“Is that so?” Jason said sarcastically. “Why us?”
Good question, Donna thought. This sounded more like a job for the Justice League. I barely know Ray Palmer— nor does Jason.
“Though vast,” the Monitor explained, “my knowledge does not grant me a full understanding of the emotions that drive humans such as yourself. Ray Palmer has hidden himself from the universe for reasons of his own; it may well be that I shall need your insights to grasp his past and future behavior.” His enigmatic gaze swept over the humans. “Moreover, I have reason to believe that Palmer now dwells in a reality in which he does not truly belong, much as the pair of you now do.”
Donna nodded. She thought she understood ... sort of. “Set an anomaly to catch an anomaly, right?” She eyed the Monitor suspiciously. “Our meeting here today, Jason and I... That was no coincidence, was it?”
' He shook his head. “I planted the idea in Jason Todd’s mind to bring you together, and remind you of your unique status in the universe.”
“What?!” Jason lunged at the Monitor. “You stay out of my head, you comrowed freak!”
Moving at super-speed, Donna grabbed hold of Jason, restraining him. He fought furiously to break loose, but she was many times stronger than him. “Jason, please! This isn’t helping!” She didn’t think that Jason could actually harm the Monitor, but she wasn’t going to let him provoke the powerful being into retaliating. Despite his preternatural return from the dead, Jason was still just an ordinary human being with no superpowers. “Get control of yourself!”
“Like hell!” he snarled. His gun went off, missing the Monitor but tearing up the earth at the foot of Donna’s tombstone. Were there still remains in the buried coffin? If so, the bullet had probably just shattered her skull. “I’m tired of being treated like a pawn in these lunatics’ cosmic games! I’m not letting anybody mess with my life again!” The sheer fury in his voice startled Donna. Jason had always been kind of a hothead, but this was something else altogether. He’s changed, she realized, and not for the better. She deftly pried the gun from his fingers and tossed it onto a grassy sward nearby. And since when did Batman’s apprentices carry guns anyway?
She knew the Dark Knight would not approve. “Enough!” the Monitor said impatiently. “Such primitive histrionics only delay our quest. I am responsible for this universe, and / say we must get under way. Somewhere outside this reality, beyond even my own ability to detect, Ray Palmer awaits.”
Jason stopped squirming against Donna’s tight embrace, but she kept holding on to him just in case. “Uh-huh,” he retorted. “And how do you know the Atom’s not already dead?” ' '
“Because if he is,” the Monitor stated gravely, “then we all are.” "
34 AND COUNTING.
'* METROPOLIS.
Suicide Slum, in the bad part of Metropolis, reminded Jimmy of Gotham City after dark. Hookers and drug dealers loitered on the street comers. Winos camped out on the sidewalks. Broken bottles, fast-food wrappers, tabloid newspapers, and other refuse littered the pavement. Faded chalk outlines testified to the neighborhood’s notoriously high murder rate. Graffiti defaced the ugly metal shutters and bars that protected the district’s few legal enterprises after sundown. The occasional streetlights created meager oases of light amidst the nocturnal shadows. Dry, brown weeds sprouted up from cracks in the sidewalks, and greasy puddles filled the potholes. Empty storefronts sheltered squatters, crackheads, and who knew what else. Law-abiding folks knew better than to drop by at midnight.
Maybe this was a bad idea, Jimmy thought.
Surly-looking slum dwellers eyed the young reporter, who tried unsuccessfully to act like he belonged here. A platinum blonde hooker offered him an obscene suggestion. Avoiding eye contact, Jimmy nervously hid his expensive digital camera beneath his Windbreaker while he searched for the address scribbled on the anonymous note he had received at the Planet earlier today. The letter said that if Jimmy had questions about what had happened to Lightray, he would find them at 666 Hob’s Lane, deep in the diseased heart of this urban jungle. The address alone set off warning bells in Jimmy’s head.
Good thing I’m not the superstitious type.
666 Hob’s Lane turned out be an abandoned brown-stone that had obviously seen better days. The windows were either boarded up or broken, and yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the front entrance. The sooty brick walls looked like they hadn’t been washed since the Great Depression, and no lights shone inside the decrepit building. A notice posted on the front door declared the brownstone condemned.
No kidding, Jimmy thought.
A homeless man wearing a ratty scarf and an ill-fitting parka leaned against the stoop of the building. His greasy white beard looked like it hadn’t been shaved or combed since the Luthor administration. A crumpled paper bag held a bottle of fortified wine, which he sipped from religiously. “Hey, red,” the vagrant called out to Jimmy, noticing his interest in the dilapidated brownstone. Slurred words suggested that he had probably been drinking all day. “You probably don’t want to go in there.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Jimmy appreciated his warning. He hesitated on the sidewalk in front of the building. “I don’t.”
He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then walked up the steps past the concerned Good Samaritan. Ducking beneath the police tape, he gave the front door a tentative shove. A broken lock admitted him to the foyer of the building, which looked just as unappetizing as its grimy fagade and neighborhood. Dingy beige paint was peeling off the walls, and a couple pieces of rotting wooden furniture had been shoved into a comer. Scuff marks and cigarette bums marred the tile floor, which had been turned into a dumping ground for cigarette butts, empty syringes, rat droppings, and even less attractive waste. The entryway smelled like a wino’s lavatory. Rats scurried away at his approach, cobwebs shrouded die ancient crown molding, and a water stain on the ceiling resembled the outline of Bialya.
Jimmy’s nose wrinkled in disgust. First Arkham, now this, he thought crankily. How come I never get assigned to Paradise Island or Atlantis instead? Sheer revulsion briefly replaced trepidation ... until a phlegmy voice called his name.
“Olsen...”
“H-h-hello?” Jimmy stammered. The eerie voice seemed to be coming from upstairs. It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Who’s there?”
The speaker declined to identify himself. “Second floor. 'Three doors down.”
Jimmy peered dubiously at the murky staircase. Slivers of light from the street outside penetrated the boarded-up windows, providing just enough illumination to see by. Jimmy stalled at the base of the stairs, but he had come too far to turn back now. If nothing else, he thought, maybe I can find out why I’m stretching and super-speeding sometimes.
Those freaky incidents still baffled him. The first time it had happened, at Arkham, he'd thought that maybe he had just inhaled a dose of the Scarecrow’s fear gas or something, but that second incident, when he’d rescued those tourists at the speed of sound, had forced him to face the truth. For a few, fleeting moments, he had actually possessed superpowers, just like Plastic Man or the Flash.
But why?
Maybe the answer lay upstairs....
Hoping that he wasn’t walking into some sort of nefarious trap, he cautiously headed up the stairs. The rickety steps creaked beneath his feet; Jimmy nervously recalled the Condemned notice. A moldy runner reeked of mildew. He grabbed on to the banister, which was slick and greasy to the touch. A cockroach scuttled across his hand.
Gross!
Making it to the second floor in one piece, Jimmy spotted a glimmer of candlelight coming from a room on the right. The flickering amber glow led him to an ajar wooden door that was barely hanging on to its rusty hinges. He pushed the door open all the way, and an overpowering stench, like raw sewage mixed with rotten eggs, assailed his senses. “God,” he blurted, gagging at the fetid odor, “it stinks in here, like ..
“Slee
z.” The room’s sole inhabitant identified himself. An obese alien with mottled green skin, a hairless dome, and pointed ears squatted on a badly stained mattress across from the door. Filthy brown rags clothed his corpulent frartie. X-rated centerfolds plastered the walls of the creature’s squalid lair, alongside cheesecake shots of scantily clad super heroines like Starfire, Isis, and Big Barda. “Former servant, aide, and counsel to Darkseid, now a doomed exile on this deplorable mudball you call home.” Piggish yellow eyes glinted in the candlelight as Sleez leered at his visitor. His slimy face glistened like mucus. “Have you missed me, Olsen?”
“Definitely not.” Jimmy finally recognized the voice— and the smell. The loathsome creature before him had been banished from Apokolips because of his boundless depravity, which was really saying something; you had to be pretty perverted to be too vile for Darkseid to tolerate. “I thought you were dead.”
“Alas, no,” Sleez chortled. “By sheer force of will alone I have survived in the hope of someday taking revenge on Darkseid.”
“Your note said you had something to tell me about Lightray.” That this loathsome toad, who looked like Yo-da’s degenerate cousin, had cheated death while the noble New God had not struck Jimmy as cosmically unjust. “So just tell me what you know, and don’t try any of your skeezy mind-control games on me. I’m onto your tricks. I’ll signal Superman if you even look at me funny.”
Sleez gave Jimmy an appraising look. “Grown some hair on your freckled chest, have you?” He nodded, his lecherous face assuming a more serious expression as he got down to business. “Listen closely, Olsen. Darkseid can finally be destroyed if you—” His eyes widened in alarm. A note of panic sounded in his voice. “Oh no! He’s here!”
“Who?” Jimmy asked anxiously. A resounding boom shook the deserted brownstone to its foundations. A blinding yellow glow penetrated the exposed brickwork. The pinups on the wall burst into flame. Chunks of plaster rained down from the ceiling, which looked ready to cave in at any moment. A horrifying thought occurred to Jimmy 'ats a stony gray countenance surfaced from his memory. “Is it Darkseid?”
Sleez threw up his pudgy hands to shield himself from the falling debris. “No ... there’s no time.” Oily perspiration ran down his face. “Run away. . .. DO IT NOW!” Jimmy waffled, uncertain what to do. How badly do I want this story?
“Greetings, Sleez.”
A stentorian voice issued from above the disintegrating ceiling. Jimmy tried to make out the source of the voice, but the high-intensity glare was too bright. A sickening sense of deja vu came over him; this was Lightray’s final moments all over again. “No,” Jimmy protested to no one in particular. “Not again ...”
“No! Please leave me!” Sleez begged, but his frantic plea fell upon deaf ears. A sizzling blast of energy zapped the exiled demon in the chest. He let out a bloodcurdling scream of agony.
“So begins the end!” the mystery voice proclaimed. The end? Jimmy thought. The end of what?
Another thunderous boom shook the heavens and the golden glow faded, leaving Jimmy alone in the dingy apartment with Sleez’s charred and smoking corpse. Scorch marks surrounded the remains, while a gaping hole glowed dimly where Sleez’s black heart: had once resided. Just like with Lightray, Jimmy realized, his watery eyes still recovering from the blazing burst of light. He stared aghast at the slain god, feeling trapped inside some cosmic murder mystery beyond mortal comprehension. Sleez’s note had promised Jimmy answers, but his death left yet more questions behind. His heart pounding, Jimmy rested his weight against the nearest wall. His teeth ground in frustration.
“What the hell is going on here?”
GOTHAM CITY.
Madam® Xanadu was right, Mary realized. / shouldn’t 'Have come here.
Racing footsteps, accompanied by raucous hoots and whistles, pursued her as she ran frantically down a deserted city street. Sleeping office buildings offered the frightened girl no refuge. By day, this vicinity of Gotham was relatively clean and safe, but after dark the entire character of the neighborhood changed. The various businesses closed for the day, the office workers went home, and a more unsavory element took over the streets. Like the urban predators now chasing Mary by the lambent glow of the streetlights.
“Stop running, little girl!” a harsh voiced shouted at her. Heartless laughter came from the skinhead’s fellow gang members. There were at least three of them, all gaining on Mary as she tried to get away from the tattooed thugs. Her wide blue eyes searched for sanctuary, but all she saw were locked doors and darkened windows. Metal shutters protected the coffee shops, copying centers, and Greek diners that, by day, catered to the professional crowd. Breathing hard, Mary urged her tired legs to keep on running. A painful stitch stabbed her side with every step. If only she still had the speed of Mercury ... !
This was a mistake, Mary thought. She still wasn’t entirely sure why she had defied Madame Xanadu’s warning and caught a Greyhound bus to Gotham, just like she couldn’t really explain why she had felt compelled to venture down these lonely streets at night. All she knew was that she had to do something to get her powers back, and Gotham City was the only lead she had. What didti’t Madame Xanadu want me to find here? Mary had been willing to face any sort of mystical threat or ordeal to regain her powers, but now it looked like her reckless quest was about to come to a nasty end.
Her sneakers slapped against the pavement. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw the punks closing in on her. They whooped and hollered like a pack of hungry wolves, eager to get their hands on their defenseless prey. Madame Xanadu had been wrong about one thing at least; there was nothing at all magical about these creeps.
But that didn’t make them any less dangerous.
A four-story brownstone midway down the block caught her eye. Mary thought she spied a hint of movement somewhere within the silent edifice. She found herself strangely drawn to the building, much as she had felt driven to explore this neighborhood earlier. Desperate for any sort of shelter from the would-be muggers pursuing her, she sprinted up the front steps of the building. Her fists pounded against a pair of heavy wooden doors. “Please, somebody! Let me in!”
To her surprise, the unlocked doors swung open, almost as though something inside had been awaiting her. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, she dashed indoors. Her eyes hastily surveyed her surroundings, looking for a friendly face or maybe just a safe place to hide. Lights from outside exposed the lobby of what had obviously once been a very elegant address. Marble columns and floor tiles greeted her eyes. A grand staircase led to a mezzanine overlooking the ground floor. An unlit crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling. The bare walls and floor had been stripped of any expensive furnishings or carpets. Scuff marks recorded the departure of heavy desks or sofas, and cobwebs hung in the place of draperies Thick layers of dust suggested that the brownstone had been abandoned for months at the very least. Her footsteps echoed in the sepulchral silence of the empty lobby. Nothing stirred within the venerable walls, not even a rat or cockroach. The musty air smelled sour and rotten, like something had crawled inside the building to die.
What is this place? Mary wondered apprehensively. The desolate setting sent a chill down her spine, reminding her of the hidden subway tunnel that had once led to the wizard Shazam’s timeless throne room. Is this how Billy felt the first time the wizard summoned him? As her eyes adjusted to the oppressive gloom, she made out more details of the lobby’s interior decor, which seemed to have a distinctly Middle Eastern flavor. Elaborate arabesques 'wound around the marble columns and moldings. Faded mosaic tiles, embedded in the walls, depicted the gods of ancient Egypt. Arcane hieroglyphics, inscribed throughout the chamber, made the forlorn lobby feel like the tomb of some forgotten pharaoh. Mary frowned; not too long ago, the wisdom of Solomon would have allowed her to read the hieroglyphics with ease, but now they might as well have been written in Kryptonian. She was certain that she had never set foot in this building before, yet somehow t
he place felt oddly familiar... .
Her pursuers gave her little time to ponder the mystery, barging into the lobby after her. “Hope you’re not lookin’ for a phone in here, baby,” the leader of the hoodlums said with a sneer. Serpentine tattoos coiled atop his shaved skull. Metal studs and rings pierced his eyelids, ears, and lips. Death-metal decals plastered his scuffed leather jacket. A tarnished steel swastika hung on a chain around his neck. Steel-toed boots stamped across the marble floor. “ ’Cause this dump ain’t had water or power or nothing since them ragheads moved out!”
Mary backed away from the snickering hoodlums. “Shazam,” she whispered uselessly. Her fists clenched at her sides. If I just had my powers back, she lamented, I’d teach these creeps a lesson they’d never forget. She hated feeling so scared and helpless. Mary Marvel would make short work of these losers.
But she wasn’t Mary Marvel. Not anymore.
Salvation came instead from an entirely different quarter.
“Ragheads?” a deep voice sounded from above. “I detest that term.”
All eyes turned upward toward the mezzanine, which remained cloaked in shadow. Who? Mary thought. For a moment, she thought that maybe Batman had come to her rescue—this was Gotham City after all—but the voice’s distinct Middle Eastern accent reminded her of someone else instead. Oh no, she realized in horror. Not him!
A pair of powerful hands grabbed on to the skin-hea'd’s shoulders, yanking him off his feet. The startled punk yelped in surprise as he dangled several feet above the floor. Wet, rending noises cut off his cries as he was literally ripped into pieces by his unseen assailant. Blood splattered the walls. The mugger flew apart in more pieces than Mary could count. She gagged as a bloody fragment landed at her feet. Severed limbs hit the floor. A head rolled down the stairs. Intestines snagged on the chandelier. If she could have afforded to eat today, she would’ve lost her lunch for sure.
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