Countdown. Part 2

The setting sun cast a ruddy twilight glow over the lonely graveyard. Weathered stone monuments preserved the memory of those buried beneath the neatly trimmed lawn. A chilly breeze whistled through the skeletal branches of scattered willow trees. Crinkly brown leaves littered the gra.s.s. A spiked iron fence surrounded the cemetery, protecting the grounds from intruders. The gates would soon close for the night.

Donna Troy wasn't worried about getting locked in by mistake; if necessary, she could always fly over the fence. She was a strong and confident woman; the stars themselves glittered in her l.u.s.trous black hair and s.h.i.+mmering black leotard. The silvery flecks matched her wristbands, boots, and belt. A satiny black choker adorned her slender throat. Her clear blue eyes contemplated the name inscribed on the tombstone before her: DONNA TROY.

Although she was immune to the cool fall weather, a chill ran down her spine nonetheless. Donna had seen and lived through much over the course of her convoluted existence, but it was hard not to be unsettled by the sight of one's own grave.

Years ago, while fighting alongside her fellow Teen t.i.tans, she had fallen in battle against a berserk Superman robot. Her friends and teammates had duly mourned her, but death, for her, had not proved permanent. Revived by cosmic forces to play a key role in the defense of the universe, she now found herself walking the Earth once more . . . even as the engraved marble marker continued to commemorate her heroic sacrifice. I suppose, she mused, I should arrange to have the gravestone removed.

But that was not why she had come here today.

Tearing her gaze away from the disturbing tombstone, she glanced around the cemetery. She appeared to have the melancholy setting to herself, but suspected otherwise. "All right," she called out impatiently. "I'm here, just like you asked. Show yourself."

A dark-haired youth, only a few years younger than herself, stepped out from behind a tree. A black leather jacket, leather pants, and boots failed to conceal his athletic physique. A crimson domino mask was affixed to his face, but she recognized him nonetheless. She stiffened and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Jason Todd."

He smirked at the suspicious edge to her voice. "Hey, babe. Come here often?"

"Not really," she said wryly. "What do you want, Jason? And why here?"

He answered the second question first. "Seemed appropriate." He strolled over to her grave and knelt to inspect the tombstone. "After all, we're both supposed to be dead."

He's got a point, Donna conceded, albeit a morbid one. Jason had been working as the second Robin, replacing d.i.c.k Grayson, when he'd been murdered by the Joker several years ago. Like hers, his death had been neither ambiguous nor disputed; nevertheless, he had recently returned to carry on his career as a vigilante in Gotham City. Donna was a little fuzzy on the details of his rebirth, but she believed it had something to do with that "Infinite Crisis" over a year ago, when an alternate version of Lex Luthor had attempted to alter the very fabric of reality. Although Earth's heroes had ultimately foiled the villain's scheme, putting the universe more or less back to normal, not everything had ended up exactly the way it was before.

But what's a resurrection or two between friends?

"What do you want, Jason?" she repeated.

He shrugged. "Hey, can't one ex-sidekick get together with another for old times' sake? 'Once a t.i.tan, always a t.i.tan.' Isn't that what they say?" He rose from the grave and brushed the fallen leaves from his knees. "Besides, maybe I just wanted to talk to someone else who knew what it felt like to be living on borrowed time."

Despite his c.o.c.ky demeanor, Donna sensed that he was deeply troubled and unhappy, and who could blame him? It wasn't easy finding out that you were supposed to be dead, that your friends and loved ones had all gone on with their lives without you. Even Batman, who had already trained a new Robin long ago. No wonder she detected a distinct note of bitterness in his voice.

"Go on," she encouraged him. Her tone softened a bit.

He took off his mask, revealing a familiar, if slightly older, face. Sullen blue eyes peered into hers. "Look at us, Donna. We don't belong here anymore. I wouldn't even be breathing if not for that psycho Luthor clone or whatever he was, and as for you . . . h.e.l.l, I've never been able to keep track of all the different ident.i.ties and origins you've had. Even before you died and came back, your past has always been a tangle."

Thanks for rubbing it in, Donna thought. He wasn't lying, though. Donna had spent most of her life wrestling with conflicting memories and s.h.i.+fting personas. She had been a heroine, a harbinger, a wife, a mother, and a G.o.ddess. Although she originally joined the t.i.tans as Wonder Girl, she had also been known as Darkstar and Troia. More recently, she had even a.s.sumed the role of Wonder Woman while her former mentor, Diana, took a yearlong sabbatical. Now she was simply Donna Troy again. Whatever that means.

"I suppose we do have some things in common," she admitted cautiously, still uncertain as to what exactly Jason expected from her. She hoped this wasn't just some elaborate pickup scheme; although the former Boy Wonder had grown to be an attractive young man, she had never thought of Jason that way. "You could've chosen a less . . . upsetting . . . meeting place, but if you really just want to talk, here I am."

"Now is no time for mere conversation," a deep ba.s.s voice intruded. A pillar of coruscating orange energy materialized before them, resembling the transporter effect on Star Trek, and an imposing alien figure emerged from the sparkling radiation. "The universe-and I-have urgent need of you!"

Over seven feet tall, the humanoid figure wore a bulky suit of futuristic armor. A flowing red cape was affixed to a pair of ma.s.sive gold shoulder-plates. Electronic circuitry blinked upon his matching golden wristbands, while the elaborate silver and purple armor left only his head exposed. Florid pink skin and glowing red eyes testified to his extraterrestrial origins. A bristling black beard framed his lantern jaw, and rows of parallel cornrows traversed his cranium. His craggy face bore a dour, saturnine expression.

"Donna, watch out!" Jason immediately dropped into a defensive posture. He drew a Glock automatic pistol from beneath his jacket.

"Wait!" Donna grabbed on to his gun arm before Jason did something rash. She recognized the bizarre newcomer. "It's a Monitor! Let's hear what he has to say."

The Monitors, she knew, were a race of highly powerful beings who watched over the fifty-two separate realities that composed the Multiverse. They seldom took direct action themselves, preferring to manipulate events indirectly in order to fulfill their self-appointed mission of preserving order throughout the cosmos. Although their intentions were good, the appearance of a Monitor rarely boded well. They usually appeared to lesser beings only when some manner of universal cataclysm threatened.

Please, she prayed. Not another Crisis.

"You are wise, Donna Troy," the Monitor said solemnly. "We have no time to waste on pointless displays of aggression. The fate of your reality, and perhaps all others, depends on us taking swift action to avert a disaster beyond all imagining."

Donna's heart sank. I knew it. Here we go again. The last Crisis had cost the lives of several valiant heroes, including some of her fellow Teen t.i.tans. Who knew how many might perish this time around?

"Oh yeah?" Jason challenged the Monitor. He lowered his gun but did not put it away. "I've heard that before."

"Do not make light of the dreadful apocalypse before us." The Monitor ignored Jason's gun; Donna suspected that mere bullets posed little threat to him. "All that you know may perish-unless you help me find the one called Ray Palmer."

"Ray Palmer?" Donna echoed in surprise. "The Atom?"

A longtime member of the Justice League of America, the Atom had once used his size-changing abilities to defend humanity by microscopic means. In recent years, however, his life had been marred by tragedy; his mentally disturbed ex-wife, Jean Loring, had murdered some of the Atom's closest friends and later become host to an evil ent.i.ty known as Eclipso. Crushed by guilt and heartbreak over what Jean had done, Ray Palmer had literally shrunk out of sight. As far as Donna knew, no one had seen him in years.

"Indeed," the Monitor confirmed. "Sources beyond your ken foretell that Ray Palmer shall play a crucial role in the coming struggle, but only if he can be located in time. For that, I require your a.s.sistance."

"Is that so?" Jason said sarcastically. "Why us?"

Good question, Donna thought. This sounded more like a job for the Justice League. I barely know Ray Palmer-nor does Jason.

"Though vast," the Monitor explained, "my knowledge does not grant me a full understanding of the emotions that drive humans such as yourself. Ray Palmer has hidden himself from the universe for reasons of his own; it may well be that I shall need your insights to grasp his past and future behavior." His enigmatic gaze swept over the humans. "Moreover, I have reason to believe that Palmer now dwells in a reality in which he does not truly belong, much as the pair of you now do."

Donna nodded. She thought she understood . . . sort of. "Set an anomaly to catch an anomaly, right?" She eyed the Monitor suspiciously. "Our meeting here today, Jason and I . . . That was no coincidence, was it?"

He shook his head. "I planted the idea in Jason Todd's mind to bring you together, and remind you of your unique status in the universe."

"What?!" Jason lunged at the Monitor. "You stay out of my head, you cornrowed freak!"

Moving at super-speed, Donna grabbed hold of Jason, restraining him. He fought furiously to break loose, but she was many times stronger than him. "Jason, please! This isn't helping!" She didn't think that Jason could actually harm the Monitor, but she wasn't going to let him provoke the powerful being into retaliating. Despite his preternatural return from the dead, Jason was still just an ordinary human being with no superpowers. "Get control of yourself!"

"Like h.e.l.l!" he snarled. His gun went off, missing the Monitor but tearing up the earth at the foot of Donna's tombstone. Were there still remains in the buried coffin? If so, the bullet had probably just shattered her skull. "I'm tired of being treated like a p.a.w.n in these lunatics' cosmic games! I'm not letting anybody mess with my life again!"

The sheer fury in his voice startled Donna. Jason had always been kind of a hothead, but this was something else altogether. He's changed, she realized, and not for the better. She deftly pried the gun from his fingers and tossed it onto a gra.s.sy sward nearby. And since when did Batman's apprentices carry guns anyway?

She knew the Dark Knight would not approve.

"Enough!" the Monitor said impatiently. "Such primitive histrionics only delay our quest. I am responsible for this universe, and I say we must get under way. Somewhere outside this reality, beyond even my own ability to detect, Ray Palmer awaits."

Jason stopped squirming against Donna's tight embrace, but she kept holding on to him just in case. "Uh-huh," he retorted. "And how do you know the Atom's not already dead?"

"Because if he is," the Monitor stated gravely, "then we all are."

34 AND COUNTING.

METROPOLIS.

Suicide Slum, in the bad part of Metropolis, reminded Jimmy of Gotham City after dark. Hookers and drug dealers loitered on the street corners. Winos camped out on the sidewalks. Broken bottles, fast-food wrappers, tabloid newspapers, and other refuse littered the pavement. Faded chalk outlines testified to the neighborhood's notoriously high murder rate. Graffiti defaced the ugly metal shutters and bars that protected the district's few legal enterprises after sundown. The occasional streetlights created meager oases of light amidst the nocturnal shadows. Dry, brown weeds sprouted up from cracks in the sidewalks, and greasy puddles filled the potholes. Empty storefronts sheltered squatters, crackheads, and who knew what else. Law-abiding folks knew better than to drop by at midnight.

Maybe this was a bad idea, Jimmy thought.

Surly-looking slum dwellers eyed the young reporter, who tried unsuccessfully to act like he belonged here. A platinum blonde hooker offered him an obscene suggestion. Avoiding eye contact, Jimmy nervously hid his expensive digital camera beneath his Windbreaker while he searched for the address scribbled on the anonymous note he had received at the Planet earlier today. The letter said that if Jimmy had questions about what had happened to Lightray, he would find them at 666 Hob's Lane, deep in the diseased heart of this urban jungle. The address alone set off warning bells in Jimmy's head.

Good thing I'm not the superst.i.tious type.

666 Hob's Lane turned out be an abandoned brownstone that had obviously seen better days. The windows were either boarded up or broken, and yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the front entrance. The sooty brick walls looked like they hadn't been washed since the Great Depression, and no lights shone inside the decrepit building. A notice posted on the front door declared the brownstone condemned.

No kidding, Jimmy thought.

A homeless man wearing a ratty scarf and an ill-fitting parka leaned against the stoop of the building. His greasy white beard looked like it hadn't been shaved or combed since the Luthor administration. A crumpled paper bag held a bottle of fortified wine, which he sipped from religiously. "Hey, red," the vagrant called out to Jimmy, noticing his interest in the dilapidated brownstone. Slurred words suggested that he had probably been drinking all day. "You probably don't want to go in there."

"Yeah, you're right." Jimmy appreciated his warning. He hesitated on the sidewalk in front of the building. "I don't."

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then walked up the steps past the concerned Good Samaritan. Ducking beneath the police tape, he gave the front door a tentative shove. A broken lock admitted him to the foyer of the building, which looked just as unappetizing as its grimy facade and neighborhood. Dingy beige paint was peeling off the walls, and a couple pieces of rotting wooden furniture had been shoved into a corner. Scuff marks and cigarette burns marred the tile floor, which had been turned into a dumping ground for cigarette b.u.t.ts, empty syringes, rat droppings, and even less attractive waste. The entryway smelled like a wino's lavatory. Rats scurried away at his approach, cobwebs shrouded the ancient crown molding, and a water stain on the ceiling resembled the outline of Bialya.

Jimmy's nose wrinkled in disgust. First Arkham, now this, he thought crankily. How come I never get a.s.signed to Paradise Island or Atlantis instead? Sheer revulsion briefly replaced trepidation . . . until a phlegmy voice called his name.

"Olsen . . ."

"H-h-h.e.l.lo?" Jimmy stammered. The eerie voice seemed to be coming from upstairs. It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. "Who's there?"

The speaker declined to identify himself. "Second floor. Three doors down."

Jimmy peered dubiously at the murky staircase. Slivers of light from the street outside penetrated the boardedup windows, providing just enough illumination to see by. Jimmy stalled at the base of the stairs, but he had come too far to turn back now. If nothing else, he thought, maybe I can find out why I'm stretching and super-speeding sometimes.

Those freaky incidents still baffled him. The first time it had happened, at Arkham, he'd thought that maybe he had just inhaled a dose of the Scarecrow's fear gas or something, but that second incident, when he'd rescued those tourists at the speed of sound, had forced him to face the truth. For a few, fleeting moments, he had actually possessed superpowers, just like Plastic Man or the Flash.

But why?

Maybe the answer lay upstairs....

Hoping that he wasn't walking into some sort of nefarious trap, he cautiously headed up the stairs. The rickety steps creaked beneath his feet; Jimmy nervously recalled the Condemned notice. A moldy runner reeked of mildew. He grabbed on to the banister, which was slick and greasy to the touch. A c.o.c.kroach scuttled across his hand.

Gross!

Making it to the second floor in one piece, Jimmy spotted a glimmer of candlelight coming from a room on the right. The flickering amber glow led him to an ajar wooden door that was barely hanging on to its rusty hinges. He pushed the door open all the way, and an overpowering stench, like raw sewage mixed with rotten eggs, a.s.sailed his senses. "G.o.d," he blurted, gagging at the fetid odor, "it stinks in here, like . . ."

"Sleez." The room's sole inhabitant identified himself. An obese alien with mottled green skin, a hairless dome, and pointed ears squatted on a badly stained mattress across from the door. Filthy brown rags clothed his corpulent frame. X-rated centerfolds plastered the walls of the creature's squalid lair, alongside cheesecake shots of scantily clad super heroines like Starfire, Isis, and Big Barda. "Former servant, aide, and counsel to Darkseid, now a doomed exile on this deplorable mudball you call home." Piggish yellow eyes glinted in the candlelight as Sleez leered at his visitor. His slimy face glistened like mucus. "Have you missed me, Olsen?"

"Definitely not." Jimmy finally recognized the voice-and the smell. The loathsome creature before him had been banished from Apokolips because of his boundless depravity, which was really saying something; you had to be pretty perverted to be too vile for Darkseid to tolerate. "I thought you were dead."

"Alas, no," Sleez chortled. "By sheer force of will alone I have survived in the hope of someday taking revenge on Darkseid."

"Your note said you had something to tell me about Lightray." That this loathsome toad, who looked like Yoda's degenerate cousin, had cheated death while the n.o.ble New G.o.d had not struck Jimmy as cosmically unjust. "So just tell me what you know, and don't try any of your skeezy mind-control games on me. I'm onto your tricks. I'll signal Superman if you even look at me funny."

Sleez gave Jimmy an appraising look. "Grown some hair on your freckled chest, have you?" He nodded, his lecherous face a.s.suming a more serious expression as he got down to business. "Listen closely, Olsen. Darkseid can finally be destroyed if you-" His eyes widened in alarm. A note of panic sounded in his voice. "Oh no! He's here!"

"Who?" Jimmy asked anxiously. A resounding boom shook the deserted brownstone to its foundations. A blinding yellow glow penetrated the exposed brickwork. The pinups on the wall burst into flame. Chunks of plaster rained down from the ceiling, which looked ready to cave in at any moment. A horrifying thought occurred to Jimmy as a stony gray countenance surfaced from his memory. "Is it Darkseid?"

Sleez threw up his pudgy hands to s.h.i.+eld himself from the falling debris. "No . . . there's no time." Oily perspiration ran down his face. "Run away.... DO IT NOW!"

Jimmy waffled, uncertain what to do. How badly do I want this story?

"Greetings, Sleez."

A stentorian voice issued from above the disintegrating ceiling. Jimmy tried to make out the source of the voice, but the high-intensity glare was too bright. A sickening sense of deja vu came over him; this was Lightray's final moments all over again. "No," Jimmy protested to no one in particular. "Not again . . ."

"No! Please leave me!" Sleez begged, but his frantic plea fell upon deaf ears. A sizzling blast of energy zapped the exiled demon in the chest. He let out a bloodcurdling scream of agony.

"So begins the end!" the mystery voice proclaimed.

The end? Jimmy thought. The end of what?

Another thunderous boom shook the heavens and the golden glow faded, leaving Jimmy alone in the dingy apartment with Sleez's charred and smoking corpse. Scorch marks surrounded the remains, while a gaping hole glowed dimly where Sleez's black heart had once resided. Just like with Lightray, Jimmy realized, his watery eyes still recovering from the blazing burst of light. He stared aghast at the slain G.o.d, feeling trapped inside some cosmic murder mystery beyond mortal comprehension. Sleez's note had promised Jimmy answers, but his death left yet more questions behind. His heart pounding, Jimmy rested his weight against the nearest wall. His teeth ground in frustration.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on here?"

GOTHAM CITY.

Madame Xanadu was right, Mary realized. I shouldn't have come here.

Racing footsteps, accompanied by raucous hoots and whistles, pursued her as she ran frantically down a deserted city street. Sleeping office buildings offered the frightened girl no refuge. By day, this vicinity of Gotham was relatively clean and safe, but after dark the entire character of the neighborhood changed. The various businesses closed for the day, the office workers went home, and a more unsavory element took over the streets. Like the urban predators now chasing Mary by the lambent glow of the streetlights.

"Stop running, little girl!" a harsh voiced shouted at her. Heartless laughter came from the skinhead's fellow gang members. There were at least three of them, all gaining on Mary as she tried to get away from the tattooed thugs. Her wide blue eyes searched for sanctuary, but all she saw were locked doors and darkened windows. Metal shutters protected the coffee shops, copying centers, and Greek diners that, by day, catered to the professional crowd. Breathing hard, Mary urged her tired legs to keep on running. A painful st.i.tch stabbed her side with every step. If only she still had the speed of Mercury . . . !

This was a mistake, Mary thought. She still wasn't entirely sure why she had defied Madame Xanadu's warning and caught a Greyhound bus to Gotham, just like she couldn't really explain why she had felt compelled to venture down these lonely streets at night. All she knew was that she had to do something to get her powers back, and Gotham City was the only lead she had. What didn't Madame Xanadu want me to find here? Mary had been willing to face any sort of mystical threat or ordeal to regain her powers, but now it looked like her reckless quest was about to come to a nasty end.

Her sneakers slapped against the pavement. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw the punks closing in on her. They whooped and hollered like a pack of hungry wolves, eager to get their hands on their defenseless prey. Madame Xanadu had been wrong about one thing at least; there was nothing at all magical about these creeps.

But that didn't make them any less dangerous.

A four-story brownstone midway down the block caught her eye. Mary thought she spied a hint of movement somewhere within the silent edifice. She found herself strangely drawn to the building, much as she had felt driven to explore this neighborhood earlier. Desperate for any sort of shelter from the would-be muggers pursuing her, she sprinted up the front steps of the building. Her fists pounded against a pair of heavy wooden doors. "Please, somebody! Let me in!"

To her surprise, the unlocked doors swung open, almost as though something inside had been awaiting her. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, she dashed indoors. Her eyes hastily surveyed her surroundings, looking for a friendly face or maybe just a safe place to hide. Lights from outside exposed the lobby of what had obviously once been a very elegant address. Marble columns and floor tiles greeted her eyes. A grand staircase led to a mezzanine overlooking the ground floor. An unlit crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling. The bare walls and floor had been stripped of any expensive furnis.h.i.+ngs or carpets. Scuff marks recorded the departure of heavy desks or sofas, and cobwebs hung in the place of draperies. Thick layers of dust suggested that the brownstone had been abandoned for months at the very least. Her footsteps echoed in the sepulchral silence of the empty lobby. Nothing stirred within the venerable walls, not even a rat or c.o.c.kroach. The musty air smelled sour and rotten, like something had crawled inside the building to die.

What is this place? Mary wondered apprehensively. The desolate setting sent a chill down her spine, reminding her of the hidden subway tunnel that had once led to the wizard Shazam's timeless throne room. Is this how Billy felt the first time the wizard summoned him? As her eyes adjusted to the oppressive gloom, she made out more details of the lobby's interior decor, which seemed to have a distinctly Middle Eastern flavor. Elaborate arabesques wound around the marble columns and moldings. Faded mosaic tiles, embedded in the walls, depicted the G.o.ds of ancient Egypt. Arcane hieroglyphics, inscribed throughout the chamber, made the forlorn lobby feel like the tomb of some forgotten pharaoh. Mary frowned; not too long ago, the wisdom of Solomon would have allowed her to read the hieroglyphics with ease, but now they might as well have been written in Kryptonian. She was certain that she had never set foot in this building before, yet somehow the place felt oddly familiar. . . .

Her pursuers gave her little time to ponder the mystery, barging into the lobby after her. "Hope you're not lookin' for a phone in here, baby," the leader of the hoodlums said with a sneer. Serpentine tattoos coiled atop his shaved skull. Metal studs and rings pierced his eyelids, ears, and lips. Death-metal decals plastered his scuffed leather jacket. A tarnished steel swastika hung on a chain around his neck. Steel-toed boots stamped across the marble floor. "'Cause this dump ain't had water or power or nothing since them ragheads moved out!"

Mary backed away from the snickering hoodlums. "Shazam," she whispered uselessly. Her fists clenched at her sides. If I just had my powers back, she lamented, I'd teach these creeps a lesson they'd never forget. She hated feeling so scared and helpless. Mary Marvel would make short work of these losers.

But she wasn't Mary Marvel. Not anymore.

Salvation came instead from an entirely different quarter.

"Ragheads?" a deep voice sounded from above. "I detest that term."

All eyes turned upward toward the mezzanine, which remained cloaked in shadow. Who? Mary thought. For a moment, she thought that maybe Batman had come to her rescue-this was Gotham City after all-but the voice's distinct Middle Eastern accent reminded her of someone else instead. Oh no, she realized in horror. Not him!

A pair of powerful hands grabbed on to the skinhead's shoulders, yanking him off his feet. The startled punk yelped in surprise as he dangled several feet above the floor. Wet, rending noises cut off his cries as he was literally ripped into pieces by his unseen a.s.sailant. Blood splattered the walls. The mugger flew apart in more pieces than Mary could count. She gagged as a b.l.o.o.d.y fragment landed at her feet. Severed limbs. .h.i.t the floor. A head rolled down the stairs. Intestines snagged on the chandelier. If she could have afforded to eat today, she would've lost her lunch for sure.