A Fleeting Look
May 3, 1940
"Keep your hands up. No, no, like this. Up!" said Al Pratt.
Dinah watched as Al worked his current sparring partner Kent Nelson. They were in a gymnasium of sorts, a floor of the brownstone that the Justice Society operated out of. It was larger than there seemed to be room for from the outside, with reinforced walls, floors and ceilings that kept any noise or displays of power confined to the interior. A benefit of Doctor Fate's expertise. His capacity for what he called magic did Kent no good when it came to weathering Al's hands on instruction. The man clearly had little experience in a fist fight.
"Lean into the punch. Follow through," said Al.
Kent's blows were slow and telegraphed. Al was weaving circles around the man. Dinah could see that Al was getting frustrated. A common occurrence with him.
"Get ready to block this," said Al.
A punch sailed past Kent's defenses, hitting him square on the nose. Kent grunted and fell on his rear end. Al groaned.
"Why don't you take a break?" said Alan, who was watching from the wings. The majority of the team was here, on Alan's request. He suggested that training together was necessary to work smoothly in the field. Al and Dinah were in charge of hand to hand combat.
Al helped up Kent, while Rex offered Kent a cloth to staunch the bloody nose that he had been gifted. Rex walked the man off to the side of the room. Al came to Dinah. He ran a hand through his red hair, sweat glistening on his forehead.
"He's useless," he said.
"He's not used to fighting like this," said Dinah.
"At this rate he'll never be," said Al.
"Have a little patience. Were you any good when you first started training with Joe Morgan?" said Dinah.
"I wasn't that bad," said Al. "I think the doctor might need to stick to the spells."
"Not an option," said Alan, who joined them. "We can't be overly reliant on our powers, not even Kent."
"Easy for you to say. The way you fight I'd bet you wouldn't even need the ring most of the time," said Al.
Her diminutive companion was correct. Alan was more skilled than he had any right to be. There wasn't much formal structure to his technique, but he had an intuitive capacity for it.
"I've had my share of hard lessons. Plus I'm still learning plenty under the two of you," said Alan.
Alan glanced around the room at their teammates. He spoke again, this time in a softer voice.
"How are they coming along?"
"Well it's a mixed bag," said Al.
"Just sum it up for me," said Alan.
Al shared a look with Dinah.
"Outside of the two of us, you and Carter are the best. Carter's one scary son of a bitch in a fight," said Al.
"He's prone to taking punishment he should avoid, but he can dish it back out," said Dinah.
"Jay's a natural too. Fella's an athlete for sure. Plus he can hit you a hundred times before you know what happened," said Al. "And then there's..."
"The others?" said Alan.
"Rex is improving. He knows how to throw a proper punch finally and he's getting skilled at grappling. If you're worried he's a liability once his powers wear off that's becoming less of a concern," said Dinah.
"Wesley isn't going to win any title belts, but he's no pushover. Knows a few of those Eastern methods, not really my expertise," said Al.
Dinah nodded. She was more familiar with martial arts outside of boxing and wrestling and Wesley's style was marked by judo, karate and a few others.
"The Spectre doesn't train with us. At all," said Dinah.
"That leaves Kent," said Alan.
"You saw for yourself," said Al.
"He has room to grow," said Dinah.
"A lot," said Al.
Alan took a moment to process their report.
"Keep at it. Best you can," said Alan.
"I don't know if I can do it with Kent," said Al. "He may be beyond me."
Alan put a hand on the smaller man's shoulder.
"You'll find a way," he said.
Alan left Al and Dinah. Al let out a deep, weary sigh.
"At least he trusts you enough to accomplish this," said Dinah.
"I know. And I get it. Better to be well rounded. I just.. I don't have the patience. I think of how much Joe did for me, how he found me at my lowest point and I think that I couldn't have been that way if I was in his spot," said Al.
"Keep at it. You'll get there."
Al smiled glumly. He was young, the youngest out of their team. It was easy to forget that fact with the bravado he displayed. Dinah knew it was a front, at least to an extent. She knew the lengths you had to go to to stand in a room amongst the kind of power that their group wielded and say you belong.
"Take a break Al. I'll work with Kent for a while," said Dinah.
Wesley Dodds found Alan in the meeting room. The others were on their way out, satisfied with the day's training. He had another purpose.
"What is it?" said Alan. He was reading the reports that the various members of the team produced in the last month. A way of keeping one another abreast of their situations.
"I had a question for you. One I thought best to address privately," said Wesley.
Alan set down the papers, his attention fully on Wesley.
"You've been having meetings outside of this team. With Batman," said Wesley.
He saw a flicker on Alan's face, as if the man considered lying, before he nodded.
"How did you find out?" said Alan.
"I have my methods," said Wesley. His dreams tipped him off. An emerald moth dancing ever closer to the fluttering leather wings of a bat.
"Seems like an invasion of privacy," said Alan.
"Not if it involves matters of the team's safety. Or the country's. What are you doing Alan?"
Alan told him. About the shipments from phantom companies, vanishing when they reached American cities. Of the weaponry and materials carried within. About how they had been found in over five different ports so far. Of how Alan and Batman suspected at the very least a broad criminal conspiracy, if not an organized effort by foreign powers to threaten the country.
"We've stopped all we can. Apparently Superman is assisting," said Alan.
"But who knows how much has slipped through," said Wesley.
"Exactly. It only ends if we find the leadership."
"The Yellow Claw. The one Batman spoke of."
"He's at least the American side of it."
"But we have no idea who he is or where he operates out of?"
"Correct."
Wesley thought of his dreams. Of the ash fall. Of the new one that appeared infrequently, a city swallowed by the gloom.
"This is what we made the Justice Society for," said Wesley.
"I know," said Alan. "I should have told you. And them. But, the more people who know the more likely it is that the conspiracy is alerted. They may strike sooner than planned if they think time is short."
"You don't want to bring the others in till we can bring them down," said Wesley.
"That's the idea."
It didn't sit comfortably in Wesley's gut, but he could see the logic. They were fighting with shadows right now. He thought of Al's impatience, Johnny's immaturity, Carter's temper.
"I won't tell. For now."
"Thank you, Wesley."
"But when it comes out you had better be prepared for them to feel let down."
"The burden of leadership," said Alan.
Dinah, Rex and Al prepared to leave the headquarters. Kent had vanished in his own manner, while Carter had gone off the roof. She didn't know where Wesley or Alan had gone of to.
"We're getting a beer right?" said Rex.
"Of course," said Al.
"Can you even drink?" said Dinah.
"If he can face down armed gunmen, the man is owed a beer," said Rex. "My treat."
Rex liked to impress upon the others that money was no barrier for him. To grace them with his generosity. Dinah was aware of the gap in income, the disparity in life styles, that delineated the group. Wesley was the wealthiest by far, every inch of the brownstone headquarters a reminder of that. Alan lived comfortably. Rex had his chemical business. Carter was an archeologist, Dinah believed. Jay and Al were students, from families that were firmly working class. And Dinah wasn't poor, but she was not living with the same material benefits as several of her companions.
"You interested Dinah?" said Rex.
"Eh, why not?"
"Excellent. No offense Al, but Dinah's presence improves the views considerably."
"None taken. I know she's more of a class act than a bum like you could ever get," said Al.
Rex's flirtations had ceased containing any serious intent and were instead habitual. From what Dinah could glean, the man was an unrepentant womanizer in his civilian life. Outside of him, Dinah found it refreshing that the other members didn't seem to view her in a romantic light. Of course, most of them already had their paramour. Jay, Wesley and even Al had steady girlfriends. Carter was vague about his partner, Hawkwoman, but there was a tenderness to him when he spoke about her. Kent mentioned a woman, though he kept it close to his chest. And Alan was seemingly disinterested in such matters. Not that any of them would have much luck with her. Dinah's thoughts only returned to Larry whenever the subject came up.
"Leave the fighting for the gymnasium boys," said Dinah. "Give me a moment, I left my jacket in the other room."
The two of them continued to squabble while Dinah found her way back through the network of hallways. It was a place very much still in the process of becoming something that represented their varied group. Alan had suggestions for the layout and atmosphere that Wesley and Kent were implementing gradually.
She opened the door to a dimly lit parlor room. Her jacket lay on the back of a couch. Before she could retrieve it, Dinah noticed there was someone else in the room with her.
A woman stood by a table at the edge of the room. Her head was low, her shoulders sagging. A messy tangle of blond hair hung on her back. There was the faint shudder of what appeared to be sobs wracking her body, though Dinah heard nothing.
"Are you alright?" said Dinah.
The woman did not respond to her question. Dinah came closer, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
"How did you get in here?"
Dinah's fingers met a cold and vacant surface, like passing through a wall of fog. She withdrew her hand.
The woman turned slowly. Her hair retreated, her clothing fading into a green cloak. The face that met Dinah's gaze was coiled into a sneer of such anger that she audibly gasped.
"You dare touch me," said the Spectre.
"I didn't know," said Dinah.
The green cloak unfolded around her, until it blanketed the walls of the room. The interior was pitch black, save for the ash white face of the Spectre.
"A mistake. One you shall not repeat," said the Spectre.
Icy winds buffeted Dinah. She shielder her face, but it pierced through her all the same. The room appeared to spin, caught in a vortex of shadow and green. Screams raced out of the blackness, maybe her own, but she couldn't tell in the chaos of the moment.
And then it ended, leaving Dinah alone in the dim room, her jacket still on the couch. The Spectre was gone. The table that the woman stood at was covered with a stack of newspapers, old ones that Wesley had piled up rather than thrown away. One stood out from the stack. The headline was about string of suspicious deaths in LA, of a number of police officers, from 1938.
Dinah returned to the entrance hall, Rex and Al still talking loudly. The aftermath of the encounter must have lingered on her countenance for Rex immediately asked, "What happened to you? You look like the grim reaper passed you by."
"It may have," Dinah muttered.
"What?" said Rex.
"Never mind. Let's get that beer."
May 16, 1940
Jay Garrick slowed down right as he hit the steps leading up to the lab building at Midwestern University. A brief stop at his apartment had allowed for a change of clothes. He had developed a habit of performing a quick loop through Keystone and Central to check for anything that was amiss. This one yielded a woman about to be struck by speeding traffic.
Her rescue afforded Jay another chance to practice the finer elements of his powers. While most people remained frozen when he was running, it was becoming possible to control when they appeared to experience at the same velocity as him. It took a direction of will, a strain on a muscle that he could not entirely pinpoint, which transferred some intangible energy to the other person. It was a problem he worked as out the same as any scientific question in his studies. A gradual narrowing of possibilities and methods. A connection was necessary, likely physical. And they did not actually possess his speed. Were Jay to set someone down they would immediately revert to slow motion or inaction.
There was still more to be done, more to uncover. Helping people in Keystone and with the JSA gave him plenty of time to practice. His hometown seemed to attract a number of costumed villains to put his abilities to the test. The Fiddler, Ragdoll, the Turtle, the Shade. The Thinker was the latest foe to challenge him, though Jay had yet to track the man down.
Jay was headed to the lab, intent on making up for lost time. His work in the costume had put a strain on his studies. Balance remained a difficult task.
As he entered the building, Jay was flagged down by his friend Elliot, who was leaving.
"Do my eyes deceive me? Or has Jay Garrick truly decided to grace us with his presence?" said Elliot.
"That's not fair. We've been keeping different hours," said Jay.
"Ah yes, that other job."
Jay explained his absences through a vague and scarcely referenced job, working in one of the automotive repair shops that dotted Keystone. No one had pressed him on the ruse enough to threaten it. He hoped that graduation and continued work in the sciences on his terms would eliminate the need.
"It pays the bills. And keeps Joan happy," said Jay.
"Only giving you a hard time buddy. Though I would stay away from Professor Clariss as much as you can. You've become his favorite target," said Elliot.
"Thanks for the heads up," said Jay.
"You hear the news?"
"Seems like its all I hear. Be more specific"
"About the presidential election."
"No."
It was an election year, but Jay hadn't been able to pay much attention beyond the local scale. Keystone was a New Deal city through and through. It was built on the back of union labor, particularly the automotive factories that accounted for a significant amount of the workforce.
"Tex Thompson announced he's running. For the Republican ticket," said Elliot.
"That rich fella from Texas?"
"One and the same. And his running mate? Lindbergh."
Jay knew what that meant. An isolationist platform.
"Let me guess? He's promised to keep us out of the war."
"Louder than Roosevelt. Louder than his big opponent, Wilkie."
"Bit late to be throwing your hat in the ring," said Jay.
"He's got money, he's got influence and he's got people's attention. If Roosevelt is serious about staying out of it, this might be a real race after all," said Elliot.
"No kidding. Thanks for giving me something else to keep me up at night Elliot."
They bid their goodbyes and Jay entered the lab. His work was accompanied by the unpleasant pondering of what he had been told. The war had taken a turn for the worse in the last month, the Germans running right over the French, Dutch and Belgians. Things were looking bleak. President Roosevelt had said that he would keep America out of the war, but it was clear whose side he supported. Thompson and Lindbergh were different. They claimed that it didn't matter who won as long as America stayed out of it. Jay knew otherwise.
Even with assistance from his powers, the lab work kept Jay till late in the evening. There was a limit to how fast he could go when at the whims of tools designed for normal speed. He enjoyed the need to slow down. It gave him a chance to focus.
As he cleaned up and prepared to leave, someone else entered the lab. Professor Clariss. The man's features hardened when they saw that it was Jay, though he did his best to hide that reaction.
"Garrick," said Clariss.
"Professor. Keeping late hours as well?"
"Always more work to be done. I'm surprised to see you here. You've made it fairly clear that your work here is no longer the priority," said Clariss.
"I would hope that's not the case sir. I've got a lot on my plate at the moment, but the research remains vital."
He inched closer to the door. Jay did not like where this conversation was headed.
"You don't have much longer at the university, Garrick. I would hate to see you waste all that effort," said Clariss.
"I wouldn't dream of it sir."
Clariss prepped his work station. Jay reached for the door handle.
"Garrick."
"Yes, Professor Clariss?"
"What was that experiment that you were working on back in 1938? The one that put you in the hospital?"
"Excuse me?"
"What was the nature of it? The purpose? I know it involved heavy water vapors." said Clariss.
"Honestly sir, I can't recall. It was a favor for…"
"For Professor Fox. I know."
"I don't remember. He just needed me to carry out a few tasks to keep his experiment going."
"Hmm. You don't remember. And Professor Fox no longer works here. Convenient."
"Sir I don't like what you're implying."
"Don't mind me Garrick. Just working through my observations. Like a scientist."
Jay was silent, his hand resting on the doorknob.
"That will be all Garrick."
June 18, 1940
Alan Scott stood on the edge of the rooftop and watched as the police loaded the last of the thieves into the back of the paddy wagon. Midway City was a ways from home, but Hawkman had requested assistance with this gang, who was using technology reminiscent of an enemy of Doctor Fate's, Ian Karkull.
"No sign of your man," said Hawkman to Doctor Fate, who floated off a ways from the group.
"If he is involved with this crime, he has avoided the vulnerability that has spelled his downfall in the past," said Doctor Fate.
A golden ankh cut through the sky. Doctor Fate began to enter it.
"I have duties to attend to. Call me when the need arises." The portal vanished.
"I may never get used to that," said Hawkman.
"Give it time. The world is only getting weirder," said Alan.
"And darker," said Hawkman.
Alan knew what he meant. France had fallen to the Axis powers. The British and French retreated with their tails between their legs, narrowly spared from total disaster by the Dunkirk evacuation.
"I know we decided to stay out of it, but I've been talking to the others. There's frustration mounting Green Lantern," said Hawkman.
"It's not our choice to make," said Alan.
"We have the power. You alone could have turned the tide in France. Kent, Jay, hell any of us is better than nothing."
"I won't have us start a war on our own," said Alan.
"The war's coming regardless. Surely you can see that."
Alan didn't respond.
"I hope you're ready when it does."
June 30, 1940
The numbers did not lie. They could not lie. The numbers did not illuminate a particularly pleasant future for the Thinker.
Seven plans. All but one foiled. A ninety-seven percent chance of intervention in any future schemes if he was in the city or within one thousand miles. Redundancies upon redundancies required for even the possibility of success. An unacceptable margin of error. Over a decade of unimpeachable work for the criminal powers of Keystone and Central at risk because of one man.
The Flash.
There was always the option of moving to another city. To establish a new network. To train a new army of lackeys in the clockwork precision required by the Thinker's plans.
No. That would be to admit defeat. The Thinker no longer considered defeat an acceptable outcome.
The Flash was formidable, but he had his limits. It simply required a more thorough examination of where they lay. His capacity for rapid thinking was critical to his success, but the Thinker was certain that in a contest of pure intellect there was no real challenge.
The tool that would even the odds sat on his work bench, two weeks away from completion. A helmet, one that would enhance his cognitive abilities to a level that negated any advantage his opponent held. Then it would be only a matter of time before the Flash was no more.
A knock on the door of his workshop. An irritation. The Thinker had left instructions to his men that he was never to be disturbed during his work. A succession of knocks forced him to answer it.
A man in a black suit and cloak with a top hat stood in the opening. He was flanked by two of the Thinker's lackeys who appeared absent.
"At last we meet," said the man.
"Unexpected. Though not unwelcome," said the Thinker.
"You know who I am, I presume," said the man.
"There is an eighty-nine percent chance that you are the Wizard. The man responsible for the attack on the World's Fair in 1939."
"Truly impressive. Guilty as charged," said the Wizard.
"The unknown factor is what you are doing here."
"I present to you an offer."
"Of?"
"Collaboration."
"To what end?"
"The destruction of the Justice Society."
"You are formidable, but the two of us alone have less than a twenty-two percent chance of defeating them based on my limited data of the group."
"Who said it would be just us?" said the Wizard with a grin.
He flicked open his cloak, unveiling a wand. A mote of light left the tip, blooming into a series of images behind him in vivid detail.
"Behold. A society of our own," said the Wizard.
The numbers were changing. The numbers did not lie.
"To our collaboration," said the Thinker.