ALL OF THE CHARACTERS USED IN THESE STORIES ARE PROPERTY OF THEIR RESPECTIVE COPYRIGHT HOLDERS. I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THEM, AND I AM NOT PROFITING FINANCIALLY FROM ANY OF THIS. THE SAME DISCLAIMER APPLIES TO ANY IMAGES USED HEREIN.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

UNFINISHED BUSINESS: Gotham X 3 Part One

THE FINAL CURTAIN
OR: “OH, MAMA, CAN THIS REALLY BE THE END?”
PART ONE
“Dead Children and a Dead City: Happy New Year 2000”
By Chuck Miller

(Note: This story begins the day after the “Millennium” episode of The X-Files, and proceeds to destroy the continuity of every character involved. I am taking it upon myself to tie up all of Chris Carter’s dangling plot threads, and at the same time lay waste to the DC Universe. This will conflict with everything else that comes after it, so consider it an “alternate reality” tale. Enjoy.)
(Further Note 2010: This story was started many years ago, and for some reason never finished. It may never be finished.)

-- Chuck
drsivana99@gmail.com

"Life is short; filled with stuff."
-Lux Interior, the Cramps


LEXCORP TOWER


8:35 a.m.
January 1, 2000

“Would you mind not smoking in here,” Lex Luthor said to the man in the cheap suit and trenchcoat.

It wasn’t a request, so there was no question mark at the end. Luthor had a way of making the most offhand statement come across like an imperial command, and he had only a scant understanding, mostly theoretical, of the concept of asking for something. The other man, however, ignored him and lit up a cigarette. Luthor stared at him for a second, then let it drop. There were more important things on his mind today.

Not many people would dare to behave in such a cavalier manner in Luthor’s presence. There was certainly more to this individual than met the eye, which wasn’t much. To describe him as “unprepossessing” would be a bit too lavish. His bland face was lined and weathered, his clothing clean but obviously inexpensive. He looked like a minor civil servant, an older man nearing the end of a drab, unspectacular career.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Even Lex Luthor, with all his formidable resources, had been unable to uncover much information on the man who stood before his huge mahogany deck, quietly smoking a cigarette. The man had at least a dozen different names, none of which were very likely to be the one he had been born with.

Luthor stared coldly at the man, who gazed through the window, his thoughts seemingly miles away. Luthor shifted slightly in his leather chair, waited another moment, then said, “Well?” The man looked at Luthor. He took a drag from his cigarette
before he spoke.

“I take it, Mister Luthor, that you are now more willing to take me seriously? In light of this morning’s events, perhaps?”

“Let’s not dance around this,” Luthor said sharply. “I have a feeling the time for bulls*** and obfuscation is long past. You’re talking about Seattle, yes? Do you know what happened? Are you involved in it?”

Seattle. That was all anyone had talked about since six o’clock that morning, Eastern time. A cruel damper had been put on Millennium celebrations all over the world by the news from the West Coast.

Seattle was gone.

The man shook his head. “Not involved. But I have a good idea who is responsible. And it won’t stop with Seattle. That was just the opening round.”


Luthor’s eyes narrowed. “If you want to someday walk out of this building alive, I suggest you tell me everything you know. Now.”

The man shrugged. “I have no secrets to keep from you. I need your help. You’ll want to help me. You’re an ambitious man, Luthor. You want power, more power than you have now. But power won’t mean much to you if the world is reduced to a charred husk, will it?”

“No. Of course it won’t. Now, the next sentence you speak had better contain some concrete information, or my patience with you will be exhausted. Do you understand?”

The man nodded. He actually smiled a little as he crushed out his cigarette in a small potted plant. “Tell me, Mister Luthor, have you ever heard of the Millennium Group?”
Luthor raised his eyebrows, sat up straighter in his chair. “I’m listening,” he said.

FBI HEADQUARTERS
11:37 a.m.

Fox Mulder, weary and injured from the events of the previous night, took one look at the folder on his desk and said a very vulgar word.

Dana Scully looked up sharply. She hadn’t fared as badly as Mulder the night before, but she still had dark circles under her eyes and looked tired and disheveled, in spite of a bath, a change of clothes and four hours’ sleep. “What?” she asked, not sure she really wanted to know.


Mulder sighed. “You’re not gonna believe this. Skinner just sent this down. Grave desecrations ...” He looked up at his partner, his eyes ever so slightly unfocused. “Exactly the same as the others.”

Scully’s eyebrows went up. “More FBI agents?”

“No,” Mulder shook his head. “But that’s the only thing that’s different. The blood circles, the damage inside the caskets, that was the same. But the ... can we call them victims? They weren’t FBI at all. They were just kids.”

“Kids?”

“Yeah. Three kids. Two of them were brother and sister, the other one was a friend of theirs. They all died a few days ago.”

“Suicides?”

“No. That’s another difference. They were all murdered.” Mulder thumbed through the folder.

“Let’s see ... We’ve got a Mary Bromfield, a Billy Batson—that’s the brother and sister. They’re orphans; the girl was adopted when she was a baby. And a Freddy Freeman. Seems they spent a lot of time together. Says here they were poisoned, probably while they were at a local… hm, malt shoppe, I didn’t know there still were such things. How Archie Andrews. I wonder if Reggie Mantle can account for his whereabouts. Well... No suspects, no leads… Though the cops did find one odd thing, in the kitchen at the malt shoppe. Says here ‘a worm unknown to science…’ Anyhow, the graves were discovered desecrated yesterday, while we were investigating the others.”

“Where?”

“Near Fawcett City. Halfway across the country.” Mulder gave Scully one of his looks and she blew air through her pursed lips. “So that means ...” she began.

“That we have another necromancer out there,” Mulder continued for her. “But why kids? Why THESE kids?”

Scully sat dumbly, fingering the tiny gold cross she wore on a chain around her neck. What was it Mulder had said to her last night—this morning? “Well, the world didn’t come to an end, did it?” She had agreed with him that it had not. But that was before they got the news about Seattle, what little news there was. Most of the state of Washington was under a communications blackout. Whatever had happened to Seattle had disrupted telephone and power lines all up and down the coast. What they did have was that awful satellite photo which had been running on CNN all morning. Taken from a satellite in geosynchronous orbit above Seattle, it showed ... nothing. A big, black hole where the city itself and several surrounding communities had once been. There appeared to be a considerable amount of debris floating in the waters of Puget Sound, and not a building could be seen standing within a 40-mile radius. The Army and Navy were conducting radiation tests from a distance before sending anyone into the affected area.

“Mulder slapped a hand down on his desk. “I HATE cases like this. I hate cases involving kids. It always reminds me of those three kids who disappeared in Blair, Maryland, five years ago. I hope we make more progress on this case than we did on that one.”

Scully realized she had lapsed into a staring spell, broken by Mulder’s outburst, and shook her head to rouse herself. She stood up slowly. “The name of the town was Burkittsville, Mulder. Besides, that was a witch—supposedly. At least we’ve already whipped one necromancer, so we can go for 2-0 on this one.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. She made her way, a little unsteadily, out of Mulder’s office and to the women’s restroom, where she stood in front of the aluminum sink, ran some cold water, splashed it on her face, rubbed her eyes. They were sore from fatigue and rubbing them felt good. When she opened them, she saw a dark figure reflected in the mirror above the sink. It was a man. A man in a dark suit and a cloak, with a black, wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. He had some kind of strange-looking amulet hanging around his neck from a heavy chain.

Terrific.

"Sir,” she said wearily, turning to confront the man. “I think you’re in the wrong room ...”

He cocked his head slightly, regarding her with eyes that were invisible under the shadow of his hat brim. “Dana Scully,” he said. “I need to speak with you.” Scully could feel the eyes on her. This wasn’t an ordinary man, she knew immediately. She wasn’t afraid; she felt more weary irritation than anything. She was a bit fed up with mysterious strangers and their cryptic pronouncements. Ever since she finally took the plunge, and began giving credence to ideas that she would once have found out of the question, she had learned that the paranormal is generally more annoying than scary.

”Okay,” she said with a sigh. “Who are you and what cosmic secret do you want to reveal to me or wipe from my mind?” She glanced at her watch. “I really don’t have all day, you know.”

The man seemed momentarily taken aback. Then he smiled, just a little. “I am ... a stranger.”

”No S***.” She looked him up and down. “Well, you’re not the strangest stranger I’ve ever seen, by a long shot. I hope you won’t be offended if I don’t go all slack-jawed in your presence. I’ve spent most of the past 24 hours shooting zombies in order to prevent the Apocalypse, so you’ll understand if my shock threshold is pretty high this morning.”
Now the man, if that’s what he was, was definitely smiling.

”I’ve had many reactions from mortals through the centuries,” he remarked, “but nothing quite like this. I must admit, I find it ... refreshing.”

”I’m thrilled for you,” Scully said dryly. “Now, can we please get to the point?”

”Of course. Oh, may I say that the creatures you fought were not proper zombies. A zombie is a creature animated by a very specific Voodoo ritual process. What you fought would more properly be called a ghoul, or perhaps a…”

He stopped short, having detected the look in Scully’s eyes, a glare that might very well have enough intensity behind it to kill even him. He cleared his throat and began again.

While you and your partner made a valiant effort, I’m afraid you did not ‘prevent the Apocalypse,’ as you put it. Your necromancer was nothing more than a distraction. The Millennium Group has other plans afoot, as I think you knew in your heart they would.”

Scully made a face. It was true, she hadn’t been satisfied with their latest bit of work. From what she had learned of the Millennium Group, she found it hard to believe that the plan that she and Mulder and Frank Black had interfered with was the only one the Group had in place.

The Stranger’s face and voice became grave. “There are awful times ahead, Dana Scully. You will play a role in the drama that is to unfold. You will survive, but the cost will be terrible. Not more than you can bear, for you are strong, but terrible nonetheless.”

Scully rolled her eyes. “I knew it. I knew you were gonna go cryptic on me. I suppose you can’t tell me any of the details because there are some things that it is better for mere mortals not to know, or something like that. Am I right?”

”Uh ... well, yes. Though I would not necessarily say ‘mere,’ although…”

”SO,” Scully snapped, and the Stranger decided that if her eyes didn’t kill him, her tone would. “The point of this visitation would be ...?”

The Stranger became even more solemn. “To tell you not to give up. You will want to. A moment will come, very soon, when you will be tempted to give in, to cease caring. You will doubt yourself and the future. Please, Dana, do not. Much will depend upon the decision you will make. You have great inner strength, more than you have ever been aware of. When the time comes, use it. Look into your heart and you will find what you need.”

Scully nodded slowly. “Yes, okay. Very good. You used to work for Hallmark, right?” She rubbed her eyes again. “I’ll tell you what I’m hoping right now,” she continued. “I’m really, really hoping you are an hallucination brought on by fatigue, a bit of undigested beef perhaps, and when I open my eyes again, you’ll be gone.” She stopped rubbing but kept her eyes shut. “Okay, are you gone yet?”

”No,” came the Stranger’s voice.

”I didn’t think so.” Scully sighed and opened her eyes. Sure enough, he was still there, very solid and real. She studied his face, tried to get a glimpse of the eyes beneath the hat brim. “I’m not going to ask you what you are,” she said, “because I know you’ll say something weird and I’ll be tempted to shoot you. If I find you have mirrors on your shoes, I will not hesitate.”

The Stranger smiled again. “It wouldn’t have much of an effect, I’m afraid.”

” But I’d enjoy it. Really.”

The Stranger raised his hand in a gesture of farewell. “Remember what I have told you, Dana Scully. Everything you will need is already inside you. I have faith that you will make the right choices.”

”Then why did you have to run me down in the ladies’ room?”

“You would like the truth?’

“I would,” Scully said, nodding. “I keep hearing it’s out there.”

“Very well. I have walked the earth for a staggering span of years. I have seen almost everything and been almost everywhere. I have journeyed to hell itself and I have traveled to distant stars. But in all that time, I have never seen the inside of a women’s restroom. I was… curious.”
This succeeded in rendering Scully temporarily speechless. She was trying to frame a response, when the Stranger spoke again.

“Tell me,” he said, gesturing toward the opposite wall, “why are there no urinals in this restroom?”
Scully glanced in the direction the Stranger had indicated and stared blankly at the row of stalls. Her eyebrows went up. She said, “Damn, you really ARE a Stranger.” She turned back around and started to speak. “Are you being serious…”

But the Stranger was gone. Just like that. No noise, no puff of smoke, nothing.

Scully shook her head. She resolved that if she ever met this phantom of the lavatory again, he would pay for his little joke. Not the cryptic prophesy. That was par for the course. The thing about the urinals, though, that was too much.

A fucking comedian.

All that was left for her now was to shrug and sigh and jump back into the meat grinder.

It was going to be one of THOSE days.


GOTHAM CITY
NOON

“I understand, Clark,” Bruce Wayne said into the telephone receiver, with a hint of exasperation. “And you know I’m not
unsympathetic. But I just don’t see what I can do. Whatever happened in Seattle was terrible, but the rest of you are far better equipped to handle it than I am. If you need me, you know I’ll be available. But Gotham is where I belong. This city is just starting to get back on its feet, and after what happened this morning, people are scared to death. And frightened people can be dangerous people.” He listened for a moment, then spoke again. “Of course. You know how to get in touch with me. I know you’ll do your best. Goodbye.”

Wayne hung up the phone on the bedside table and leaned back against his pillows for a moment, rubbing his forehead. He had just had three hours of sleep, which was about average for him. He had long ago mastered relaxation techniques which made three hours of repose the equivalent of a full night’s sleep. A thin shaft of brilliant sunlight streamed through a space between the heavy drapes covering the large windows of Wayne Manor’s master bedroom.
“Happy New Year,” he muttered sourly. He was deeply concerned about what had happened in Seattle, but he had moved that concern to the back of his mind. There was little or nothing he could do about Seattle, but much he could and needed to do in Gotham. The city was in the first stages of recovery from the earthquake that had devastated it a year ago. The previous evening, in fact, had been his first night back in his family home. Reconstruction of the mansion was underway, but it was being done slowly and discreetly by a handful of individuals who could be trusted with the mansion’s secrets.

One of those individuals, who was trusted not only with the mansion’s secrets, but with the Batman’s as well, was Alfred Pennyworth. Alfred was Bruce Wayne’s oldest friend. More family than friend, actually. The only constant in his life.

Wayne recognized the tapping at his chamber door as Alfred’s. “Come in,” he said distractedly, his mind still on the events of the morning. Alfred entered in his usual quiet, unobtrusive manner. Alfred was such a fixture in Bruce Wayne’s life that he sometimes took his manservant’s presence for granted. And whenever he caught himself doing that, he corrected himself as quickly and severely as he could. Taking people for granted was something he didn’t want to get into the habit of doing. The nature of his work—his obsession—sometimes made him self-centered and unnaturally focused. He walked a very fine line
between the man he was and the mission he had undertaken.

“Come in,” Wayne said. He could tell immediately by the expression on the older man’s face that something was very wrong. Alfred handed him a sheaf of computer printouts. “I just received these from Miss Oracle, sir,” he said gravely. “She told me to bring them to your attention immediately.” Wayne thanked him and took the papers. Alfred stood by, an expression of deep concern on his face.

Wayne studied the papers, then looked up into his old friend’s eyes. Alfred gasped. He had never, in all the years he’d been associated with Bruce Wayne, seen such an expression of raw fear on the man’s face.

“My God,” Wayne said. “My ... God.” He stood for a moment, still, silent.

Alfred Pennyworth watched as Wayne’s features slowly hardened into a grim, impassive mask. When he spoke again, every trace of Bruce Wayne was gone. Alfred shuddered. He had watched many times over the years as Bruce Wayne had taken on the frightening persona of his dark alter-ego. But this time was different. Alfred had never seen the transformation so
intense, so complete. The man standing before him now was the Batman, completely and totally.
“This is very, very bad,” said Batman. “Someone killed those children and raised them again. Those blood circles around the graves? That’s necromancy, Alfred. The summoning of the dead. Necromancers can sometimes use the dead they’ve raised to perform certain tasks.”

“Good Lord,” Alfred said. “But, sir. When I say this, I am in no way minimizing the tragedy of what happened to these children. But they were ... are ... only children. What can they do that might be so terrible?”

Batman looked at his oldest friend. His eyes were cold. “There are a few things you don’t know about some of my associates. I don’t suppose I’m violating any confidences telling you this, since they are—technically—dead now. Billy Batson, Mary Bromfield and Freddy Freeman led double lives. Literally. The story is a bit complicated, but what it comes down to is this: Those three children are actually three of the most powerful beings on the planet. The Marvel Family, Alfred.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes. Do you see the implications? These graves were opened yesterday. This morning at 6 a.m. SOMETHING ripped through the city of Seattle ...”

“Sir, you don’t think ...?”

“I never guess, Alfred. And I never jump to conclusions. There may be no connection at all. On the other hand, I’ve never believed in coincidence. I hate to leave Gotham at a time like this, but I HAVE to look into this thing. I could hand this off to the League, but they’re already busy dealing with the damage that’s already been done. If we are dealing with the Marvel Family under some kind of occult control, we need to know for certain. Or Seattle could happen again. It could happen here. This city has been through enough.”

“I am certain Master Dick and Master Tim can help keep order here, sir.”

“They’ll have to. I don’t want then to know anything about this. It could be far too dangerous.” He took a deep breath, released it slowly. “I’ll be leaving for Fawcett City within the hour. I need you to do a couple things for me before I go. First, find out anything else you can on these grave robberies. Who’s investigating, what they’ve found out, if anything. Second, get me anything you can on necromancy, the raising of the dead, that sort of thing—ESPECIALLY information on how to reverse the process. If that’s possible.”

“Perhaps I should phone Mister Blood, sir.”

“Good idea.” Jason Blood was an old acquaintance of both Bruce Wayne and the Batman, and an expert on occult matters. He also shared his existence with a totally amoral, utterly vicious demon called Etrigan, but that was another story. Batman nodded. “You do that, Alfred, while I go down to the cave and get ready. Oh, and Alfred—“

The manservant was already on his way out of the room but turned his head and stopped. “Yes, sir?”

“I know we’ve never discussed religion. I choose to keep my own beliefs to myself. But you’re Church of England, aren’t you?”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “You’re stereotyping again, Master Bruce. I am in fact a Unitarian.”

“Oh.” The Batman was silent for a moment, then he said, very quietly, “You might want to say a prayer for me. For all of us.”

And that frightened Alfred Pennyworth more than anything he had ever heard in his life.
Frank Black was tired and confused. He had a horrible feeling of foreboding, stronger than anything he’d ever felt in his life. He was scared, he had no trouble admitting that to himself. Something very big and very dark was happening. And it was just beginning.

He was in a motel room in Portland, Oregon. He’d been on his way back to Seattle, back home, with his daughter Jordan, when he’d heard the unbelievable news.

There was no more Seattle to go back to. No yellow house. No anything. All his friends, his associates in the Seattle P.D ... Gone.

And no one knew why or how.

According to the latest reports on CNN, the Army had determined that there was no danger from radiation. Teams from all branches of the service had moved into the area to find a scene of incredible devastation. Members of the Justice League were rumored to be at the scene, though that had yet to be confirmed. The White House had been silent, save for a routine expression of shock and dismay from the president, a request for national unity in this time of crisis and prayers for the residents of the affected area and their loved ones.

Same old S***. Rumors flew. It had been a sneak attack by China or Russia or Korea or someone else, some new kind of radiation-free bomb. Mongul had returned from the dead and was once again trying to transform the earth into a new Warworld; the inevitable comparisons with the Coast City disaster were drawn by numerous commentators. But, when all
was said and done, no one knew anything.

Except that a city was dead.

Frank sat in a chair by the window, staring blankly at the silent television, aerial shots of the area surrounding Seattle, taken
from news choppers at the very limit of the military-imposed no-fly zone. Fragments of buildings, smashed vehicles, uprooted trees ...
And bodies.

Piles and piles of bodies.

Frank thumbed the remote control and the set went dark. He looked over to one of the twin beds where his daughter lay sleeping. She was so peaceful, so sweet. He was overcome for a moment with sickness and sorrow and anger that she would have to face a world things like Seattle could happen. She didn’t deserve it. She’d already lost so much, endured so much. And now this. What was happening? Where would it lead? How would it affect Jordan?

Frank bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood. God, how he missed Catherine. He still loved her so much. In a way, he was glad she was gone, glad she wouldn’t have to face whatever was coming. But he’d give anything, do anything, just to speak with her one more time. God damn it, Frank thought. God damn it to hell.

Jordan came awake suddenly, gasping, sitting upright, startling Frank. He jumped from the chair and moved to the side of her bed. Her eyes were wide open and so was her mouth. She made small, inarticulate sounds. Frank took her by the shoulders, shook her gently. “Jordan, honey. It’s me, it’s daddy. Are you okay?”

She stared at him for a moment with no sign of recognition, her eyes totally blank. Then she seemed to focus, to come back from wherever she had been, and she threw her arms around her father’s neck.

“Daddy,” she said softly. “I saw them. I SAW them.”

“Who, honey?” Frank asked, stroking her hair. “Who did you see?”

She pulled away from him so she could look him in the eyes. “The three black angels. The ones who killed all the people and smashed all the buildings. I saw them.”

“Black angels?”

“Yes,” the girl said, nodding vigorously. “Three of them. Two men and a woman. They did it. They were killing people and knocking down trees and throwing cars ...”

“Settle down, sweetheart. You had a dream, that’s all.” But it WASN’T all, Frank knew. Jordan had a gift, the same gift he himself had. The gift that made him who he was. The gift he hated.

“No, daddy,” Jordan insisted. “It wasn’t a regular dream.” She became grave. “I know the difference. I SAW them, like it was happening right in front of me. They were black angels and they were very strong. And they had lightning on them.”

“Lightning?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded again, patting her small chest with the palm of her hand. “Right here. And daddy ...” Her eyebrows came together and she pursed her lips.

“What, honey?”

“They didn’t look like they were alive, daddy. They looked like dead people. Their faces were all purple. They had ... their eyes were lighted up yellow.”

Frank felt a chill and realized that sweat had popped out on his forehead. He wiped it away with his hand.

“And they flew, daddy,” Jordan continued. “They could fly, and they were SO strong, nobody could stop them. The police shot at them, but it didn’t work.”

Frank hugged her to his chest, kept stroking her hair. “I know, honey. I know. It’s bad. You calm down. Try to forget about it. They won’t hurt us.”

Her face pressed to her father’s chest, voice muffled, Jordan said, “Yes they will. They will. They’re going to kill everyone.”

Frank was about to make another meaningless, reassuring remark, one they both would know was nothing more than a comforting lie, when the telephone rang. Frank stiffened. Who would be calling him here? No one even knew where they were. Maybe it was just one of the motel staff calling about something or other. Frank patted his daughter’s head and reached over to the little table between the beds, picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“This is who we are,” came a voice. A familiar voice. A voice Frank had come to hate. “This is what we do.”

Frank Black stood up, turned away from his little girl, spoke softly into the phone. “Peter? Peter Watts?”

“Yes, Frank. It’s me.”

“You sonofabitch,” Frank said coldly. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“But you didn’t, Frank. I don’t blame you for wanting to. You never understood. You weren’t ready, you hadn’t seen enough. Maybe now you have.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Seattle, Frank. I’m talking about Seattle.”

Frank experienced a moment of vertigo, an unsettling mixture of near-panic and physical sickness. His vision blurred and he blinked his eyes rapidly. His breathing became heavy and ragged. “Do you ...” he began, but his voice was nothing but a low, inaudible croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Do you know what happened to Seattle?”

Yes, Frank. I do. I did it.”

Frank had to sit down on the other bed. Jordan was watching him, eyes wide, her expression one of deep concern. I must look like hell, he thought. “You ... did it?”

“Frank, listen to me. That isn’t important right now. I want to see you. I want to offer you a place in the world that’s coming. I haven’t given up on you, Frank. I want you to survive this. You and Jordan.”

Frank gritted his teeth. “Watts,” he said. “You ... filthy ... you ...” He was as angry as he had ever been. He couldn’t think of a word vile enough to express what he was feeling. He gripped the receiver tightly, wishing it was Peter Watts’ throat.

“Listen to me, Frank,” Watts continued calmly. “What happened to Seattle will happen again. To New York, Los Angeles, Metropolis, Gotham City, Tokyo, London ...”

“Where are you, Watts?” Frank choked out. “Where can I find you? Face me, you bastard. Let me have five minutes with you, you—“

“Please, Frank. I know you’re upset. I understand. But you want a future for Jordan, don’t you? You can’t stop what’s going to happen. No one can. Meet with me. Listen to what I have to say. Please?”

Frank, breathing heavily, stared into his daughter’s face. Her eyes were filling with tears. Frank felt dead inside. “Okay,” he said after a long silence. “I’ll meet you. Where and when?”

LEXCORP TOWER
3:14 p.m.
“I dislike aliens,” Luthor remarked to his visitor. They had been talking almost non-stop for seven hours, with only a short break for a light lunch. Now, they were seated side-by-side at a conference table in a room adjoining Luthor’s office, looking over a stack of documents the other man had brought with him.

“I don’t care for them very much myself,” the other man admitted. “But in this case, they are the devil I know.”

“They want to colonize this planet,” Luthor said. “Take control. Make us into slaves. Or worse.”

“And the Millennium Group,” the man said, lighting another cigarette, “wants to DESTROY the world. Or most of it. They’ve been laying the groundwork for a long, long time. Their secrecy was impeccable, I must admit. It was only by chance that I was able to discover what I have. I don’t suppose you heard about what happened to Ra’s Al Ghul?”

Luthor was surprised. “Happened to him? No, I haven’t heard.” It was Luthor’s impression that things didn’t “happen to” Ra’s Al Ghul. Ra’s made things happen to other people. Luthor had for years been developing plans to deal with the Demon’s Head, as he was known, should he become a serious threat. It was Ra’s Al Ghul’s ambition to wipe out most of the human race and start over again—with himself as leader of the survivors. Fortunately, every one of his schemes had been thwarted by The Batman. Luthor had never relished the idea of facing off against the powerful leader of the secret worldwide organization known, among other things, as the League of Assassins.

“He’s dead,” the smoking man remarked casually. “For real this time. His body was found a few miles outside of Jerusalem just a week ago. He’d been crucified and decapitated. Also staked through the heart with what some people believe was a fragment of the True Cross. All of his enclaves were destroyed, his followers scattered or killed. His daughter is missing, presumed dead.”

“And the Millennium Group did this?”

The man nodded. “That’s what my sources tell me. Eliminating the competition.”

“My God,” Luthor said. “That is incredibly ... disturbing. That they could dispose of Ra’s Al Ghul as casually as that ...”

The smoking man nodded agreement. “And Seattle. Don’t forget Seattle.”

“They have to be stopped,” Luthor said flatly. “They will be. If we have to get into bed with your alien friends, so be it. That will at least buy us some time. We can deal with the colonists later.”

“You’re a man after my own heart, Luthor,” the smoking man said, smiling dimly. “In that neither of us is needlessly encumbered by one. I always intended to stab them in the back when I got a chance. I just never knew how I was going to accomplish it. I believe you are the man for the job. But, as you say, first things first.”

“Indeed. The Millennium Group has a formidable force at its disposal, if what you say is true, and I have no reason to think that it isn’t. Some of my contacts in the government have informed me that human handprints have been found in steel girders and automobiles inside the Seattle perimeter. Notice I said IN, not ON. Some of them were several inches deep.”

“In solid steel.”

“Yes. So we’re dealing with ... entities ... who can, to coin a phrase, bend steel in their bare hands. It may be a cliché, but I’ve always found that it’s best to fight fire with fire. I think it’s time we had a look at this ‘black oil’ of yours.” He gestured at the papers they’d been studying. “If I grasp the molecular makeup analyses you’ve shown me correctly, I think we can make some suitable modifications.” He leaned across the table to touch a button on the intercom box. “Mercy,” he said. “Have laboratory number four prepared. I’m going to be doing a little work. And bring me the contents of the vault.”

“The vault?” came a female voice from the speaker. “You mean ...?”

“Yes, Mercy. The kryptonite.” Luthor leaned back in his chair, smiling at his guest. The other man lit yet another cigarette, returning Luthor’s smile.

They looked like a pair of sharks who had just found a particularly choice piece of prey.


LEXAIR FLIGHT 401
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN WASHINGTON D.C. AND FAWCETT CITY
5 p.m.
Mulder and Scully felt as bad as they looked, if not worse. They were clean and groomed, but nearly slack-jawed with fatigue. Scully felt as though she might go catatonic at any moment. Mulder, his right arm in a sling, stared out the window at the clouds beneath them, occasionally popping a sunflower seed into his mouth. They hadn’t talked much during the
flight. Scully had not yet told him of her encounter with the stranger in the ladies’ room. She still wasn’t certain it had actually happened, but her skepticism had taken so many mortal blows lately that she supposed she could believe just about anything now.

Zombies. Phantom strangers in restrooms. Cities disappearing in minutes. Happy New Year, Dana. Let auld acquaintance be forgot—like sanity and stability—and days of auld lang sine. God Almighty, someone please kill me now.

And the plane lurched so violently that she was almost dumped from her seat.

“I was just KIDDING!” she shouted, then looked around her, slightly embarrassed. Mulder, along with everyone else nearby, was staring at her.
The plane was still vibrating a little, but stabilizing.

“What the hell WAS that?” Mulder asked.

“I don’t know. It didn’t feel like any ordinary turbulence I’ve ever encountered,” Scully whispered, so as not to alarm anyone around them. “And I’ve done quite a bit of flying.”

Mulder nodded. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. Maybe we should—“ He was interrupted by the voice of the pilot coming over the loudspeaker.

“Attention, this is the captain. Everyone please remain calm, we just encountered a bit of ordinary turbulence. Everything is under control.” The “Please Fasten Your Seatbelts” signs were flashing. “I would like to ask you to fasten your belts in case we encounter any further ... bad weather.”

Mulder and Scully looked at one another. The pilot’s pause had told them what they wanted to know—or, rather, what they really DIDN’T want to know—something weird had happened.

Without a word, they both stood and moved toward the front of the plane. A pair of stewardesses started to protest, but Mulder and Scully flashed their FBI badges and kept going. The stews followed behind, but didn’t try to stop them as they approached the cabin. Mulder pushed the door open without ceremony and they went in. The pilot and co-pilot both turned and said in unison, “What the hell?”

“FBI,” Mulder said, displaying the badge. “Now I’ll ask you: What the hell? Just happened, I mean.”

The pilot, a heavyset man in his fifties, said, “Look brother, you can’t just come barging in here.”

“Well,” Mulder replied, “seeing as how we just have, how about it? That wasn’t ordinary turbulence.”

“Yes it was,” the pilot insisted. “We hit a ... low-pressure zone,
and --.”

“Oh, hell,” said the co-pilot, a much younger fellow with a blond crew cut. “Let’s tell them the truth. They’re with the government. Maybe the KNOW something.”

The pilot frowned. Finally, he said, “Well, why not? The tower wouldn’t tell us anything.” He turned to face the two agents. “We encountered three bogeys.”

“Bogeys,” Mulder said. “You mean UFOs?”

“Yeah,” said the co-pilot. “But not like regular UFOs. These were WEIRD.”

Mulder skipped the obvious retort and said, “What do you mean by that?”

“They were SMALL,” the co-pilot continued, warming to his story. “No bigger than—well, an average human being, I guess. We didn’t actually SEE them, but the radar painted them briefly. They shot by us, oh, I’d say as close as a hundred yards or so. And they were MOVING. Mach 5 at least. They were churning the hell out of the air in their wake. That’s what we hit. I’ve never seen anything like THAT. And then they were gone. Off the radar screen in less than a second.”

“Damn,” Mulder said. Unable to come up with anything else, he said it again.

“What direction were they heading?” Scully asked.

“Roughly northeast,” the pilot said hurriedly, eager to take the spotlight away from the co-pilot for a while. “In fact, if they stay on the same heading they were on when they passed us, they ought to wind up over Chicago within the hour. That’s the closest major city in that direction.”
Mulder looked at his partner. “Why does this scare the crap out of me, Scully?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “But I’m right there with you.”

“You don’t have any family in Chicago, do you?” Mulder asked. Scully and the flight crew all responded in the negative. Mulder sighed. “Neither do I. And for some reason, I’m very glad.”

No one could think of anything to say after that. The silence in the cabin became uncomfortable and Mulder and Scully meekly returned to their seats.


UNFINISHED BUSINESS: Gotham X 3 Part Two




BRUCE WAYNE’S PRIVATE LEAR JET
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN GOTHAM AND FAWCETT CITY
5:12 p.m.


The Batman was pretending for the moment to be Bruce Wayne. He found it more difficult than usual and was grateful that he didn’t have an audience at the moment. The little jet was on autopilot and Batman was sitting back in his seat in the cockpit, studying the book Jason Blood had sent him by special messenger before he’d left Gotham. The volume was at least a hundred years old and was bound in something that looked disturbingly like human skin.

The name of the book was The Necromancer, written in the mid-19th century, as far as he could judge from internal evidence such as grammar and topical references (there was no date or publisher information on the flyleaf), by someone named Johanna Constantine. It was, frankly, a sick and repulsive piece of work. It featured detailed instructions on the raising and controlling of the dead. If someone had done these things to Billy, Mary and Freddy, that someone needed to be put down fast.

Unfortunately, the author of the book had been more concerned with raising the dead than with putting them back where they belonged. Only a small part of one of the chapters was devoted to spells and methods of protection against the raised dead. You could protect yourself against them and control them to an extent, but the only way to return them permanently
to the grave was to inflict severe trauma on the brain. Johanna Constantine recommended removing the organ, preparing it with certain herbs believed to have mystical powers, and eating it. Batman decided he would settle for inflicting the trauma.

That, however, wouldn’t be easy.

It might even be impossible.

He radioed ahead to the Waynetech office in Fawcett and made what the staff there considered a very bizarre request. He told them he would like to have several large bags of kosher salt waiting for him at the hotel room he’d reserved. The office manager had merely shrugged, said, “The rich are different,” and had one of the clerks go out and purchase the salt with
money from petty cash. Salt, for some reason, affected the animated dead in much the same way kryptonite did a certain acquaintance. Batman could not imagine why. The human body, even after death, contains a certain amount of salts, and these are necessary for proper functioning. Perhaps, he mused, additional salt causes a kind of “overdose." Or perhaps it is a totally arbitrary rule, of the kind that prevails in the world of magic. He snorted. He really, really did not like magic. Any system that operated totally removed from the scientific logic that was almost a religion to him... Well, he just didn't like it. However, as his father used to tell him, "You may not like it, but it's a fact of life."

He was a little surprised that he’d been able to get through so easily. He had tried repeatedly to get in touch with the League via his signal device, but hadn’t been able to make contact. After he finished speaking with the Fawcett office, he tried to shut off the radio. He found to his surprise that he couldn’t turn the knob. This plane had just had a complete overhaul. Had someone overlooked the radio?

Static came from the small speaker, then a jumble of sounds, the ghosts of several different radio stations at once. That was odd. This radio wasn’t supposed to pick up commercial broadcast frequencies. Gradually, one by one, the stations faded away until there was only one left. One song ended and another began. The Batman was by no means a pop music aficionado, but he recognized this song, which had been popular during his youth. Being possessed of near-total recall, he had no trouble identifying the song, the only chart-topping tune by a “one-hit-wonder” band called Paper Lace.

The song was The Night Chicago Died.

Stupid song, he thought, trying once again to twist the knob, with no success. He sighed and stopped trying, went back to studying the book, ignoring the radio.
The song played to its end. The sound from the speaker abruptly ceased, causing Batman to look up from the book. He started to reach for the knob, to try once again. It was now in the “off” position. Batman’s eyes narrowed. Something decidedly odd had just happened. What it meant, he didn’t know, but he was sure there was meaning in it. He could feel it. His instincts were good, and he trusted them implicitly. He filed the peculiar incident away for the moment and had one more go at the book, hoping to find something he’d missed. But there was nothing else. If this book is the final word on the subject, he thought, then we are all in deep trouble.
He took the plane off autopilot and prepared for the final approach to the Fawcett City Airport.

SOMEWHERE NEAR FAWCETT CITY
6 p.m.
Doctor Thaddeus Bodog Sivana, not the bravest or noblest of men even at the best of times, was currently scared witless. Why, oh, why had he gotten involved with these people? What in the hell were they DOING?
It had dawned on him earlier in the day that he was virtually being kept prisoner in this house. Hell, there was no “virtually” to it; he WAS a prisoner. That Watts character ... He was up to something far deeper and darker than he had led Sivana to believe. When this “Millennium Group” had approached him and offered to compensate him very generously indeed for his assistance, he had jumped on the deal like a hungry mutt on a porterhouse steak. They were, they told him, planning to take over the world, an ambition that he could understand and admire since he shared it. And he had possessed hubris enough to think that he could control the terms of the deal he would make, thus securing for himself a prominent place in the world to come.

He brought to the table with him a wonderful bargaining chip, one that, he now realized, he had given up much too easily. He was one of the few people on Earth who knew the secrets behind three of the most formidable creatures on the face of the planet. They were also Sivana’s mortal enemies; they had crossed him up time after time. He had been happy to sell them out.

But that was last week.
Today, he was wishing he’d played his hand a bit differently. Or perhaps not at all.

Today, he was wishing he’d never heard of Peter Watts and the Millennium Group.

Today he was wishing he hadn’t given Peter Watts an introduction to a worm from Venus.

Today, he was wishing he hadn’t picked the locked door of his bedroom in this place and snuck down the stairs and seen the report on CNN about what had happened to Seattle.

Today, he was seriously thinking that it might have been a very good thing if he had never been born at all.

BECK GARDENS CEMETERY
FAWCETT CITY
8:04 P.M.

The police were gone, but they had left their yellow tape behind, stretched from a series of wooden spikes driven into the ground, to offer its feeble protection to the disturbed graves of three young people. The police had also left behind a halogen lamp on a metal tripod, powered by a large battery. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Something felt wrong about it. The two agents had slipped into town and then into the cemetery after deliberately omitting to announce their presence to local law enforcement. Had they encountered guards, they would have bluffed their way through. They hadn’t expected a setup like this.

The cemetery was actually in the city proper, just a few blocks from the downtown area. It was an old cemetery, some of the tombstones dating back to the late 1700s. It had been here when Fawcett was just a small trading outpost on the banks of the Mississippi and had watched the city grow around it.

Despite its proximity to a densely inhabited area, the place was quiet and had an out-of-the-way feel to it. They might have been in a remote rural graveyard, Scully reflected, had it not been for the faint sounds of traffic and city life drifting over the high stone fence, just audible over the swishing of the wind through the leaves of the huge old oaks that grew there. Some of the trees might have been here as long as the graveyard itself. Scully found that thought strangely sad and disturbing. It reminded her of the piles of uprooted trees she’d seen on television earlier in the evening at their hotel, part of CNN’s awful, eternal coverage of the Seattle disaster. That had happened just 14 hours ago, Scully realized with mild surprise. It felt like years.

Trees and cities that took centuries to grow could be wiped out in minutes. There was no such thing as safety. She pulled the collar of her overcoat up around her neck. It was cold and she was tired and frightened. But she had a job to do. Seattle was gone, but the rest of the world was still here, and it wouldn’t just stand still. People had to be fed, streets had to be cleaned, and crimes had to be investigated.

Panic-induced riots had broken out in major cities all over the world. Oddly, from what she’d seen on television, Gotham City was one of the few major population centers that had been spared this phenomenon. She supposed the citizens had taken a “thank God it isn’t us this time” attitude. She wondered what Bruce Wayne was doing right now.

She stood, watching her partner walk slowly back and forth in front of the open graves, peering into each one in turn. “Deja vu all over again,” Mulder said. “The caskets are in the same shape as the ones we saw yesterday. The lining appears to have been clawed at by whoever was inside. So, where do we go from here? We know it isn’t our boy Johnson. He’s still safely locked up.”

“He wasn’t locked up yesterday,” Scully pointed out.

“But he WAS a thousand miles away, more or less,” Mulder countered. “Maybe he could raise the dead, but I doubt he could be in two places at the same time.”

“Mulder, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you reject an impossibility as a possibility in an investigation.”

“I’ve probably been influenced by this chick I hang out with. She’s a scientist, see. A real no-nonsense, by-the-book stickler for logic.”


“’Chick?’ Since when do you use words like that to describe women?”
“I was going for shock value,” he replied, giving her a sad, tired smile, which she returned. Mulder sighed. “You know who we could use right now? The Batman. He could tie this thing up in no time.”

“You may be overestimating me,” came a voice from the darkness beyond the lamplight.

Mulder and Scully both turned quickly to face the direction from which the voice had come. They had both drawn their guns. They peered into the darkness but saw nothing thanks to the glow from the lamp. The voice came again, this time from behind them:

“Would you mind putting those things away? I’ve told both of you how I feel about them.”

Mulder, recognizing the voice at last, holstered his weapon. Scully let her arm drop, but held on to her gun. Mulder smiled a little, squinting at he spot from which the voice seemed to have come. He couldn’t see or hear anything, but he said, “Is that you?”

A dark figure moved from the gloom into the light. “Of course. You realize, don’t you, that anyone in the world could truthfully answer ‘yes’ to that question. You should be more specific.” The figure came closer.

“I’ll be damned,” Mulder said. It was him all right. He looked like a man-sized piece of darkness come to life, detached from the rest of the night beyond the lighted circle. The blackness was broken only by the yellow oval on the chest and the fainter pale blur of the mouth and jaw beneath the cowl.

“Speak of the devil,” Mulder said as he stepped over to shake hands with The Batman.

“These are bat ears, not horns.”

I know,” Mulder replied. “But, y’know, they don’t really LOOK like a bat’s ears. Bats’ ears are more ...”

“Mulder,” Batman said, “let’s skip the journey into absurdity. I’m here on very serious business. I expect you are too.”

“Yeah,” Mulder said. “Yeah, we are. Uh, you know my partner, I believe?”
“Yes,” Batman said, nodding at Scully. “Nice to see you again, Agent Scully.”

“Nice to see you, too,” she replied, finally putting her pistol away, satisfied that this was indeed who it seemed to be. “What brings you so far from home?”

“This. These graves. I don’t know why the FBI is involved, unless you know more than I think you do about the kids who were buried here. I’d have thought this would be a matter for local law-enforcement.”

“Well,” Mulder said, “this is just the latest in a series.” He quickly related the previous day’s events to The Batman. “What I can’t figure,” he concluded, “is why these kids were ... uh, necromanced. It seems highly unlikely that they would have been members of the Millennium Group, they were murdered rather than committing suicide. ... None of it adds up.”

“I’m afraid it does,” Batman said. “These were not ordinary kids. This is bad. Very bad. Probably worse than anything any of us has ever encountered.”

Mulder’s eyebrows went up. “Even worse than the last time we met? What could be worse than the original Jack the Ripper making himself immortal?”

“Mulder,” the Batman said evenly, “this will make the original Jack the Ripper, along with the Boston Strangler, the Son of Sam, the Yorkshire Ripper and Mr. Zsasz seem like a pleasant afternoon’s diversion.” He proceeded to explain why Billy Batson, Mary Bromfield and Freddy Freeman were so special. The color had drained from both of the agents’ faces long before he finished.

“That,” Mulder managed to say, “is what I would categorize as a very, VERY bad thing. A 10 on the Bad Things scale.”

“Try eleven,” Batman replied. “Or higher. You remember my colleague who gave us a ‘ride’ into Gotham last year? Each one of these ‘kids’ is easily as powerful as he is. Maybe more. And there are three of them.”

“Lord. And you think they may have been responsible for Seattle?”

“It’s possible. If they wanted to, they could take Seattle—or any other city for that matter—off the map before breakfast. Which is just what happened. And I’ve saved the worst for last. Their power comes from magic.”

Mulder winced and Scully rolled her eyes.

They were all silent for a moment, the only sound the breeze moving through the trees and gently ruffling the Batman’s cloak.

“There’s something else I’m concerned about,” Batman said after a time. “Tell me, have either of you heard of The Spectre?”

Scully nodded. “Wasn’t he one of the old-time superheroes? From the’40s? He had sort of a ghost motif, right? I thought he was dead.”

Batman actually laughed, but it was hollow and a little frightening. “Oh, yes. He’s dead all right.”

“I tried doing some research on him once,” Mulder put in. “We had a stack of cases involving anomalous deaths in the early ‘70s. People being turned into wood and sawed up, that kind of thing. There was a crooked fortune-teller that got turned into glass and then tipped over.” He ignored the look Scully gave him and forged ahead. “There were rumors that The Spectre was involved. But I came up blank. The FBI files on all the old Justice Society members are sealed until the year 2055. And, in case you’re interested,” he said directly to the Batman, “the files on the Justice LEAGUE are so far above Top Secret, I doubt even the Director has seen them. Of course, I have no idea what the DEO might have. I sometimes think they outrank the President.”

“I don’t know if that’s a comfort or not,” Batman replied.

“Don’t worry. I don’t think they even HAVE one on you. You being an ‘urban legend’ and all.”

“That is a comfort.”

“Wait just a second,” Scully interjected, gesturing with her hands. “Let’s back up here. Are you saying that this Spectre ... really was ... is ... whatever ... a ghost? Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me the ‘Martian Manhunter’ is actually from Mars.”

Batman sighed. “Regarding your question about The Spectre, yes and no. The story’s a bit complicated.” He pointed at the cross hanging around Scully’s neck. “I take it that’s not just for show? You have religious convictions?”

Scully nodded slowly, wondering where this was heading, not really wanting to find out.

“Did you ever wonder,” Batman went on, “what happened to God between the Old and New Testaments? His temper seemed to improve considerably, right?”

Scully nodded again.

“Well, The Spectre is actually the vengeful side of God’s personality,” the Batman went on, as calmly and matter-of-factly as though he were explaining how cats get hairballs. “It was sundered from the rest several centuries ago. It has existed since the beginning of civilization, meting out its own version of justice. The thing is, it needs a human host. Or, rather, the spirit of a dead human, to anchor it to our world. Don’t worry, Agent Scully, I felt the same way you do when I first heard the story. Theology is not my strong suit, and neither is magic. When the two are combined, it’s all I can do to keep my head above water. Mulder, I assume you have no problem with it?”

“Nope,” Mulder said. “It all sounds fine to me.”

“I figured it would. Scully, I further assume you dismiss this in its entirety. I don’t blame you. I don’t believe a word of it myself. Which does not change the fact that it’s all true.
“Anyhow, The Spectre’s last host did ‘die’ recently—that is to say, he was finally allowed to pass on to the afterlife. The Spectre has a new host now. A man I don’t trust any further than I can throw an automobile. Which I CAN’T do, by the way.

“He used to be a good man. He used to be Green Lantern, in fact. But something bad happened to him and he ... didn’t handle it very well. He went insane, changed his name to Parallax. He was at the bottom of a crisis we called ‘Zero Hour’ a couple of years ago. He played with the time stream, tried to restructure reality to his own liking. There were lots of temporal anomalies involved. You may have experienced some of the effects, though you probably don’t remember them very clearly now.”

Mulder recalled a particular day, a very bad Monday ... a ruptured waterbed, a bank robbery, a bomb ... a strange, pale girl who insisted she had met him before ... a sequence of events repeating itself over and over and over, until the strange girl put a stop to it.

Batman continued, “We put a stop to that, and he supposedly reformed, redeemed himself. But I still don’t trust him. Near-absolute power corrupted him once. The Spectre entity may have even more power than he usurped as Parallax. If this Millennium Group of yours is trying to bring about the Apocalypse, I’m sure The Spectre will be getting involved sooner or later. And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s tantamount to putting out afire with gasoline.”

Batman drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “However. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ You see,” he said, turning to Mulder, “even the devil may quote Scripture. Anyhow, the Spectre has yet to rear his head and we have enough on our plate as it is.” He glanced at Mulder, then at Scully.

“You have any objections to working together on this?”

“Hell no,” Mulder said. Scully shook her head. As Batman nodded, Mulder spoke again. “Just one thing, though. From everything I’ve heard about you—which admittedly isn’t much, you do a damn good job of covering your tracks—you’re something of a loner. Hell, you’re the ORIGINAL loner. Outside your immediate circle, I mean. You don’t have much of a reputation for trusting or working with anyone other than your own handpicked allies. So, why us?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why us? You hadn’t known me for 20 minutes before you let me come along when Scully was abducted—sorry, KIDNAPPED—by Two-Face. I could see how shocked Commissioner Gordon was. I have a theory, if you’d care to hear it.”

Batman nodded sharply. “Go ahead.”

“I’m a criminal profiler, you know,” Mulder began. “But profiling doesn’t necessarily have to be applied to criminal behavior. Any kind of—pardon the word I’m about to use—aberrant behavior can be grist for the profiler’s mill. And, no offense, but dressing up in a bat costume and fighting crime is pretty far off the beaten track.”

“A point I conceded to you a few months ago, as I recall.”

“That’s right. Do you remember the first thing you said to me when we met?”

“Yes. I said, ‘Be careful with this thing, Agent Mulder. You could get hurt,’ in reference to your gun, which I had just relieved you of.”
Scully snickered and Mulder shot her a look. “After that, I mean, “ he continued. “You knew my name, my assignment, what I was doing in Gotham. You’re thorough. I’ll bet you knew quite a bit more than that about me that night, didn’t you? You knew about my sister even before I told you, right?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you knew about my work. You knew how far outside the mainstream I really am, in spite of my position with the Bureau. I’m guessing that reminded you a little of someone you know? Guy about so tall, black cape, points on his head he thinks look like bat ears?”

Silence from the dark, cloaked figure. Mulder felt a little nervous now, but forged on. “You responded to something you learned about me. Maybe more than one thing. I’m not going to ask you to confirm or deny anything, but I’ll bet you lost someone once, just like I did my sister. I’ll bet that’s why you do what you do. We’re not that different, are we? You have
your Batcave, I have my office in the basement.”

Batman glanced at Scully, who was looking at him. They couldn’t make eye contact because of the Batman’s opaque white eye shields, but he had a pretty good idea of what she was thinking. She knew the truth about him. She had figured it out months before, in No Man’s Land, and she had kept it to herself. Mulder’s analysis was coming awfully close to that truth. But that was because he was good at what he did, Batman knew. Scully might be afraid right now that he, Batman, thought she’d revealed something to her partner. He knew she hadn’t, but there was no way for him to reassure her at the moment.

“Maybe,” Batman said to Mulder. “Everything you say might be right on the money. Perhaps I did respond to what I learned about you and Agent Scully and the things that have happened to you both over the years. And perhaps the impressions I formed were reinforced when I met you in person. I don’t trust easily, or lightly. But I haven’t lost the capacity to do so.

“And sometimes I NEED to. Tell me, Mulder, did you apply your profile to yourself? I noticed you were pretty quick to accept someone to whom you referred as ‘an anonymous man in a bat costume.’ Your logic cuts both ways. Thirty minutes after we met, you were trusting me with your life. Is that typical of you?”

“Hm. Well, you’ve got me there. No, it isn’t.”

“So, let me ask you: Why did YOU do it? Why me?”

Mulder shrugged. “I ... I don’t know, exactly. I just ... trusted you. I didn’t have a single logical reason to, but I did. Scully, Did you want to say something? Perhaps to the effect of since when do I need a logical reason to do anything?”

“No,” Scully said. “You aren’t an idiot, Mulder. You always have a logical reason for what you do—or at least what you believe to be a logical reason. And I have to admit, I responded the same way you did to our friend here.” And then some, she added to herself.

“So, Mulder said to Batman. “What you’re saying is ... we just hit it off?”
Batman held his hands out, palms upward. “Sometimes, Mulder, the truth is as simple as that. I’m a very good judge of character. I have to be. If I weren’t, I would have been dead years ago. When I met you, I believed you were worthy of my trust. You too, Agent Scully. And I was right.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mulder said. “You’re saying you LIKE us, aren’t you? That we’re buddies?” He ignored the poke in the ribs Scully gave him.

“I didn’t say that. And I don’t have ‘buddies.’”

“But you do like us?”

“You’re competent, you’re honest, you’ve maintained your integrity in the face of overwhelming adversity. I admire that. I respect it.”

“Yeah, but...” Scully finally poked him hard enough to bring a yelp of pain. “Let it go, Mulder,” she said. “You can work on reaching the Batman’s inner child after we deal with the current mess.”

“IF we can deal with it,” Batman said, relieved to steer the conversation in another direction, and grateful to Scully for making it happen. She really IS remarkable, he thought. “We’re looking at forces here that I normally consider to be outside my ‘jurisdiction.’ But they appear to have been set into motion by a human agency, and THAT I can deal with. Let’s get to work.”



CHIGACO, ILLINOIS
8:49 p.m.

Three black angels hovered high in the sky above the Windy City. They were silent, these three, like dark statues floating impossibly in the crisp winter sky. One was a man, one was a woman, one was a boy. Below them, the lights of the city lay spread out in a display that would have dazzled the three had they any human emotions. There was very little of that left in them now. Once they had been sunshine itself, bright and happy and full of life and color.

They did not look at the lights below them, the stars above them or even at one another.

They waited.
For the signal to begin their work.

The lights of Chicago burned and the citizens went about their business, enjoying, suffering or sleeping through the last hours of their lives.

The three black angels waited.

OUTSIDE FAWCETT CITY
11:04 p.m.

It was a little after eleven when Frank Black arrived at the address Peter Watts had given him. Jordan was asleep in the passenger seat of the Jeep. Frank pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine, sat for a while listening to the ticking and popping as the hot metal under the hood cooled down. Audible just above that was the gentle, rhythmic breathing of
his daughter.

The house was a box, a whitewashed, two-story, nondescript piece of work that could have been built at any time during that past 50 years. It was just like all the other houses surrounding it in this suburb of Fawcett.
Nothing remarkable about it at all. Except to Frank. He could feel sickness and malevolence radiating from the place.

The house was quiet and dark and there were no other vehicles parked nearby. Frank had debated with himself on the wisdom of coming here, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Was it a trap? Maybe. But Watts had sounded sincere. And even if it was a trap, what could Frank do? Peter Watts had already destroyed a city, if his story was to be believed, with the promise of more to come. Frank Black couldn’t fight that kind of power. But maybe, somehow, he could fight the man behind it Maybe he could kill Peter Watts, as he should have done months ago. By letting Watts live, Frank had condemned the city of Seattle to death. It wasn’t logical to feel that way, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. He had to make it right, as best he could. Even if it cost him his life, and even if it cost the life of his daughter. The kind of world Peter Watts was trying to make wouldn’t be a fit place for Jordan to grow up.

He scooped the girl up in his arms without waking her, opened the door of the Jeep and got out. He approached the quiet house slowly. There was no sign of habitation. A brief movement caught his eye in one of the upper windows. He noticed for the first time that the second-floor windows were all barred. He wasn’t sure he’d actually seen anything, but he had the
impression that a curtain had been drawn back for just a fraction of a second and a face had peered down at him. A bald man with buck teeth and thick-lensed glasses. But it was only a flash. Had it been real or was it one of Frank’s “visions?” He couldn’t tell.

He moved up the front steps, across the dark porch. He knocked at the door with his free hand.

Silence.

Then sound.

The door opened.
Peter Watts stood there, backlit by a single, shadeless lamp. For a moment, Frank was lost. Images raced through his mind. Three children, poisoned as they ate. Then dirt, piles of soft, fresh dirt, and a shovel flashing in moonlight. A phrase, muttered over and over again, and then a command. “Say the words.” Three flashes of lightning and in the cold cemetery suddenly there were three monsters. Three black angels.

The rush of impressions ended, leaving Frank swaying slightly, clutching Jordan. He was cold, all the way to his bones, and tired.

“Frank,” said Peter Watts.

“I’m here,” Frank replied.

“I’m glad. Please, come inside.” Watts held the door and Frank went in, avoiding physical contact with his former friend.

“You’re looking well, Frank,” Watts said, as though they were a couple of old college buddies meeting after a few years. The two men sat facing one another in large, overstuffed armchairs in the living room. The room was lit by a small lamp and several candles. The windows were covered with heavy black drapes. Jordan lay on a sofa, still asleep.

“Why did you do it, Peter?” Frank asked. “HOW did you do it?”

Sitting here, now, face-to-face, it was impossible to believe that this man, whom Frank had once trusted and considered a friend, had gone so bad. It just couldn’t be.

“Is that important, Frank?” Watts asked softly.

“I’d like to know.”

Watts nodded. “Maybe that’s best. Maybe if you see what is happening you’ll understand what you must do. This is the culmination, Frank, of everything the Millennium Group has done for the past thousand years. ‘And a strong angel took up a stone, as it were a great millstone, and cast it into the sea, saying “With this violence will Babylon, that great city, be overthrown, and will not be found any more.”’ The time has come. The angels are here. Babylon will die.”

“Peter, this is ... I just can’t ...”

“I want to show you something, Frank. Please, come with me.” Frank glanced quickly at the sleeping form of his little girl. “She’ll be okay, Frank. Nothing will happen to her, I promise.”

The two men stood. “I don’t know what these ‘angels’ are, Peter, but there are people who can stop them. Stop you.”

“I don’t think so,” Watts replied, shaking his head and smiling sadly. “In the months since I last saw you, I’ve been busy assembling a collection. Holy relics, Frank. I can deal with any opposition. That’s what I want to show you. Follow me.”

Peter Watts led Frank down a short hallway to a door. The basement, probably, Frank thought. Watts took a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. The steps were shrouded in gloom, but from somewhere below came a faint green glow. Frank blinked several times, trying to adjust his vision.


“It’s just down here. Take my hand.”
“No. I’m okay.” Frank groped for a handrail, found it. The two men descended in silence.
At the bottom of the steps, they rounded a corner. The green glow became much brighter and Frank could see its source.

It was a man. Or something shaped like a man, at any rate. The figure was up against the far wall of a small alcove, erect but slumped. The arms dangled at its sides and the knees buckled. Frank saw that it was pinned to the wall with something, a shaft of wood.

“Peter, what --?”

The figure, Frank could now see, wore a long green cloak and hood. The green glow came from a circle on its chest, from the middle of which protruded the shaft of wood. Its skin, if that’s what it was, was waxy and white as chalk. It twitched now and then and moaned softly, as though in troubled sleep.

“My God,” Frank said in a whisper. “Is that --?”

Watts nodded. “The Spectre, Frank. The most powerful paranormal being on earth. Do you see now? Are you beginning to understand?”

“How did you do this? What is that thing in his chest?”
“The Spear of Destiny. The most powerful relic on the planet. It pierced the side of Christ as he hung on the cross.”

“I know what the Spear of Destiny is,” Frank said with some irritation.

“Then you understand what’s in play here. The time is now, Frank. The Spear isn’t the only relic in my control. I believe I’m ready for anything anyone might throw at me. Amazon princesses, Atlantean kings ... even archangels. This is who we are. This is what we do. Will you join me at last?”

Frank Black sighed heavily. “I don’t think so, Peter.” He turned swiftly, removing the pistol from inside his jacket and pointing it at Watts. “This ends right here.” No more talking, Frank thought. No more explanations, no more pleas, nothing. He pulled the trigger seven times, emptying the clip.

Peter Watts stood before him, unharmed.

“I thought you might try that. I understand, really I do. But it’s too late for any of that. The time for that was months ago, and you didn’t do it. You can join me now or you can die.”

“I’m not going to join you. You’re sick, Peter. You need help.”

“No, Frank. You need help. But it’s too late, isn’t it? You’ll never understand. You’re an infidel. You cling to ideas that have no meaning in the world to come. I hate to do this. I’m going to show you one more thing. I don’t expect it to sway you. But I want you to see.”

“God damn you, Watts,” Frank said, raising his arm, intending to use the empty pistol as a club. “I WILL kill you.”

“No. You’re too late for it to do any good anyhow.”

Frank felt himself gripped from behind. A pair of hands, so cold he could feel the chill through the sleeves of his thick leather jacket, gripped his arms, twisting them behind his back. The useless gun clattered to the floor. Frank strained to look over his shoulder at whoever—whatever was holding him.

It was the face he thought he’d glimpsed in the window. A short, bald man in a lab coat. His skin was post-mortem purple and his eyes glowed yellow behind the Coke-bottle lenses of his glasses. “Oh, no,” Frank said.

“Bring him this way,” Watts said to the creature holding Frank. The little group moved away from the alcove where The Spectre was trapped and walked down a short, dark corridor. The keys came out again and another door was unlocked.

This room was almost totally bare, the walls unpainted wood, the floor concrete. It was lit by a single glaring bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling. The only ornamentation, if one could call it that, was a red circle painted on the floor in what looked like, and probably was, blood.
Human or animal, Frank couldn’t tell.

Watts unbuttoned and removed his shirt, dropping it in a corner and taking something out of a small wooden crate. A garment of some kind, a red sweater, Frank thought. Watts pulled it over his head. It was far too small for him and some of the seams along the side gave way. He went to the center of the circle and began to speak:

“I am the resurrection and the life. Whosoever believeth in me ...”

“STOP IT!” Frank shouted hoarsely. He didn’t know what Watts was up to, but he didn’t like it one bit. “SHUT UP!”

But Peter Watts continued his chant. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he stopped. He raised his head, spread his arms, and said a single word:
“Begin.”

From upstairs, Frank heard the shattering of glass and the splintering of wood. Two voices, one male, one female, shouted something he couldn’t understand.

“Jordan!” Frank cried.

At one minute past midnight on January 2, 2000, the three black
angels hovering patiently above the city of Chicago began their descent from
the heavens.

JOLIET, ILLINOIS
12:02 a.m.

On the whole, Felix Faust was feeling a lot more cheerful than he had in a long, long time. Knowing that you are condemned to hell when you die is not conducive to restful sleep or general enjoyment of life. But now he had a chance. To change things. To rearrange the order of the universe and avoid his sentence.

All thanks to his new friend, Peter Watts.

Things were going very well indeed. He had just hung up the telephone in the warehouse Watts had rented for him. A cold, anonymous voice had spoken three words that had filled Faust with joy.

“Constantine is dead.”

Faust had giggled like a child. He’d been worried about Constantine. The Englishman always seemed to know what was going on and had an annoying need to involve himself in it.

That threat was gone.

Faust moved through the gloomy warehouse, running his hands over the crates spaced neatly around the concrete floor. He could FEEL the power radiating from the objects inside. THIS time would be different. THIS was some serious magic.

This time, the Justice League would die.


black centipede creeping dawn