Pulling at the Thread

October 9, 1939

A gunman feigning at being unconscious reached for his heater, which lay nearby. His dedication was rewarded with a decisive kick to the head that rendered the pretend real. Batman had made short work of the crew that was guarding this warehouse on the docks. Maroni's men. He used cables to secure them. He would call it in to the police shortly.

Batman returned to the task at hand, searching through the office. This was the tedious part of the mission, but frequently the most critical. Gloved fingers plucked out the documents, as he skimmed them. He made enough passes that a pattern began to assert itself. The amount of containers recorded in the warehouse and the ones labelled as missing did not match up. An oversight, likely on Maroni's end. He scoured the warehouse for any of the "missing containers". The smell of the sea was pungent as he prowled the dimly lit stacks of metal boxes.

It took effort, but Batman found one of the marked containers, tucked away in the back of the warehouse. Inside were stacks of boxes marked as medical supplies. They contained a mix of morphine and other compounds that could be used to manufacture various kinds of drugs. Batman marked the container more clearly and went looking for any of the others.

His sweep found two more. One held military grade firearms and ammunition, enough to arm several platoons of soldiers. The other had high end scientific equipment, materials he doubted that Maroni was planning on using for himself.

Batman frowned. This was not an isolated incident. In the past few months, he had discovered no fewer than four instances with Gotham's ports being used to smuggle in arms, drugs and specialized equipment. There were also chemical components, of a worrying variety. The entry of contraband into Gotham was nothing new. It was the scale and origin that concerned him.

It wasn't just Maroni. Oswald Cobblepot had his stench all over two of the discoveries. The man had produced sufficient distance from the crime that the police were unable to arrest him, but Batman knew that he would simply set up shop somewhere else. Perhaps even outside of Gotham. Bludhaven maybe.

There was also the matter of where these containers were coming from. The ships that carried them belonged to several different shipping chains, with no obvious connections other than their international nature. They were all deliveries from foreign ports. Tracing them back to a unifying point was proving difficult. Someone had recognized that Gotham, with its propensity for criminal activity and corruption was an easy entry point into the United States.

Batman signaled the police and left the warehouse. There was no use to trying to stop the individual shipments as a whole. He would bring down any he discovered, but it was like stepping on ants at this point. The only way he could unravel the network was to find the source.

Maroni and Cobblepot were the obvious path, but they each had their own complications. Maroni had gone to ground in the last six months, shortly after Hugo Strange was apprehended. Batman had been on his trail, but the man was thorough and paranoid. He switched safe houses frequently and operated his criminal enterprise through middle-men and codes. Finding whatever rock he was hiding under would take too long. Cobblepot was out of town. Batman's investigations told him that he was in England, dealing with business there. He understood that Cobblepot was originally from Birmingham.

Batman needed a faster solution. Solid intelligence. Fortunately there was one man that came to mind who could shed light on the situation. Willingly or not.

Carmine Falcone rose at 4 AM regardless of how late the previous night's activities had kept him up. He would have a modest breakfast, a single cup of coffee, black, and on occasion a quick swig of whiskey or gin. Falcone was in the habit of taking a private stroll through his gardens, often without the personal company of his guards, though they could be at his side at a moment's notice. He inspected the plants, picking out spots that required pruning or upkeep. Some days he would stop at his father and brother's graves, under the elm tree. Sometimes he would talk to them. Today was one of those days.

"It's a disgrace, what this city's coming to. I'm glad neither of you are around to see it."

Everyone thinks they can have a piece. No understanding of the natural order. Of respect for tradition. Even the other bosses are acting like children, scrambling for any piece of the pie. It's sickening".

Falcone lit a cigarette. He took a slow drag.

"I'll see it right. Put all of these freaks in their place."

"Unlikely. And growing less likely by the day," said Batman, emerging from the shadows of the elm. He knew the man's routine better than Carmine knew it himself at this point. The Roman was the emperor of Gotham's underworld, but he was closer to the edge than ever before. Batman intended to be the one that made him fall.

Falcone's hand went to his jacket pocket, but Batman interrupted him.

"I'm close enough it won't matter."

Falcone didn't continue, but his hand lingered.

"If I were here to get you, you'd have never seen me coming. You know I can reach you whenever I want," said Batman.

In his first few months, Batman had tied up Falcone in his own home and drove his favorite car off a pier. He wanted the Roman to understand that he was no longer untouchable. Security had been upgraded, but Batman could still get in and ouut if he desired.

"You got ten seconds freak," said Falcone.

"Maroni. Cobblepot. They have a new operation."

"Then you should be talking to them. Not trespassing."

"You're slipping. To your men, to the city, you appear as strong as ever. But it's getting harder to hold onto. "

"No one talks to me like this," said the Roman.

"Maroni and Cobblepot aren't operating under your rules. They pay no fealty. And they've found a new business partner."

Falcone glared at Batman. He flicked his cigarette onto the ground.

"I'll stop them either way. The only difference is how much damage is done to your enterprise beforehand," said Batman.

He could see the calculations play out behind the veneer of disgust that the Roman had fixed to his face.

"It's a foreign deal. Multiple countries involved. All I know is that the American contact is called the Yellow Claw. One of your kind.

Maroni isn't as subtle as he likes to think."

Batman waited.

"He's another one of your kind. Masked freaks. Figures that Cobblepot's thrown in with him. Maroni though, that's just shameful. The price of desperation."

Falcone shifted away from Batman, back to the headstones.

"That's all I've got. If you're still here when I look back, I'm calling my boys. See if the dogs want a bite."

Batman left the Roman to his graves.

October 11, 1939

Salem, Massachusetts was best enjoyed in the midst of fall. Orange and yellow dominated the trees, with falling leaves swept along by wandering gusts of wind. The air's cold edge woke one up the moment they stepped outside. The houses and businesses that lined the streets beckoned to an earlier age with their distinctive architecture. There was no denying that Wesley Dodds was enjoying his sojourn to this town. He sat along the coast, watching as sailboats drifted by. His hotel, the Hawthorne, was elegant without being ostentatious. He would have to bring Dian here when he had the chance.

There was also a darkness clutched tight to Salem's breast, one that made its presence known in Wesley's dreams. The witch trials. The knowledge that this was a place where a community turned on itself, inventing enemies when it had none to confront. That kind of paranoia was not unique to Salem, but it lingered in the whispered memory of the city.

To the locals and the other guests at the Hawthorne, Wesley was in town on a short vacation. A chance to get away from the hustle of Manhattan. In truth, he sought a singular individual. The man with the golden helm. Doctor Fate.

Wesley's target stood apart from the ranks of masked heroes. There were few sightings of the man. His activities lacked the overt dramatics of his peers. Witnesses struggled to describe what transpired in their brief, fragmentary encounters with the doctor. They spoke of blinding lights, queer symbols and a voice that pierced to their core. There was no certainty that Salem was where Doctor Fate made his home. The knowledge came to Wesley in a dream. An unmoving face of gold, floating above a ring of red flames.

This was the latest task of his joint project with Dinah Laurel. The assembly of a team. The pair of them had produced mixed results thus far. Batman, Superman and Green Lantern proved elusive to contact. Hourman was receptive to the idea in Sandman's brief meeting with him. Wesley was wary of the reckless manner with which the man conducted himself, but there was no denying his power. Dinah reported success with the Flash.

It was through the same dreams that drew Wesley to Salem that he knew that Fate was too valuable to pass up. The man possessed some intrinsic quality that made would make him a critical part of any team. He ventured into realms beyond which Wesley's other companions were equipped to undertake.

It was in a bookstore, its weathered sign emblazoned with a pair of ravens, that Wesley picked up the trail. Wesley perused its contents, finding his way to the back of the establishment, where the more obscure tomes resided. His attention fell on a book of esoteric rites, its cover marked by a curled symbol that resembled antlers.

"That book is a waste of time. The author made it all up. No actual research at all," said a feminine voice from one shelf over.

"I was under the impression this was all make-believe," said Wesley.

"So a tourist then. Looking for a souvenir," said the voice.

"That description seems accurate. Though, clearly I need to raise my standards," he said.

The woman that walked out from the bookshelf was younger than Wesley, with elegant red hair and a focused gaze. She took the book from his hands, returning it to its shelf, before considering another row of them.

"If all you desire is a flight of fancy, I suggest you try the shelves near the front. The tales there are of a sufficiently fantastical variety. If you require a more genuine article, however, this will suffice."

The woman handed Wesley a book titled The Teachings of Arion. It was an old tome, marked with a blue and green symbol that was faded on the front. The pages had that musty smell.

"I didn't mean to offend you. I'm simply not a believer in any of this," said Wesley.

"You don't need to be a believer to have respect for the cultural significance present in many of these works. They're a passageway back to another time, another way of understanding the world. That drivel you had before is just someone out to make a quick dime," she said.

"A well-reasoned argument. I take it this isn't your first discussion of such matters?"

The woman's expression lowered a notch in intensity.

"No, it isn't."

"A professor?"

"Close. A student."

"Could've fooled me. Do you go to college around here?"

The woman went back to collecting her own set of books as she answered him.

"Harvard actually. I'm on a brief sabbatical. And you, mister? What brings you to Salem?"

"Leisure. I needed a break."

"We have that in common."

The woman apparently decided that was all the necessary conversation as she walked away from Wesley.

"Excuse me, miss. I never did get your name."

"Inza. Inza Cramer."

"A pleasure, Ms. Cramer. I'm Wesley Dodds."

"Enjoy the book, Mr. Dodds," said Inza, and she was gone, a last swish of her auburn hair marking her departure from the stacks.

Wesley considered the book in his hands. There was something about that woman. Patience was key. The answer was in his dreams.

Salem was no New York City, but it still took a few days for Wesley to track down where Inza Cramer was staying. She resided in a small house on the end of a quiet street. From his observation, she lived alone.

Inza seemed to divide her time between the library and walks on the outskirts of the city. She would frequently pull out a small, yellow notebook that she scribbled away in. Her interactions with others were short, business-like, much the same as she treated Wesley. The lone exception was one of the local diners, where she would spend over an hour chatting with the staff and the regulars. It was only here that Wesley saw the facade slip away, her face taken over by a charming smile and an easy laugh.

It was the walks that most interested him. Inza charted out a few repetitive loops through the woods, as if performing a search pattern. Her attention was often directed to the sky, as if looking for something up above.

The same dream that drew Wesley to Salem repeated each night. The only change was the fiery ring growing hotter and hotter, its brilliance overtaking the golden face. He awoke drenched in sweat more than once.

At last it was time for the Sandman to emerge.

A weak orange glow peaked out from drawn curtains in Inza's dwelling. Sandman lingered at the end of the street, between the trees, watching for movement. Satisfied, he made short work of her back window, sliding it open. He was acutely aware of how his methods shared so much with the criminals he fought. His hunch would have to pay off.

A fire crackled in the parlor of the home. Sandman stepped softly towards it. He could see the silhouette of Inza's head in the glow of the flames.

"You can come out," said Inza, as she beckoned him into the room.

"I assume it's Mr. Dodds. Or an associate."

Sandman now stood before her. She retained the intense gaze that characterized their interaction at the bookstore. He was impressed. Most people flinched when confronted with his current visage.

"No, it's Mr. Dodds. I'm sure of it.

Don't feel bad. You were subtle. I didn't notice you until yesterday."

"You're rather calm about this development," said Sandman.

"I don't think you're out to do me harm," she said. "Besides, it likely wouldn't matter much if you were." Inza held up a small trinket. A golden ankh.

"You're certain?" said Sandman.

"Positively."

"Then you'll have to excuse the gesture," he said. Sandman drew his gas gun and aimed it at Inza, his finger beginning to tighten on the trigger. The ankh gleamed, filling the room with light.

Sandman's fingers went numb, then his arm. He slumped to his knees, a light pressure wrapping around his body. He couldn't move. Inza exhaled.

A man in a golden, finned helmet now stood in the center of the room, a large glowing ankh behind him, which flickered and vanished. A trail of light split off from his right hand, which was directed at Sandman.

"A grave mistake," said Doctor Fate. His voice echoed. It seemed to approach Sandman from all sides at once.

Sandman tried to speak, but his tongue refused to listen much like the rest of his body. The thought of doing anything right now was exhausting.

"Are you alright?" said Doctor Fate, addressing Inza without looking at her.

"Yes. I am," said Inza, standing from her chair. "He wasn't going to hurt me."

"He will never have the chance," said Fate.

"I believe he wished to draw you here," said Inza.

"A foolish ploy."

Sandman strained to talk. The words died in his throat. There was a quality to this Doctor Fate, one that reminded Sandman of being close to Superman or Green Lantern. But even then, those two felt human. The air appeared to hold still by this man. His very presence warped the room.

"Please. Let him speak. If not for his sake, then mine."

Doctor Fate remained still.

"Put your trust in me, as I have in you," said Inza.

Doctor Fate flicked his hand. Sandman's entire body relaxed, free of the golden grip.

"To attempt hostilities would be most unwise," said the doctor.

"Your friend speaks truthfully. I merely required your presence," said Sandman, rubbing his throat.

"To what end?"

"My name is Wesley Dodds. Those who would prey upon others know me as the Sandman. I am here to ask you to hear my offer."

"What do you offer, Sandman?"

"The time has come for those who fight in the name of righteousness to unite."

"You would have me join a group such as yourself?"

"I would."

"I am afraid that your concerns are minor in the face of my responsibilities. I fail to see how such a group would be of benefit to me," said Doctor Fate. The glowing ankh reappeared behind him. "Inza, I must bid you farewell."

"Wait," said Sandman.

Doctor Fate paused, though the ankh remained.

"I saw a man with green skin and scarlet eyes. One who has walked since men still crawled. One that sheds their skin as the serpent does."

The change was minor, but Sandman noticed that he truly had Fate's attention. The man stiffened. The helmet appeared to hum.

"Continue," said Fate.

"We share a common foe. This need not be your fight alone."

"Doctor Fate," said Inza. "At least consider his offer."

Doctor Fate turned towards her.

"You have to let people in. More than just me," she said.

Inza took his hands in hers for a moment. Fate tensed, then softened. He withdrew from her grasp.

"For your sake…" said Doctor Fate.

Then, with a flourish of his cape, he flew into the glowing ankh. Sandman was pulled along into the portal. He had the sinking feeling of falling.

Sandman was standing on a platform. Stairs ran up and down beside him. Looking above, his stomach lurched as he felt a wave of vertigo hit him. He could see countless platforms, from all manner of angles, with their own staircases spiraling off into infinite space. There was the faint contour of a tower, but the interior appeared to shift with each new perspective.

Doorways floated by, some open, some closed. There was a barren steppe, with nomads riding horse-sized birds. He saw a city in the clouds, suspended by titanic whales. There was one doorway that led to a maelstrom of crimson vortexes, with wriggling, amorphous shapes within. Sandman forced himself to stop peering through the doors.

"Welcome to the Tower of Fate."

A mortal man. And yet something more. A dream walker, marked by the errant touch of the absent prince of slumber.

Nabu's voice was familiar to Kent Nelson, a frequent feature of wearing the Helmet of Fate. He offered wisdom and information to his successor.

The man in the gas mask and trench coat remained stationary, a tension coiled within him. He was deliberately keeping his gaze locked onto Doctor Fate. It was admirable, the control he exerted, to be able to look upon the Tower of Fate and not suffer any sort of breakdown. Even Kent Nelson, with all his training, had found his first foray into the tower to be fraught with peril.

Bringing Sandman to the tower was a display of strength. Kent was not sold on the idea of joining anyone else. His own responsibilities to the preservation of order were demanding enough, without being drawn into the mundane battles of the others.

"What is this place?" asked Sandman.

"My inner sanctum. The crossroads between realities. The focal point of my magic."

Doctor Fate did not expect his guest to understand the magnitude of what he was witnessing. The Tower of Fate was a nexus between the multitude of planes of existence, a passageway to realms beyond mortal comprehension. Many of its domains would drive an ordinary man mad merely from being exposed to it.

Fate flew upwards through the tower, bringing along Sandman under his power. The man looked uncomfortable in flight, but he did not protest. He took his guest to his inner study. It was one of the least strange looking rooms, furnished with bookshelves, a fireplace and a modest study. The center of the room was dominated by a large, golden table, featureless and smooth. He set Sandman down.

"I bring you here, to demonstrate the scope of my power and the weight that it carries. I have more to worry about than stopping muggers and costumed fools. The balance of cosmic order itself is under my protection."

Kent didn't know that his words would mean much to Sandman. It could be abstract, even to him at times. It took years of training in the desert of his youth to even comprehend the true scope of what lay before him. Nabu was a patient mentor, if demanding. There was no room for failure, no requirement that could remain unmet in his tutelage. The burden of the role required it.

"Yet, you have intervened in the affairs that you claim to be beneath you," said Sandman. "It wasn't easy, but I've picked up your trail. You stopped Mr. Who from destroying the state capital in Vermont. You saved those people on that sinking cargo ship two months ago. Even last week, it was you who found that lost child in the woods around here."

"Your point?"

"You talk of cosmic responsibility and play at indifference to our problems, but when given the chance you've helped the common person over and over again. There's a person behind that helmet."

Doctor Fate did not respond.

"Inza clearly sees it in you," said Sandman.

"Do not involve her," said Fate.

"I would not have sought you out, if I didn't think we needed you." Sandman removed his mask, exposing a pale man with bright, inquisitive eyes. He did not flinch under Fate's glare.

"I have seen things in dreams. Premonitions of a world to come. A world undone. The only way we can stop it, is by working together. You're a part of that."

A brief glimpse of Dodds's surface level thoughts revealed these dreams to be real. At least to the man.

"When evil arrives, in whatever form it takes, do you want to be alone? Or alongside a group that shares your dedication to life?" said Dodds.

There was an unfortunate truth to Dodds statement. The tide of cosmic order was in retreat, encroached upon by a rising wave of chaos.

"I will consider your offer," said Doctor Fate. "Begone."

Dodds was whisked away by another portal, deposited back into his hotel room in Salem. Tracking the man down would be trivial for Kent, should the need arise.

The dream walker's visions bore truth to them. They must be investigated.

Kent floated above the golden table. He closed his eyes, opening his other senses to the energies of the tower. The man beneath the helmet ebbed, as the powers of Fate drifted out into the world, searching for a disturbance. It wasn't long before he detected the taint. A familiar strain of corruption, blighted by the powers of a foe Kent knew too well at this point. Ancient magics, nearly as old as Nabu himself.

Wotan.

Doctor Fate had battled against the foul sorcerer several times in his current incarnation. It was where he had met Inza the first time, with Wotan seeking to steal an idol of power from an exhibit she was studying. Wotan lacked the raw magical power of Fate, but he made up for it in millennia of accumulated knowledge and power, being reborn again and again. Kent had narrowly survived the encounter, saved by Inza's timely intervention.

He honed in on his foe's location. Better to put an end to his machinations as early as possible. A space formed in his mind, as Fate willed himself to be there, the ankh portal taking shape around him.

Wait.

Too late. Burning heat wrapped around his arms and legs, which were stretched taut. Kent cried out in pain. He was suspended in midair, his limbs constrained by blazing chains, only saved by the thin barrier of magic he erected.

He hung above a boiling pit of orange foam. Some sort of pocket dimension or demonic plane.

A trap.

"How cavalier of you, Doctor Fate. What did you expect? An easy victory?" said Wotan's voice. It permeated the area, not coming from any one point.

"I prepared this time. There will be no last minute rescues here."

From the space below, a pair of churning jaws emerged, attached to serpentine bodies. They rose in tandem, each slithering through the air towards the constrained Fate. He channeled his magics to break the bonds but they resisted.

Be strong. Focus your power.

Kent tried, his brow sweating from the effort. The creatures neared him, green spittle spraying from their awful mouths. The chains held strong. He had the magic, but not the expertise. It was as though he were working to untangle a complicated knot.

You must survive this. I will make sure of it.

Kent felt his eyes roll back as he slipped away.

Kent hovered above the golden table in the Tower of Fate. He was still in the crosslegged position from which he sought out Wotan. His body felt drained, a feeling compounded by the realization of what secured his survival.

Nabu had taken control again.

You would have died otherwise. It was necessary.

Kent removed the helmet. He allowed it to hover next to him, as he wiped his brow. He looked at his reflection in the golden sheen. It was one of the most powerful magical artifacts in existence.

Kent grew more and more certain that one day it would be his prison.

Something's churning in the night,

Cosmic darkness crawls in sight,

With the blood of saints,

And taint of sin,

Let the reckoning begin.

The whorls of magic fused onto the length of the spear, granting it a reddish tint. Scripts of lost languages pulsed down the shaft.

Wotan handed the spear to his companion, the man in the SS uniform. Janek Klepper felt its weight, tested it.

"It is complete. With this none of these heroes can interrupt your plans," said Wotan.

"You are certain this is necessary? We have other means of defense against them."

The man spoke of his scientists and their pet monsters. Wotan barely contained his amusement. How proud they were of their advances. How assured in their power. It was like watching apes play with twigs.

"Insignificant in the face of what the Spear of Destiny can offer."

"Then you have done a great service for my people."

"My pleasure. Though, there is my end of the deal."

"Of course," said Klepper. "The ruins are all yours."

"And the payment."

"The prisoners will be delivered as promised."

Wotan smiled.

His ally had asked him why he went through the trouble of acquiring the spear. Surely, there were other methods of getting what they wanted, without the involvement of these pompous fools. She was correct, but Wotan knew that the value in these would-be conquerors was not their potential for success, but rather their capacity for misdirection. In that regard, they would serve perfectly.