DC2 Most Wanted #3 (of 5)

Last time, in DC2 MOST WANTED…

BATMAN has been accused of murdering AMANDA WALLER, and now the SUICIDE SQUAD are on the prowl in Gotham City, with the express intention of bringing the Dark Knight down, dead rather than live!

With a team comprised of CAPTAIN BOOMERANG, DEADSHOT, EL DIABLO, ENCHANTRESS, HARLEY QUINN and KATANA, and led by the revenge-fuelled RICK FLAGG, they cornered BATMAN and took a chunk out of him-- the Caped Crusader would have been finished if it wasn’t for the arrival of SUPERMAN, who has his own orders-- the President wants the Man of Tomorrow to take down his best friend if it’s the last thing he does!

With all this in mind, please join us now as the adventure continues…

Project: Twilight Acting-Director Lambert had followed the events taking place in Gotham City so far tonight with close attention. He’d spoken to Colonel Rick Flagg before they setup their operation and was now waiting on the final word.

Batman had been cornered in Gotham Merchant’s Bank. Now there was radio silence, and it was driving him mad. His staff rushed around, trying to make sure everything was to his specification, and he had no complaints about their work ethic so far. He’d kept his old office, preferring not to move into the deceased Amanda Waller’s while her corpse was still cooling on an autopsy table in Belle Reve, and they’d dragged all the necessary equipment to him, rather than making him drag himself to it.

“Come on, Flagg. We need a sitrep. We need a sitrep now…” he said, under his breath.

An orderly rapped her knuckles against his door and when he barked at her to enter, she did so, popping her head in between the door and frame. “Director-- Doctor Starkey wanted you to know-- we are holding at fire-ready intensity. We just need the go ahead.”

“Tell him I’ll be right down. I don’t want to miss this. I don’t think anyone will.”

Beneath the floors that housed offices and the rooms where people could grab some sleep in between shifts was the control centre where the Twilight array was situated. The power source seethed in the centre of the room, thrashing pathetically against the rods that had pierced its hide and bone.

The Parasite couldn’t escape. He couldn’t leave. But he could think. Who had done this to him? Who had strung him up inside this device to use as a battery? Leonard Starkey. Who would he kill as soon as he got free? Leonard Starkey. No. No, he wouldn’t kill him. Better ideas began to form in his head.

“Doctor?” One of the operatives tapped Starkey on the shoulder, uncomfortably.

“What is it?” Leonard asked, turning away from his figures.

“He’s doing it again. The Parasite. He’s doing it again.”

What the operative meant was obvious-- ‘It’ was the Parasite smiling. Rudy Jones was in so much pain due to the control rods that they’d inserted through his body, the thick metal spears that went through flesh and bone, through gristle and muscle, but he was smiling, and focusing his attention entirely on Starkey.

“Ignore him. He can’t get out. Prepare more control rods. If we have to insert more to get him under control, then we will. He lost. We won. And what comes next… that’s all down to us.”

The following takes place before Justice League #41

GOTHAM MERCHANT’S BANK:

“I’m sorry. This isn’t me. It’s him. I’m just along for the ride.”

One second they were on the ground floor of a bank that was flooded with smoke, mined with explosives, and full to the brim with super-villains working for the government. The next, they had flown across the bay, leaving the Bowery behind and were now stood atop Wonder Tower in Sheldon Park.

“Are you okay?” asked Superman, lowering the Dark Knight.

Gripping his ribs, Batman grimaced. “I’m fine.”

A flash of X-Ray vision later and the Man of Steel had to disagree. “Your sternum is cracked, and your ribs looks like they’re ready to crumble. You’re not okay. You’re not fine. This is beyond all that.”

“Then why ask the question?” snapped Batman.

He fumbled with a pouch on his utility belt and pulled out a small syringe that he stabbed into his thigh. He exhaled as the painkiller began to work its magic, taking the edge of the immense throbbing pain in his chest. He exhaled, trying to find his centre so his every breath wasn’t an agony. Meditation and painkillers combined would do the job nicely, if he could just focus.

“You need medical attention. I’d say the cave, but that’s not an option anymore, is it?”

Batman turned, his cape enshrouding his body. “Why are you here? I didn’t ask the Justice League to intervene. I purposely kept them-- and you-- out the conversation.”

“You’re accused of murder. You didn’t answer to hails. You weren’t where I expected you to be. And when I finally find you, you’re being beaten to within an inch of your life by the Suicide Squad. You know what, Batman? A little thank you would be appreciated sometimes.”

“Thank you. Now you can leave,” said Batman. He surveyed the scene. Across the bay, the smoke had stopped flowing out of Gotham Merchant’s Bank, and there were helicopters in the air. He squinted, and his vision magnified the location, and he could see GCPD officers moving in and out, accompanied by the fire department.

Superman stood behind him, his own enhanced vision doing the job. “Damn.”

“Are you here to take me away, Clark?” Batman asked, finally.

“Don’t be stupid. You’ve clearly been framed.”

“…But you were ordered by the president to bring me in.”

“How did you-- oh. Why am I not surprised? Of course you’ve got the president’s bunker bugged.”

Batman shrugged. “Of course.”

“Well, don’t be stupid. How could I ever think you were guilty of something so sloppy as Waller’s murder? Now, let’s not waste any more time. We need to get to the bottom of this. And I’m here to help you clear your name.”


“I’m sorry. This isn’t me. It’s him. I’m just along for the ride.”

A sparsely populated island in the Caribbean, Santa Prisca was most famous for the prison colloquially known by the inmates as the armpit of the Earth, or by its official title, Peña Duro. This hellhole was the malevolent factory that engineered Bane, once known as the deadliest prisoner in the world. It currently housed the so-called ‘Secret Society of Super-Villains’, and the interior of the prison had been transformed into a state of the art facility where the Society’s members could perform their work in relative privacy.

The civilian population didn’t particularly care about the legion of super-villains operating out the prison on the mountaintop. The money bought in by their schemes was being spent in the small township near the bay, and that was enough for them.

It was a veritable holiday home for a flock of bad men and women, the type who’d refused the call to join the co-op known as Injustice, Unlimited, and who wanted to be part of something with a few less rules and a lot more chaos.

Having travelled back to the island after completing his top-secret mission, Deathstroke placed his sniper rifle down on the meeting table and took a seat. “I led Parasite to their Overwatch team’s location. He didn’t even know, but it was easy enough. Like throwing a dog a bone.”

Talia Al Ghul smiled. “Good work, Mister Wilson.”

The Daughter of the Demon was a member of the Society’s inner circle, and the de facto leader of the League of Assassins, since her father, Ra’s’, disappearance. She’d fended off numerous leadership challenges. She’d left their heads on pikes outside the Lazarus Pyramid as a warning to any and all comers. She had worked very hard to achieve all she had in this world, and she’d be damned if some ancient master was going to take it all from her.

“Very good work,” agreed Scandal Savage. “We knew you could be counted on.”

Her lineage was a bit more brutal, certainly a lot bloodier. Scandal was one of the few daughters that Vandal Savage actually recognised. He was currently staying out of the way of the world, preferring to spend his time in one of his harems. That meant Scandal could do what she wanted without fear of him eating her when he got hungry. Not that she didn’t welcome the chance to test her mettle against his.

Slade Wilson shook his head. “Counted on’s got nothing to do with it. We have a deal. You keep the money coming, I’m yours. But you gotta remember, I work for him too. His wires keep coming, and they keep clearing.”

Talia waved him off, “Oh, we’re all very aware. This little game is all his. A final favour for his work establishing us on Santa Prisca, for building the protection net. In 24 hours, you’ll be back working for the highest bidder.”

“Will that be all?” asked Deathstroke.

“The money’s been wired to your account. You’re excused,” said Scandal.

“My thanks, ladies. I always did prefer working for you over your fathers.” He stood, picked up his rifle, and bowed. “I’ll be in the cantina. I’ll be back when I’m needed.”

He exited, and passed Psimon, the psychic invader, on his way out. “Hello, Slade,” said the man whose brain was visible under his scalp. There was a throb of activity under the plastic container that his cerebrum existed inside.

Deathstroke pulled his sidearm without hesitation and shoved it under the psychic’s chin. He put first pressure on the trigger. “Don’t. Even. Think. About it.”

Psimon held up his hands. “I’m not I’m not”

Slade pushed the tip of the gun just a little further into the meat of Psimon’s chin. “Good. Remember what I said to you last time. If I even suspect you’re thinking about climbing into my head and getting your hooks in, I’ll kill you. We clear?”

“clear clear yes yup”

“Deathstroke, be a dear and tell Psimon we’ll see him now. Don’t hold him up!” came Scandal’s voice from inside the meeting room.

Slade lowered his weapon and then shoved Psimon into the room, who quickly recovered in the presence of the upper echelons of Society leadership.

“Are you ready for your assignment, Psimon?” asked Talia.

He straightened his tie and brushed himself down. “Yes, I’m prepared.”

“You look stressed,” noted Scandal.

“No, no, I’m fine.”

Talia smiled, a teasing undertone to her words. “Are you sure?”

Psimon pulled a face but pushed down on any defiance. “Most definitely. I wish to prove it to you forthwith.”

“Good. ‘Uprising’ is in operation. ‘Domination’ comes next. The floor, as it is, is yours.”


“I’m sorry. This isn’t me. It’s him. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Fucking hell!”

Flagg tossed his body armour across the tented enclosure that housed the command centre away from Belle Reve, and then in a pique of rage, swiped the table clean of any papers or folders that happened to be left there.

“Sir--!” started First Lieutenant James, one of the officers under his command, but when Flagg shot her a look she went quiet and backed down. She began collecting the papers, shuffling them together so they were back in order.

“Superman just turning up like that… god damn outrageous! We had him! We had the bastard!”

Katana placed a tentative hand on his shoulder as she came up behind him. “Rick… perhaps this gives us time to consider the squad’s place in the matter.”

Flagg pulled himself free of her touch and turned, pointing a finger in her face. “Tatsu, don’t think I didn’t see you pulling your punches in there. You’re the deadliest swordsman I’ve ever met, and I’ve been in some ridiculous situations involving swords! Where do your loyalty lie? Whose side are you on?”

Enchantress whispered in Flagg’s ear, “She’s not on ours.” He turned to face her, but she wasn’t there, but when he faced Tatsu again, his suspicions seemed all but confirmed.

“Give me your sword,” Flagg demanded.

Tatsu was taken aback. “I… I cannot.”

“I’ve entertained your madness for too long. I don’t care if you think your sword is haunted by the spirit of your husband. Hand it over. You’re relieved of duty.”

Katana’s hand touched her hilt. She opened her mouth to protest, but then her expression become steel, like her blade. “I can’t do that, Rick. I’ll--”

A plume of fire caught her in the back, knocking her forward. She rolled onto her back to douse them, but Killer Croc’s foot found her chest, slamming down hard so as to knock all the wind right out of her. She gasped, and then El Diablo approached behind the reptilian monster who’d pinned her down. The rest of the Suicide Squad were standing at the entrance of the tent, with Enchantress standing at the back of them all.

“She’s a puta, Flagg. Batman’s whore. I saw her talkin to him, warning him.”

“Flaggggggg” wheezed Tatsu. “It’s nottttt…”

Croc leaned over and flicked her in the temple, knocking her out instantly. “Sorry. Was gettin bored.”

Flagg crouched over his closest ally and took her hilt and sword away from her. “I want her in chains. She’s commited treason against the American government. Get on with it, Lieutenant James! Captain Maffew! Get in here! Get her in the transport back to Belle Reve then report back. We’re not finished in Gotham yet.”

“Anything we can do for you, boss man?” asked Harley Quinn.

“Get out of here. Reload. Resupply. Ready up. As soon as we have actionable intelligence we’re on the move again.”

Quinn gave a formal salute. “Yessir, Colonel Flagg; you betcha, Colonel Flagg!”

The command tent was cleared, and Flagg hunched over the empty table, contemplating his next move. He reached for the satellite phone and dialled the top secret number. “Lambert. How far off as we from activation?


There were four of them sat around the dining table of Wayne Manor. Bruce at the head of the table, Dick to his right with Barbara beside him, and Tim on the other side of the table. They had assembled as requested, and Dick was the first to ask. He probably didn’t sound as respectful as he might have under any normal circumstances. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Tying up loose ends.” As terse a response as you’d expect from Bruce.

That wasn’t enough for the first Robin and current Nightwing, though. “I saw what you did to the Cave… how was that even possible?”

“This was always a potential endgame we’ve planned for,” replied Bruce, glancing over to Alfred.

“Yeah, but Bruce, it’s empty. How is that even possible?” asked Tim.

Like every other male around the table, he didn’t ask for this life, but he’d found himself in it none the less. After the death of his mom, and then his father, he’d been adopted into a family that had a predilection toward night-based vigilantism. He’d once been Tim Drake, but now he as Tim Wayne,

“Now’s not the time. This isn’t like other threats against the operation. I’ve been framed for the murder of a government official. Amanda Waller is dead and they think I did it.”

“So, you’re running?” asked Barbara. Unlike the others, she’d chosen this line of work, creating up the mantle of Batgirl first, in honour of the work she saw Batman and Robin doing, then evolving herself and her role into Batwoman. She’d been based in Las Vegas for a while now, but when Bruce called… you couldn’t refuse.

“I’m not ashamed to say that this isn’t a situation I’m comfortable being in. I have to expect that the full force of the United States government is about to descend on Gotham, and that means we need to remove any discernible links between Bruce Wayne and the Batman.”

Dick shook his head incredulously. “You’re the public face of Batman, Incorporated. You’ve come out and said you’re funding the entire operation. I knew that would bite us in the ass… I knew it…”

“Master Richard, language, please,” said Alfred. He was fussing about around the dining room, dusting the shelves in an effort to distract himself from the matter at hand.

Dick raised a hand apologetically. “Sorry, Alfie. But… I’m not exactly wrong, am I?”

Alfred said nothing and continued to dust. Bruce responded, ignoring the point. “We’ve war-gamed this conclusion, and erasing the cave was the first step in a larger scale operation. The government’s response dictates our next move.”

“And what is their response?” asked Barbara.

“It’s not been leaked to the media, or the police. They’re dealing with it in-house, so we can expect Task Force X, or another government sponsored strike force.”

“The Suicide Squad? Then we’ve got nothing to be concerned about,” said Dick, leaning back in his chair with his hands up behind his head.

Alfred was behind him, ready to gently push him back onto all four legs of the chair. “Master Richard.”

“Yipes, sorry, but yeah, but what I mean is, I took them down before, didn’t I*?”


“Didn’t we?” corrected Barbara.

“Yeah; you, me and Blue Beetle. The dream team. But this time, it’ll be all four of us.”

“No.”

Barbara’s head turned on a swivel toward Bruce. “No? No as in we’re not as good as Dick’s weird dream team concept, or no as in--?”

Bruce spoke slowly. “You’re leaving Gotham. All of you. Tim, you’ll go with Dick to New York. You can lay low at Titans Tower. It’ll be safer there for you. I’ve already booked your flights out. Barbara, I think it’s best you return to Las Vegas, or wherever you think is better.”

“What’s best for me is being in Gotham, Bruce,” she replied.

“Listen to this,” said Bruce, pushing a small recording device a size small than one of those old cassette players. He pressed a button, and a familiar voice to some began to speak:

“…Listen to me. I know this is a private channel for emergencies, but this is an emergency. The full weight of the United States government is preparing to come down on you, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent it. You’re on every agency’s most wanted list, higher than Luthor, higher than Lord Naga. You killed a government official, someone who was on the cusp of something massive. This is an act of war--” “Hhhrrrr? That tickled.” “Holy sh--” “Aoww!”

The recording went dead with a crackle.

“That was Paul Kirk,” said Dick. “And that other voice… like gravel tumbling down someone’s throat… Killer Croc?”

“Hhh. Kirk rang one of the old emergency lines. He had the number since back in the day. Reports say a jogger was jumped in Washington, near the Lincoln statue. Descriptions match El Diablo. Killer Croc… and Harley Quinn.”

“Harley? She’s running with the Suicide Squad? And they took down Paul? Then you definitely need a hand,” said Dick.

“No. Like I said, you’re leaving Gotham. In the hour. And I’ll handle the rest.”

Dick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What, you’re going to go off on your lonesome, like you did back in the day? When you pushed us all away and went a bit loopy? I’m not Robin anymore, Bruce. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Hey…” murmured Tim.

“No offense, kiddo,” replied Dick.

Bruce stood up and pushed his chair back under the table. “This isn’t up for discussion.”

“Bruce--!” barked Dick.

It was Bruce’s turn to cut someone off. “I won’t put you at risk. Anyone associated with me is in the firing line. I can and will clear my name, but until that point, you need to be safe. You’re the bravest, most resourceful people I know. I’m proud to call you my allies in this. My… family. But you need to be safe. Because if I fail… if I fall… someone needs to pick up where I leave off.”

“You can’t be serious…” said Barbara.

“I’m always serious,” he replied.


“I’m sorry. This isn’t me. It’s him. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Where’s my Bishop?” asked Steve Trevor.

The chairs and the table in the centre of the room were an illusion, a meeting place where the four heads of the Checkmate organisation could meet and discuss issues important to their business-- worldwide security.

In each of the royal families’ secure locations there was a room like this, and when they took their place at the table and a holographic projection of their equals appeared in the relevant position.

On one side there sat Valentina Vostok, the Black Queen. To her right, Neptune Perkins, the Black King. On the other side of the table, Catherine Cobert, the White Queen, and then to her right, Steve Trevor, the White King.

Vostok smiled and leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. “You’ve lost your Bishop? That is careless, White King.”

Neptune grimaced, annoyed by his partner’s rudeness. “What my Queen is trying to say is, we’ve had no hand in any operations involving your Bishop.”

Black King and Black Queen were in charge of operations. White King and White Queen oversaw intelligence. None of the four could be in the same location at the same time, for fear of an attack wiping out the entire power structure of Checkmate at once. But if Perkins said that operations hadn’t had a hand in Paul Kirk’s disappearance… he had no reason to doubt his word. Vostok, on the other hand…

“I’m concerned this might have connection to our briefing on Project: Twilight yesterday,” said Trevor.

“Some kind of reprisal?” asked Cobert.

“White King, do you have any intelligence to back up your claim?” pushed Vostok.

“No… not at the moment,” said Trevor.

“Then we cannot authorise any kind of operation. You know how it works,” she replied.

“I do, Black Queen. I also know this: If someone has the balls to go after one of ours, then no one is safe. I’m ordering an organisation-wide protection mandate. No one goes out there alone, tonight, not until we know who’s behind my man’s disappearance.”

“Understood, White King. We’ll begin roll out immediately,” said Perkins.

“Thank you. White King, out,” said Trevor.

The room went dark, leaving the White King alone with his thoughts. Where was Paul Kirk?


“I’m sorry. This isn’t me. It’s him. I’m just along for the ride.”

“You sent them all away?” said Superman. They’d moved to another location, clear of any civilians. How best to describe the place? The buildings they snuck through were gaping ruins, exposed ribs bent open to display the shredded innards of what had once been an institution dedicated to mental rehabilitation but known for so much worse. Where were they? Well.

Arkham Asylum, the original institution, had seen better days. When Wayne Enterprises had bought a controlling stake in the institution, they quickly found that their intention to rebuild would be hampered by a poor foundation and infrastructure already established. Instead of trying to build something gleaming on top of a brittle shell, they relocated to an empty island to the north east of the city. The Justice League had taken three hours to build the entire thing, and then it took less than a week to move the patients in and make it operational*.


But the original site? Torn down… cordoned off… left to rot…

“Gotham isn’t safe for anyone of us, right now. Tonight proved just that,” said Batman. He was hunched over a fuse box. They’d gutted the lines connecting the ruins to the power grid, but there was always something in his utility belt for whatever the situation. He’d unclipped numerous capsules from his belt and together they formed a mini-generator. He was currently testing the connections.

It was his idea to relocate here, away from the city. They were on the coast. The field provided natural camouflage for them, and most of all, it was full of spider holes that they could take advantage of. Just because the asylum had been torn down here, didn’t mean it wasn’t able to be taken advantage of properly, just like it had been back in the day.

“So, what’s your plan?” asked Superman.

“We lure the squad here. We take them out between us. With them off the board, we-- I-- can investigate Waller’s murder.”

“And how do you expect to lure the squad here?”

Batman looked over to Superman and smiled. The look worried the latter. With the pull of a switch, the asylum lit up, any remaining light bulbs left intact illuminating the shadowed halls of the institution and piercing the night dimmed skyline with the haunting idea that maybe, just maybe… old Arkham lived again.

“Huh. I always did hate this place,” said Superman, looking past the haunted ruin and up at the moon and the stars beyond.

“You and me both.”

The two old friends stood in silence for a moment, and then the Man of Steel broke it. “You know, you could have come to us. To me.”

“I won’t be used as a weapon to tar the Justice League. I won’t undermine all the work we’ve done.”

“That’s not what it would have been.”

“I would never ask that of you. If the team come to Gotham, then they’ll be assisting a fugitive. A murder suspect. You’re doing damage to yourself just being here now.”

“I mean, Gotham air is as unhealthy as all heck, but it’s not that bad…”

“Clark.”

Superman smiled. “Bruce. It wouldn’t have been an imposition. It would have been a friend coming to a friend’s aid. And sometimes, you don’t even need to ask. That’s something you need to understand. Besides, I think Diana--” Abruptly, he put a finger to his lips. “I can hear them. They’re masking their heartbeats somehow… I should have noticed it before. But they’re clumsy. Disorganised. Scuffing their boots and cursing.”

“Where?” asked Batman.

A finger to his lips, the Man of Steel pointed with his other hand the direction of the noise, but when they turned to face it-- from directly behind them, came a torrent of ink black tendrils, lined with veins that throbbed scarlet in the dim lights of old Arkham’s ruins. They’d been suckered-- their attention drawn one way-- only to be attacked from the rear--

“AANK NNOOL ZUUMM” declared Enchantress, her hands weaving a web in the space before her eyes. “AANK NAANL TSKZZ”

The language was ancient, like her, and the magicks more powerful than anything Superman had felt against his skin before-- but he was still the Man of Tomorrow, and even if his weakness were the sorts of magic that she wielded, he refused to go down.

With an almighty shrug, lifting his arms up aggressively, the tentacles flew off him-- only for them to latch back down on him, holding him in place.

“Draining… me…” He grunted. Something whizzed through the air and struck him in the chest, shattering loudly as it doused him in a fluorescent yellow fluid. He didn’t recognise the chemical composition, but it clung to him like glue.

“Be… direct…” replied the Dark Knight, his body almost drowning in the tentacles that held him in place.

“Did ya see that? I got the wazok, yeah I did,” came the grating voice of Boomerang. “Flagg, you see that?”

Ignoring the maddening Australian’s voice, Superman shot Enchantress a look. El Diablo stood behind her, throwing a sphere made of fire from one hand to another. Back the way the noisy distraction came from, Harley Quinn skipped, with the hulking form of Killer Croc for company. A floor or so up, Captain Boomerang was looking down at them, enjoying the view.

Batman and Superman were surrounded.

What could he do? What else but be direct. He exhaled sharply, directly at the witch and she cried out when she was buffeted backwards by the force of it. She flew into El Diablo, and then continued into a half-fallen wall behind them both. They were down, and the tentacles snapped out of existence.

“Oh, boy,” laughed Harley Quinn. “Glad Flagg let me back this then.” She pulled out an over-sized pair of knuckle dusters from the satchel around her waist and Superman was taken aback by their colour-- in the night light, they glowed green, and radiated a horrible radiation--

“Kryptonite,” whispered Superman.

Spotting for Deadshot a mile away, Flagg surveyed the situation with a pair of binoculars.

“Got a clean shot. Want me to take it?” asked Lawton, his scope levelled on Batman’s head.

“No. Not yet. I want to make a point,” said Flagg. He put his satellite phone to his ear. “Lambert. We are a go. Do you have the coordinates from our marker?”


“I’m sorry. This isn’t me. It’s him. I’m just along for the ride.”

“And Flagg wanted us to do this in-house?” asked Doctor Mortensen.

He was the on-staff doctor, de facto mortician and general sawbones to any members of the team that passed through his doors. He hated this part of the job, though. That said, Waller didn’t want there to be anyone else performing autopsies on her people. She liked to keep things in-house, and that meant Mortensen had cut open quite a few men and women who were missing their heads after they’d

“I’m afraid so, doctor,” replied Nurse Hill.

She hadn’t been on the staff at Belle Reve for long but the amount of documentation she had to sign to be posted here made her hope it would all be worth it. So many non-disclosure agreements, the screenings she had… during the process she’d found out she’d gone to the same high school as Garfield Lyons, Gotham’s pyrotechnic Firefly.

The internal security team then harangued her for days to find out if there was anything deeper there, but no, she’d just happened to be at school at the same time a serial arsonist and murderer had been. She wasn’t there to pre-emptive plan a breakout just in case he ever joined Task Force X. It was blindingly stupid, but having heard the stories Mortensen told her since, it made perfect sense. You’d be surprised the lengths some would go for the crazies they lock up in here…

“Christ alive. What a day,” murmured Mortensen.

The body of Amanda Waller was on the table in front of them. The shurikens that had stabbed her in the chest had been removed and were with the science boys for analysis. Maybe they could find some evidence regarding the true identity of Batman, but that’s not what Mortensen particularly cared about.

Hill cleared her throat. “I’ve prepped… the body. Shall we begin?”

“Sad way to go. So sad. She was a terror, back in the day. Terror even now. Hmm.” He looked up at the main light that shone down on the exposed body of Waller, where a digital recorder hung by a chord. He pressed the ‘record’ button, and a red light began to shine.

“The time is 2103 CST. We are performing the autopsy of Amanda Wall.. Amanda Waller. Presiding physician, Doctor Dashiell Mortensen. Assisted most ably by Nurse Tori Hill. I am about--” He paused.

“Doctor?” asked Hill.

“Did you… did you see that?”

“See what?”

“That movement… under the skin?”


“I’m sorry. This isn’t me. It’s him. I’m just along for the ride.”

Even after his humiliating dress down at the hands of Deathstroke, Psimon couldn’t help but lick his lips in anticipation for what would come next. He had his assignment, and this was a big one, this could put him into the upper echelons of the Society. If he came through today…

Clearing his throat, he pressed a button on the underside of the table in front of him, and said, “Bring the prisoner through.”

There was a commotion behind him, and the door to the cell swung open. In walked an immense, marionette-like thing dragging a dishevelled prisoner in by the strings it had attached to her wrists, elbows and shoulders. The captive looked like a puppet being controlled by a puppet and the imagery amused Psimon to no end. “Almost fitting, don’t you think, Toyman?” he said.

“Hmph! Do beware, she indeed bites,” warned the creepy Toyman, his mouth not moving as he spoke. He held up his wooden arm where splinters were on show. “Worse for her than for me, I assures you.”

Bored now, thought Psimon. He clicked his fingers and directed Toyman to position the prisoner in the chair in front of him. “She’ll bark when I’m done with her. Woof woof. Like a good little bitch.”

Toyman did as he was told, but if he had eyes instead of carved wooden orbs, they would have rolled. “Please, Psimon. Show some common courtesy. If not to her, to me.”

The psychic lurched forward, pointing an accusatory finger at him, then the prisoner. “You know what she does to our kind. She’s the monster. She’s the villain. I’ll teach her.”

After being bound to the chair by Toyman, the prisoner struggled to escape, but found no purchase.

“Hello, Amanda.”

Not dead, and clearly pissed off, Amanda Waller grimaced. There were words in her head, and she couldn’t place where from. “I’m sorry. This isn’t me. It’s him. I’m just along for the ride.” Where had she heard them? Why did they hang over her like a spell?

“Tell me… how do we go about taking control of Project: Twilight?” He licked his lips once more. “And be aware, I will know if you’re lying.”


“Toni-- get down!” cried Mortensen.

He dove toward her, despite his advanced years, and covered her body with his own as Waller’s corpse billowed and bloated, and then erupted with a loud bang, showering the room with confetti. It hung in the air, then began to drift down, settling on the floor around the now gutted marionette that had taken on the appearance of the infamous Wall.

“What-- was-- that?” shouted Toni, an immense ringing in her ears.

“I-- don’t-- know!” answered Mortensen. He pulled himself up, then helped Toni to her feet. Security rushed in, weapons ready, and were shocked by the sight of the shredded and artificial body of Amanda Waller on the gurney.

“Doctor Mortensen! What’s going on?”

“Davies! I’ve got no clue-- but that’s not Amanda-- and that means she’s not dead! We need to tell--”

The lights went out in the room. The sound that followed was a heavy clunking, as every single light, and every single system, in the entirety of Belle Reve, shut down. Cells doors shunted open. Security cameras went down. Suddenly, all they could hear was the howling and hooping of the prisoners-- now free of their cells.

“Oh, fuck,” whispered Toni.


Acting Director Lambert entered the control room and noted the commotion. Final checks were underway. The targeting system was zeroing in on their intended ‘victim’, and it didn’t matter where he was, as long as it was within the 100 square metres of a blast radius.

“We’ve got the target on the board, doctor!” said one of the operatives at a console.

“Can the satellites keep track of him?” asked Lambert, leaning over their shoulder.

“Uh, yessir, yes they can,” he replied.

He nodded then cast a glance to the central capsule that Leonard was working on. “Well, good. Starkey?”

“Yes, the control rods have been vibrating at the required frequency for some time now. We can fire. Do you want to give the word.”

“If… you… do… this…” seethed the Parasite his body impaled dozens of times by the rods that rendered him powerless by drawing his abilities into Twilight’s mechanisms. “…I… will… ruin… you…”

“You really don’t know, do you?” said Starkey, quietly.

“Do we have the word?” asked Lambert.

Starkey nodded once. “The word is yours.”

“…Fire.”


Shuddering at the exposure to Kryptonite, Superman looked up at the sky as the air quality changed. There was a purple light descending which he didn’t understand, but as it struck him-- he-- was-- twisted--

He vomited and fell to his knees, a stabbing feeling of nausea in his being that he’d never experienced before

“Superman!” shouted Batman, turning to his ally in surprise at the sudden change of fortune.

Mistake. Boomerangs flit through the air and caught him in the shoulders, digging into his armour and sending him sprawling. He cursed, and leaped to his feet only to be caught in the ribs by Harley Quinn’s mallet. He spat blood, and she laughed hysterically.

“It’s only diluted Kryptonite, ya giant pussy-hole!” she said, looking down at Superman as she waved the knuckle dusters in his face, before bringing her fist up ready to swing.

“I… don’t… feel… so good…” murmured Killer Croc. He looked at his hands, back to Harley, then passed out.

“Aww, come on, do I have ta do everything?” she said.

Batman grabbed her ankle, and then threw a batarang at an exposed beam above their heads. It swung round with some speed-- there was a line of rope attached to it!-- and then Quinn cried out as she was thrown upstairs, the other end of the rope attached to her foot. She got half way up before the beam cracked and fell down on top of her, taking the fight out of the lunatic.

“Superman, we need to get out of here!” said Batman.

“Can’t… can’t feel… the sun…” mumbled Superman.

“What? What does that--” Diablo sent a jet of fire at them, and Batman opened his cape up, covering himself and the Man of Steel from the blast. A few seconds later, the cape had been wholly incinerated, leaving them exposed. “Your powers--”

“I can’t feel them! That purple light--!”

Enchantress laughed from where she pulled herself up. “This is more wonderful than any of us could have dreamed. You see--”

A loop of golden light whipped around her arms and torso, was pulled tight, and then she was thrown from one side of the Arkham ruins to the other, knocking the fight out of her immediately.

Deadshot, a mile away, was alarmed. Through the scope of his hyper-accurate DAN.338. rifle, he saw who’d attacked his teammate, and felt his finger take first pressure around the trigger. “That’s--!”

Flagg lowered his binoculars. “I see her! I see her! Take the shot!”

Bang. Or more accurately, boom.

The .338 Lapua Magnum round, 8.6×70mm in dimensions, was a rimless, bottlenecked, centrefire rifle cartridge developed during the 1980s as a high-powered, long-range cartridge for military snipers. It was deadly, and it was effective when utilised properly, such as when you load it into the appropriate rifle. That said…

Designed by Doctor-- and former Olympian-- Nehamaiya Sirkis and named for the ancient city of Dan, the IWI DAN .338 Bolt Action Sniper Rifle was an Israeli bolt action sniper rifle manufactured by the Israel Weapons Industries.

Its main purpose was long range sniping with limited anti-material applications, and if it the bullet found its mark, the target would be--

Wonder Woman threw up her wrist at the last second, and the bullet ricocheted off her bracelet and shot through the wall next to Captain Boomerang’s head, nearly vaporising the concrete completely.

“Buggering ‘ell!” he cried out, realising that the Suicide Squad’s night just got a hell of a lot more difficult.

Pulling her lasso back into her hands and off the Enchantress, Wonder Woman looked down at the battered and bruised duo of Batman and Superman and smiled. “Boys.”

Superman managed a smile and looked at Batman, who was barely able to hold himself up. “She… with you?”

Batman almost laughed, but his ribs hurt too much. “I thought… she was with… you.”

Wonder Woman rolled her eyes and raised her fists. “I’m here for both of you. Now, stand up. We’ve got a fight to win.”