway she had at least a good 50-50 chance) she would train her to be a true Amazon, and teach her to face and overcome the hardships and challenges that existed in Man's World. And her brother would help her.

The clacking continued without letup: Clark working nonstop in the early morning hours of course. How long he had been up? Ever since he'd come home he was writing, or blogging, engaged in his researches, almost obsessively so. It kept him busy, at least. Or, he kept busy by cleaning the house from top to bottom, cooking (in his own creative way) and taking care of the yard too. Or playing with Jon and watching him when she went to work. The ideal house-husband. Anything, Diana guessed, to avoid going to the Hall of Justice or to the Watchtower, unless he absolutely had to. He still had a hard time coping with his depleted powers, and hated feeling 'useless' despite everyone's encouragement.

She needed to talk to him: sighing, she reluctantly got out of bed, careful not to wake Jon. She kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair. He stirred, but didn't open his eyes. She watched him for a few more moments. Then, she headed to the kitchen.

Clark was sitting at the kitchen table, which he'd completely taken over, almost overloaded by bits of newspaper and books, his attention focused intently on whatever was on the laptop's screen (he'd sold his antique typewriter to pay some bills, rather than let Bruce take care them; some things would never change). He looked up apologetically as Diana entered.

"Diana? Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"No, no it's all right. I needed to get up anyway. How about I fix you some breakfast?"

"No, don't bother. I had a waffle already."

"That's not breakfast," Diana chided. He'd probably dug one out of the back of the freezer and ate it as was, frozen and all. "I'll make something for both of us, coffee, too."

Clark watched her, smiling to himself, as she bent over to get a pan from the kitchen cabinet. Even with 'bed-hair' and only wearing a silky top, which barely reached past her bottom (and underwear), she looked stunningly beautiful. He felt a stirring for her in familiar places, but right now he liked the smell of bacon and eggs.

"Why are you working so early?" The smell of fresh coffee and hot food began filling the cottage.

"Oh, just sending out a couple of emails," Clark replied, trying to sound casual. It was mostly true.

After completing his series of articles on the Bakken Camp, including his frustrated search for John Henry Irons, which had so far turned up nothing, everything had gone dark, and he was unable to find a promising lead on any of it: the cause of the explosion, the results of the company's own internal investigation, and the maddening failure of both state and federal agencies to follow up. Environmental groups had raised a ruckus (Clark had interviewed some of their leaders) and then just as frustratingly petered out as other disasters turned up in the news and peoples' attention turned elsewhere. It was like it had never happened.

He had tried to keep in touch with his fellow co-workers, Bill and Mark, and although they had recovered fully from the explosion, it seemed they only wanted to put the whole thing behind them. Their replies were brief, mostly about their new jobs, their plans to retire, but neither of them ever mentioned John Henry. Clark couldn't help if they had been warned by the company to keep their mouths shut. It just seemed to be a dead end. On his last email to them he had asked if they had remembered seeing that nightmare face just before the explosion.

Neither had replied.

Then, Lois had told him she wanted him on some other assignment, a fluff piece. He'd pleaded for more time, but Lois was being her usual implacable self. He didn't want to give up his investigation, but as Lois pointed out, the general public wasn't exactly rushing to read about unsolved mysteries in the middle of nowhere.

"Clark, there may have been some shenanigans going on," Lois had said in that voice of hers. "But there's nothing you can do about it now. Let the lawyers handle it."

But he wasn't willing to drop it, not quite yet. His instinct told him that there was still more to this story and it felt wrong to just let it drop. He wanted answers.

He knew Diana was waiting for him to say more. "I'm doing some work on a new story. Lois wants me to do a piece on some new hipster fad."

Diana eyed him sideways, stirring the eggs and adding a bit of milk as she fluffed them to make omelets. She could always tell when he wasn't telling the whole story, and she caught the frustrated tone in his voice.

"Did you email Bruce too?"

Diana knew the answer before he spoke, it was clear on his face. "He hasn't exactly been available," he grunted. "I think he's avoiding me."

"He's been avoiding everyone, even Zatanna I believe," Diana said, trying to sound nonchalant. "At least, that's what I hear." Why are you putting this off?

Clark glanced at her. "What else have you heard? You've been at the Watchtower more than I have."

Diana shrugged. "Some Gotham City business. Supposedly he's found the Joker's trail again."

"Really?"

"Unless it is...something else?"

He didn't answer right away. "I…don't know."

"But you are thinking…something?" Diana pressed.

"It just doesn't seem like Bruce to neglect even a little Justice League business, even if he was focused on whatever's happening in Gotham."

Diana sighed as she put down the breakfast plate in front of him, after clearing away some of the clutter on the kitchen table. They were both thinking the same thing.

"You could just confront him, and ask him why he took those books from Smallville."

"We don't know that for sure. I mean, maybe it wasn't him, it could have been someone dressed up like him, some kind of stunt." Clark sounded uncomfortable, something rather unlike him, Diana thought.

"Anything is possible," Diana said slowly. "But, I can tell you don't really believe that." Neither do I, she thought.

"Who else would have known the books were there? Why would they go to all that trouble to break in and steal that and nothing else of value? Mrs. Oates had new computers down there in storage, waiting to be installed, they weren't touched, nothing else was taken, it couldn't have been just burglars."

"But why, then?"

Both of them fell silent, neither having an answer, nor liking the implications.

"Whatever he would do, it's always been to give us an advantage over the evil that confronts us," Diana said. "And yet...he is only a man. As clever and cunning as he is, he is not invulnerable. He could be putting himself at great risk. It's not like it's something he's never done before."

Clark was silent for a while. Diana went on. "He lost Fenderbrake, but he wants to get Waller, I know he does. Whatever he's doing, he thinks this will lead him to her."

"Could you do me a favor?" Clark asked suddenly. "Next time you're on duty?"

"Of course, husband."

"Can you...try to talk to Zatanna?"

Diana's face grew quiet. "Do you want me to ask her about the books? Bruce's occult research?"

"I want to know how much she knows, if anything, but I can't believe she wouldn't."

Diana shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "You want me to use the Lasso on her?"

"No, just see if she will talk to you. Besides I don't know if your Lasso would even work, on her."

"Do you think she put him up to it?" Diana's question was quite quiet.

"I hope not," Clark said gravely. "Zatanna never struck me like that, I mean...manipulative. I've always gotten along with her, so has everyone in the League..."

Diana didn't voice what her concerns. She didn't want to mention that she had noticed that Hawkman tended to put as much distance between himself and Zatanna whenever the two of them were at either site, and that his expression during those times was always grim and stone-faced. She didn't think that anyone else had even noticed it too, other than maybe Shayera, who sometimes looked exasperated with her fellow Thanagarian. Diana was puzzled as to the reason - had he and Zatanna had some argument? Or maybe he was jealous of her? That would be interesting if he was...but she doubted it. Yet everyone else was possibly puzzled also as to Bruce's mysterious relationship with Zatanna. But no one else thought it was...sinister.

"Clark, if you would just come to the Watchtower," she urged. "Or to the Hall of Justice. Everyone wants to see you. If you could just ask him yourself..."

"I will ask him," Clark reassured her. "I won't put it off."

Clark changed the subject, a habit that Diana occasionally found vastly irritating. "How's the baby? I don't think you've been sick once!"

Diana smiled in spite of her herself. She knew he was happy that she hadn't suffered the mood swings that had plagued her doing her first pregnancy, and so was she.

"No, not once, you are right. You know what? I think that means I am having a girl!"

"Hah! I wish I could tell you for sure," Clark said wistfully.

She reached across the table and grasped his hand, squeezing his large fingers. He squeezed back.

"I can feel the strength in your hand, you are getting stronger. It's only a matter of time." With her other hand she rubbed at his forearm.

"Which I have plenty of," Clark grunted. "That reminds me, I need to go into town. I'll get the car washed and detailed today."

The mundane turn that their conversation took somehow seemed to lighten up the cottage, along with the dawning sunlight. "There's no rush. Why don't I come with you? We'll make it a day together. We can go into town and visit that new farmer's-and-crafts-market. I mean, when you're done with your work here."

"Only another hour, and I'll get ready."

Diana refilled her coffee cup and stepped outside the cottage as Clark turned his attention back to his computer. The sun was just poking up over the trees and she drank in the rays along with the sweet hot coffee. She could tell it was going to be a good day, no rainclouds in sight although the weatherman had forecast 40% chance of showers.

A buzzing sound made her look up. She saw one of those drones buzzing around down the street, just above the roofs of the houses there. It hovered in place, moving lazily back and force. Someone's toy, no doubt. She couldn't see any operator, maybe someone in their backyard.

The drone moved closer to her home, dipping slightly lower, as if to get a better look at her. Was some neighbor guy peeping at her? She scowled. If it got too close, someone was going to have to get a broom and pan to scoop up what was left of it. Then it abruptly rose and zipped away out of sight over the treeline, as if the operator had reconsidered that he didn't want to pay another thousands bucks for a new one.

Diana sighed. Their home was remote but not remote enough. Time to get dressed and get ready. She would put aside her worries for later.

Somewhere in the Transpecos

Slade Wilson sat alone at a workbench in his personal command center; his handpicked mercenary crew, supplemented by a shadow-ops military team headed by General Strauch, busied themselves with their various duties. His underground facility, located in an uninhabited area of Texas, was as secure as they come. No one in a hundred miles knew they were there. Just as he wanted it.

He kept himself occupied by disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling his personal firearms. He never trusted anyone else to take care of the gear he used. No one else bothered him.

As he stripped and cleaned and oiled each part of his AR, his mind considered the physical transformation had had recently undergone; it had been amazing, a genuine Fountain of Youth. The problems that had plagued him for years, the high blood pressure, the arthritis, a distressing habit of forgetting familiar things, had disappeared instantly in the so-caleld Lazarus Pit. Of course he had been disoriented and a bit out-of-it upon recovery, but that had hardly lasted an hour. Once the dizziness and shock had worn off, it was just as the A.R.G.U.S. people had promised: a new beginning. Oh, he had been suspicious of course, who wouldn't be? Who would have even believed it? But in his time, he had seen incredible things, things that in his youth, his old youth, he would never have dreamed possible. The appearance of the metahumans for once, the revelations that powerful aliens and demigods moved among them. So the offer had been made, and accepted. The price was negligible. There were no weird side affects, like you might see in some B-grade horror movie. He had done some small favors, gratuities in a way, for A.R.G.U.S., cleaned off the blood, and that was that. But what Waller had really wanted was him firmly on their side for the upcoming confrontation, and that was OK by him. There had been no problems.

His strength had multiplied tenfold, for certain. He wasn't bulletproof, exactly, but all his senses were better than they had ever been. He was a young man again, and this time he wouldn't waste his time with Micky Mouse assignments. He knew what he wanted.

Then, the dreams had begun.

They weren't dreams of his past: he'd always been free of the nightmares that plagued so many other combat veterans, and he was grateful for that, as he considered it a sign of weakness. He had never really dreamed very much anyway.

Now, they had come, and with incredible vividness, so real that when he woke up it took him a long time to reassure himself he was no longer dreaming.

They weren't nightmares, by any means, no Freddy Kruger stalking him in some nightmare house. No, more like the strangest, most bizarre vistas he'd ever seen, shapes and colors beyond describing, crazier than the most intense drug trip (not that he was the most avid imbiber of such). They moved and walked and slithered and crawled, and he watched them, convinced he was seeing some alien world that no one, no human certainly, had ever seen before, he was certain of that. All he could do was watch, and they were so entrancing that sometimes he wanted to stay in his dream. He thought, perhaps they could even talk, and what would they say if he could listen to them and understand?

It was crazy, and at times he had wanted to confront Waller and demand just what the hell was going, what was happening to wondered if Ras' Al-Ghul had been subject to those weird dreams as well, if that was what had made that man batshit-crazy (to pardon a pun) at the end. But Wilson didn't think he'd end up like that. He had it all under control. He had to focus on the upcoming task.

"Sir!"

One of his men called out to him, pulling him out of his meditative cleaning. "What is it, Campbell?"

"Look at this," the burly mercenary pointed at the 3-D projection he was manipulating. "We got a match, a real one, just a few minutes ago!" The excitement was palpable in his voice.

In a second Wilson was up and had joined the man at his projection, others coming to also look. The drone's camera was quite clear. A view downwards. A dark-haired woman standing on a porch, a cup of coffee in her hand. She glanced momentarily at the drone, but did not appear concerned, only perhaps slightly annoyed. She soon turned her attention away, sipping at her cup, then walked back into her house.

Wilson felt his heart-rate accelerate. It was her, of course. Even without the facial recognition software, he would have recognized her face, he had studied her profile so thoroughly, for so many hours.

Still, he had to have it confirmed for certain. His lieutenant nodded, anticipating his question.

"A 97% visual match."

"Where?" Wilson's mouth felt dry.

"Pacific Northwest, not far from Mt. Rainier. Rural area. It's perfect. Looks like our meta human likes North America."

One of the others, one of Strauch's men, asked: "Is she alone?"

"I haven't put the site under our satellite bead yet. There is a car in the driveway. But if I had to guess, Superman is there too, and the kid."

All the men looked at Wilson, who remained staring intently at the screen, the frozen image of the woman from only a few seconds ago, which matched exactly the woman from the convenience store.

Finally, Slade thought. His chance to match his martial prowess against that of the Amazon, reputed to be the finest warrior on Earth. A chance to cross swords…and then…afterwards...

He licked his lips. They felt dry.

"Should we wait and conduct additional surveillance?"

Deathstroke turned to his men. "Suit up. We're moving out."

To be continued...

[A/N: This month's chapter! Hoping to tie all the storylines together very soon. Will Clark confront Bruce and Wonder Woman Zatanna? What is Zatanna planning to do? That will have to wait till next month. Thanks for favoriting and reading! Slowly but surely this story continues!]