The Hooked Man

   "You're sure about this? A hook for a hand?"

   "Definitely. It just took me a bit to remember."

   Bruce and Crispus stood outside a small shop. The crackled neon sign above read "CUSTOM GUNS." Bruce glanced at Crispus; he didn't appear to have any memory of being possessed by Boston. Definitely for the better that way.

   Bruce and Crispus entered the shop. Crispus resisted the urge to sneer at the very air inside. It galled him that with all the violent crime in the city, this shop was allowed to remain open—especially here in North Gotham, where murder was more commonplace than birth.

   The shop owner was alone in the store; it being the daytime, most of his customers were nowhere to be found. At the sight of Crispus, the owner seemed to stiffen. Good, Crispus thought. He recognizes an out-of-uniform detective; he's connected.

   "How can I help you?" the man said, his eyes nervously looking back and forth between Bruce and Crispus.

   "Detective Allen," Crispus said, lifting his badge. "Have you sold any rifle attachments to accommodate an amputee?"

   "An amputee?"

   "For instance, a man with a hook on his left hand?"

   "...Wh-why would you come to me about this?"

   "We have reason to believe that a man with a hook on his left hand used a rifle to commit murder last night. You machine custom gun parts, is that right?"

   "Y-yes—"

   "So tell me."

   Bruce watched the shopkeeper's brain working rapidly behind his eyes, weighing the options. Bruce guessed it was between risking jail time and risking retribution from his customer.

   "Okay," he said, leaning in close. "Listen, I normally don't like to ask questions. I just make what the customer wants and leave it at that. But this guy... he scares me, man. He came in last week, with a big shiny hook on his left, like you said. Said he needed something to help him hold his gun. Gave me a blueprint for the design and everything."

   "You still have that blueprint?" Crispus asked.

   "Yeah." The man rummaged through a drawer near the front desk. "Here." He laid out the blueprint. The design showed an addition to the underside of a rifle; it had a circular hole with precise dimensions, as well as an intricately-carved design. It looked like a crest of some sort.

   "He wanted you to carve this into the gun?" Crispus asked, pointing to the crest.

   "I told him that wasn't my thing; I could make the piece, but I ain't an artist. He kinda sneered at me. Real creepy-like. Told me to just make the piece then. Then he left and came back two days ago to pick it up."

   "You get any information on him?"

   "So, like I said, I don't normally ask questions, but this guy was different. I asked a few of my buddies, and they said they heard about some kinda secret society meeting up at Walker Pier, in the East warehouse."

   "Secret society?"

   "That explains the crest," said Bruce.

   Crispus thought it all over for a few seconds. "Alright. Thanks for your cooperation. Mind if I take this?"

   The shopkeeper nodded vigorously. "Yeah; sure. Take it," he said, handing the blueprint to Crispus.

   As Crispus turned to leave, Bruce stopped. "Why are you so eager to help?" he asked the man. "You're five blocks from Crime Alley; surely you don't rat out all your customers like this."

   "...Like I said, man. This guy was creepy. And if he's really part o' some secret society... nobody needs that in Gotham. 'Sides, I hear about what they do to people like me. Outsiders who find out about 'em. They turn up dead. So, way I see it, you blue boys take 'em down, everyone's happy."

   "So what now?" Bruce asked once they were outside.

   "Now I call Montoya and have her do a check on Walker Pier. See if there really is anyone there. If there is, we might sweep in as early as tonight. Don't wanna risk them skipping town."

   "I want to be there."

   "No."

   "What?!"

   "Bruce, no. There's no way I'm letting you tag along in what's probably gonna be a gunfight."

   "I deserve this!"

   "You don't deserve a thing. You've helped, and I appreciate that. But you're also not a cop. You haven't taken that oath; you're not trained. Go home; I'll let you know if anything happens."

   Bruce turned and walked away.

   Bruce walked through what was now called "Old Gotham." It wasn't actually the oldest part of the city, but it the lively nature of the place had entirely disappeared in the last ten years, mostly replaced by corruption. The buildings were cracked and rotting; parents kept their children indoors. Most of the people in this part of the city were too poor to move anywhere else; they just did what they could to keep a living. Bruce passed an old movie theater that had long since shut down. He merely stared at it for a while, standing under the dark shadow of a nearby balcony. The street was entirely deserted.

   "You still here?" he said.

   Boston suddenly appeared, floating at his right. "Yeah. Now that Zatanna showed me it's possible, I can control whether or not people see and hear me in my ghost form. So, hey, you're not gonna just let them leave you outta this, are ya?"

   "What choice do I have?"

   "We go get this hook man before the cops show up."

   "...How?"

   "I can go float on over to the GCPD. See when they're planning their raid. Then you an' I can sneak in before they get there and grab that sonofa—"

   "Why do you need me for this? Couldn't you just go in yourself and possess the guy? Make him walk into the police station?"

   "...Hey, I'd be lyin' if I said it hadn't crossed my mind. Hell, I'd probably make him walk off a cliff. But I figure I owe ya for helpin' me track him down. And besides, it seems like you've got somethin' personal to deal with here. I know how that can weigh on your conscience. So I wanna help."

   Bruce wanted to say thank you, but he couldn't quite at the moment. "Alright. We'll meet up later. I have something to do first."

   Bruce turned down an alley near the theater. Halfway down the path, he stopped and knelt.

   Here, he thought. This is where it happened. I promise you, mother, father... I'll make it right.

   Bruce peered at the docks from the shadows of a nearby fire escape. The sun had set an hour earlier; it was perfect. Only moonlight and a few street lamps illuminated the area. Bruce knew enough of Gotham to know that this was truly when the city woke. When the few good people of Gotham slept, and the rest—the dark underbelly, the true power of Gotham—arose.
   The image of Boston appeared at Bruce's side.
   "They got ten guys spread across the docks keepin' watch. All of 'em armed. Then there's twenny more in the main warehouse. Sharp-lookin' guys, those. If I had'ta guess, I'd say they're the brains of this whole thing."
   "Did you see the man with the hook?"
   "Nah, but I heard two of 'em sayin that somebody was comin'. I figure it's gotta be him."
   As if in answer, a car pulled up to the docks. From here, Bruce and Boston could see a man step out. Bruce strained his eyes to see if... yes. There it was. The same glint of metal on his hand. This had to be him.
   Boston gritted his teeth and clenched his translucent fist.
   "I got him."
   "No," Bruce said, instinctively reaching for Boston's arm and passing right through it.
   "No?!" Boston said.
   "This whole thing is bigger than just him. If we stop him now, we'll never find out what this whole group is up to—or why they've been targeting circus performers."
   Boston struggled with himself for a moment.
   "...Fine. We do it your way."
   The hooked man walked down the docks and entered the warehouse.
   "How can I get in?" Bruce asked.
   "I saw a blind spot in the security over near that stack o' crates. You said you've been trainin'; think you can vault over the fence?"
   "We'll find out."
   As Bruce began to move, Boston put a ghostly hand in front of him. "Wait a second. Where's your magic friend? We could use 'er help."
   "No. I don't want to "
   Bruce silently ran across the street, dodging the light as best he could. Taking a deep breath, he jumped on top of a pile of crates and flipped neatly over the fence, landing squarely on the other side—his shoes slapping the concrete a little harder than he would have liked. Bruce winced. That was too loud. Any moment and—
   One of the armed men turned a corner, gun drawn. As his eyes began to fall on Bruce, they suddenly rolled back into his head, as if he were passing out. He flinched, and suddenly looked fine. He winked at Bruce and walked away.
   Bruce smirked. Thanks, Boston, he thought.
   Bruce stalked his way towards the warehouse. He climbed up a forklift and made his way toward an open window near the roof. He squeezed inside, then, finding himself on an upper level, made his way towards a single light and the sound of voices. Eventually he reached the other end of the warehouse, where the floor gave way to a wide view of the ground floor. A half-circular table was illuminated by a single light from above. Twenty men in business suits sat along the table, staring at one man in the center. One man with a hook on his left hand. Bruce felt a rush course through him. This was the one. He glanced up at the other side of the roof; Boston briefly turned visible and gave Bruce a thumbs-up.
   "Care to explain why you failed?" one of the seated men, a large, deep-voiced African-American, said. From his body language, Bruce guessed he was the leader of this group.
   "Somebody shot a clown just as I was about to pull the trigger," the hooked man said. "The crowd went crazy. No way I was gonna be able to get off a good shot and get away. Hell, some guy almost grabbed me as I was running; I had to ditch my coat just to lose him."
   "Your mission was to kill the two acrobats," said another of the seated men. "You failed."
   "What was I supposed to do?!"
   "You've been accepted into a sacred order of assassins," the leader said grimly. "Once you've been given a target, you kill. You don't run. You don't accept anything less than perfect death."
   The hooked man looked visibly shaken. "Look, I—I already killed that Deadman guy in New York; you know I can do this."
   "A hooked assassin needs three perfect kills to pass the initiation trial. You've failed at only your second attempt. There is nothing more to discuss."
   Each of the seated men at the raised their left hands and placed them on the table with a clang. Bruce nearly gasped. Each one of the men had a hook for a left hand. Bruce had wondered why this gunman chose a hook instead of a more useful prosthetic hand; apparently the hook was a sacrificial tradition among these assassins.
   The man in the center looked back and forth between the hooked council, terrified.
   "No, PLEASE! I—"
   The loud snap of gunfire boomed from the leader's lap, where he tightly held a pistol. Bruce saw a sliver of blood drip from a perfectly-placed hole in the hooked man's head.
   If Bruce could see or hear Boston at that moment, he would have seen the ghostly man's face distorted in a cry of anger and loss.
   The whooping sound of a helicopter echoed from above, and a powerful beam of light shone through a skylight. The police had shown up early.
   The hooked men scrambled to their feet and ran to a nearby pile of crates, pulling out a plethora of automatic guns. Bruce recognized most of the guns as MP5s and AK-47s; this was about to get very, very bloody.
   A single bullet cracked through a window pane and left one of the hooked men dead on the floor. The others immediately ran to the windows and doors, readying themselves for whatever was about to come.
   Bruce immediately began searching for a way out, but he knew that was unlikely. The GCPD had surrounded the building, and a helicopter was shining its spotlight on the same side of the building as the window Bruce needed to exit.
   Boston's face faded into view in front of Bruce's eyes.
   "I'll cover you; get out of here," Boston said.
   Bruce noted the seriousness in Boston's expression; the hint of anger and loss. Boston faded out, and several seconds later the helicopter's spotlight shifted away from the window. Bruce soundlessly slipped out and ducked behind a crate. Before he could take a step further, however, the sounds of gunfire echoed from every corner of the dock. Flashes of yellow and white lit up the night; bullets thunked and pinged off every surface.
   Ever so slowly, Bruce gradually made his way from building to building, crate to crate, with Boston possessing and thereby distracting cop after cop until he could finally make it back to the street. He ducked into the nearest alley, climbed up a fire escape, and sat on top of the roof to watch everything.
   The hooked gang was all but eliminated. The few that survived only did so because they were knocked out before they could take their own lives. As the fight ended and the police began shoving the survivors into armored cars, Bruce climbed back down and joined the growing crowd now surrounding the scene.
   Bruce heard Crispus loudly arguing with another GCPD detective.
   "I TOLD YOU TO HOLD FIRE; WE WERE SUPPOSED TO TAKE THEM ALIVE!"
   "Hey, we got the bad guys," the detective said nonchalantly. "Quit complainin'."
   "You'll lose your badge for this, Flass. I swear to god."
   On the other side of the crowd, two men stood alone.
   "Looks like they're gonna blame these guys for the circus shooting," one said quietly. "You're, eh, off the hook."
   "No puns. Please. No such thing as a good pun," the other said coldly.
   "So, I don't get it. Why'd you kill the clown in the first place?"
   The other man grinned with a devilish, wide, chillingly heartless smile. "Because he wasn't funny."
   Bruce glanced across the crowd and made eye contact with the grinning man. Bruce felt as though he'd just been electrocuted. There was nothing terribly out of the ordinary about this man—nothing except for his somewhat sinister-looking expression, that is—but Bruce felt as though he somehow knew this person. Like they had a connection. As though somehow their lives were destined to cross paths.
   Bruce moved to follow the man, but the crowd was thick. After a minute or two, Bruce gave up and left.

   Bruce sat in his study, slumped into his father's giant armchair.
   "Bruce!"
   Bruce didn't need to turn; he recognized Zatanna's voice from behind him.
   "What did you do?!"
   Bruce lowered his head slightly. "Nothing."
   Zatanna noticed rips and a few burns on Bruce's clothing. "You were involved in that gunfight, weren't you?"
   "Not exactly, no."
   "But you were there."
   "...Yes."
   Zatanna was beyond trying to comfort him now. She was practically furious. "What the HELL were you thinking?! Trying to find these guys on your own? Why didn't you call me?!"
   "It wasn't your fight."
   "And it was yours?!"
   "...I... I should have stopped him the first time."
   "Bruce, you're not responsible for stopping every criminal in Gotham! It's not your—"
   Zatanna suddenly realized what she was saying and felt a pang of guilt. Once again, she glanced at the portrait of the Waynes. She knelt in front of Bruce and gently held his hands in hers.
   "It's not your fault, Bruce. It never was."
   Bruce didn't answer.

   Zatanna sat with Bruce in silence for an hour or so, finally leaving him with a kiss on the cheek and a promise from Alfred that he'd be taken care of.

   After Zatanna was gone, Boston appeared in the study.
   "Hey," he said quietly.
   Bruce slowly looked back up.
   "I'm sorry we didn't catch him, Boston."
   "Yeah, me too. At least I know who he was. But still, I shoulda kept 'im from dyin'."
   "Why? I would have thought you'd want revenge."
   "I ain't sayin' I don't, but one thing I learned since gettin' put on this task is that death never balances the scales. It only makes things worse."
   Bruce thought for a moment and nodded. He had to agree.
   "So what are you doing now?" Bruce asked. "I thought finding your murderer was your goal in... life."
   "It's more than that. There's still work I'm supposed to do in my mission. Y'know, before I can... pass on."
   Bruce's mind was swirling with questions for Boston. Questions about life and death; about everything. But he quickly decided that it wasn't important for him to know. The logical, the concrete; that was where his mind belonged.
   "Speakin' of missions, Bruce," Boston said. "What is it, exactly, that you're after? I mean, you seem like you wanna bash in the head of every kinda scum in this hellhole of a town."
   Bruce stared into Boston's translucent black eyes. "I swore to fight criminals; to stop the same kind of crime that killed my parents."
   "Ah. That's why you're trainin' with the acrobats and the detectives and everythin'. You wanna be a one-man army."
   "Want has little to do with it anymore," Bruce replied. "I have to."
   Boston quietly regarded Bruce for a moment.
   "Well, maybe I can help ya with that."
   Bruce raised an eyebrow.
   "There's a hidden city, high up in the mountains of Tibet," Boston explained. "It's called Nanda Parbat. After I got turned into a ghost, some of the monks there taught me to control my powers. If you wanna become... well, more than what you are, that's where you need to go. I can show you the way."

Late

Sorry I've been late posting chapters. I've been really busy. I'll try to write more as soon as I can.

Ghost of a Man

   "You didn't see anything else? Just the hat and coat?"

   "No. Nothing."

   Bruce couldn't abide his own ineptitude. How could he have let the shooter escape?

   Crispus looked him in the eye. "Bruce. You know this wasn't your fault."

   Bruce shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

   Crispus sighed. "Alright, well, we'll have forensics go over the coat and hat; there's gotta be a hair follicle or something in there."

   Bruce walked around the circus area, now covered in police tape and lights flashing red and blue.

   "Thank you," a voice said from behind. Bruce turned to see Mr. Haly.

   Bruce frowned. "For what?"

   "If you hadn't followed him, we wouldn't have a single lead. But the detective tells me they've already got one thanks to you."

   Bruce didn't tell Haly the harder truth: that even if they found DNA evidence in the clothing the shooter left behind, they'd still have to find someone to test it against. It wasn't as though Gotham kept a DNA record of every person that ever came through town.

   "Did he have a family?" Bruce asked.

   Haly shook his head. "No. Harry never even really had a girlfriend; he was sort of a loner like that. We always told him he should find somebody... I guess now it's better that he didn't."

   Bruce walked back over to Crispus, who was standing along the quiet edge of the circus finishing up a phone call.

   "Anything new?" Bruce asked as Crispus hung up.

   Crispus forced the exasperation out of his voice. "Not in the last five minutes, n—"

   Crispus suddenly stopped in mid-sentence and flinched. When he opened his eyes again, he looked awkwardly at Bruce.

   "Hey, uh, I know this is kinda weird, but... could you tell me again what happined here? And what you saw?"

   Bruce eyed Crispus suspiciously. Nothing about Crispus' mannerisms or voice sounded right.

   "What's with the Boston accent? And what are you talking about?"

   "Look, I just need you ta'—"

   "What's wrong with you?"

   "Nothin's wrong with me, I jus—"

   "Who are you?"

   Crispus stopped. Clearly, this kid just wasn't going to buy it.

   "Alright. Listen, um... I'm not Crispus. My name's Boston. Boston Brand. Yes, like the city, and yes, my accent's ironic, okay?"

   Bruce's mind whirled. Crispus wasn't one for jokes, nor was he the type to have schizophrenia. This was something different.

   Crispus continued. "I'm... well, a ghost. I got killed back in August. I needed to talk to ya, so I hopped inside Crispus here and—"

   Bruce's eyes were wide with apprehension; his hand darted inside his pocket and pulled out his cellphone, finding the speed-dial buttons as fast as possible.

   "Hey, wait a sec," Crispus tried to say, but Bruce wasn't listening anymore.

   A voice spoke over Bruce's phone. "Hey, handsome."

   "I need you here. Now."

   A second and a half later, a whirl of sparkling violet light appeared and disappeared, leaving Zatanna standing in its empty wake.

   "What's wrong?" she immediately asked Bruce.

   He pointed to Crispus. "He says he's a ghost inhabiting this man's body."

   Zatanna narrowed her eyes.

   "Leaver siht tirips!"

   A transparent image of a second figure appeared over Crispus. It was a slender man, dressed in dark red, with a chalk-white shrunken face.

   Crispus shrugged. "Told ya."

   Zatanna's eyes went wide. "Bruce, this spirit is incredibly strong. I can't exorcise it without preparation."

   Crispus raised his hand. "Guys—"

   "What do you need?" Bruce asked Zatanna.

   "Uh, guys—"

   "I'll need a bucket of water, three bat wings, and a—"

   "GUYS!"

   Bruce and Zatanna stopped and looked at Crispus.

   "You don't need ta exorcise me. I don't wanna cause no trouble. I just need your help."

   Bruce and Zatanna exchanged a confused look.

   Wayne Manor stood like an ancient monument. While still within Gotham City limits, it stood separate from the rest of the city, atop a cliffside on the other side of Gotham river. It was huge; huge and empty. The massive rooms were full of paintings, sculptures, suits of armor, and ornate furniture—but rarely any people. Out of twelve bedrooms, only two were in use—one tiny room for Alfred, who kept it clean enough that no one would have known he was even there, and the gigantic master bedroom for Bruce.

   "Man, I'm dead an' I feel cold in here."

   Alfred gave the floating image of Boston a look crossed between indignance and fright. He was unaccustomed to having a visible ghost in his home.

   Boston had slipped back out of Crispus' body without a fuss and followed Bruce and Zatanna to Wayne Manor. Now that Zatanna had cast her spell on him, everyone could see and hear Boston even though he didn't have an actual body.

   Bruce leaned over his computer desk, typing at the keyboard.

   "Is this it?" he asked.

   "Yeah," Boston replied grimly. "That's it."

   Bruce clicked the video link.

   A one-ring circus, not unlike Haly's, was in the middle of a show.

   The announcer yelled into his microphone. "Introducing the one, the only, the daring DEADMAN!"

   As the audience cheered, a man in dark red spandex and a white ghost-like mask jumped onto the trapeze. Before he finished his second swing, however, a gunshot sounded off and "Deadman" fell to the ground.

   "That was you?" Zatanna asked.

   "Yeah" Boston replied. "That's why I look like this, I guess. I died in my Deadman outfit, so I'm stuck this way. Not that people can normally see me or anything."

   "But I don't get it," said Zatanna. "Spirits pass on immediately after death. Why are you still here? And why can you possess people so easily?"

   "It's, ah... it's a gift."

   "From who?"

   "Rama Kushna."

   A flicker of recognition went through Zatanna's eyes. "The goddess of karma?"

   "Yeah, somethin' like that. When I died, I saw these huge eyes lookin' down on me from the sky, and heard her voice. She said I had more to do in death than I did in life. I'm supposed to do somethin' here before I can pass on. Help people usin' my power, and try to find my murderer."

   "And you think that this shooter is the same one that killed you seven months ago,"

   "Yeah."

   Bruce turned to Zatanna. "This all sound right to you?"

   Zatanna shrugged. "Yeah, actually. It does. I think he's telling the truth."

   The frown that Bruce had been wearing since the shooting seemed to get worse. He stood up and walked to the nearby window.

   Boston looked at Alfred. "Was it somethin' I said?"

   Alfred shrugged, as if to say "he just does that."

   Zatanna put her arm around Bruce. "Hey. Are you okay?"

   "No. No I'm not. A man was shot to death in front of me, and I... I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't even catch him afterwards. Now a... ghost is in my bedroom, and... I just..."

   Bruce seemed frustrated at the very air in front of his face.

   "Nothing makes any sense!"

   "Bruce, things don't always have to make sense. Sometimes things just are the way they are."

   "No! There has to be a way. Somehow, there's always an answer. There has to be! There just..."

   "This isn't about the clown, or about Boston, is it?"

   Bruce didn't answer.

   "It's about Lois, isn't it?"

   Again, Bruce was silent.

   "You can't hold yourself responsible for her."

   "I should have just left her out of it."

   "She made her own choices; it's not your fault."

   Almost instinctively, Bruce looked up at the huge portrait of his parents hanging on the wall nearby.

   Zatanna moved in front of him. "Bruce, listen to me. You're not failing them. You're not. You're human, and that's all they'd ever want you to be."

   "I made an oath, Zatanna. And I plan to keep it."

   "You're sure you don' know anythin' about how the Socks did last season?"

   "Sir, honestly, I've never followed baseball in my life. Couldn't you just... float away and go find out for yourself?"

   Alfred was relieved to see Bruce return from his usual dramatic window-staring.

   "So, hey, Bruce," Boston said. "I had an idea about one way we could track this guy down."

   "What?"

   "Well... if I, uh, jump inside ya, our minds can link. Maybe between the two of us, we can piece together somethin' about the killer."

   "Uh-uh. No."

   "Aw, c'mon!" Boston pleaded. "You won't feel a thing."

   "Bruce," Zatanna said, "this might be the best way to find the shooter. Boston's not shown us any reason to doubt him yet."

   Bruce sighed. "Fine. Do it fast."

   Boston dove into Bruce's chest, completely disappearing inside him.

   Bruce and Bostons' memories swirled about them like a pool full of paint. Boston saw Bruce's perspective: the man standing in the tent supports; the gun barrel, a glint of metal. Bruce saw Boston's perspective: from high above the ring, looking down at a muzzle flash somewhere within the crowd—along with a similar glint of metal. Bruce had assumed that that metallic shine was from the gun, but now that he had two perspectives, it seemed to be something else entirely. Gradually, the image that both Bruce and Boston held in their minds merged, and they both saw the shining object: a steel hook where the shooter's left hand would have been.

Circus Act

   A funny thing about Gotham City: the walls of every alley seem to lean in, like a giant black coffin. In many cases, that analogy is more fact than metaphor.
   Crispus Allen stood solemnly over the dead girl's body. He always took a brief moment before examining each crime scene body, partly out of respect for the dead, and partly in order to begin focusing on the task at hand.
   A female voice echoed from the end of the alleyway.
   "Detective! The boy's here."
   Crispus glanced down the alley and saw his partner, Renee Montoya, standing next to eighteen-year-old Bruce Wayne on the other side of the police tape.
   "Let him in."
   Bruce and Renee both ducked under the tape and moved to meet Crispus.
   "Detective," Bruce said with a polite nod. "Another one?"
   "Yeah. Third this week."
   Bruce knelt beside the body. "Blonde hair, mid-twenties, about 5'7''. Just like the others. Any ID?"
   "Whoever killed her didn't take the wallet this time. Her name's Joanna Harper. A student at Gotham U."
   Bruce narrowed his eyes. "The killer didn't take her wallet?"
   "Nope. What does that tell you?"
   Bruce took a few seconds to think it over.
   "Either the killer was interrupted and had to run, or he was never after the money in the first place."
   "Not after the money? How do you figure that?"
   "This is the third girl of the exact same age, height, and hair color found in an alley with her throat slit inside of a week. This is serial-killer work. He finds girls who fit very specific parameters and murders them in the exact same way every time. Whoever's killing these girls is doing it out of a pathological obsession, not greed or desperation. There's no reason for him to take their wallets unless he just feels like it, or if he's trying to throw us off."
   Crispus felt proud of his unofficial student. "Good thinking," he said.
   He glanced at Renee. She seemed a bit uneasy. Thinking about it, Crispus guessed that he really should be, too. Bruce seemed to have a kind of intuition for criminology, the kind that meant he was either brilliant or horribly twisted. Or he just watched a billion of those damned CSI shows.
   Bruce only nodded slightly in return, straight-faced.
   Crispus, more than most others, recognized the flat, jaded look that Bruce often wore: the look of someone who's lost everything. Crispus knew what had happened to Bruce's parents; it was the only reason he'd agreed to let Bruce shadow him on these cases. If Bruce kept along this path, he'd probably make a great detective one day.
   Bruce's phone beeped.
   "Sorry; I need to run. I'll catch up with you in a few hours."
   Bruce turned and quickly left the alley the way he'd come.
   Crispus shook his head. Then again, if Bruce kept up that kind of behavior, he'd be lucky to graduate above beat cop.

   On the edge of the city, near the docks, a gigantic red tent stood next to a ferris wheel. Haly's Circus, one of the last true traditional one-ring traveling circuses, was enjoying an extended stay in Gotham.
   Bruce drove up and parked around the backside of the tent. The last show of the day had ended three hours ago; the place was deserted aside from the circus workers themselves. Bruce walked inside the tent and was immediately greeted by a redheaded girl.
   "Bruce! Hey!"
   Bruce returned a smile. "Hey, Mary."
   Mary's boyfriend, a black-haired boy named John, did a backflip off an overhead balcony and landed in front of Bruce and Mary.
   "Bruce! Didn't think you'd make it tonight," he said, shaking Bruce's hand.
   "I was on the other side of the island; sorry I'm late."
   John glanced at a clock. Bruce was two minutes late. "Um, yeah, you're fine. You ready?"
   Bruce nodded.

   "Watch your balance. Spread your arms a bit more."
   Bruce struggled to stay balanced on the tightrope. He'd been told by Zatara that he had incredible balance, but on an inch-thick rope that didn't matter much. As Bruce wobbled nervously, John walked effortlessly across the rope to meet Bruce in the middle.
   "See here? Hold your hips a little more to the right. Keep your knees a little bit loose."
   Bruce adjusted accordingly, and he stabilized.
   "Good. Now try to stay on the rope while I jump."
   Mr. Haly, the circus owner, a red-haired rotund man in his late forties, walked up beside Mary, who was watching from the floor.
   "How's he doing?" Haly asked.
   "Really well, for a beginner," Mary answered. "He's still really shaky, but he's already learned around a couple years' worth of gymnastics."
   "In just the three weeks he's been here?"
   "Yeah. It probably helps that John and I are putting him through the crash course and everything, but he really does have a gift for this sort of thing. Are you sure he doesn't want to become a performer?"
   "You can ask him yourself, but yeah. He said all he wanted was to learn gymnastics from the best, but he didn't want to join up. I asked if he wanted to go to the Olympics or something; he said no, he just wanted to learn. And he's paying us a ridiculous amount of money for it, so I left it at that."
   "Huh. Well that sucks. We could really use another one. A trapeze act with only two people isn't as much of a crowd-pleaser."
   Haly gave Mary a wry smile. "Well, if you and John would just get hitched and start making more little acrobats, we wouldn't have this problem."
   "Mr. Haly!"
   Mary blushed, but couldn't stop herself from smiling like a mad person.
   Up above, John backflipped, sending a bounce across the rope. Bruce wobbled horribly and fell off, landing in the net sixty feet below. Mary, Haly, and John all laughed at him. Bruce wasn't amused, but that made it all the funnier.

   The next evening, Bruce decided to go see one of the circus' shows. Bruce was never one to be impressed by anything, but he had to admit that he was very impressed with everything he saw. John and Mary, of course, were amazing. The animal trainers were masters at getting a reaction both from their animals and from the audience. The clowns were decidedly less incredible, but then again, they were clowns. Cheap laughs are what they're for.
   As the show came to its climax, all the acts went on at once. The clowns drove their tiny car in circles around the ring, while the fire-breathers, animals, and everyone else intermixed in the center. John and Mary did flips across the open air above. As the crowd roared with applause, Bruce could barely hear a muffled bang.
   One of the clowns that hung out of the tiny car's open door fell to the ground and laid there, perfectly still. As the seconds passed, a few others near him started to look down with worried faces. From this distance, Bruce could barely see a red stain on the clown's white shirt.
   The crowd began to gasp and chatter immediately. A woman somewhere screamed. Bruce realized what was happening and instantly began searching furiously for where the shot had come from. He looked upward, toward the wooden beams at the top of the tent, and saw a glint of bright metal next to a large gun-barrel held by a figure in silhouette. Bruce scanned the rest of the support structure and found a path across the beams. Bruce shoved his way through the crowd as fast as he could, keeping his eyes on the man in shadow. He climbed up onto a horizontal beam near the top of the tiered seats and began making his way toward the shadowed man. The man quickly turned around and jumped out a slit in the side of the tent; Bruce began to run. He focused. I can't miss this, he told himself. This isn't the time to fall. He jumped to another beam and kept running; bounced off a vertical beam and landed right on the tiny wooden platform that the gunman had been sitting on. He put his head through the slit in the fabric and looked down. The man—who, as if to be as stereotypical as possible, was wearing a trenchcoat and hat—had just landed at the base of the tent, and began working his way into the crowd. Bruce jumped out of the tent and slid down its side, landing and crashing into a woman at the bottom. He tossed a half-hearted apology her way as he got back up and tried to follow the shooter's path. Unfortunately, word of the shooting had now spread outside the tent, and the entire crowd was now rushing towards the parking lot. Bruce nearly got trampled in the swarm of bodies, and completely lost track of the shooter. Whoever he was, there was no way to find him in this chaos.

Sunset

   Chloe and Diana barely had enough time to pull Clark out of the greenhouse, wake him up, and get their story straight before the police showed up. They simply told Sheriff Ethan Miller the truth—or part of it, at least. They had, on a hunch, decided to visit Gina to see if she had anything to do with Ms. Desmond's freakout. Given that Chloe was the EIC of the Smallville Torch, that seemed reasonable. When they got there and found the poisonous plant, Gina attacked them. Clark passed out because he's "allergic" to the meteor rocks, but Diana showed up and helped stop Gina from killing Chloe. No one even tried to explain the octopus vine plant, which was now partially burnt up.

   Eventually, Ethan just sighed and let it go. He'd known the Kents all his life and had no reason to doubt Clark, and Gina certainly wasn't helping her case.

   "LET ME GO! I'LL STRANGLE YOU ALL!!" Gina screamed as the police shoved her into the back of a patrol car. Gina stretched out her arms and focused as hard as she could, but nothing happened. None of her plants moved.

   Ethan turned to the kids. "You three really should have come to the police first, not tried to confront her."

   "It was just a hunch," Chloe said. "If we'd known she'd go all psycho on us, we would've done things differently."

   "Alright, you kids get home now."

   The kids nodded and left. As soon as they were out of earshot, Chloe spun and stared Clark in the eyes. 

   "We need to talk. NOW."

   "What was that?!?" Chloe said as they entered the Torch office.

   "I guess you were right about the meteors; they really do affect people," Clark said.

   "Not that! I meant about you! And the whole fainting thing! And what was happening with your skin?"

   "...I don't know. I've only felt like that a few times before, and never that badly. Felt like I was... dying."

   Diana and Chloe both looked at each other worriedly.

   "...But you're okay now?" Diana asked.

   "Yeah. I feel fine."

   Chloe narrowed her eyes. "Clark, when did you feel like that before?"

   "Just a little bit, a few times when Pete, Greg and I went playing in the forest. There were a few spots that just made me feel... sick."

   A lightbulb went off in Chloe's head. "Clark! The meteor shower sprayed meteors all over Smallville! They cleaned up all the ones in the city and along the main roads, but the countryside still has meteors all over it. You must have stumbled across them in the woods."

   "But why would the meteors affect me?"

   Chloe thought it over. "Wait. When did your spaceship land here?"

   "October 26, 1997."

   "The day of the meteor shower?!"

   "Yeah."

   "Y'know, you might have mentioned that little coincidence before."

   Clark shrugged. "Sorry?"

   "Didn't you once say that your planet was destroyed?" Diana said.

   "That's what the recording I was given said."

   Diana turned to Chloe. "And didn't you say before that the meteors contain an element not found on Earth?"

   Clark caught on. "Wait... are you saying that you think the meteors are from my home planet? Krypton?"

   Chloe almost jumped. "That makes total sense! That's why their radiation affects you and only you!"

   "Their radiation?" Clark said quizzically.

   "Yeah; scientific scans found an unusual, unique low-level radiation emanating from the meteors, but it was deemed too insignificant to be harmful."

   "...Except to me."

   "Yeah... are you sure you're okay?"

   Clark glanced at his previously-bleeding knuckles. They were perfectly healed. "Yeah... I'm great. As soon as I got away from the meteors and back in the sunlight I felt better."

   "So... if they're from Krypton, are they... kryptonium?" Diana asked.

   "Actually," Clark corrected, "since they're meteorites it'd be called kryptonite."

   Diana and Chloe both rolled their eyes.

   "You're such a science nerd," Chloe teased.

   Clark stared out at the sunset from the loft of the Kent barn.

   "Do you want to be alone?" Diana asked as she walked up behind him.

   Clark turned and smiled. "Nah, you're fine."

   Diana sometimes forgot how dazzling Clark's smile sometimes was. She nearly blushed.

   "Are you okay?" Diana asked.

   Clark frowned. "Yeah. Just a little rattled I guess."

   "I can imagine."

   "It used to be that no matter where you were in Smallville, you were home. I always felt safe here."

   Diana smirked. "I wouldn't have thought that you'd worry about being safe."

   "I just mean that... that things used to be more... comforting. But now, with all that stuff with Gina, I just... I can barely believe it."

   "Why do you think her powers didn't work when she was arrested?"

   "I don't know. Maybe she hadn't eaten any of those plants recently enough. Maybe she could only control the ones in the greenhouse. Maybe Chloe hit her harder than she thought."

   Diana laughed. "I have to admit, I totally did not see that coming from her."

   "Heh. Chloe can surprise you."

   Diana paused. "...She's really special to you, isn't she?"

   "...Yeah, she is."

   Clark suddenly realized what Diana meant.

   "No. Wait! No, not like that!"

   Diana raised a teasing eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

   "I..." Clark sighed. "I don't think I want to be dating anyone. Not for a while."

   Diana saw Clark's sudden sadness. His optimistic attitude didn't let it show much, but he was still hurting from losing Lois.

   Diana hugged his arm and gave him a "cheer up" smile. Clark appreciated the sentiment.

   "So... you tried out for cheerleading?"

   Diana winced. "Let's just not talk about that, okay?"

   Clark almost chuckled. "Okay. What do you wanna talk about?"

   "I dunno. Hey, there's a sunset."

   "Hey, there is. Sunsets are cool."

   "Yup."

   "...Hey, Clark, where do you think Bruce is right now?"

Investigations

   Two days after the incident with Gina and Ms. Desmond, things were fine. Gina didn't say a word, and Ms. Desmond remained as curt and dispassionate as ever.

   "Please turn in your homework assignments," Ms. Desmond said.

   All the students looked at each other.

   "Uh, ma'am?" one boy said. "You didn't give us any homework."

   Ms. Desmond's eyes narrowed fiercely. "Oh I didn't, did I?"

   Several other students cautiously shook their heads.

   "You think this is funny?" she asked the class.

   Clark and Diana glanced at each other with mutual confusion.

   "I assigned you a three-page paper on William Wordsworth, due today!"

   "Um, ma'am, no; no you didn't," said the same boy from before.

   Ms. Desmond rose from her seat and slowly began making her way towards the boy's desk. Clark noticed her hands clenched tight and trembling. "Jake, let me be very clear. I will not tolerate any of my students playing games with me, or encouraging fellow students to do so either."

   "No, Miss Desmond! I swear! I—"

   Desmond slapped him hard across the face.

   "LIAR!"

   The rest of the class jumped with surprise. Ms. Desmond's face was livid.

   "YOU... YOU J- YOU...."

   Desmond clamped her hands around Jake's neck and began choking him. All the students jumped up from their seats. Clark quickly moved over and gently-but-firmly pushed Desmond away. Jake coughed as he regained the ability to breathe. Desmond screamed and lunged at Clark; he spun her around and held her arms behind her back. Desmond was practically a rabid dog. She snarled, struggled, and yelled obscenities at everyone in the room. Clark awkwardly held her back but had no idea what to do with her; the school didn't really keep security around during the day. Diana backhanded Desmond in the forehead, knocking her out.

   Clark looked at Diana as if to say, "was that really necessary?"

   Diana shrugged.

   During lunchbreak, Clark, Diana, and Chloe watched the police carry an unconscious Ms. Desmond away on a stretcher.

   "I can't believe she'd actually do something like that," said Chloe, snapping photos of the police as she talked.

   "I wouldn't have either if I hadn't seen it," said Clark.

   Chloe sighed and frowned. Clark recognized it as Chloe's "something's not right here" look.

   "What is it?" Clark asked.

   "People don't just start strangling kids at the drop of a hat. Whatever's wrong with her must have been going on for a while."

   "I guess so. I wish we'd known before. Someone should have noticed something."

   "She did give a 4.0 student a C," Diana added.

   "Yeah," said Clark. "Maybe Gina didn't actually deserve that grade."

   "Wait," Chloe said. "Gina. That's it."

   "You think Gina's somehow behind this?" Clark said incredulously.

   "Maybe!" Chloe said. "Think about it. A 4.0 student and a strict English teacher should be best friends, not mortal enemies. There's gotta be more to this."

   "Chloe, that doesn't even make sense."

   "Not yet," Chloe said, pulling out her phone. "But it will eventually. Hang on, I gotta make a call."

   Clark and Diana walked into the Torch office after class on Thursday, greeted by a caffeine-fueled hyperactive Chloe.

   "Clark! Look at what I found!"

   Diana noted that Chloe didn't acknowledge her and rolled her eyes.

   "Look here," said Chloe, handing Clark a printout.

   "Chloe, this is... a toxicology report from Smallville General. How did you get this?"

   Chloe beamed. "I know a guy there. You'd be surprised what a smile can getcha."

   Clark gave her an "oh really" look.

   Chloe rolled her eyes. "I told him if he gave me a copy of the report, I wouldn't tell his girlfriend that he's been hitting on Alicia Baker. Anyway, look at the results."

   Clark scanned them. "She had hallucinogenic drugs in her system."

   "Yes, in the exact combination that comes from a specific plant: Datura stramonium, commonly known as Jimson weed or Devil's weed."
   "So she's been doing drugs?" Diana asked.
   "Not likely," Chloe said, "this isn't something that people use for that sort of thing; Jimson weed is fatally poisonous; it only gives you the psychological effects without the death if you cut it and prepare it just right. And besides, Miss Desmond's not the druggie type."
   "So you think she was poisoned," said Clark.
   "Yeah. And fortunately for us, Jimson weed isn't at all common to Kansas; whoever poisoned Miss Desmond almost definitely grew it themselves. And guess whose family owns a plant shop with a giant private greenhouse?"
   "Gina Halley," Clark said with realization.
   "All we need to do," said Chloe, "is get into that greenhouse and see if Gina's growing any Jimson weed in there."
   "Hold on," said Clark, "we should take this to the Police."
   "And say what? That I got illegally-obtained information and have ideas about it? I'm going to the Halleys' greenhouse, Clark. You can come with me or not."
   Chloe grabbed her coat and walked out the door.
   "Chloe!" Clark said with a sigh.
   "Is she seriously gonna break into their greenhouse?" Diana asked.
   "Yeah. I think so. I'd better go with her; she might get in trouble. You coming?"
   Diana awkwardly shifted on her feet. "Um... actually, I have cheerleading tryouts."
   Clark was surprised. "Really? Cheerleading?"
   "Well... I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't really have anything to do around here, and... no one really thinks much of me."
   "Diana..." Clark really needed to catch up with Chloe. "Hold that thought. We'll talk tonight, okay?"
   Clark ran out the doorway.

   "Help me open this lock," Chloe whispered to Clark.
   "What do you want me to do, break it?" Clark whispered back.
   "Well..." Chloe half-shrugged.
   Clark rolled his eyes. "You'd better be right about this." He held the padlock in his fingers and pinched. It crumbled in his hand.
   The Halleys' plant shop closed at three on weekdays; both it and its attached greenhouse were deserted.
   Clark and Chloe walked quietly through the rows of plants. "What does it look like?" Clark asked.

   "Purplish-green stem, big leaves, little white flower in the middle."
   Chloe and Clark looked around for a few minutes, but didn't see it. Eventually, Clark noticed a door in the shadows towards the back of the room. "Hey, Chloe," he called. "There's another part of the greenhouse."
   Chloe softly ran over. "That must be the private section they don't let customers in."
   They walked to the door. Clark reached for the knob, but paused before touching it.
   "What is it?" Chloe asked.
   "Nothing, just... something feels off."
   Clark grabbed the knob and twisted it hard, breaking through the handle-lock. He gently pushed the door open and they both walked inside.
   It was dimly lit, mostly by red and green lights dispersed around the room. Chloe instantly spotted a Jimson weed plant on her right. She grinned. "Gotcha."
   As she moved closer to examine the plant, she noticed green light glowing from underneath the plant's soil. Curious, she reached into the soil and pulled out a small rock with glowing green bits running through it. Chloe's eyes widened as she realized what it was: a meteor rock.
   She spun around. "Clark! This is a meteor—"
   Clark was on his knees, breathing heavily. His skin was losing color, and some of his veins were turning green and bulging.
   Chloe felt a tingle of panic run up her spine. She'd never seen Clark hurt before. At all. She glanced around the room. Every single square foot of soil in the room was filled with meteor rocks. The green glowing in the room wasn't because of any lights; it was because of the meteor rocks.
   "What the HELL are you two doing here?" a voice said from the open door. It was Gina Halley.
   Chloe nearly jumped. "Gina!"
   "That's my name," Gina said. "Now what. Are. You. Doing. Here."
   Chloe stared Gina down across the room. "You poisoned Miss Desmond, didn't you?"
   Gina smirked. "What if I did?"
   Chloe raised her eyebrows. "Wow. Okay. Just coming right out with it, then. Okay, well, we'll just leave."
   Chloe's feet were stuck to the floor. She looked down and saw thick, green vines clamping her feet to the ground.
   "What the..."
   She looked back up at Gina. Gina smirked again.
   A vine reached around Chloe's neck like a human arm and pulled back hard. Chloe choked as more vines flew from behind her, wrapping around her limbs. She felt herself lifted and pulled backwards. Over her shoulder she glimpsed a gigantic plant, its vines undulating like octopus arms as it drew her closer.
   Gina resisted the urge to giggle slightly under her breath. She turned back towards Clark, and ended up with Clark's fist slamming into her face.
   Gina staggered backwards. Her face had brown cracks across it, like broken tree bark. A line of blood dripped from her nose; it glittered with tiny green specks.
   Clark could barely stand on his feet; he was sweating and his knuckles bled slightly from that punch.
   The skin on Gina's face crackled and fell off; a brand-new layer of skin underneath looked perfectly healthy.
   "These meteor rocks really do wonders for helping plants grow. And apparently, months of eating those plants gives you certain... gifts."
   "Let her go," Clark said weakly.
   Gina raised her arm towards Clark, and a swarm of vines reached toward him, slamming him against the opposite wall. "You should really be more concerned about yourself right now."
   The glass wall separating the two sections of the greenhouse shattered. Gina felt herself suddenly lifted off her feet by her neck. She looked down into the eyes of her attacker. Diana glared back with an untempered fire.
   "Let. Them. Go."
   Gina coughed. "Go to hell, princess."
   Diana threw Gina against a wall and ran towards Chloe, ripping off the vine clamped across her neck.  Chloe gasped for air.
   Diana suddenly felt herself pulled back by a dozen arms and slammed into the wall next to Clark. Gina stood up. "Okay, that's it. The hell with all of you. You're dead now."
   "You can't!" said Chloe. "People will find out what happened!"
   "They'll find out what?" Gina said sarcastically. "That a bunch of plants came and killed everyone? Yeah, that's totally my fault. Whatever. Die."
   Gina ripped one of the Jimson weed plants and shoved it in Chloe's face. "Here; eat. It's pure; it'll kill you quick."
   Chloe kept her mouth shut. From across the room, Clark could see tears running down Chloe's face.
   "Fine," Gina said, "I'll just squeeze you to death."
   The vines around Chloe began contracting. Her already-small frame seemed like it would snap at any moment; her face went red from all the blood rushing to her head.

   Clark felt desperate. The more he saw her face in agony, the more he felt himself fill with anger.
   "HEEARGGGH!!"
   He roared and tore through the vines. Gina turned around and fell backwards with fear. Clark's eyes were glowing red-hot. He stared hard at the vines holding Chloe; lines of heat fired from his eyes and hit the plant, setting parts of it on fire and searing off some of the vines. Gina screamed at Clark; every plant in the room seemed to explode at him, sending a shower of dirt and meteor rocks in his direction. He fell unconscious instantly.
   Gina stood up and breathed heavily, still wide-eyed and bewildered by what she'd just seen. She glanced at Diana; saw that she was still completely pinned. She turned back to Chloe... and Chloe was gone, only burnt vines left in her place. Chloe's voice sounded off to the right.
   "Lights out, bitch."
   The last thing Gina saw was the end of a fire extinguisher ramming into her forehead.

First Day

   Diana hopped off the bus and stared nervously at Smallville High.
   Before, when she'd been at Metropolis High—and before that, at Hammond High in Coast City—she lived with the knowledge that she was, for all intents and purposes, a superior being. She was an Amazon princess, there only to learn of humanity—not to be a human herself. Now Diana looked at the people walking in and out of the school and realized that she was just as human as anyone else here. She wasn't the heir to a legendary destiny; she wasn't royalty. She was a normal girl, no better or more special than anyone else.
   A group of girls walked up the steps to the school's front door. One of them tripped and skinned her knee. Diana saw a drop of blood on the girl's leg and paused for a moment. Inwardly, she sighed with relief. There was still one way in which she was better than the average teenager: she still had her powers.
   Diana held her head up a little higher with mock-superiority and followed Clark toward the school.

   Clark barely managed to get within a hundred feet of the building before a little blonde shape started running and yelling at him.
   "Clark! Clark!"
   Chloe came to an abrupt halt two feet in front of Clark, beaming.
   Clark began to smile back, but nearly stopped when he saw her face. Something around her eyes; her mouth... it reminded him of Lois. Sometimes he forgot they were cousins. Clark forced a smile and hugged her. He was genuinely happy to see her, after all.

   Chloe peered around Clark's side and saw Diana.
   Clark noted the surprised frown on Chloe's face.
   "Diana transferred to Smallville High this semester," he explained. "She's living with us at the farm for a while."
   Diana gave a friendly wave from a distance.
   Chloe shifted to the right, where Clark was blocking the view.
   "She's staying with you guys?"
   "Um... yeah. She didn't really have a place to go. She and her mom kind of had a falling out."
   "Okay... um... cool then. We can always use more..."—Chloe glanced over at Diana again—"...really tall supermodels at this school."
   Clark hastily tried to change the subject.
   "Is Pete around?"
   Chloe frowned again. "Um, no. He moved away to live with his mom in Wichita."
   "What?! Why?"
   "Who's Pete?" Diana asked as she walked up to meet them.
   "Clark's only other friend in Smallville," Chloe said with a teasing look.
   "Chloe! That's not true!" Clark said, slightly embarrassed. "I have other friends."
   "Name one."
   "...Well, there's Greg Arkin—"
   "Who you and Pete stopped talking to back in 6th grade? Uh-huh. Keep going."
   "Lana Lang."
   "The head cheerleader you stared at from a mile away all of Freshman year? You wish."
   "...Um... Sean Kelvin?"
   "He's a complete douchebag and you've always hated him."
   Clark rolled his eyes with exasperation. "Okay, so I really only hung out with you and Pete. Why'd he leave, anyway?"
   Chloe scrunched up her face and looked away awkwardly. "He professed his love for me and I told him I just wanted to be friends."
   "...Oh. And I guess since he didn't have any other friends around here either, there wasn't much reason for him to stay."
   "Yeah."

   "So... what've you been doing since he's been gone? I don't remember you having too many other friends either."
   "Funny you should ask," she said with a grin. "I've made a ton of new additions to the Wall of Weird."
   "The what?" Diana asked.
   "You'll see," Clark said.

   Chloe led them into the school and down the hall towards the office of the Smallville Torch—Smallville High's school paper.
   "Wait a second," Diana said, staring at the name on the office's main desk. "You're the EIC of your school's paper too? Just like your cousin?"
   "Are you kidding me?" Chloe said flippantly. "I'm the one who gave her the idea. She was all 'I'm gonna be an Army girl!' before I told her I wanted to work for the Daily Planet, and then she was all 'I'm gonna be a reporter!'" Chloe's face saddened a little. "...but I guess she made a better reporter than... than I..."
   Clark interrupted. "So! You were talking about the Wall?"
   "Right!" Chloe said, snapping out of her thoughts. She led them to the office's darkroom—which went completely unused, this being the digital age after all—and flipped on the light. An entire wall of the tiny space was covered in taped-up newspaper clipping and photos. Diana glanced over some of the headlines:
   "MAN LOSES FINGER ON LEFT HAND; GAINS ONE ON RIGHT."
   "BLIND BOY GAINS EYESIGHT; LOSES HEARING."
   "TEENAGER DISAPPEARS DURING METEOR SHOWER; REAPPEARS TWELVE YEARS LATER WITHOUT AGING."
   "FLYING GOATS?"

   "So, basically," Chloe explained, "there was a meteor shower here twelve years ago. After that, things in Smallville got... weird. Freaky mutations, mysterious disappearances, everything you can think of."
   "Have you ever actually seen any of these... 'weird' things?"
   "Well it's not like they just parade around," Chloe said indignantly, "but you can see all the evidence here. It's just too big to ignore."
   The bell rang.
   "We'd better go," Clark said to Diana. "Meet you for lunch?" he asked Chloe.
   "Sure!" Chloe replied, her face beaming again.
   Diana whispered to Clark once they got into the hall. "So, is she just crazy, or are there really mutant people running around Smallville?"
   "Well, I'm an alien and you're an Amazon, so I figure we should give her the benefit of the doubt."

   "A C?!? HOW IS THIS A C, MISS DESMOND?!"
   The other students in classroom looked at each other with bewilderment. Their in-class writing assignment had been tough, and Miss Desmond was known for her harsh (and quick) grading, but Gina's response seemed a little disproportionate.
   "A C is what that paragraph deserved, Miss Halley," Ms. Desmond replied.
   "You spent literally ten seconds reading it!"
   "I read fast, and it wasn't hard to grade. It's mid-level work at best. Now take your seat."
   The bell rang. Gina stormed back to pick up her bag and left.
   Clark and Diana left the classroom and met Chloe outside.
   "Something wrong with Gina?" Chloe asked, watching as Gina practically stomped her feet down the hallway.
   "She completely blew up in there," Clark said. "Miss Desmond gave her a C on an in-class writing assignment."
   "Eeeesh. No wonder she's mad."
   "Is she known for doing that?" Diana asked.
   "Gina's one of the top students at the school," Chloe explained. "Perfect 4.0 GPA. Also a type-A bitch queen, but she's never blown up before."
   "I hope she's okay," Clark said concernedly.
   Diana smiled at his empathy. Chloe interpreted Diana's smile as "oh, it's funny how you actually care about the little peasant-people."

Sunrise

   The bright morning Kansas sun shone in through the windows of the Kent home. Diana stood in the kitchen, letting the rays soak into her skin. It felt warm; comforting. Something about this place felt... right. And yet Diana had never been more confused in her life.
   "Coffee warm enough for you?" a warm voice said at her side.
   Diana glanced at the cup in her hand, then gave a polite smile. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Kent. Thank you."
   Martha smiled back at Diana, but her sharp eyes detected the sixteen-year-old's distress.
   "Something on your mind?"
   Diana quietly stared into her coffee. "...I don't know."
   Martha leaned in to peer into Diana's eyes. "You know, if you need someone to talk to, I'm here. I promise not to tell anyone."
   Diana felt a bit touched by Martha's kindness.
   "I guess I just don't know what I'm doing here. I mean, you've been amazing, and I'm really grateful that you guys took me in and everything. But this isn't my life. Not the one I was supposed to have."
   "What life were you supposed to have?"
   Martha and Jonathan had been told everything already, but Martha knew that Diana needed to talk it out.
   "I was... I was training to be the Amazons' Ambassador of Truth to the world of man."
   "The world of man?"
   "Yes. 'Patriarch's World,' as my mother sometimes called it. I was primarily supposed to be the ambassador to America, since it's the closest thing the world has to a leading nation."
   "The world isn't just controlled by men, you know."
   Diana sighed. "Yeah, but from the perspective of a thousand women who've lived for a thousand years alone on an island with no men, everything is masculine by comparison. My job was supposed to be to 'teach' the world the proper way to live, according to the gods' decree."
   Martha wrinkled her nose slightly at that. Diana didn't notice.
   "...And then I... died. I think. It felt like dying. Like the life left me, or like I was leaving my body, or... I don't know."
   Diana was having trouble finding the words. Martha took Diana's hand and squeezed it comfortingly.
   "When I woke up, that 'Phantom Stranger' told me that the gods had put me together wrong, and Clark said that they were unwilling to... to fix me. They abandoned me."
   The coffee in Diana's cup trembled slightly.
   "I was supposed to be their ambassador, and they left me dead."
   "Sounds like they're not really the gods you thought they were."
   A year ago, Diana might have slapped Martha for speaking such blasphemy. But now, she was surprised at how she didn't react in the slightest. She had to admit that she'd been thinking similar thoughts herself.
   "The Phantom Stranger said he served 'a higher power.' I wish I knew what he meant by that."
   Martha smirked. "Well, you're welcome to come to church with us anytime you like."
   Welcome. At the sound of that word, a deep sadness washed across Diana's eyes.
   "What's wrong?" Martha asked.
   "Amazons aren't allowed to just leave Themyscira without permission," Diana explained. "Anyone who leaves is barred from returning; it's a law my mother laid down. And now I'm banished from the island... I don't even know if I'm technically an Amazon anymore."
   "Regardless of that, you're still a person."
   Diana appreciated the sentiment, but it didn't mean much.
   "It's more than just what race I belong to. I was supposed to BE someone. I had an identity; a purpose. I knew who I was and what I was meant for. Now I don't know who I am at all."
   "Who do you want to be?"
   "...I... I don't know." Diana smiled slightly as a small memory flashed in her mind. "When I was a little girl, I always wanted to be a hero; the Amazons' fabled champion. My mother was that champion in her day, when she led my sisters out of slavery. I think I always grew up trying to hold my head up high and act like that hero; to live up to my mother's title, so I might one day get that title."
   "You're already a princess; what higher title is there?"
   "It's hard to translate into English, but I think, most accurately, it would be 'Wonder Woman.'"
   "That sounds like a lot of importance for a young girl to try and keep on her shoulders."
   "...It was, but I thought I was doing it well, at least. And now, I just... gods, what am I talking about? That doesn't even matter anymore. I can't be their champion; I can't even go home."

   Clark energetically bounded down the stairs. "Morning!" he said cheerfully, kissing Martha on the cheek.
   Diana couldn't help but crack a smile. Something about the Kents' genuine positivity was infectious.
   Clark snatched half a piece of toast and stuffed it in his mouth, gestured toward Diana. "You ready for your firsht day of shcool?"
   Diana sighed and nodded. It was the morning of her first day of class at Smallville High, and she was mildly nervous.
   Clark swallowed his toast and glanced at his watch. "The bus is about to get here. We should go."
   Diana and Clark grabbed their backpacks and walked to the door, but Martha gently grabbed Diana's arm before she could leave.
   "I just want you to know," Martha said quietly, "no matter what, this is your home now."
   Diana was surprised. She'd spent the last month doing nothing but feeling the pain of what she'd lost; she hadn't even stopped to consider what she'd gained. As Martha's words sunk in, Diana felt herself slowly fill with a gentle warmth.
   Home.

The Pact

   My mother greeted me with a smile when I came home.
   "How did it go today?" she asked. I handed her the folder with my grade report papers inside. She flipped through the pages, giving an approving "uh-huh" at each perfect A. Until, that is, she found the one B-minus. Religious studies was never my subject. I only took it because my father made me. "You need to understand the crazies out there if you're gonna sell to 'em," he said.
   My mother gave me another smile, this one sympathetic. She knew what was coming next. My father did not tolerate anything less than perfection from his son. It wasn't so much that he wanted me to be perfect—he sure as hell wasn't—but he perceived any and all failure as a lack of perseverance and hard work.
   It was perseverance and hard work that drove my father to build his own business from the ground up and eventually turn it into Galaxy Communications, the biggest media corporation in the United States. "You never get anything for nothing," he always said.
   When my father got home, my mother hugged him and asked how his day went. I knew she was trying to soothe and distract him. I appreciated it. But as soon as he saw me, his eyes darted to the folder still in my mother's hand. He took it and flipped through the pages as she had before.
   "Good... good... excellent..." Then he stopped. He turned the page around to show me. "Care to explain this, Morgan?"
   The red-inked "B-" stood out like a wound.
   "...Religion's not my best subject," I said quietly.
   He gave me a displeased smirk. "Really."
   He grabbed my arm and clamped down hard enough that I thought he might leave a bruise. I briefly thought of trying to twist out of his grasp, but immediately thought better.
   I was practically dragged into the study—or, as I liked to think of it, my father's trophy room, filled with all his company's awards for excellence.
   He screamed at me. Asked me why I wanted so badly to ruin his reputation at that school, when so many other billionaires' sons were holding perfect grade records. "They don't have perfect grades!" I yelled back. It was true. A few of my peers were exceptional, yes, but most were spoiled heirs and heiresses. Talking back was a mistake. I told everyone at school that I got the bruise on my cheek from falling down a staircase.

   That Saturday, my parents and I were out downtown in Metropolis. Standing on the sidewalk, I glanced down the street, saw a hot dog vendor, and realized I was hungry. I pulled out my wallet only to see that all my cash and credit cards were missing. Any normal person probably would have suspected theft, but I knew my father was responsible.
   I turned to him and saw his slightly smug face staring at me. "You'll get your money back when you prove you're responsible," he said.
   I was practically livid. I knew it was unfair. And what excuse was I supposed to give my friends at Excelsior? They all had thousands of dollars in free spending money from their parents. It was beyond humiliating.
   I knew if we'd been home at the time, I'd have nothing to do but shut up and go to my room before I said something that got me in trouble. But we were out in the open here; surely my father wouldn't do anything in public. And by the time we got home, he might have calmed down.
   I argued. He argued back. Any louder and we would have been having a shouting match in the middle of the sidewalk. As if to compensate for not yelling louder, we leaned in closer to one another. My mother, ever the concerned and compassionate one, moved close and tried to get my father to stop.
  "Vincent, please, not here," she whispered.
  "SARAH, STAY OUT OF IT," he said, pushing her back.
  I'd never seen my father be forceful with my mother before, but this once was all it took. She fell backwards into the street just as a twelve-ton bus drove by.

   Morgan Edge stepped onto the roof of his family's tower at midnight. Pounding rain soaked his clothes, and he began shivering from the cold, wet wind. Echoes of thunder boomed off the walls of every skyscraper in Metropolis, and lightning struck nearby at random.
   Sarah Edge was dead. The bus driver saw nothing, and neither did anyone else. Vincent told the police that it was an accident; that Sarah had tripped. Morgan said otherwise, of course, but Vincent convinced the investigators that Morgan was in shock and didn't know what he was talking about.

   Morgan fell to his knees on the roof and wept.
   My mother is dead, he thought. Justice doesn't exist. This entire world deserves to burn in hell.
   Grief began to solidify into anger. Morgan lifted his head to the skies and screamed.
   "I HATE MY FATHER!!!"

   A huge bolt of lightning slammed into the roof in front of Morgan. Morgan jumped back, startled and temporarily blinded by the intense light. As his vision faded back, he saw a figure standing in front of him. Nearly eight feet tall, thickly built, with skin like dark stone and eyes that burned with red flame.
   "Who... who are you?!" Morgan said.
   "I am Darkseid," the figure said. His gravelly words boomed with dark power.
   "...What are you?" Morgan said, confused.
   The fire in Darkseid's eyes grew hotter. "I am a god."
   "...What do you want with me?"
   "To offer you a deal."
   "...A deal?"
   "My armies will soon arrive on this planet. They will raze its surface to ashes. I offer you the chance to join with me. Be my servant; my secret emissary. Serve me, and I will reward you."
   "...Reward me with what?"
   Darkseid smirked. "Your life. And I will grant you vengeance upon your father."
   Morgan gritted his teeth. "Deal."
   "Very good, Morgan Edge. Now you must prepare."
   "Prepare for what?"
   "For the coming of Apokolips."
 
   The image of Darkseid, ruler of Apokolips, faded into the wind, leaving Morgan Edge alone in the night once more.

APOCALYPSE IS COMING

New Posts!

The first new chapter of TJ will go up this Friday at 8PM US Central Time, with regular chapters following every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday thereafter at 7AM.

Return!

So apparently when I wrote "take a month or so off," I meant "take the entire summer off."

This time around, I really want to make sure that I have the entire story plotted out, in detail, before I finally start writing and posting it. I've made a highly detailed outline of the entire series in-depth, and I'm just finally putting the finishing touches on it. I should have actual story chapters out soon. Also, they'll be coming out more consistently. Hopefully a new one every other day or something like that.

Oh, one more thing. I'm going back to that "arcs" idea that I had before. Whenever a major story arc beings, I'll put up a mini-banner in the post so you'll know.

Season 1 - Done

So that's the entire first "season" of TJ over and done.
I apologize for taking so long with the final several chapters; I wanted to post them a lot more quickly but the problem was just that they got insanely hard to write after a certain point. When I start Season 2, things should go way faster since I already have a lot more of it planned out in advance.

I'm gonna take a month or so off (maybe less) and then get back into writing TJ. In the meantime, here's a list of quick random/important notes that I wanted to mention:

-Lois's death was something planned from the very beginning, as was Diana's death/rebirth. If you go back and read TJ from the very beginning, you can see little hints I dropped here and there.
-Perry White never intended to let Lois publish her story (for fear of her safety), but after hearing about her death later that night, ended up printing the story anyway in order to honor her.
-Bruce has actually finished all his high school classes, and won't be returning to Excelsior. He has other plans.
-Bart makes a red blur when he runs because he always wears a red hoodie, but Barry makes a similar red blur because he wears a slick, bright red jacket made of a shiny slippery material that helps him slip through the air a little faster as he runs. It's sort of like a prototype Flash costume.
-For those still confused, this is the way the universe is explained in "Destiny":
The DC comics universe is actually a "multiverse" with many alternate realities. The universe in which Teen Justice resides is not the same one from the mainstream comics, however. At one point, it was very similar (to the point of being essentially the same), but after the timeline was altered by Bart traveling back in time, everything was altered. These alterations include (but are not limited to):
  -Many members of the Justice League and other major DC characters meeting in their teenage years, whereas before they had never met until much later in life. These include Clark, Bruce, Lois, Diana, Bart, Barry, Iris, Lex, Oliver, Ray Palmer, Hal, and probably a few others that I'm forgetting. There'll be a lot more in Season 2.
  -Metropolis' location being moved from the East Coast (somewhere around Delaware) to the midwest (in either Kansas or Missouri).
  -Strykers' Island prison moved from Metropolis to Coast City, California.
  -Diana's body being made of sand held together by magic. In the comics, Diana was still sculpted from sand and given life in the same manner, but had a "normal" Amazonian body not held together purely by magic. Diana in TJ now has the same type of non-sand physiology.

Now then. Season 2 teasers. :D
In Season 2...
  -There will be pirates.
  -There will be ghosts.
  -There will be ninjas.
  -Deadshot's death will be investigated and explained.
  -Clark's math teacher comes back. (no, really, it's cool. trust me.)
  -Oliver will get his own story arc.
  -Bruce will have at least two more potential love interests
  -Another school dance.
  -Kryptonite.

Do me a favor. Post any and all thoughts, questions, or whatever else you feel like saying about the entire first season of TJ in the comments. :D

Broken

A small crowd dressed in black stood together in the falling snow.
   Lois Lane's coffin slid slowly into the ground.

   All manner of acquaintances were gathered in mourning. Family: Sam, Ella and Lucy Lane. Chloe Sullivan and her father, Gabe. Friends: Bruce, Alfred, Clark, Diana, Hal, Ray Palmer, and Lucius Fox. Others who came merely out of respect: Dan Turpin, Perry White, and Barry Allen.
   Sam Lane stood stiffly in his Army uniform, doing his best to hold his composure but failing miserably. Ella sank into his side, weeping. Lucy leaned on his other side, her face covered in tears of her own.
   Chloe felt cold. Alone. She wished that someone would hold her; comfort her. She looked to Clark, but he was too distracted with grief of his own.
   Clark's mind was a hurricane of emotion. For the short time they'd been together—and somewhat even before that—he'd loved Lois. He'd known, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he and Lois were destined to be together. As Clark looked down at the black coffin, his heart screamed at him that this was wrong. That with the death of one girl, every good thing in the world had shattered.
   A few people said a few words in remembrance. Clark didn't hear them.
   The ceremony ended and the crowd began to disperse.

   Perry White nervously approached Sam Lane. "Sir, my name's Perry White. EIC of The Daily Planet. I... I feel I owe you an apology. If I hadn't let your daughter—"
   Sam waved his hand dismissively. "No, it's no one's fault. No one except Lionel Luthor's. Lois made her own choices.
   "The same goes for you, Turpin," Sam said, turning to Dan Turpin, who was in the middle of walking over with the same guilty look that Perry wore.
   "Well, ah," Dan said nervously, "if it's any consolation, what your daughter did has already helped out the whole city. We're trackin' down all o' Lionel's thugs, and the ones we can't catch are off runnin'. Crime's down eighty percent. Things are better than they've been in years, maybe ever. You should be proud."
   Sam smiled and nodded. "I am."

   Ella and Lucy approached Clark.
   Ella gave Clark a weak smile. "Hi."
   Clark did his best to smile back, but failed.
   "I wanted you to know," Ella said, "the few weeks you and Lois were together... were the happiest I've seen her since she was a little girl. Thank you."
   Clark didn't know how to respond.
   Lucy slowly took a step closer to him, and looked up with big, tear-filled eyes. She tackled his stomach, squeezing him tightly. Clark lightly hugged her back.
   Lucy lifted her head again. "Will you come visit sometime?"
   Clark looked at Ella. She gave an approving nod and a smile.
   Clark nodded at Lucy. "Sure."
   Lucy brightened up a little, and rejoined her mother.

   After everyone else had left, only Clark, Diana, Bruce, Hal, and Barry remained.
   They stood together in silence.
   "So... what now?" Hal asked.
   "Something's wrong," Barry said. "I can feel it in my gut. Like part of the universe just got ripped out. Lois wasn't supposed to die. I mean, we all saw the future. We saw what—"
   "We saw something," Bruce interrupted. "It might never have been our future, and it sure as hell isn't our future now."
   "Clark, what do you think?" Barry asked.
   After a moment, Clark responded. "Whatever our destinies were before, they're gone." He paused for another moment to gather his thoughts. "Before, I used to feel this pull towards Metropolis. Like it was where I was meant to be. Like fighting crime and saving people was something I needed to do. But now that we've fought Circe, and now that..." Clark looked at the coffin again, but couldn't bring himself to say the words.
   "So that's it, then?" Hal asked. "Everything we saw... it means nothing?"
   The group's silence acted as confirmation.
   "So what do we do now?" Barry asked.
   "We go our separate ways," Bruce said. "I don't think 'the universe' needs us together anymore."
   Everyone else turned to Clark. He nodded in agreement.

   Gradually, the group dispersed.
   Hal stopped Diana before she left. Hal had noticed that she hadn't said a word since the Javelin landed home, and she looked terrible.
   "Hey, are you okay?" Hal asked.
   Diana stumbled over her words. "I... no... I just..."
   "Hey, it's okay," Hal said. "What's wrong?"
   "...I don't have a home anymore. I left my mother and my island. I don't know where to go."
   Hal hadn't even realized. "I'm sorry, I... do you have any place to go?"
   Diana shrugged, and her eyes watered.
   Hal moved forward to hug her, but she stepped back.
   "No, I just... I have to go." She turned and ran away, tears running down her face.

   Alfred, who patiently stood at the cemetery's edge, remarked at Bruce's calmness—or perhaps coldness—in regards to Lois's death. As Bruce approached him, Alfred held out Bruce's heavier jacket that he'd taken off for the ceremony. Bruce angrily shoved past, not bothering to say a word. Alfred breathed an inner sigh of sadness for the boy. He was every bit as dominated by his turmoil as ever—perhaps moreso.

   And thus it was that the youths who would have been heroes walked away from their broken destiny.

To Be Continued