Author's Note: Here is an early Christmas present for you all. This has been a story that's been waiting in the wings for a long time, pretty much given life to because of Fallen Olympus. Still, it took time to iron out a lot of the details, but hopefully it was worth the wait. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: We do not own Justice League

The Action that Caused the Reaction

Even had there been sunlight, the dark storm clouds would have made seeing it difficult. Thunder rumbled throughout the skies and rain fell in a torrential downpour. In the distance, flashes of lightning flared throughout the night, leaving the ominous rumblings in their wake.

The rain was the least of anyone's worries. It was not on land that the precipitation fell on, but the saltwater of the Atlantic Ocean. Waves swelled under the storm's domain, water dark as the storm above, and merciless to anyone or anything caught among them.

A ship bobbed and weaved among these waves, water washing onto its deck mercilessly and leaving it drenched. The deck was not made of wood, but metal, and it easily bore the storm's wroth. There was no mast on it to be found, and so there were no sails to hang from it as a result. A structure that resembled a ship's helm jutted up into the rainy night, monolithic and unyielding.

The ocean hid much of the ship. If one were to look beneath the waves, they would find the hull, one long stretch of metal that wrapped around itself, rudders placed specifically to allow for not only diving, but underwater exploration. In other words, this was not a mere ship but a submarine.

It was privately owned and owed no allegiance to any sovereign country. By design, it was made for small crews as the ones who owned it preferred to keep all it salvaged to themselves.

There was no true fear that this sub would capsize. When the majority of it was underwater, it would take much effort from the elements to do anything of the sort. If necessary, it would dive and wait out the storm where only the current would have any power over it. This night, because of the cover of the storm, the small crew felt comfortable enough to breach the surface.

With the hold filled with the spoils of the day, the two men who acted as the crew were treating themselves to some supper. Afterwards, there would be a check to make sure that their seafaring vessel was in tiptop condition. After that, leisure time was spent honing the sharpness of the weapons they had collected over time. Lights out would follow, though it was typical for one or the other to remain awake, on watch in case a problem arise.

There would be a problem this night. It would not come from any malfunction, or the storm outside it winning over the sub. In fact, the form this problem would take was one of the last possibilities either man would have considered.

With the rolling waves crashing against and over the submarine's deck, the chaotic turmoil that ravaged the ocean, and darkness only interrupted with flashes of lightning, it would be impossible to catch sight of a small object that emerged out of the waters. A series of bars scaled upwards against the submersible's hull, forming a ladder, and it was on one of these rungs that a pale-skinned hand latched onto.

The hand had emerged from the water unbothered by the storm. It gripped the ladder rung without being hindered by the slickness. Its grip tightened as the arm it was attached to snaked out behind it, pulling on the body that it belonged to. Short hair was drenched, sticking to the scalp and head. Another arm reached out from the ocean and grasped onto a rung higher than the one the first hand held onto.

This man climbed out of the ocean, using the ladder rungs to reach the sub's deck. Having once been immersed in the saltwater, his body showed no signs of being waterlogged. Skin was not wrinkling at the extremities. The body did not shiver from the chill both in air and in water. The rain seemed not to sap at his vitality.

Arms and torso were bare, exposing a muscular build. Green tights that appeared dark encased his lower body, but feet remained bare. By all accounts, when he started taking a step, he should have been slipping on the slick deck, falling onto the metal surface or off of the sub and back into the wrothing ocean. This did not happen, his strides sure as he began his approach to the sub's helm.

Bare fee slapped against collected water that was puddling on the deck. The helm towered before him, dark and foreboding. Under cover of the rain, details were hard to make out, but the closer this man became, the more he was able to make out a door. Inlaid in the metal, a handle was all that stuck out. Gripping it, the man turned it, taking a chance that it was unlocked.

Fortune was in his favor. The handle turned, and he pulled the door open. Within was a small chamber and it was in here that he exited the storm. Water dripped from his body, droplets splattering on the floor. There was a hatch in the center of the chamber, and the man bent down to get closer.

Semi-spherical, on its top was a handle. Taking it, the man raised it up until it locked into place and then he began to rotate it. Around and around he spun it, continuing the motions until the handle refused to move any further. Grasping onto the edge of the hatch, the man pulled up and opened it, revealing a vertical path under it.

Ladder rungs lined the wall, and with care, the man climbed down them. There had been no fear of slipping out in the storm, but now, care needed to be taken. A slip, and that would bring attention. Reaching the floor below, the man waited, listening for any sounds. He heard nothing, but that did not mean he was safe.

He was at the end of a hallway, one that appeared clear and empty. With caution, he took a step forward, feeling the chill of the metal floor running through his foot. No noticeable sound was emitted from the wet skin, and so he took one more step, and then another.

Compared to the stormy outside, the air in here was more stale. The people who kept this sub's upkeep were not doing well with airing it out. There was a dull noise, one that could only come from the ocean outside pressing against the hull, a constant pressure regardless of depth. He had familiarity with it, and so was not alarmed or concerned. Manmade light that was a fraction of the sun's intensity lit up the innards of this vessel, casting shadows in corners which drew the man's attention.

Those shadows could be used to hide in for ambush purposes. If any member of the crew was aware of his presence, they could use such shadows for camouflage. Yet, the acoustics of this place would have exposed them; any sound he would be able to pick up from sharp hearing, breathing being a dead giveaway. Again, nothing, and so he advanced

After several feet, he paused, finally hearing the sounds of life. Voices muted and obscured by walls, the first sign of the crew. The voices were sporadic, no indication of a true conversation being had. The man could speculate, but no. As long as those voices remained muted, it was a sign that he had been able to enter the bowels of the sub undetected.

He needed to find the hold before it was too late.

To the end of this hallway, check any doors that were opened or any branching hallway first. Light that peered through an intersecting hallway brought him up short. A voice became more audible, but it did not increase in volume, meaning whoever was speaking was not moving. In his mind, the man considered that perhaps that was not a hallway, but the access to a room. A break room? A living room? A room for the crew to relax in? Perhaps there was a kitchen in there so there may be dining facilities.

If there was a door, then it was wide open. There would be no other reason for light to be spilling out. Taking a calming breath, the man moved to the other side of the hallway, hoping to use the shadows here, then he waited until he heard a voice speak up.

There was a different quality to this one, but he was able to recognize that the source came from a speaker. Compared to the other voices, it was not as hushed or quiet; instead, it was louder so as to be easily heard.

-had it not be for the intervention of several high profile heroes, Gotham City would have suffered a second Great Gotham Fire. Witnesses claimed to have seen the likes of Metropolis' Blue Angel, also known as Superman, Central City's Scarlet Speedster, the Flash, and Wonder Woman of Gateway City. Citizens of Gotham express their appreciation of these heroes' efforts to avert a second catastrophe. Breaking news out of Gotham City, the man known as the Joker is in police custody, awaiting transport to a more secure location until he can be charged for the numerous crimes he is alleged to have perpetrator, acts such as the massacre at Gotham City City Hall, and the original Great Gotham Fire. The Joker has not been seen for three years-

Talking meant that one was focused on what they were saying, and the other person would be focused on listening. A broadcast meant hearing would be occupied with it, along with the mind itself. This would hopefully be enough that if he moved quickly, he would go unnoticed. It would be bad luck if him darting past that opening would draw the slightest of attention. This, he did not want.

If he could do what he needed to do without conflict or bloodshed, all the better.

He moved, keeping to his toes and the metatarsal region of his feet to try and minimize noise, and hurried further down the hallway. Pausing, he waited and listened, feeling slight relief when he continued to hear a distorted human voice speaking, soon followed by commentary from another human with no signs of it growing louder. Down the rest of the hallway he went until reaching another hatch door.

The handle here was circular and took some strength to turn. He did this slowly until he was able to push the hatch in and continue on his quest through the sub. Now, the man found himself in a larger room, one where a small submersible hung suspended over a square-shaped opening that was currently closed. A button or switch would open these horizontal doors and allow access to the ocean outside. It was closed for obvious reasons.

However, there were crates placed around this room, large, wooden, and after further investigation, they could be opened. The man narrowed his green eyes, his gaze becoming hard. He had his suspicions on what these crates contained, and he would need to look through as many as it took to find what he was looking for.

Grasping the top of the first crate he reached, with strength that his body did not show, he easily hefted it up and slowly placed it down, the crate lid leaning against the crate. Next, the man began searching through the contents and immediately ruled this crate out. Within this one, spare parts for replacing worn out rivets, screws, nuts, as well as extra wiring and metal panels resided. These were more than likely used to maintain the submersible.

The next few crates followed this pattern. Supplies for maintaining the tools of the trade this sub's crew engaged in. The more the man checked, the more he began to doubt that he would find what he was looking for.

He was sure, though. This ship possessed that which did not belong to it. You could not call them salvagers, for they did not salvage that which had belonged to the surface. Pillagers was more like it, desecrators another. Those on land might even call them pirates. These men had entered a place they did not have permission to enter, and they plundered all they could before leaving.

He was reclaiming that which did not belong to them. Restoration, not vengeance.

It occurred to him at some point to try a different part of this room. Perhaps the spoils of their plundering was kept apart so that it was not mixed up with everything else. It made sense; some items held more importance in regard to repair, and why would you not keep those in close proximity?

Along a wall, there were three crates, one stacked on top of one with a third placed next to the stacked pair. He started with the one that was not stacked, and when he began to shift through the contents of it, finally he hit pay dirt.

In one hand, he withdrew an armored gauntlet, gold in color and substance with patterns decorating it that would not be recognized in any museum on the planet. Deeper still, a seal that possessed iconography that would appear alien to an archaeologist. A scepter with a large jade clasped in its head. A royal dagger with rubies of stunning clarity and an inverted V in the pommel. A medallion that acted as a locket, its contents locked within. Such treasures were stored in here.

Should one be watching the man, his next action might appear awkward. He slipped a hand into his tight-fitting pants and then withdrew a large sack. It had been kept there to keep it as dry as possible from the ocean, and while it was damp, it did not drip water. That kind of noise risked drawing attention.

One by one, he retrieved each artifact, stuffing them into the sack. He reviewed the knowledge of what was taken, keeping track of the small inventory he was amassing. Once this crate was exhausted, he turned his attention to the stacked crates. The top one would need to be lowered so that he could continue his thorough search.

As he began to reach for it, the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. Stopping, the man slowly turned his gaze, feeling eyes watching him. He was not wrong. From a second doorway, one on the same side of the room that he had entered from but opposite that particular door, there stood a member of the crew.

Loose clothing, feet in moccasins, skin as dark as ebony, and a cold glare focused on the pale-skinned man. Wrinkles in the forehead and around the eyes indicated that the man was decades old, maybe middle-aged, heading into his fifties if he was not already. The hair line was receding, and what hair remained was kept short. From what could be seen of the arms, thin, wiry muscle tensed much like that of a predator's.

The man eyed the crewman, attention directed towards a long knife, serrated edged, that was held in one of the dark-skinned hands. Some might call that a fish knife, but this was the kind used to gut the catch of the day and its use could be used on other animals.

Him, for example.

The man stepped away from the crates, and the crewman took a step further into the room. Feet, whether they were clothed or not, made no sound. The tension in the air continued to mount, and it was obvious to the stowaway that the dark-skinned man had no intention of asking questions or demanding answers.

Hoping to quell the simmering rage in the crewman, the pale-skinned man held his hands up, as if cautioning against violence. One of his bare feet ran into the sack that now rested on the floor and this drew the crewman's attention.

Down, then whipping back up, it was clear to see that the pale-skinned intruder's fate was sealed.

The seconds from tense standoff to fighting were always short. The crewman lunged and slashed with his serrated knife. The pale-skinned man jerked back to avoid it, nearly tripping on his filled sack. The loss of balance had the returning slash cutting into his skin, a long thin line that threatened to start bleeding in the blade's wake.

The crewman was fast, and so he would need to be just as fast. As the knife slashed at him again, he blocked it by swinging his own arm up to knock aside the crewman's. The knife switched from a blocked slash to a stabbing thrust. Another block, and he continued to backpedal.

Breathes were short, eyes with reduced pupils never left the knife from when the dim lighting gleamed off of its metal form. Several more thrusts were thrown at him and the pale-skinned intruder eyed each one, studying the speed and power behind each attack. When he felt confident enough, he brought both of his hands up to clamp down on the crewman's wrist. Using the momentum behind the thrust, instead of trying to stop it, he instead changed its direction so that the blade ended up running into the hull of the submersible.

The maneuver loosened the crewman's grip on his weapon, and a twist that hyperextended the wrist helped the half-naked man to disarm his adversary, sending the knife to go clattering against the floor.

Because he was watching the weapon bounce against the floor, he did not see the fist until he was struck in the face. It gave a shock to the system, but did not stun him. In response, he let go of the crewman's wrist with one of his hands, and then he used it to catch the second punch thrown at him. His fingers latched onto the fist, holding it tightly while the crewman tried to pull away.

Twisting his pale wrist, the short-haired man reared his head back then threw it forward, headbutting the crewman. Releasing his grip on the man's arms, he watched as the crewman fell back onto the floor, a hand pressed against his head. His face hard, the pale-skinned man moved to make sure that the pillager was rendered unconscious, whether he already was or not.

A foot clad in a moccasin lashed out, getting him in the knee and shin, and sending what felt like a sharp string of electricity up and down his leg. It was the nerve that was down here, but it still caught him off guard. A hand went into his mouth to muffle the scream that almost slipped out.

The crewman scrambled to his feet so he could tackle the pale-skinned man. A grunt slipped out as his feet slid against the metal floor, but he did not fall back as he pushed against the crewman.

Bringing an arm back, he rammed a fist into the crewman's side once, then a second time. The crewman gave a grunt each time, then pushed back against him. When the man did not budge this time, the crewman answered with a punch to his ribs, moccasined feet moving about to try and find purchase. The grapple continued until the man exerted himself, pushing the crewman back enough to deck him.

Down to the floor did the crewman fall, but the intruding stowaway caught him before he could crash onto it. They may be struggling now, but the attempt to keep his presence secret still ruled. There was no desire to alert anyone else to what was happening.

But there was a price for this. The crewman struck at his knee with an elbow and now his balance was compromised. Letting go of the crewman, he stumbled to a side and threw his arms out to catch himself against the submersible. The crewman, meanwhile, scrambled away, but not to escape. This dark-skinned man was going for his knife, and he snatched the weapon up by the time the pale-skinned man was able to stand back on his two feet.

Now armed, the crewman came back at him, not roaring or yelling. This man was a silent killer, preferring not to waste his breath. The slashing blade was relentless as its sharp edge hissed through the air. Further back into the hold was the pale-skinned man forced, keeping to evasion. He had not brought any weapons with himself, a mistake that he would not make again.

The plan to go undetected had not predicted being seen; to remain unnoticed was the key to it. Consider that an abject failure, then.

With his attention focused on the knife, it meant that his awareness of his surroundings was limited. Notice of this came about when he backed into a crate, its lid still on, and in his backward path. The crewman's eyes seemed to gleam as he gave another lunge, the knife stabbing down from above with both hands gripping the handle. The pale-skinned man's hands came up and caught the crewman's arms, the tip of the blade inches from his face.

Using his weight, the crewman leveraged himself against the stowaway, causing him to bend back against the crate. The large, wooden box only came up to his waist, so there was no support for his back which was arching over it. From within his throat, a groan rumbled as he tried to fight back against the man who would take his life.

This was no position to remain in, yet he was practically pinned where he was. He was not just pushing back now, but pushing up which meant gravity was on the crewman's side. This needed to change, and to change now.

His hands slid to the crewman's wrists, and his thumbs pressed into the space under the palms. The serrated knife swung away from him, the tip of the blade aimed more towards the crewman's torso. Bending a knee, he brought his leg up between the crewman's. Then, he allowed himself to fall back, his back coming against the top of the crate, and pulling the crewman with him. These actions caused the two of them to roll over the crate and then fall behind it where both of them were lost to sight.

The sounds of grunts and groans were the only indication that they were there, and one of the voices began to gurgle. Silence fell over the hold, no sign of life given.

Eventually, one of the two men stood up, his front covered in blood. The fair color of his skin was the only clue to which of the two of them he was. Shirtless, the crimson color of the biological liquid stained him, and while there was an urge to try to wipe it off, he did not do so.

The fight was over, and so was the crewman.

Moving around the crate, the now blood-drenched man returned to pick up his sack full of items and artifacts, choosing to forgo the rest of his search. Adrenaline kept his nerves rattled, and that was the reason why he was able to hear the approach of a second crewman.

This second man had the same ebony color as did the first, also wore loose clothing, but unlike the first one, this man carried a speargun. With one foot through the opened hatchway, he stared at the pale-skinned man with wide eyes. Whether it was shock or mounting anger, it was hard to say.

It didn't matter.

Gripping the sack, the pale-skinned man took off in a run, darting for the other door. A spear shot towards him and he ducked it. Through his entrance, he grabbed onto the opened door and pulled it closed. Not choosing to wait and lock it, he continued into a sprint, heading for the ladder rungs that would take him out of the sub.

The doorway that he had passed earlier, light still filtering through it was where he was intercepted. The second crewman rammed into him, slamming the fleeing man into the wall. A blistering snarl roared at him as he was struck again and again by the attacking crewman.

Grabbing the crewman by the front of his shirt, the pale-skinned man pulled his attacker to him while throwing his head forward, giving another headbutt. Releasing the shirt, he wrapped his hand around the back of the crewman's head then forced the limb to him. Pulling his shoulders back, he made room so that the crewman's head passed him and slammed into the metal wall of the sub.

As the crewman crumpled onto the floor, the escaping man made good on the chance, making it to the ladder rungs and climbing up them. The sack he carried swung around, hitting against him with each rung he climbed until he reached the hatch above. Pulling himself through it, he set the sack aside so that he could close the hatch, this time taking the time to turn the latch until it locked.

Emerging back into the storm and out of the submarine's helm, the rain began to wash the blood that stained his front. Sack now clenched in a death grip, the man began making his way to the edge of the deck and to the roiling waves lapping up onto it. Lightning flashed and thunder roared while the seafaring vessel rocked and bobbed.

Just as he reached the edge, the second crewman emerged from the sub's helm, a gash on his forehead where the skin had broke. The sight of this man drew the pale-skinned man's attention, and he regarded the dark-skinned man for a moment.

Another lightning bolt lanced through the sky, and the man jumped off the submarine and into the raging ocean. Cold water submerged him and his legs kicked as he swam downwards with a speed that was inhuman. He made distance between himself and the submerging ship, disappearing into the dark depths of the Atlantic.

As he passed the point where most people would need to either rise up to the surface for air or because the depths that he was swimming into were too pressured for the body to withstand, thin flaps of skin began to rise on either side of his neck. The skin rippled and closed, doing so rhythmically.

On any other animal, they could be described as gills.

This man who was clearly not a normal human continued his descent into the murky Atlantic depths, leaving behind the submarine that held two very normal humans. One no longer was of the living. The other would forsake his very humanity.

This stormy night was the beginning of something else. Something that would reverberate through the years. The ages. The eons.

The unsuspecting world would not learn this until it was too late.

Author's Note: So begins a new story. I hope it wasn't too hard to follow. Do feel free to give your thoughts and speculations. They do get the creative juices flowing after all. Until next time, have a Happy Holiday, Merry Christmas, you name it. And if you need a Christmas story, feel free to check out The Twelve Days of Retribution on my account. Plenty of yuletide celebrations in that one.