Suicide Slum.
Oswald Loomis.
Everything's ruined.
You should have never done this, Oswald. You stay away from Luthor for a goddamned good reason. You're not in his league and that's the way it should be. He's far out of yours. He operates on another plane of existence.
He's had Superman at his knees before. Closest you ever got was a boxing glove full of itching powder, okay?
Working with him was a mistake. Same as it was with the Joker. No briefcase full of money should have convinced you otherwise. Even if it helped pay the bills.
They're insane. And whatever anyone might say about you, you know the score. You're just a fellow with some revenge issues. Particularly large revenge issues, but you wouldn't do half of what this Joker has.
It was a mistake.
And it's coming for you.
They're coming for you.
"Mister Loomis," she says. You jump at the sound of Mercy's voice—you forgot she was there—and you grip the gun tightly. Sweat's pouring down your body; the yellow oxford is clingy against clammy skin. "We need to keep moving," she says, and leads you out the back door of the flophouse, through a dark and puddle-filled alley. At the far end, a silver Rolls Royce glistened in the orange glow of sodium street lamps.
You need to slow down, Oswald. Your heart is pounding furiously; it's trying to escape the inevitable.
The Rolls Royce gets closer.
Superman could float down in front of us any minute now. He could just land and backhand Mercy's head down the street and break every bone in your body. You'd be dead and you wouldn't even know it, and…and oh Jesus what's going on how did it get like this you're not good at this part of the job that's why he always caught your ass and he'll do it again you know it just get out just run like hell and fess up and look for asylum and--
"Get in." Her voice is calm enough and you're in just the position to obey. You duck down low and sneak in lest anyone see you. She follows in one smooth motion, shutting the door behind her. The Rolls Royce speeds away. In the distance, the LexCorp tower is glowing—every light in every office on every floor is on, bidding welcome.
Your heart is still trying to escape.
He could land in front of us at any moment.
Tim Drake.
En route to the Halldorf Hotel.
After leaving Luthor—literally strolling out the front doors while those ridiculous Team Luthor dragoons stood there watching him—he changed into civilian clothes in an alley off seventy-fifth.
He went back to the Halldorf and tried to get some sleep but he only heard Luthor in his head. Mocking him. He couldn't stand it. He went for a walk in his civvies. Stopped some thugs from ripping off a Radio Shack and managed to make them feel it by slamming a flat-panel television across one's face.
Tim kept walking and ended up on the seedier side of New Troy. The dark side of Centennial Park, where the adult theaters and the smut-peddlers go—and once he saw it, he was honestly surprised such things existed in a town like Metropolis.
That doesn't stop him. He's restless, and sufficiently adventurous.
And the two bikers across the street—the ones with equal parts muscle and fat, and necks buried somewhere in between—they're staring at him hatefully. Or amorously. He can't really tell.
He waits until the little white man comes up in the black box and tells him to cross the street. Slides his hands in his jacket pockets and raises his head slowly. Smiles thinly and narrows his eyes. Breathes deeply—it's a technique he long ago mastered from Shiva. Walk past the bikers, breathing through his nose and discretely taking in the bad vodka and the cheap cigars.
They're pigs. Slime. Probably on Luthor's payroll—they would seem the type—probably so deprived of everything that anything will do. They start trailing him, and he hears the murmurs. The building of courage.
This is the best Metropolis can offer? A couple of frustrated over the hill morons with nothing but time on their hands. It's almost sad.
He rounds a corner into another alley—this one a cul-de-sac with a wooden fence at one end too high to jump over—takes off the bomber jacket, folds it neatly and sets it on the ground next to him. When he turns around, the bruisers are waiting, three meters away. The fat one cracks his knuckles and shows gold teeth when he smiles. The other, slightly thinner one folds his arms over his chest.
Tim rolls the sleeves up on his Oxford. Let them watch, sure. Let the egos swell…
Before the fall.
"Gentlemen," he mocks and cocks his head. "This is pointless."
"Show you a good time, kiddo," the skinny one says. "Real good. You never had it like this before."
"No," Tim replies. "Neither have you."
The fat one laughs and slaps the skinny one on the chest. "Heh," he gurgles. "Mebbe we's got one'll play along."
The skinny one makes fists and tenses his whole body. "Maybe…"
"We'll show you fun, boyo," the fat one says and starts inching forward. "City of Tomorrow, yes indeedy."
"Please do," Tim says. He realizes the irony of manly bikers such as these corrupting a fetching youth like himself. Morons.
Slim pulls a switchblade.
"Fun," Tim says again. "Yeah, it will be." He breathes deep again. And remembers Shiva. The rest happens in slow motion.
His knee leaves the ground and slams into the skinny one's groin. Slim's eyes go wide and then flutter shut as Tim's kneecap shatters testicles and cracks the pubic symphisis. Tim grabs Slim by the temples and brings his head down, slamming Slim's forehead into the kneecap. Stronger bone structure. Instantly unconscious. Slim falls to the ground, rather like a ragdoll. Tim observes him for a moment, and then looks at the fat one. Wags two fingers quickly, beckoning him.
Fat makes the mistake of trying a sucker punch. Tim grabs his fist and somersaults over him, landing gracefully and kicking him squarely at the back of the knee. Fat falls to the ground; Tim's already pressing on his thigh and pulling the leg. It cracks with a wet snap, and Fat gives a schoolgirl's scream.
Tim stands and presses his foot against Fat's lumbar vertebrae.
"Hurts, doesn't it?"
"You little shit," Fat gasps. "Let me up."
"Sorry." Tim crouches and grabs Fat's ponytail. Heave sit up abruptly and shoves it back down into the pavement swiftly. "No deals," he says. The unconscious bodies don't reply.
Tim picks up his jacket, dusts it off with pretension, and walks away.
Dials the police from a payphone—it takes them twenty minutes to respond. Calls a cab and returns to the Halldorf.
It was disappointing. But it served its purpose, Tim tells himself. He remembers his Shiva training, and his Nietzsche. Gaze into the abyss…and it looks into you.
You want to beat Luthor; you've got to at least think like him.
"Yeah," he said to no one in particular. "I know…"
Five miles off the Metropolis coast.
LexCorp's Oceanographic Laboratory AC-83.
The armor fits better than he remembers. But then, that's so long ago. Almost another life. Technologies have improved. Time was, the damn thing would just weigh you down and shoot childish looking missiles.
It's better than that now. A fully functioning interface with the user, courtesy of company nanotechnology breakthroughs, funneled to what the budget calls the Defense of Property Attainder.
Yes, the suit works. It will take care of everything. And it's just novel enough to still be the standard green and purple. Suitable colors, after all: green for money. Purple, for regalia. Two things which are ever on Luthor's mind.
The gauntlets are still a little clunky, but that's to be expected. The repulsors in the boots work well enough. The shields are operating at maximum. Hell, even in-suit climate controls are working well enough.
This is Lex Luthor in his armor. His power suit.
The corpus of a man, hidden under the veneer of superpowers. He is that which does not harm him. That which cannot harm him.
He is Super Man.
"Mercy," he says and cocks his head to one side. "Remote."
She's standing behind him to one side, and when he says her name she steps forward obediently and lays the sleek black remote control in the palm of his hand. He can't feel it for the armor. But he imagines he can.
Takes a deep breathe, and looks at the rocket before him. It's only slightly smaller than a Saturn V, and the years and money spent putting the myriad parts together could have bought Luthor a small nation. But this is better.
He eyes the remote amour sly, thinks about pressing the button, and forces himself not to.
He taps a section on his chestplate; the yellow central triad slides open, revealing an open space inside, and Luthor fits the remote neatly behind the plating. Pushes it closed, and turns around.
"Think of it, Mercy. A Kryptonite warhead. And when it reaches the proper altitude…"
For a moment, Luthor's heart swells. He straightens his posture as much as the armor allows and tracks his eyes up the body of the rocket, toward the nose and its deadly payload.
"That…that will kill him."
The Daily Planet.
"What are you thinking, Bruce?"
Batman cocks his head, almost flinches, at the name drop. Underneath the cowl, his brow furrows and he frowns.
"We missed Loomis," the Dark Knight says. "Which means Luthor got to him first. The trail's dried up."
Superman touches a finger to his chin. "Maybe…"
"What?"
"Hold on," the Man of Steel says and looks away. Ten blocks away, the LexCorp tower is shining in the night. Superman imagines for a moment that Luthor and he are having a stare down, separated by time and space and circumstance. "I'm scanning the building."
"I thought it was lead-shielded."
"Even he can't afford to panel the whole thing," Superman says evenly, and looks back to Batman. "Just the important parts. I can't see anything above street-level except office space and conference rooms."
"And below street-level?"
"Nothing. He's covered at least five blocks out."
Batman thinks on it for a moment. Touches a finger to his ear, opening a channel to Robin.
"Robin."
"Batman."
"Meet us at the Planet as soon as you can."
"What's up?"
"We're going after Luthor."
"Um…" Robin trails off.
"What is it?" Batman asks and scowls.
Across the void of radio waves, Robin thought about the gun, and the address. "Nothing," he says. "I'll be there shortly."
Batman turns to Superman. "Luthor's not home," he says. "The lights are a distraction. He's long gone. So is Loomis...maybe even Joker."
The Man of Steel sighs and frowns. How the hell does he know these things?
Continued...