The War at Home
April 7, 1942
Liberty Belle placed her hand on the wreckage of the wall. She unleashed a carefully tuned vibration that shook it apart, an easy task given its current state. As it shuddered into small chunks, the surrounding firemen took turns pulling out the men that were trapped below. In total, they rescued eight from the rubble of this building. Similar tasks took place all round her. Johnny Quick used his speed to dig through a ruined warehouse, while Commander Steel hefted large bits of debris. Even more ordinary rescue workers combed the wreckage, a mix of firefighters and Navy personnel.
They were in what was left of a military depot in Coast City, one of many such facilities that sprung up or were expanded upon since the onset of the war. It looked as through an earthquake had transpired or a bombing run. Every structure was laid low, a few with fires continuing to smolder. The dock was shattered, the boats sunk.
Libby repeated her efforts on the surrounding buildings, till at last it was determined that there were no more for her to exhume. She found a place to sit and rest, aware of how much her muscles tingled from the continued use of her powers. She settled for watching one of her All-Star companions, Tsunami, bring up a surge of water from the ocean to extinguish the last of the fires.
"That's some power she's got," said Johnny, suddenly at Libby's side.
"Mhm," said Libby.
"Makes me thirsty. How about you?" He offered her a canteen. Libby accepted, drinking deep from the container.
"How many did you get out?" said Johnny.
"Fourteen. You?"
"Nineteen. Would have been twenty-one, but…"
Libby nodded. That brought the casualties to five. She supposed they were fortunate it was that low considering how thorough the destruction was. Even that might be luck, a byproduct of the relatively few personnel. It was a storage depot, not a proper base.
"You hear anything more on what caused all of this?" said Johnny.
Libby shook her head. She pointed over to a scene of a group of men talking. "Sandman's the one asking the questions."
Johnny retrieved the canteen, taking his own sip. He stood up and paced. "One of the boys we got out said something about a group of people doing this. Enemy agents."
"I heard that too."
"Thing is… he said they were in costume."
"Supervillains?"
"Nazi supervillains," said Johnny.
One of the rubble piles shifted and collapsed. Emerging from the sliding debris was the metallic form of Robotman, carrying a wounded victim in his cold arms. Liberty Belle watched as her comrade set down his charge on a gurney, which was ferried away by a pair of firemen. Robotman stared blankly at her for a moment, before turning away to continue to shift through the wreckage. She found him unnerving, unfair as that assessment was.
"Have you talked with him much?" said Libby.
"Haven't had the chance. He keeps to himself. Makes Commander Steel seem jocular by comparison,"
"Jocular?" said Libby, shooting Johnny a look of mock puzzlement.
Johnny flashed her a smile so bright it nearly dazzled her. "What? Surprised I'm no drooling cretin?"
She could deliver no response, as Sandman approached them. She stood to meet him.
"What's the story?" said Johnny.
"Enemy. The guards at the perimeter were killed. I've found left over fuel that was used on some of the buildings, as well as footprints that don't match U.S. military equipment."
"Fifth columnists?" said Libby.
Sandman nodded. "More than that. I spoke with one of the men that was injured before he passed. He told me that he tried to intervene. They wounded him and left him to pass on a message. That this is only the start. They're going by the name the Axis Alliance."
"Sounds like a directed at Americans," said Libby.
"No doubt," said Sandman. "I'll have to report this to Faraday or Kilbride, see what they want us to do. We'll be in Coast City for at least another day."
The table Libby sat at overlooked the boardwalk. The silhouettes of palm trees melted into the orange glow of the setting sun. It was a much more pleasant view of the beachfront than the ruined depot. The establishment she was at bustled with locals and service members. Coast City, like its southern counterpart San Diego, was overflowing with an influx of soldiers, shipbuilders and their families. The docks were packed with the half-built frames of ships, while the hillsides were dotted with construction sites frantically trying to keep up with the skyrocketing population.
"I got you two drinks. Trust me, it's easier than waiting in line again," said her companion.
Johnny looked much the same without the mask, his blond hair kept in a slightly neater arrangement. He wore a floral shirt and a light jacket. Libby accepted the drinks, sliding over the glasses to her side of the table.
She wasn't entirely sure of how this new arrangement had come to be. One day they were business as usual, conducting their affairs entirely in masks, with their hero names. The next they had met for a late night drink not as Liberty Belle and Johnny Quick, but as Libby Lawrence and John Chambers. He shared his last name out of a sense of fairness, what with Libby's identity so easily determined from all her magazine appearances and newsreels, the latter of which just so happened to be Johnny's profession.
"There we go," said Johnny, clinking glasses with her. "This makes it all a little easier doesn't it? Though I was liable to be out west anyway."
"Oh?" said Libby.
"They've got us making reels for the Navy. Public service announcements, recruitment stuff, the works."
"Sounds interesting."
"Probably would be if I didn't have the other side of my life to compare it to." Johnny leaned back in his seat, drinking in the sunset's glow. Libby couldn't help but compare him to Jay, what with their similarities in powers. Jay was pretty laid back, but you could often detect a constant eagerness to his every motion, a kind of coiled, irrepressible energy, as if he was about to jolt up and run off at any moment. Johnny was more easy going, more keyed into the moment. Maybe it was the fact that his powers could be turned on and off.
"There are worse places to be stuck," said Libby.
"Too true. You think Sandman's right about this Axis Alliance."
"He's right far more than he's wrong."
"What's it like?"
"What?"
"Being on the Justice Society," said Johnny. He was fully facing Libby now, arms on the table. His face remained at ease, but she could tell from his expression that he was genuinely curious.
"I hope this doesn't come as a disappointment, but it's a lot like the All-Star Squadron."
Johnny exhaled dramatically, falling face first on the table in exasperation. "Come one! There's more to it than that."
"Alright, alright. Don't make a scene." She pursed her lips, thought for a moment.
"I guess it's more intimate."
"Uh huh," said Johnny, one eyebrow raised.
She kicked his leg under the table. "Not like that. Except with the Hawks, I suppose. And maybe…" She stopped herself before saying more.
Johnny rubbed his shin, exaggerating his pain. "Do continue."
"The Squadron is more impersonal. We're there out of an obligation to our country, but the groups we get arranged into is based on necessity and proximity. I respect everyone.."
"Almost everyone," said Johnny, continuing to massage his leg.
"...almost everyone in the Squadron, but I can't say I'm close to many of them. Like our group today. I barely know Tsunami, Commander Steel and Robotman."
"Well like I said, you're not missing much with those last two. Not ones for conversation. Tsunami...I don't know too much. She seems like a straight shooter."
"Exactly. With the Squadron I could work a mission and barely know anything about the people I'm doing it with. The JSA though, they were a proper team from before I even joined. They know one another's strengths and weaknesses inside and out."
"So, is it like us here? You know each other behind the masks?"
Libby let her face lower. "No, actually. Most of them do, but that stopped being common practice when my batch joined up. I only know a couple." More than she would let on at this point. "Not that I'll tell you, no offense."
"None taken," said Johnny, polishing off his glass. "Forgive my fascination. The Flash is the reason I put on the mask. And it's not exactly hard to see that many of the others in the Squadron give more weight to a JSA member's ideas."
Libby knew what he meant. Her fellow members carried a certain gravitas with their fellow heroes that was easily perceptible in any Squadron business. Their liaisons with the government had clearly picked up on that fact.
"I even see it in you, with how you treat Sandman," said Johnny.
"I can't help it. He's one of the founding members. I've seen him in action."
"It's funny is all. We put on these costumes and we're still struck by other heroes just the same. Though, not everyone is susceptible to that effect."
"Like?"
"Crimson Avenger for one. That man wouldn't change his tune if it was the president he was talking to. But, really I meant our would-be leader."
"Ah. Mr. America."
"I mean it takes a certain kind of personality to take that name," said Johnny.
"And yet I don't detect that arrogance from Ms. America."
"That's because she isn't constantly campaigning to be our one, true leader. I'm almost surprised Faraday and Mercer put up with it."
"Most groups have members that gravitate towards positions of leadership. Perhaps Faraday and the others want to see who we choose for ourselves."
Johnny scoffed. "As long as it ain't him. Not when there are so many better options."
"Like?"
"Superman, Wonder Woman, Black Canary, Hawkman… you."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "Trying to flatter me?"
"Only if it works," said Johnny.
It was a lie that Libby had no idea how this new arrangement had come to be. Most of her peers were content to live a double life, a balance between their civilian persona and their heroic identity. Libby took that challenge and stacked another layer on top with her work for Faraday and the others. It wasn't something she was proud of, only the dangled proposition of vengeance against Vandal Savage and his allies keeping her going. The stress could be enough to eat right through her. So when Libby found someone that could make her forget the secrets and the breaches of trust, could ground her firmly in the moment, she made sure to hang onto that feeling, to cultivate it.
Libby suggested another round of drinks which Johnny eagerly left to get, leaving her to bask in the last bit of light. He would return and continue to press his luck. Maybe she would let him get lucky this time.
April 10, 1942
Black Canary stepped off the stage, her voice nearly hoarse from singing, her ears buffeted by the cheers from the crowd. It was composed largely of soldiers and nurses, all those that could attend the USO show. They whistled and shouted, demanding more. Some tried to vault the barricades, fended off by steely military policemen. Dinah gave one last wave before heading backstage. Vigilante sidled past her, guitar in hand, trailed by a group of dancers from from the more conventional wing of the organization. Even through the walls, the roar of the crowd continued to ebb.
"I didn't know you could sing like that," said Hourman, who was lounging on a chair. There was also Plastic Man, his partner Woozy, Miss America, and Sargon the Sorcerer.
"My mother taught me. Used to be her job before the Depression. We'd sing on the road, sometimes for change."
It was nice to use that skill again. She had sung some popular ditty that was on the radios right now. Dinah knew that half the men there just wanted the view, but that didn't diminish her enjoyment. She could tell not all of her teammates felt the same way.
"Seems like a waste to use this now," said Hourman, rolling his dose of Miraculo between his fingers. "They want me to juggle some heavy stuff, lift some things, show off my shotput. What if we're needed for something more...substantial."
"Then you'll get to solve it the way us ordinary folks have to," said Dinah.
From the stage, Dinah could hear Vigilante strum on his guitar. He had a remarkably rich voice. Another line of dancers passed through the backroom, giggling at Plastic Man.
"I have to admit, that was exhausting. I don't know if I have it in me for my duet later. I have no idea how you do these all the time Miss America," said Dinah.
"Sheer repetition," said the woman, who was putting the final touches on her makeup. "I wouldn't be surprised if I could do them in my sleep at this point."
"Don't undersell your talents," said Plastic Man, joining the conversation with an elongated neck. "The flair, the personal touch. You're an inspiration."
Miss America grinned, but there was a weariness around her eyes. Dinah wondered how long before the charm wore off.
"I will say that it's a nice change of pace to perform with fellow members of this line of work," she said, pointing to her mask. "A few of those show biz people can be rather mean. You spend most of your time trying not to step on anyone's toes."
"Do tell, do tell," said Plastic Man.
"Oh I couldn't."
"At least one name. Bob Hope? Delores Winters? Laurel and Hardy?"
"Enough Plas," said Woozy. "Quit harrasin the poor lady. Show a little class."
Outside, Vigilante reached his conclusion, which prompted Miss America and Sargon to leave for their leg of the show. Plastic Man and Woozy continued to practice their routine. Dinah took the time to relax and rest her voice. Vigilante came back with a dancer on each arm, laughing and flirting the whole way.
"It's all a bit silly isn't it?" said Hourman.
"What is?" said Dinah.
"Putting on a USO show in Mammoth City. Encouraging civilian defense in Illinois. As if they're going to be the first ones worried about an invasion."
"Woah there," said Plastic Man, his face turning into a stop sign. "Easy on the Mammoth City slander. That's my hometown you're talking about."
"Really? I thought you were from Hub," said Dinah.
"That's where most of my press comes from, but I'm a Mammoth boy through and through."
"The point remains though," said Hourman, sitting up, leaning forward on his legs. "Mammoth isn't exactly a strategic target."
"An astute observation. Yet, the point of all this is for the people out there," said Plastic Man. "A lot of those boys and some of those gals aren't coming home. May as well give em a show."
April 11, 1942
Punches weren't doing the trick anymore. Nor were any other blunt approaches Superman could think of. His opponent's armor was dispelling the force and the ray he had struck Superman with sapped his might just enough to make the prospect of hand to hand combat untenable. That and there were still workers on the mail train that could be endangered by overwhelming force.
"How quickly you turned yellow as soon as you're up against someone that can fight back," said the man in the armored suit. Metalo or something like it he had said.
Superman was flying laps around the man, avoiding successive blasts from the man's ray gun. The front pair of train carriages were on the bridge, which was groaning more than Kal-El would have liked. Too much longer and collapse was imminent.
Superman ran through his options. Heat vision bounced off the armor. Freeze breath couldn't hold Metalo. Maybe ramming if only to put distance between him and the train. Though that risked further exposure to the ray.
"Get down here," said Metalo. The gray armored figure put a thick boot against one of the carriages and began to push. The bridge started to buckle. Superman listened to support after support fail.
"Them or you," said Metalo. "Face me head on."
Superman landed in front of him. Metalo eased off the train, his ray aimed straight at Superman's chest.
"So much for the man of steel."
In the span between Metalo flexing his trigger finger, Superman tried a new tactic. He opened his eyes as wide as he could, letting out a broad wall of heat vision. As soon as it reached the armor, he switched to a thin cone of freeze breath. Then back to heat vision. Then freeze breath. Back and forth over a dozen times in the span of a second. Superman bolted up to Metalo, twisting back the barrel of the ray gun. With his other hand he gave a light push in the center of his torso. The armor was tough, tough enough to shrug off his blows. But few materials could withstand such rapid fluctuation in temperature. The armor crumbled around his foe, leaving a middle-aged man flat on his back.
The cleanup was routine, with Superman aiding all those left on the train, turning Metalo over to the police, where he was identified as George Grant, performing quick repairs on the bridge and letting Jimmy get a photo for the Planet. Afterwards he made a quick detour before searching for the real source of the danger.
Superman caught up with Lex Luthor not at his office or his penthouse apartment, instead finding him on one of his yachts out on Hob's Bay. He was laying on an outstretched chair. Luthor shooed away his help staff as Superman touched down on the deck of the boat.
"Another instance of trespassing to add to your long list of crimes. Not that it seems to stop you," said Luthor. The man had changed only slightly in the years Clark had dealt with him. He was entirely bald at this point. His physique was sturdier, the slight bit of flab he had when they first met scoured away.
"George Grant."
"Who?"
"The man you equipped with the Metalo armor. The one who just attacked a mail train in downtown Metropolis. He works for you."
"Another fascinating claim dreamt up by your juvenile mind. I should expect nothing more from someone who willingly dresses in such a garish outfit."
Superman dropped the stack of documents he had been carrying, the bounty of a quick pitstop at one of LexCorp's subsidiaries. Luthor barely pretended to appraise them, but Clark took note of a brief pinch by his brow.
"Theft is no laughing matter. This city won't put up with your callous disregard for its laws forever."
"I should say the same to you," said Superman. "Grant was your employee. He helped design that armor. Very convenient that he was let loose on the city with it."
Luthor sat up. "Is that really all you have? An unfortunate misplacement of trust in a previously valued employee. That's all."
"I saw the military contracts. Was this the armor's test run? To see if it could beat me?"
"And you call me self-centered," said Luthor.
"People were nearly killed. All to feed your ego," said Superman. He was letting his temper get away from him, but Luthor's smugness was almost unbearable.
"The armor was designed by LexCorp personnel. For use in Europe and the Pacific. We are at war, if you haven't noticed. While you and your friends in the Justice Society waste time here, there are real Americans at work fighting for our safety. I find it disheartening that Superman would ruin the opportunity for those men to have a better fighting chance."
"I've read the notes. You were never going to mass produce the armor. Not with how expensive it was."
Luthor stood up, walking to lean against the railing of his yacht. He yawned.
"I'm not alone you know. Every day more and more people wake up to see that they've misplaced their trust in a gaggle of children playing dress up, with you, the self-anointed savior, as the worst of them all. It won't be long before we're forced to reclaim our destiny from the likes of you."
Superman let his feet leave the ground. "You can only get away with it so many times Luthor. When it all comes crashing down, I'll be there."
April 13, 1942
Maya Shimada couldn't fall asleep, instead choosing to pace around her apartment. Its furnishings were nice, nicer than what she could have imagined given the circumstances. It was a gift from her overseers from the All-Star Squadron. A reward for her loyalty. She couldn't be sure, but Maya suspected that most of her fellow heroes hadn't been asked to reveal their identities directly to the government agents. Agent Kilbride had talked about concerns over "foreign agents," and "compromised loyalties." Maya understood that they were worried about having a Japanese hero on their team. With her identity a known quantity, it was easier to keep tabs on her.
The ocean remained a few blocks away, yet Maya could feel its power from here. Along with all the water in the plumbing of her building, as well as the network of pipes that snaked beneath the streets of San Diego. The steady pulse of the waves was all that kept her calm.
The apartment grew too stifling. She threw on a coat and left the building, walking towards the shore. The streets weren't empty, but it was quiet enough that she would be unbothered. She kept her papers close in case anyone tried to accost her. It was becoming uncommon to see any Japanese faces around.
Maya wasn't there when the news reached her family, instead being off with the All-Star Squadron, fighting fires in Northern California. She couldn't stop seeing the grief on her mother's face when she finally came home. Executive Order 9066. The removal of all persons of Japanese descent from the West Coast. The waiting had been some of the worst of it, the dread over how it would manifest. Fear was in the hearts of her fellow Americans, the surest path to hatred. Japan had the arrogance to wound America and without the ability to strike back at their enemy overseas, many locals settled for their neighbors. Her uncle's store was vandalized. Maya and her siblings were spat on, called names and threatened. Never mind that they were born here. Never mind that this was their home.
It was only in the last month that the Japanese had their answer. They were to be relocated to camps. Manzanar, Santa Anita and more. Maya wept when her family left, dressed in their nicest clothes, with all they could fit in their bags. There was no telling if they would return to their homes, their businesses. She had wanted to go with them, but she remained, in service to the very government that would take them away. A part of her, a dwindling part, held onto hope that through her work, through her heroics, they could see that the Japanese were no threat. That they were as American as anyone else.
Maya reached the beach. She waded out into the water up to her thighs, letting the ocean calm her nerves. She thought of her parents as they crowded onto the bus, of how her sister passed Maya her comb before she left. She thought of the empty buildings, of the silent streets where life no longer flourished. It was all too appealing to wish this were a nightmare, a stretch of bad dreams from which she would awaken.
"A lovely night, yes?" said a voice.
Maya spun around, looking everywhere for the source. There was no one on the beach by her.
"Over here," said the voice again. This time she located its origin. A pair of dark eyes sat just above the water. It was dark, with barely any moonlight, but Maya thought she saw fur clinging to the face.
"You are Tsunami. One of the American heroes," said the voice.
Maya took a step back from the water, wary of her surroundings. "What are you doing?"
"I don't mean to startle," said the voice. It had a potent accent. German. "I am here on a mission of friendship."
"You have a strange way of introducing yourself."
"My appearance can be...discomforting. I did not wish to frighten you."
"I don't scare easily."
The voice sighed, before the head rose up, shoulders and a chest emerging. It was like a wolf given the form of a man. He wore scant swimming trunks, with a swastika symbol on the belt line.
"There. Satisfied?"
Maya nodded, though she readied her powers, gathering water in pockets outside of his view. "If you think I'm an easy target, you've made a terrible mistake."
"Quite the opposite. My companions and I feel that you are a profoundly powerful individual. One who is being wasted in service to America."
"Excuse me?"
"I don't have long, so I'll keep this brief. We want you to help us. To help liberate your people."
Maya must have given a look of such surprise that it prompted the wolf man to continue.
"I know all about the plight of the Japanese here. How they have been branded traitors and sent away. It is America who has betrayed them. Betrayed you. How can you trust a nation that turns its back on your people so readily?"
"I.. you're with the Nazis."
"I am German, yes. I am part of a group that would undo the injustices wrought by the American despots. We want you to help us."
"Me?"
"As you said, you are powerful. I think more powerful than even your would-be masters realize. Help us to liberate your people. To push back against the American tyranny."
Maya didn't answer. Couldn't. Too much was racing through her mind.
"This need not be settled now. I can contact you again, though I urge you to keep our meeting a secret, for your safety. For your family's safety."
The man turned back, diving into the waves. He gave Maya one final look before submerging. Maya fell to her knees, letting them sink into the sand. It was lunacy. It had to be. She needed to report him. To warn her allies of his group. It must be the same one that attacked the depot in Coast City.
Maya didn't find a payphone or a police call box. She didn't go to the offices to report to her handlers. She walked straight back to her apartment to pace once again. She knew what she had to do. But, the will to make that call fled every time she thought of her family in the camps. He was wrong, he had to be.
Yet...
April 15, 1942
"You're afraid," said the man in the golden mask.
Alan should have learned by now that looking straight at him was a bad idea, but they were in a narrow hallway and he didn't have time to turn away. Jet black stalks of fear pierced his sides, the kind that makes your guts squirm through your ribs and he fell to the floor in a heap. The ring flared green, the fire trying to purge the poison he had been administered. It wasn't until the Flash helped him from his heap on the floor that the fear subsided.
"How long?"
"Been around twenty minutes," said Jay.
"Psycho Pirate?"
"Long gone. We got his buddies though. He made Atom and Hawkman fight one another. That mask sure is a pain. I'd like to get Doctor Fate's take on it."
Alan could still feel the jitters of fear trickle through him. The fact that it could get through his ring was troubling.
"We'll get him next time he shows his mug," said Jay.
"Ah hell, look at the time. I gotta get back to the GBC," said Alan, leaping off the ground.
"And Joan says I'm always running late. Don't worry, we'll handle the cleanup," shouted Jay, with no small trace of sarcasm.
"We're not in the business of running a charity," said Leonard Wheeler with enough force that Alan could see eyes peering into Wheeler's office for a better view of whatever spat was unfolding. He shut the door, well aware it was liable to get worse before it got better.
"I'm not asking for charity Leonard," said Alan.
Leonard stubbed out his cigarette. "Really? Because from where I'm sitting, that's exactly what this looks like. We can't keep everyone."
"You're asking me to get rid of my best people."
"They're writers Alan. We can find other writers."
"These are the people that helped build this place. All those radio shows, all those TV broadcasts wouldn't be the same without them."
"You're right. They'd be cheaper. Which is what we need now that they've cut the TV programs."
The government had mandated a halt in the production of TVs, radios and other civilian broadcasting equipment, as well as television programs. A necessity of the war effort had been the official line. It meant a dead stop to one of the branches of the GBC that Alan had put a lot of time and effort into.
"We have the money to keep them. I've looked at the books."
"For how long Alan? For a year? Two? Is this the message we want to send? That we'll keep you afloat for no reason at all. Because we hate money?"
Alan massaged his forehead, trying to not let his anger hijack his voice. "Because we're loyal. You do this for them now and you'll have them for life."
Leonard grabbed another cigarette, before deciding against lighting it. Instead he tapped it impatiently on the desk.
"Well I don't want em. Half of em are probably commies anyway. Better to clean em out now before it comes back to bite us."
"Cut my salary. Use that to cover the costs."
"Yeah right."
"I'm serious Leonard. There's a couple reasons we're the best in the business and chief among those is the people that work here. Without them we got nothing."
"I'm not cutting your salary. Get over it Alan."
Alan swung the door open, letting his voice carry. He wasn't proud of this stunt, but he had no other choices.
"I'll walk Leonard. If that's what it takes, I'll walk."
Leonard shook his head, mouth agape. "You're nuts Alan."
"I've got no use for a place that chews up its employees like this," said Alan. More people were gathering, their curiosity overcoming their fear of Wheeler.
"Quit making a scene."
"Tell me you'll keep them on."
"Close that damn door."
"Promise me or I'll do it Leonard."
"Fine, fine. Jesus you're pigheaded Alan."
Alan shut the door. "I prefer strong willed."
"You threatened to walk? In front of the whole office?" said Jerry.
"He forced my hand," said Alan. They were drinking coffee by Jerry's desk, part of the conclave of writers on the floor below.
"You've got a target on your back now. Wheeler's got a long memory. Hank Spencer pissed him off over some joke at one of the office parties and a whole year later Wheeler got him fired over some minutiae with the budgets."
"No offense to Hank, but I am a little harder to get rid of at the moment."
"For now. As soon as that golden glow fades, Wheeler'll bust your ass out on the street."
They both took a deep sip from their cups. Jerry clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks Alan. I still think you've got a screw loose, but we won't forget you looking out for us. Having anyone to watch your back is rare in this industry."
Alan simply nodded. If Wheeler was the problem, maybe it meant a proper change in leadership was the next course of action.
His pondering was interrupted by someone passing them by. Alan clumsily set down his mug, offering Jerry a hasty farewell, as he jogged to catch up with Molly Mayne.
"Hey Molly," said Alan.
"Mr. Scott," said Molly. Icy as ever. Even after all this time she hadn't relented in her cold approach to him.
"I just wanted to check in with you. See how things were going on your end."
"Fine. They're fine. Is that all?"
Alan noticed something on Molly's cheek, covered with plenty of makeup, far more than she usually wore, but unmistakable given his other profession. A nasty bruise.
"What happened there?" he said, gesturing to it.
"Oh that..I took a fall on the way home the other day."
There were more bruises on her face, a couple on her arm and one that was nearly hidden by her collar. More than what a simple fall would accomplish.
"Are you sure?"
"I am."
Alan stepped in front of her, blocking her path. She scowled at him.
"Molly is everything alright? Are you being treated well?"
She turned her head from him. "What's wrong Alan? Afraid I've found someone new."
"I'm afraid someone's hurt you. Molly I know we're not on the best of terms…"
"That's a rich way to put it."
"..but you can tell me if you're not okay."
"Like I said Alan, I fell. Maybe my life's only gotten more interesting since I decided to leave you out of it. Maybe I met a real man."
He almost grabbed her wrist to stop her. She slipped it out of the way even as he hesitated.
"Give it a rest Alan," she hissed. "Quit trying to play the hero. You don't make a very convincing one."
Molly skirted around him, leaving Alan alone in the office hallway remembering what the man in the golden mask had commanded him.
"Be afraid."
April 18, 1942
Wonder Woman thought the uniformed officer was about to explode. There was a vein throbbing on his neck that she had never seen before, pulsating with such a violence that Diana was shocked it could contain such rage.
"What do you mean no?" said the officer.
"I don't know how many other ways I can put this. I will not be a part of this production," said Wonder Woman.
The man let out an aggrieved cry, nearly burying his face in his hands. The soldiers, the performers, the photographers and cameramen, the sound technicians all didn't know where to look. There was an entire painted backdrop, replete with patriotic banners and cutouts, streamers and special effects.
"You can't say no," said the officer.
"I did and I will continue to do so. I thought this was a meeting about how best to help people affected by the war."
"This will help people. If you finally stop talking and let us start filming."
Diana shook her head. "I will fight for peace alongside your country, but I am not a tool of America. My love belongs to the world, not any one nation."
"Love..love, she's talking about love now…" muttered the officer.
"Sir, I can see that this isn't going to become productive. I will depart now," said Wonder Woman, ignoring the angry remarks the officer made without regard for her.
April 20, 1942
One of Inza Cramer's greatest fears was that one day she would arrive to find that the Tower of Fate was no longer there. It towered over Salem and the surroundings, but she couldn't see it until she got close, a byproduct of its magics, which camouflaged it from those without a certain aptitude for magic. Today was not that day, with the Tower shimmering out of the fog, opening its door to her.
"Kent? Kent where are you?" she called out, her voice rolling off the many walls and chambers. A nearby mirror turned to a window that showed him in the study. Of course, as he so often was these days. Inza left her groceries in what passed for the kitchen and went off to find him. She never traveled the exact same route twice through the tower. It had come to accept her, to protect her, though she could still tell that she did not entirely fit within its walls.
Kent was hunched over a stack of books, his head resting on one of them, his eyes half-closed.
"Kent?"
He sat up, wiping his chin and sending a pile of the books sliding down in a literary avalanche. Rather than laying on the floor, the tomes floated up, returning to their shelves.
"Oh, Inza. I must have dozed off."
"So it seems. Did you hear? We've struck Japan."
His eyes opened wider. "Really?"
"It was a bombing raid. Led by a fellow named Doolittle. I heard it on the radio at the grocers. Not going to win the war, but it's a reminder we're not out of it yet."
Kent nodded, his attention already drifting back to the book at hand. It worried Inza, how out of it he could be, in a manner distinct from when the helm had its hooks in him. She found herself occupying the role of lifeline to the world at large far more than she liked. Not that her own connections out there had flourished lately. She had graduated from her university, having benefitted from the wealth of knowledge in the tower to. But, she spoke with her family less and less. The locals in Salem knew her, though there was a distance between them, a recognition that she was in some way removed from their lives.
"Are you here with me?" said Inza.
"Hmm, yes, yes I am. I'm sorry darling. It's just," he gestured to the many books, the various artifacts around him, "there's so much to learn. So much to get caught up on. That last battle with Karkull confirmed by limits. I must surpass them."
"Have you had any success?" she said.
His gaze dropped, his eyes shadowed. "Not enough. Too many paths that lead back to servitude. Too many deals with taskmasters worse than Nabu by far."
"I worry you're looking for a shortcut where none exist."
"I have to be better. Now. Wotayon, Karkull, all those who threaten us will not wait for me to strengthen my magics traditionally."
Inza joined him at the table, sharing his seat. She laced her fingers through his, feeling how cold they were.
"My love, you're asking too much. At this rate all you'll manage is to wear yourself down into nothing. I know you don't like the prospect of slowing down, but it's what you need."
Kent held her hand, rubbing his thumb against the back of it, while he stared off absentmindedly.
"I just can't bear it."
"What?" said Inza.
"The thought of losing you."
She cradled his head as he let it sink to her lap. She stroked his hair.
"You won't. You won't."
In her own way, with her own regret and joy, Inza worked her own magic on Kent. What was their bond if not a pact, a vow to weather the storm beside one another.
April 26, 1942
"Did you order the sewer gator, Commissioner Gordon?" said Robin.
Robin, Batman and Gordon observed as the GCPD loaded the criminal known as Killer Croc into a special paddy wagon they converted just for him. He had been living in the sewers and underground tunnels, attacking anyone who got close. Until Batman had come up with a plan to lure him out, that is.
"One less thing to worry about," said Gordon.
"This one's on the house," said Robin.
"Thanks Boy Wonder," said Gordon.
Batman gave Dick the look, the one that told him to give the two men time to talk. Usually Batman let Robin listen in on these conversations, but he was sufficiently familiar with Batman's moods to know tonight was no such time. Robin scurried off, clambering up the side of the GCPD headquarters, while Batman debriefed with the commissioner.
He thought about the past few weeks while practicing some routing flips and tricks on the roof. Killer Croc was the latest in a new batch of villains that had decided Gotham was the perfect place to operate. Riddler had gotten free again, the Penguin remained a continual problem, Doctor Death had escaped prison and there was an arsonist going by the name Firefly that plagued the south end. All on top of the general paranoia that wartime stirred up, with its blackout drills and practice sirens. The GCPD zeppelins were being retrofitted for air defense in the case of an aerial attack.
Bruce had been wound tighter since the JSA's bout with the Injustice Society in Arizona. Dick pried and pried, but he wasn't able to get all the details, only the sense that it was a near miss in more ways than one. He could tell that his guardian was being yanked in a dozen different directions these days, having to guide Wayne Enterprise stance on the war effort. It didn't all make sense to Dick, but from what he understood, a notable percentage of the board wanted to shift to weapons production. Bruce was set on keeping them restricted to medical supplies and logistics. Another reason Dick didn't envy Bruce's position. The disputes at Haly's Circus always remained interpersonal, even when the business was on the line. With a company the size of Wayne Enterprise, it quickly became more complex than he cared for.
Robin clambered up the bat signal, leaping off of it to land in a hand stand that transformed into a series of somersaults. It remained a sticking point that Batman wouldn't take Robin with him for JSA business. He had been lucky enough to help Superman on one visit to Gotham, but it was otherwise a side of their work that was barred to him. What annoyed Dick even more was seeing Sandman with his own partner in the news or hearing about the exploits of Star-Spangled Kid, who could only be a couple of years older than him. Every proposition ran into the same wall of stern disinterest from Bruce, a repetitive chorus of "You're not ready."
Their conversation was taking longer than normal, so Robin tried out a couple of tricks he would normally reserve for practice in the cave. He found a strip of rooftop where he had enough room for a quintuple backflip, a move he had never fully mastered in the circus. Starting at one end, Robin performed each consecutive flip. It was on the push off for the fifth flip that his boots lost traction, a victim of a puddle on the roof. One foot slid, then the other and all of a sudden he was stumbling backwards, arms pinwheeling wildly. He felt his calf hit the ledge, the momentum throwing his body over. For a normal person that would be a real problem, but for a Flying Grayson it was a simple matter to remain calm and catch the ledge mid flip. Still, he was glad Batman wasn't there to see his mistake.
As Dick pulled himself back up, he heard a girlish giggle. He crouched on the ledge, allowing his cape to cloak his face, like Bruce taught him, the better to conceal his intents. Catwoman? Someone new?
"Are you trying to look spooky? I don't know how effective that will be after your little tumble earlier."
The person talking to him was a girl, standing at the door that provided access to the roof. She was around Dick's age, maybe a little older, with red hair and the same type of glasses that Gordon wore.
"What are you doing up here? This place isn't safe for civilians," said Robin, turning on his best authoritative voice.
"Enjoying your gymnastics routine I suppose," said the girl. She was distinctly unimpressed by him.
"I'm serious. Not just anyone can be up here," said Robin.
"Wouldn't that apply to you as well?"
"Well, no, uh.."
"Don't think too hard."
Robin was becoming flustered. He stormed over to the girl, intent on salvaging a shred of his dignity.
"Who are you anyway?"
"Barbra Gordon."
"As in Commissioner Gordon."
The girl tilted her head to the left. "That's the one."
"I thought he just had a son."
She frowned for a beat, before her face switched back to the sly smile that punctuated their whole encounter.
"If you're so clever, you'll figure it out."
Robin was wracking his brain for a follow-up, when he heard a whistle. Saved by Batman. "This isn't over lady."
He raced to the ledge and jumped over it, hoping he looked as elegant as possible, before casting out his grappling line to join Batman. Dick just barely resisted the urge to look back and see if she was watching.
They were on their way back to the cave, the first spindles of sunlight poking over the horizon when Dick brought it up to Batman.
"I didn't know that Gordon had a daughter."
"Well he does."
Batman stayed silent, his focus solely on driving for long enough that Dick was forced to push along the conversation.
"She's awful rude."
"How did you obtain this knowledge?"
"She was up on the roof, when I was waiting for you and Gordon to finish talking. She was giving me all sorts of grief."
"Hmm," said Batman.
"That's all you've got?"
Batman merely grunted.
"Some partner you are. If I heard someone making fun of you, I wouldn't stand for it," said Robin.
"Is that so?"
"I just think she could learn some manners is all. I'll have to teach her the next time I see her."
Dick caught the suggestion of a smile on Bruce's face, something that made him do a double take.
"What's gotten into you?"
"Nothing chum. Nothing at all," said Batman with a smile he couldn't hide.
April 29, 1942
"You know this was a lot tougher when I had to do it on my own," said Captain Marvel.
He swung the malevolent Ibac around by his ankles, tossing the man towards Jr., who slugged him down into the earth. Freddy understood that he didn't have to hold back much with this foe. The two Marvels wailed on their foe until he submitted, saying his own magic word, which transformed him back into his ordinary form of Stanley Printwhistle, a frail old man.
"This is the fella that's been giving us trouble," said Captain Marvel Jr.
"I yield, I yield," said Stanley. "It ain't worth it with the two of ya."
A short while later, Freddy was back at the newsstand where he worked in the afternoon. Billy had left to make his broadcast for WHIZ. The two boys got along well, though Freddy had to admit it was strange to follow the lead of a kid a few years his junior. The transformation into Captain Marvel gave Billy a maturity that he put to good use.
In the months since his grandpa's death, Freddy's world was undone and glued back together in a haphazard manner. He couldn't go back to Massachusetts. Billy had convinced his foster parents to take him in. The Vasquez's were kind, but they weren't his grandpa. There was a disconnect between Freddy and his new guardians that he couldn't shake.
The other learning curve was all the superhero business. Fawcett City had only gotten rowdier in the past four months, facing the likes of Ibac, the brutish King Kull, the supposed Amazonian goddess Nyola, the Nazi operative Mister Banjo, the grotesque Rat Face, the sinister Evil Eye and more. All he could do was follow Billy's lead and plunge into the chaos feet first. Between that and the All-Star Squadron, Freddy was astonished he had any downtime at all. Not that he minded. The less time on his own the better. The less he had to think about all that empty space that followed him.
He was only half paying attention at the stand, collecting payment for newspapers, magazines and comics, while he skimmed a strip of Flash Gordon and read upon on the Navajo ace making waves over the skies of Britain. Freddy longed to be a part of the reckoning that he was sure was arriving for the Nazis and their cronies. The one villain he wanted never showed up. Captain Nazi had vanished. His dreams were filled with the man, either enacting his revenge upon the Aryan menace or reliving the disaster. Over there in Europe, he was sure that he would get his rematch.
"Excuse me," said a girl's voice.
Freddy put down his newspaper. A girl around his age was staring past him, looking at the stand's contents.
"Yes?"
"Do you have the latest issue of Vogue?"
Freddy rifled through the stand, digging out what appeared to be the last copy.
"Right here miss," he said, rattling off the price.
She dug through a handbag for the money. When he handed her the magazine, the girl looked around the newsstand and Freddy one more time.
"You're a bit young to be running a stand on your own."
"And you don't seem the type to read Vogue."
The girl feigned offense. "I do sometimes. I like the clothing." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Though really it's for my mom."
"If we're being honest, I don't run the stand. I just help out Mr. Bernard on my afternoons."
There was a familiar note to the girl, a certain characteristic of her facial features that stirred something in Freddy's mind, though he couldn't pinpoint it.
"Well, I'm sure I'll see you around…"
"Freddy."
"Mary."
May 2, 1942
Shiera wasn't surprised when she found Carter collapsed on the floor of his home, sweat pouring from his shuddering body. He was surrounded by a now smeared series of Egyptian glyphs, painted in what appeared to be a mixture of animal blood and an unknown substance. The place reeked of incense. She dragged him to bed while he muttered through his convulsions.
It had been a few weeks since she visited the place. Too long for his good apparently, based on the state of disarray the mundane side of the house was left in, dishes filling the sinks and trash piling up. They had ostensibly agreed a period of separation would do them well, but Shiera was doubtful as to how well Carter could hold it together.
She shook her head. This wasn't why she was here. His cabinets and bins full of documents were at least untouched by the mess of the rest of the home. She leafed through bin after bin, till she found what she was looking for. A faded map, one of the only remaining surveys of a particular valley in Kahndaq. The notes on the map were signed by one C.C. Batson, just as Diana said they would be. She had a vague memory of the Batsons, of reading through their papers on archeological findings in the Middle East. Shiera's only surprise was that it had ended up with Carter. Hopefully, this would be enough to mount an expedition to prevent whoever was hunting the God's Teardrop, as Diana called it.
She was debating whether or not to leave right away with it, when a groan from the bedroom made up her mind for her.
"Shiera?" grumbled Carter.
"I'm here. You were unconscious on the floor," she said, stepping into the room.
Shiera had been in this spot too often recently, waiting on her bedridden companion. The injuries from Bataan were largely gone, hurried along by his advanced healing, but she couldn't shake the sight of his ravaged body.
"You never told me you were coming by."
"I had to pick up some things. For Diana."
Carter nodded. They both gazed at different spots in the room, unwilling to commit to full eye contact.
"I went back again."
"I figured," said Shiera. She recognized the fuel for his rituals.
"It was the cowboy again. You were there. Cinnamon, I think."
"That's a common one isn't it?" said Shiera.
"One of the most. There was also the place where so many of us wore the wings. They spoke a language I've never heard before, but I understood it."
Carter continued to unfurl the details of his visions, while Shiera lost her focus, instead honing in on that absent quality to his voice. He was slipping. The present held his focus for less and less time now. Instead it was always about the cowboy, or the priest. The sailor from the northern isles. The scientist. The winged soldier. Anything but their current time.
Shiera was waiting for the day when Carter wouldn't wake up from the dream.
May 11, 1942
Every time Ted thought he had seen the wildest permutation of the supervillain he was blindsided by how weird they could get. As evidenced by his current quarry, a witch riding a broomstick through the skyline of Opal, while firing at him all the while with twin revolvers.
"Ma'am, I can tell you right now that this won't end well for you," said Starman, dipping below her current salvo of gunshots.
The so-called Prairie Witch was nonplussed, sailing over a massive statue of a stag. She cackled madly as her broomstick tilted down to the streets below, where she skimmed the tops of cars and trolleys. Starman pursued the crazed villain.
He was gaining on her when a dense shadow caught the witch in the face. She screamed, making a faulty turn, which earned her a quick trip to the sidewalk, her pistols flying out of hand. Starman landed next to her, one foot on the broomstick, which was bent at an unnatural angle from the sudden stop.
"Seems like its time to call it a night."
"For you maybe," said the Witch. A knife flashed in her grip, but before any one could make a move, a woman dropped from above, sealing the witch's fate with a swift kick to the head.
"Don't look too surprised," said Phantom Lady. Ted recognized her from half a dozen posters of her and the Freedom Fighters.
"Your voice…"
"What's the matter? Do I sound familiar?"
"Sandra?" said Ted.
"Long time, no see cousin. But, we can talk more elsewhere. After getting our friend wrapped up, of course."
Starman did just that, then brought Sandra to the roof of the public library, one of his favorite spots in Opal City.
"If this is how you get to see Opal all the time, I'm jealous," said Sandra. She had removed her mask. Ted followed suit.
"I was worried you were dead. We all have been."
Sandra held up her hands defensively. "I haven't been in a position to change that. All I can say is that I'm sorry."
He was mad, but there was also relief riding along with it. Along with a current of melancholy. It was his cousin, but she looked older. Tired. A woman touched by war.
"You're the Phantom Lady?"
"It's a long story. I tell you it, you tell me all about this Starman endeavor."
Sandra explained how she ended up stuck in France, in possession of the blacklight projector and somehow in charge of a group of superheroes. Ted could tell she was selectively omitting what he imagined were the more macabre components of the tale, but even so, it was a harrowing story. One that made his journey to becoming Starman appear tame by comparison.
"I nearly wrote you a letter once I first started hearing and seeing Starman. I knew it was you."
"How?"
Sandra chuckled. "You use that makeup and you stay out of most photos and all that, but come on. That costume barely covers your face. I'm amazed your parents don't know. Or Doris."
"They don't." Unless Doris has been keeping quiet.
She asked more about the JSA and the All-Star Squadron, curious as to the state of life at home. He caught her up with that and more.
"As Ted, I've been working on a defense system for the city. He pointed out an array of mirrors on a nearby building. "Those focus moonlight to act as a system of organic, fast-acting spotlights. You can spot incoming planes from anywhere in the city."
"Always the clever one, Ted. No different now."
"You still haven't told me why you're back. Or if you're going to visit your family. Your parents have been having conniptions since you vanished."
The smile slunk away from Sandra's face.
"I'll see them. Later, when it's nearly time for me to go back. Can't have them trying to track me down the entire time I'm here."
"You're not staying?" His stomach sank.
She shook her head slowly. "I'm here to report in, pass along some intelligence and get back out there." Sandra grabbed his arm gently. "Believe me Ted, if I thought the Freedom Fighters could do it without me I'd stay."
He wanted to argue. Convince her that going back was madness. But, he knew that same madness coursed through him, the kind of madness that made one don the mask.
She handed off a small bundle of letters. "Pass these on to your parents, would you? Give Doris all my love. Why you haven't married that woman yet is beyond me."
"I will," said Ted.
He embraced Sandra for what could be the last time. The luxury of certainty was no longer afforded to them.
May 14, 1942
"I'm used to fighting bigger guys, but this is ridiculous," shouted the Atom as he rode atop the shoulders of the villain known as Thor. The burly criminal continued to swipe at the pint-sized powerhouse with his hammer, but he was unable to connect. He was aided by the Flash, Mister Terrific and the hero Wildcat, who pummeled the muscular villain from all sides, keeping him off balance.
Wesley watched the brawl through fading double vision, a gift from an errant swipe by Thor. He felt someone grab his arm and lift him up.
"Come on boss, we gotta move," yelled Sandy.
His young partner was correct, as the building overlooking them bowed and fell towards the fight, its supports wrecked by Thor. Sandman and Sandy sprinted away from it.
"Say you," shouted Johnny Thunder. "Put that building back on its foundations."
The stream of pink lightning obeyed his command, halting the buildings fall, reattaching it bit by bit. It wasn't the only one in danger of collapse, meaning Johnny and the Thunderbolt would have their hands full for a while. Behind Thor and his assailants, Sandman could see Black Canary and Hourman fighting Thorn, who unleashed a hail of her titular projectile upon them.
"Duck," said Sandy. Mister Terrific came flying over the pair, colliding with Johnny Thunder.
Thor was beginning to regain the upper hand, having finally pulled the Atom off of his back. Wildcat danced around the man, unloading punch after punch into his sides and chin, but it was barely slowing the villain.
"Things ain't looking too bright, Sandman," said Sandy.
Sandman didn't answer, remaining crouched as he unloaded his sleep gun. Reaching behind his trench coat, he found the bandolier strap with his spares, running his fingers down the row until he felt the one he was looking for. He popped it in his gun, before passing two cartridges off to Sandy.
"We've fought Thor before."
"He wasn't this tough a customer last time."
"Tougher or not, we know exactly how to put him to sleep."
The ground rumbled below them as Thor smashed it with his hammer, sending Wildcat tumbling away. The shockwave careened far enough out that even Flash got tripped up in it.
Sandy gave a nod to Wesley as the two charged Thor from each side.
"What's this? The men of sand dare to face the mighty Thor? One swipe of Mjolnir will be enough to remind you of your place."
Sandman slid below the hunk of hammer, which caught his hat. He had barely recovered when a meaty hand seized his torso. He was hefted up to be face to face with the craggy face and red beard of his foe.
"You bested me once with your trickery. But, Thor cannot be contained forever."
Wesley grunted as the man's grip contracted. He struggled to hold onto his sleep gun.
"Let those who challenge Thor know that this is thy end," said the villain.
Had Thor not been so focused on his dire proclamations, he may have noticed Sandy making his way up a nearby hunk of rubble. Sandy leapt from his perch onto Thor's back. The man roared in surprise, too late to stop as Sandy pressed the cartridges to his head and pulled the trigger. Twin plumes of green and purple smoke swallowed Thor's head.
Sandman was released, as the brute hacked and shuddered. Sandy fell from his back, landing clumsily.
"Tis…tis not enough," said Thor, swing his hammer wildly. "I shall not fall to thee."
Sandman took a couple steps till he was right up against the villain, his sleep gun pressed to Thor's cheek.
"I welcome you to the dark dream," said Sandman. An eruption of blue gas consumed Thor. A special concoction he had whipped up with help from Rex Tyler. The joys of collaboration.
Sandman and Sandy fell back from the increasingly desperate struggle of the villain. His movements took on a lethargic quality, weighed down by the call to slumber.
"I don't know if that was enough," said Sandy.
"Let me help him along the way," said Wildcat.
The feline hero dashed towards Thor, avoiding one final errant strike, before he landed a truly crushing uppercut. Any chance of Thor remaining upright came crashing down, along with his body. Across the way, Black Canary and Hourman had Thorn down and out.
"Say you. Restrain Thor and Thorn. Thorn and Thor," said Johnny.
The heroes reconvened after the cleanup. Black Canary and Wildcat seemed like old friends catching up.
"You given any more thought to my past offer?" said Dinah.
Wildcat shrugged. "I'd say no, but you keep asking. Might be easier if I just go along with it at this point."
"You mean what I think you do?" said Atom.
Dinah nodded.
"He was a hell of a help here," said Hourman.
"I'd vouch for him," said the Flash.
"No objections here," said Sandman.
"I guess if Canary likes him," grumbled Atom.
"Well, I'll be," said Wildcat. "Who figured I could be a team player?"
"Welcome aboard," shouted Johnny and the Thunderbolt.
May 21, 1942
Henry King's current stay in prison was different. They had learned from their mistakes. A device rested upon his head at all times, one that silenced his power. He complained that it was painful too, a drain on his being, but those fell on deaf ears. It was better than the solitary chamber, where he would dream into nothing.
Today was a rare break in the monotony. A visitor. He had once been assured that his section of the prison no longer received those. Yet, here he was, sat down at a bench across from a slender woman with short brown hair. He had never seen her before.
"Henry? Or do you prefer Brainwave?" said the woman.
"Henry is fine. Who are you?"
"I'm an admirer of your work. Or I was I should say."
How Henry wished he could reach into her mind, peel back what she meant. To have to navigate through words alone was so crude. So lacking.
"Was? What changed?"
"You betrayed me."
The woman's form flickered. Behind her face, Henry saw the features of the Wizard, his blood red eyes.
"Ah, ah," said the Wizard. "The guards won't believe you, seeing as they're under my spell. You're not the only one good with illusions, Henry."
"Fitting you've come for your vengeance when I'm so humbled."
"Henry, I'm hurt by that. I wasn't lying about being an admirer. It's why I recruited you that first time. Why, I think a part of me is merely jealous that you managed to betray me first. It's in our nature, isn't it?"
"Your iteration failed. The fall of the Justice Society required a superior intellect."
"Which ended with you in here."
"A failure of my underlings. The next iteration will be successful."
"There's that rampant ambition that I admire. It's why I'm here Henry."
Wizard's face grew more devilish, the shadows starker, the eyes deeper.
"I'm going to tell you about how I'm going to destroy the Justice Society. The All-Star Squadron. The American experiment. All in one."
Henry's face must have betrayed his puzzlement.
"You may wonder why I'm telling you all this." Wizard leaned right up to his face. "I'm offering you a part in this grand design. But, only if you can keep quiet. Think of how easily I got in here. Think of how easily I can reach you Henry."
"I understand."
"Excellent. Now, listen closely. I detest repeating myself."