by Nancy Holder
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Book I: Amazon
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Book II: Warrior
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Book III: Wonder Woman
18
19
20
21
Epilogue
About the Author
WONDER WOMAN
WONDER WOMAN
DIRECTED BY PATTY JENKINS
STORY BY ZACK SNYDER & ALLAN HEINBERG AND
JASON FUCHS
SCREENPLAY BY ALLAN HEINBERG
BASED ON THE CHARACTER CREATED BY
WILLIAM MOULTON MARSTON
NOVELIZATION BY NANCY HOLDER
TITAN BOOKS
Wonder Woman: The Official Movie Novelization
Print edition ISBN: 9781785653780
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785653797
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: June 2017
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2017 by DC Comics. Wonder Woman and all related characters and elements are trademarks of and © DC Comics and Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
WB SHIELD: ™ & © Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. (s17).
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
A shimmering blue planet hangs in space.
On it lives a true hero of the people.
She is a legend, feared by some, beloved by others.
It is her sacred duty to defend the world.
“The bravest are surely those who have the
clearest vision of what is before them, glory
and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding,
go out to meet it.”
—Thucydides (460 BC–395 BC)
“I used to want to save the world. This beautiful place. But I knew so little then. It is a land of beauty and wonder, worth cherishing in every way. But the closer you get, the more you see the great darkness simmering within. And mankind?
Mankind is another story altogether.
What one does when faced with the truth is more difficult than you think.
I learned this the hard way a long, long time ago. And now, I will never be the same.”
—Diana, Princess of
Themyscira
BOOK I
AMAZON
“If you want peace, prepare for war.”
—Publius Flavis Vegetius Renatus
(4th century)
1
Paris, France
The Present
It was a crisp Paris morning, a breeze off the Seine river offering freshly baked croissants and coffee, the thrumming buzz and blare of traffic promising a busy day. Draped in a red coat straight out of Paris Vogue, her dark hair wrapped in a sleek chignon, Diana Prince turned briskly down Paris’s Cour Napoléon, her high heels clicking on the ribbed pavement. To her left was the elegant Café Marly, to the right the I.M. Pei glass and metal pyramid that adorned the entry courtyard of the famous Louvre Museum, home of, among other treasures, the Mona Lisa. In black berets, bullet-proof vests, and camouflage fatigues, armed soldiers patrolled. Their FAMAS assault rifles seemed jarringly out of place against the backdrop of an icon of modern art and the ornate sixteenth-century palace.
The presence of military security to thwart terrorist threats was a recent development, but it was not the first time armed soldiers had patrolled the square. During World War II, the City of Light had fallen under the boots of Nazi invaders, and the irreplaceable treasures of one of the world’s greatest museums had been looted and shipped back to Germany.
The world still had much to learn about what was truly valuable. Nothing was more precious than life. But that simple concept seemed difficult to grasp.
Out of Diana’s range of vision, an armored delivery truck marked Wayne Enterprises pulled up to the museum entrance. Uniformed officers carefully unloaded a small black security case, also stamped with the logo of the Gotham-based international conglomerate owned by a man who, like Diana, led a double life.
After showing her ID badge to the guard at the main entrance, she put her purse and briefcase on the conveyor belt to be scanned. There was no line at the checkpoint. The museum would not open to the public for another two hours. As he did every day, the guard tried to flirt with her as he handed her back her belongings. She knew he thought she was a native Parisienne, which was probably the greatest compliment he as a Parisian could offer. He would be astonished if he knew how many languages she spoke fluently. As always, she smiled, politely nodded her thanks, and quickly moved on.
The cleaning staff had done their work the night before: the museum was spotless and all but deserted. Diana walked a familiar path over gleaming marble floors, through the sequence of empty adjoining salons. The scale of the rooms—particularly the ceiling height—was most impressive, as had been intended. Renaissance palaces such as this were designed to instill awe and to reflect the might of the occupants. With the monarchs long gone, the great Musée now reflected the power and sensibilities of the French people.
To reach her office she had to pass through the Richelieu Wing and the Department of Near Eastern Antiquities. On either side of the aisle, glass-cased, spotlighted Assyrian bas-reliefs revealed fragments of the history of a three-thousand-year-old civilization: its great cultural accomplishments, but also the pitched battles it had won, the taking of prisoners, mass deportations of conquered peoples, and the fall of competing empires.
The frosted glass of her office door was emblazoned in gold letters: DIANA PRINCE, CURATOR, DEPARTMENT OF ANTIQUITIES. The interior space on the other side was filled by a desk and display cases of the early Greek artifacts she was in the process of cataloguing. Ancient weapons of war lined the shelves: axes, bows and arrows, and several versions of the short sword called xiphos—customarily only drawn after a warrior’s spear broke. There were daggers, slings for stones and lead pellets, body armor, leather-covered wooden shields, and metal helmets of both the Chalcidian—foot soldier—and Boeotian—cavalry—varieties. As it happened, every ancient piece in the collection was similar to something she had either wielded herself, or had seen in the armory on Themyscira. Gifts from the Gods, as her mother had called them.
She had no more than set her purse down beside the desk when a soft knock sounded on the doorjamb. A uniformed deliveryman held out a valise. When she saw the logo on the side it gave her pause; the case was not from another museum or gallery, but Wayne E
nterprises. Bruce Wayne. They had crossed paths recently, to put it mildly. In fact, together with a third friend of justice, they had put an end to Doomsday. Literally.
She signed for the delivery, then waited until she was alone before opening the lid of the case.
And there it was. Nestled in protective packing was a sepia-toned daguerreotype photograph of a handful of five people posed on a pile of broken bricks at the edge of a muddy village square. In that moment, she stood once again amid the rubble left by a German artillery barrage, shield and sword in hand, wreathed in the caustic perfume of wet, charred wood and burned cordite. A moment of triumph frozen in time, shared by the four unsmiling, heavily armed men who bracketed her. Though the monochrome photo couldn’t show it, the eyes of the man standing to her right had been intensely blue, as blue as the sea that surrounded Themyscira, the island of her birth. Feelings of tenderness and pride and loss suddenly welled up, hitting her hard. The five of them had had to stand very still for the photographer’s camera—hence their unsmiling faces. But they had been so happy then, in that moment of victory and celebration in the midst of chaos. That sweet, lost moment; those dear, lost warriors.
Though she had made peace with mortality: Steve Trevor, dearest of all.
She picked up the enclosed note. It was unsigned, but she recognized the handwriting. Bruce Wayne’s.
“I found the original. Maybe one day you’ll tell me your story.”
Surrounded by history, once more Diana took in the smudged faces of heroes long dead, and her own face, unchanged despite the passing of so many years. A century. The image captured more than just an instant in time. It held an elemental kernel of truth: how Wonder Woman came to be.
2
The Island of Themyscira
In the Gods’ Own Time
“Diana!” Mnemosyne cried, her head popping up from the bushes like a dormouse. “Come back here!”
Busted! Diana, tiny Princess of Themyscira, poured on more speed as she dashed away from the scene of the crime. Surely Mnemosyne had to know that there were other things to do on a day like this than sit in a room and learn about the Peloponnesian War. Who needed to learn about human beings? She had never even met one in her entire life—eight years, by mortal count—and doubted she ever would.
In a dress of the palest gold and a tan leather decorative harness in the Amazonian style, with her silver and gold arm guards, Diana beat her retreat. As she capered along a path of white stone, the sea sparkled, begging to be swum in. The breeze demanded a kite. The tower spires of swirling rock looped with hanging vines, the terraces of grapes and olives, and sturdy, slender footbridges crossing waterfalls and canyons insisted that she saddle her pony and explore the vast paradise that was her home.
She burst into the busy square where Amazons were buying and selling a cornucopia of goods: fragrant cheese, olive oil, delicious bread; dried fish and game; bracelets, pottery, and weapons. Amazons loved their weapons. Banners flapped; chickens clucked. Everyone was happy to see her, calling out “Good morning, Diana!” “Hello, Princess!”
She chugged along merrily, aware that her escape attempt was really just a game. For Diana to win, Mnemosyne had to decide it was just too much trouble to catch her rebellious student and that she’d try again tomorrow. After all, that had worked before.
Mnemosyne was not Diana’s first tutor.
The marketplace left in the dust, she trotted along a ledge and to her delight, realized she’d reached the Amazon training ground. The natural amphitheater—a grassy field bordered on three sides by exposed boulders and shelves of gray rock, and on the fourth by a cliff opening onto the wide blue sea—was filled with clashing bodies, lithe and powerful. In the center, overseeing the organized chaos, strode the Amazons’ great general, Antiope—Diana’s aunt. Antiope wore her tiara and armor with regal bearing and with her long blond hair, now braided, she looked like Diana’s mother the Queen, except that Diana had never seen her mother in battle.
A dozen different struggles played out simultaneously, some one on one, others more lopsided—two, three, five on one. The weapons were ancient, powered by muscle, sinew, and bone. Thrilled, Diana shadowed their movements as swords clanged and bō staves thwacked. Hair flying, two figures on horseback charged each other across the rock-strewn meadow, wielding spears and shields. They wore metal breastplates, leather shoulder guards, and the short ornamental leather fringe at their waists that the Greeks called pteruges. They flung themselves into the air, twirling and spiraling twenty, thirty, a hundred feet, arching and contorting as they fell fearlessly back to earth. Leaping off their horses, flinging themselves from the pommel, they grabbed up swords off the ground, javelins; an amphora met its end with the fierce toss of spear and discharged its load of dirt.
Mighty Artemis stood on a revolving wooden platform, taking on all comers. The dark-skinned Amazon rippled with muscles as she parried and thrusted with her sword. Oh, to be like Artemis!
All the combatants on the field were female and in the bursting prime of their lives. They hacked and slashed, putting their mighty force into their moves, but there was no spilled blood or bodies sprawled on the grass. These Amazons had sparred against each other for so long that they could go all out without injuring each other—at least, not permanently. They were relentless and unyielding. Proud, noble, and strong.
Now this was something worth learning. To fight among them as a sister in arms. To stand unopposed on the field of combat. Once she could fight she would be all grown up, a woman and a true Amazon, done with sitting still in classrooms. The Spartans defeated the Greeks in the Peloponnesian War. Boom. Done.
Look out! she silently called to an Amazon, as her attacker leaped from her horse with her sword held high. But the great warrior easily deflected the overhead swing of her assailant’s blade. Her foe executed a forward roll to put distance between herself and her quarry, moving with the grace of a cheetah.
Diana shadowed each movement, punching, kicking, blowing air from her rosy cheeks, still chubby with the last traces of baby fat. Oh, how she wanted to be swept up in the middle of the whirlwind, to spin and grunt and shout and be a champion.
On the far side of the meadow, a pair of riders towed a target on wheels down a narrow track. One hundred yards away, a line of archers let arrows fly, one by one. The dark arrows disappeared into the clear sky and reappeared as they fell in a perfect arc to strike the rapidly moving straw target. The flight of arrows was followed by a rain of javelins as the moving target reversed direction. They were much easier to follow with the naked eye and when they slammed into and through the target, they rocked it on its wheels and sent up a puff of dust.
Then Diana turned her attention to the armored warriors exercising their close-combat fighting skills. Now her Aunt Antiope keenly observed the fiery warrior Menalippe as she demolished her challenger’s strategic attack. The general’s muscles were like steel, her arms wrapped in leather, and boots up to her thighs. Her distinctive tiara, an inverted triangle decorated with a sunburst banded in different kinds of metals, caught the light.
Not twenty feet away, Artemis, one of the most skilled of all the Amazon warriors, was locked in combat with Eliana. Their swords clashed, ringing through the air. Sparks flew. Their boots kicked up divots of grass. As the fighters circled, each was looking for a weakness, a point of attack. When Artemis found it, things happened very quickly. And decisively. If Diana had blinked, she would have missed it. First a feint that drew her opponent forward, then a backspin that put her behind Eliana’s hip and shield hand.
Frozen for a split-second, Eliana couldn’t bring sword or shield across her body to defend. She had to pivot to do that. As Eliana’s right foot left the ground, Artemis was already rearing back, drawing her knee to her chest, and with the sole of her foot kicked her square in the behind. Because Eliana was off balance it wouldn’t have taken much of a kick to send her to the ground, but Artemis didn’t hold back an ounce of her power, and the
impact sent the other woman flying through the air, landing and skidding on her face and hands over the grass. In the process, she lost her sword and some of her dignity.
Antiope ticked her gaze over to Diana. Maybe she tried to narrow her eyes in disapproval, but Diana saw the smile behind her why aren’t you with Mnemosyne look. She shot the general an answering look that said, Because I’m ready to fight. Let me try!
“Diana! I see you!” her tutor shouted at her back.
Uh-oh. Diana tamped down a giggle and took off again. Though the tutor was catching up, this was a legendary foot race indeed. Reveling in the thrill of the chase, she ran on, charging up a hill, happy as a baboon. Wily Mnemosyme caught sight of her and Diana coursed down another walkway, maybe a little too fast, and then she launched herself toward another path below. She imagined herself soaring through the air just like the warriors—except that the pathway was just a little bit farther down than she’d assumed—
My worst idea. Maybe my last!
Then something caught her by the arm and with a gentle upward jerk, stopped her fall.
She hung suspended by her mother’s hand, caught and held as if she weighed nothing. Those strong fingers had plaited her hair only this morning. A gleaming gauntlet, symbol of the wearer’s power. Diana gazed up at her mother, who sat on horseback, magnificent and queenly. Hippolyta’s long unbound sun-streaked hair was held in place by her tiara, and her muscular arms were wrapped in leather. She was every inch a warrior. And at the moment, a mother who had caught her daughter playing hooky.
As innocently as she could, Diana smiled up at her sweetly and said, “Hello, Mother. How are you today?”