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The Games that Gods Play	By : Ristul Category: DC Verse Comics > Wonder Woman Views: 16896 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Wonder Woman,nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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*Disclaimer: All characters are property of DC Comics. I do not own these characters nor do I make any financial gain from these characters. The story is designed for entertainment purposes only.
Prologue
How to achieve the perfect killer? Simple. Take a pool of children, minimum 100, or use a larger initial population for better results. Put them through the most severe brainwashing and training imaginable. Weed out the weak at every opportunity. Make them compete against one another. Kill the losers. Put them through all sorts of trials to weed out love and other such silly sentiments. By the end of it all, have only one child left standing. That’s your perfect killer, right there.
-Doctor Mengele Gross

The man observed the torture of the last guardian, savoring the screams and cries of agony from the man as his interrogators and torturers extracted the last bits of information out of him.
“So, what do we have?” William Lestrade asked. His voice was doubly inflected, as though it was two people speaking. That wasn’t far from the truth; the demon Rytais and Lestrade had merged to form one being. He was tall and lean. Every one of his movements was economical, confident. His handsome face and blond hair had made many women swoon for him over the years. But what the media had never picked up on was his true nature, that of a demon in human guise.
His chief of torture answered first. “My lord, we have almost everything we need to commence the recovery of the Untrilen, including its location. But the exact nature of the defensive traps was not known to these guardians. All they know is that those measures are extremely dangerous, even to beings such as yourself, and that the only outcome for anybody who gets past all the wards is death.”
Rytais waved away that concern. “That is no problem. I have plenty of pawns to squander.”
“It’s not so simple. The wards weren’t just to keep out intruders; they also served to determine the worthiness of the person seeking Untrilen. According to the guardians, Untrilen will only recognize the blood of the one who had passed through the wards.”
Rytais lifted an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“Yes sir.”
“The solution itself is simple, but there’s loose ends to take care of first.”
“Sir?”
Rytais smiled, and the room was flooded with darkness. Suddenly there wasn’t just screams from the people on the stretch racks and the electric chairs. Even the torturers, the interrogators themselves, were screaming.
He walked out of the torture chambers several minutes later, to be greeted by his head of arms. “My lord.” The man greeted him.
“Clean up the chambers. I also want Doctor Gross to see me, now.”
Moments later, Rytais was in his interview room, sitting opposite a thin, balding man. Gross fiddled with the papers he had brought. The details of a training program that would create the perfect soldiers. No sane nation would use them; they were too horrifying to contemplate.
“So, Doctor Gross, I have reviewed your plan, and I am pleased to say that I would like to implement it, despite any problems I might have with the authorities. But I have one caveat.”
“Sir?”
“I want only one at the end. Not five, as you had recommended.”
Gross didn’t skip a beat. “Easily done, sir. But may I ask why?”
“Five is difficult to control. One is easy.” Rytais contained an internal shudder. He was already taking a huge risk by even having a single heir. Five? If they were true to their blood, they would be too dangerous to control. No, better to have that one heir, who would die for him getting through the wards of the Untrilen.
And then? The universe would be his. Or rather, a seat on the high council.
Rytais smiled as he beheld the future. One last thing remained to do.
Lots and lots of forced sex. He looked forward to the pain and humiliation he was going to inflict on those women. It would be immensely enjoyable.

Twelve years later
“91!” The instructor ordered.
“Yes, sir!” The boy, only eleven years old, shouted out. He stepped forward and loaded his pistol. His face was a mask of indifference. Blank, emotionless.
He had seen two others of his siblings die that day on the obstacle/combat course.
“Set, go!”
The boy dashed forward. He rolled under a set of swinging blades that would have cut him open with a single wrong move. He came up with his pistol barking.
“Targets one to three down.” The instructor reported to the range master.
The boy continued running, towards a mockup of a house. He hit the wall beside the door, panting hard. Then he kicked the door hard, then moved in, his pistol held out and in front of him as he looked up down, and around for enemies.
Gunfire barked. There were automated weapons inside the house, acting on infrared sensors to fire. There were only two ways to inactivate them. One was through the main controls in the observation tower. The second was by shooting a 9 square centimeter metal plate attached to each weapon.
The buy designated 91 weaved past the bullets, replying with his own pistol. One by one the weapons fell silent.
“Weapons one to five deactivated.”
The range master paused for a moment, then said, “Reactivate weapons two and four.”
More gunfire barked, and again they fell silent.
“He was prepared for that one.” The instructor remarked with admiration. “Firing accuracy so far is 95 percent.”
“Incredible.” The range master shook his head. Gross’ training program was brutally inhuman, but the soldiers that he could turn out… They were down to only eight children left from the original two hundred, and any one of them could ace a formal spec ops course for adult soldiers, provided that stamina and strength requirements were adjusted. After this course, there was only one last set of trials. Formal one on one battle, until there is only one left.
They switched their attentions to several cameras, showing the progress of the boy through the house. “Entering room 6.”
There was an extra clip of ammunition for the boy as he entered the room. He tucked it into a pocket.
More automated weapons popped out of their hiding spots. The boy again took them down quickly and efficiently. Then they saw him hit the release catch for his ammunition clip, sliding the empty magazine into a pocket while snapping in the fresh one.
“One shot one kill there. Jesus Christ.” The instructor shook his head in disbelief.
The range master grunted in reply. “Let our paymaster hear those two words you said at the end, and you’ll be dead by nightfall, so clamp it down!”
The boy moved on, cool and collected as he fought through the automated defenses.
At the end of the obstacle/combat course, his accuracy rating was 90%.
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Chapter One
Tom Serra, not his real name, is regarded by everybody in the know as one of the most dangerous men in the entire universe. His real name? He doesn’t have one. A damn number, 91, doesn’t count as a name. I named him Tom Serra, after a fictitious character in a book I read just before I met him and found out that he had only a number with which to identify himself.
Without ethics, remorse, or anything which might hold him back from the kill, he makes for one heck of an assassin and black ops commander. I hate to think of the consequences if he wasn’t on our side. But underneath it all, I often wondered if he was as emotionless or beyond all hope as he would like us to think he is…
-Jake Kabrinski

“Serra, get up!” The voice was commanding, stern, but also with a tinge of concern.
“Go away, Jake,” the disheveled man turned away from his erstwhile friend on his straw mat. Jake didn’t know if it was because Tom Serra did not want his friend to care, or because he did not want his friend to see his present sorry state.
“Tom, you sad bastard, get up.” Jake stared down at his friend. “You’re a waste.”
“Yeah, I’m a waste. So what?” Serra replied bitterly. “It’s not as if it’s any of your damn fucking business.”
They were in an abandoned building, empty for years now after its original owners died. The room was dark and damp, with a puddle of leaking water from the roof pooling in a corner. Scattered throughout the room were cigarette butts, ash, empty bottles of alcohol, and vomit from its occupant’s nightmares. The place stank of death and decay, not helped by the stench pervading the room. Serra laid on his straw mat, itself dirty with old vomit, drugs, and alcohol. There were even traces of blood, Tom’s blood, streaked across the plain surface. The squeaking of rats in the background served as a dismal reminder of their surroundings.
Jake persisted, “I care because you’re my friend, and I don’t wish to see you sink any further. Damn it, , do style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>something. All this self pity isn’t going to solve your problems.”
Serra barked a sharp laugh, “And you have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about, so get out. And for the record, you’re not my friend.”
Jake glared at Serra. The man had lost his drive, his will to live. Serra had not bathed in months, his long hair and beard clinging to his grimy clothes. They were originally blond, but the filth on them had turned them into a dirty brown color. He stank terribly. He stank of death, decay. His own.
Jake shook his head, “Dammit, is it about your past again? I thought…”
Tom cut him off. “You thought bullshit. You know nothing. You don’t know what I went through.” His voice was edged with pain. “Something broke in me, Jake. Something that reminded me of what I am. I will fight no more, forever.”
“Nobody’s asking you to fight.”
“I don’t care. It’s not your problem. style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>I’m not your problem anymore.” Tom sighed.
The big man clenched his fists. They had gone through the exact same argument every month for the past year, and the outcome was the same every time. Tom would refuse his offer of a job at the café, and prefer to stay rotting away in a shit hole for the rest of his life. He knew part of the story, but he just couldn’t understand why Tom wouldn’t let go of his past and look to his present and his future. In the end, he knew it wasn’t in his power to change Serra. All he could do was to care as best for his friend. Because he owed his life to Serra, far too many times.
“Then fine. Stay here and rot.” Jake said angrily. He took out a wad of cash from a pocket. “Here’s some money if you decide to change your mind and do something with yourself.” He tossed it onto the floor contemptuously. ”And if you don’t change your mind, at least try not to spend it all on drugs and beer.”
Jake spun around, and marched away, not bothering to hide his disgust.

Tom Serra stared at the wad of bills for an entire hour, before he stretched an arm out and took the money, stuffing it in one pocket of the jacket he had scavenged off a rubbish dump. He did not bother to count the money. He knew from previous visits from Jake that it was four hundred dollars. Enough for him to buy enough dope and beer for a month as long he rationed them carefully. The drugs and the alcohol to hold his nightmares at bay. Or to make them worse.
He couldn’t tell which was which anymore. He didn’t care.
He coughed painfully, feeling the aching sensation in his lungs after a bout of flu that he had contacted recently. He wondered if he would develop pneumonia. He wondered if he was going to die. It would be a welcome release from the pain of living.
Feeling an urge to relieve himself, he climbed unsteadily to his feet. He stumbled out of his room, then trudged down the rickety stairs of the building to the ground floor and out of the building’s main exit, to a side alley which held a small drain for him to use.
“Hey, Tom!” A man from opposite the street shouted as he walked out, “You got some time?”
Tom turned slowly to face the man. John Miles was a social worker at the orphanage opposite the abandoned building which served as Tom’s home. He had an arrangement with the orphanage, where he would occasionally do odd jobs around the orphanage for a hot meal, and generally kept an eye out for the kids. The neighborhood was not the safest of places for children to play in, so Tom had made certain… arrangements with the gangs in the area to leave the orphanage alone.
Serra did not know why he even cared, but he could not bear the thought of the kids coming to harm, any harm. He acted as a makeshift watchman for the orphanage, had even helped look for a boy who had gotten himself lost in the neighborhood once.
The staff tended to treat him like one of their own, but he hated their pity. He knew the looks of disgust thrown his way whenever people thought he wasn’t looking. The hushed whispers of “useless bum” when his back was turned. He didn’t bother. They were right anyway. He was a useless, broken man. He was barely better than a dog. Hell, he was worse.
At times, especially in his nightmares, he could still hear the whispers of those he had betrayed, those he had killed. “Why did you kill me?” the murky wraiths would ask. “Why? Why?”
There were many such in his nightmares. His many victims, his many targets, even his siblings, the ones he had killed, even the ones whose deaths he had caused indirectly, would appear from the dark. Their hands, dark, skeletal, seeming like mist, would reach out for him, grabbing, grasping, clutching, intent on dragging him to hell, where he truly belonged.
And then Serra would awake in a pool of his own vomit, the reprieve from his marijuana dose over all too soon as evidenced by his waking nightmare, and he would scream for all he was worth against the fates that had make a mockery of his life. Madness, betrayal, and despair, weaved into his life’s thread, always behind in his past and in front of him in his future, waiting to pounce onto his present.
He was tired of it all. Tired of fighting. Tired of staying alive.
All he wanted to do was to just crawl into a hole, lay down and die. But something kept him alive. He had tried slitting his wrists once, but he just couldn’t make the final cut. And so he would remain in the world, alone, drifting, hopeless, living his wretched existence. Waiting for something to end it for him, once and for all.
Serra pulled his mind back to the immediate present, “Yes, John?” He finally replied. “What is it?”
“We’re having a guest come over in the evening, and Mildred hopes you’ll wash up and join us. After all, you’re as much a part of the orphanage as…”
He was cut off brusquely. “Forget it.” Serra started to walk away. “Not interested.”
“But it’s a really special guest!” John yelled at him in vain. “It’s Princess Diana from Themyscira! Wonder Woman herself!!”
Tom had already tuned him out.

“Are the men ready?”
“As ready as they’ll ever be. Don’t worry. We planned this operation from head to toe. There’s no way that fucking bitch is gonna get away, let alone beat us. We have all her weaknesses down pat.”
“I hope for our sakes that you’re right. Our client paid a lot of money for this, to capture her and humiliate her on video.”
“Damn right I am. She’s going down, and nothing’s going to save her. But who’s the client?”
“I dunno. Some rich snob with a hard on for the bitch, I think. Not our problem. We do our job, we’ll be set for the rest of our lives.”
A radio crackled, “Target at operation area. Let’s go!”
“Move it, move it!”
The clatter of boots on hard pavement was the only indication of their passing.

It was in the evening. Wonder Woman flew into the neighborhood, a goddess descending onto the mortal world, even though she was dressed in ordinary jeans and a T-shirt. A being born of clay, blessed by the gods of Olympus, she was the embodiment of the modern superheroine. Strong, beautiful, intelligent, compassionate.
She was greeted by cheers from the gathered children and the staff of the orphanage as she landed in front of the headmistress.
“Welcome to Curing Orphanage, Ambassador,” Mildred Rose said to Wonder Woman.
Diana smiled graciously, and leaned down to hug several of the children, whose laughs of joy filled her with gladness.
Then she heard a distinct click. It was a familiar sound, the sound of a gun being switched from ‘safe’ to a firing mode.
Almost without thinking, she placed herself in the path of the incoming bullets. They impacted on her invincible bracelets, but she suddenly felt lightheaded. Gas rounds!
She gathered her will, and tried to stay awake, but her vision was blurring fast. Her limbs felt heavy and weak, and she was only vaguely aware of the black clad men approaching the orphanage.
“Freeze, nobody move!” Somebody shouted.
Diana collapsed onto the ground, straining to stay conscious. She could feel her healing power struggling to get rid of the poison that had entered her body, but at the moment she was in no condition to fight.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try. She reached with one hand for her lasso of truth, which she could use as a makeshift whip.
She raised herself to her knees, but stopped when she saw the scene in front of her. Some of the black clad men had taken the staff of the orphanage and the kids, and were leveling their weapons at them. She froze, trying to figure a way out.
With her senses dulled by the drugs and shock, Diana was unable to deflect several tranquilizer darts that sank into her right arm. She groaned, overwhelmed by the chemicals.
Wonder Woman blacked out.

Serra had been sitting in his room, rolling up a new stick of marijuana for use just before he would sleep. Several cans of beer and a half eaten hotdog in a dirty wrapper taken from a nearby dump laid beside him. My dinner for today. How nice.
The roar of gunfire shook him out of his malaise. The first shot froze the blood in his veins. The second shot made his blood run like lightning, pulling him into motion. Without thinking, he was already moving faster than he had for the past entire year, racing out of his room and down the stairs.
He was just out of the building when he was suddenly stopped by a gun in his face.
“Don’t move!” The black clad commando in the mask ordered, a M4 carbine in his hands and pointed at Tom. “Easy!”
“Down! On your knees!” Another yelled at the children, many of whom were in tears. Tom saw John Miles lying on the ground unconscious from a blow to the back of his head, and the rest of the staff in sheer terror.
He did not know why, but he felt calm as he slowly knelt on the ground. Calmer than he had ever felt in his life, while staring death in the face.
He saw the commandos lift up a statuesque brunette up by her arms and legs, her limbs bound by some kind of glowing rope. She was obviously out of it, her eyes closed. The staff and children of the orphanage seemed even more stricken with dismay as they saw the woman being hauled away and carried into a non-descript van. Some of the children, three to be exact, were dragged into more vans as well, screaming for help. But none was forthcoming. Tom stayed silent, watching for his chance.
The van’s engines throbbed to life, then the vehicle moved off, along with a number of the commandos in several more vans that had appeared.
Tom counted the remaining commandos. style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Seven, eight, nine, ten commandos. Masked, well armed. He watched their movements carefully. Professional, alert. These are no ordinary thugs.
The next few minutes passed by, tension thick in the air. Tom slipped a small knife out of a pocket, unnoticed by the commando beside him, who was looking down the street for passerbys. The commandos seemed more wary of the orphanage staff instead of him, and he knew why. What danger could a half starved homeless bum be? Tom held the knife against his wrist such that the commando would not see it.
Then a radio crackled. “Remove the witnesses. All of them.”
One commando lifted his rifle, about to fire at the children. At that moment, Serra saw that their attentions were all focused away from him.
Move! Now! Adrenaline surged through his body. He turned and flicked the knife at the commando beside him. The surprised man fell with a wet gurgle as his throat was slit.
The commandoes on the scene all turned to him in shock, but Tom was already in motion, his hands grasping for the M4 carbine. The dead commando’s fingers automatically tightened on the triggers of the gun as he died, and Tom held the man’s hands together with the carbine as it barked fire, guiding the rounds towards his targets.
Two commandos jerked back as their bodies were hit by the bullets. They fell to the ground, blood pooling below their corpses. The children and staff screamed as they all ducked down onto the pavement. The other commandos dived for what cover they could find.
He pulled the gun away from the dead man’s hands, then spun around the man when the reply fire came. He could feel the Kevlar armor vest the commando was wearing. It should be enough; it would have to be enough.
The other men shot at him, but Tom held the dead man in front of him, using him as a human shield. He stayed firmly behind his shield, shuffling backwards to the relative safety of the abandoned building’s walls. He could feel the man’s body turning to mush under the impact of so many rounds. Then there was a sudden lull, and Serra knew that some of them were reloading their weapons.
He dropped and rolled on the pavement to his left, while the hand that had released his human shield reached for a pistol in the commando’s shoulder holster and pulled it out. He came up with both weapons ablaze, dropping another two commandos, one with a pistol shot right in the forehead, another by hitting the man’s arms with the carbine. The commando wasn’t dead yet, but he was effectively removed from the battle.
Five down, five to go. Tom did not know how he looked like at that moment, his unkempt hair and messy beard streaked with blood from the first commando he had killed, his lips pulled back in a menacing snarl, showing his blackened and decayed teeth. His mind was already gauging distances and angles, the positions of his enemies and the present combat situation. He had never felt more alive.
In that instant, he had forgotten his own nightmares, his own guilt. There was only the here and now, and at this moment in time, he was what he had always been, what he had been trained to become. The perfect weapon. Ruthless, deadly. A killing machine honed to the keenest of edges, unstoppable in battle and relentless in war.
His guns barked again, and another commando went down. Another was taking out his radio. A bullet in the throat took care of that problem.
Then the combatants’ weapons all snapped back with breeches clear, empty simultaneously from the firefight. Tom charged forward, unwilling to let them have the chance to reload their guns, even as two of the commandos brandished swords from the sheaths on their backs. The remaining commando worked his weapon, trying to reload it as fast as possible with a new magazine from his ammunition belt.
The first commando to reach him raised his sword above his head. Tom put on a burst of speed, grabbing the man’s hands before he could swing down, and then kneed him hard in the gut. He pulled the sword down and around savagely, the sharp blade punching through the man’s belly.
Serra pulled the sword free with a shower of blood in time to parry a slash from the other commando. A punch from his free left hand sent the other man reeling, open for a blow from the sword that carved away half of his head, splattering blood and brain matter all over the ground.
The remaining commando, still in the process of reloading, looked aghast at the carnage Tom had wrought, and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He turned and then started to run away. Serra hefted his sword in one hand, reversing his grip and weighing it carefully. Then like a javelin thrower, he flung the blade at the man.
The commando went down with the sword through his back. He fell onto his front, and did not move again after a final twitch of his limbs.
With the last of his enemies dead, Serra broke out of his bloodlust. His lungs were burning, his limbs weighed down with lead. He had not done anything this strenuous in months. He turned around to see the members of the orphanage staring at him, as though he had sprouted horns on his head and wings on his back. He breathed heavily, feeling the hot sensation of his enemies’ blood on his skin. However, his lips were still pulled back, his eyes hot with battle rage.
“My god…” Mildred Rose held a hand to her mouth, stunned. “What did you do?” She shook her head, disbelieving of the scene.
Tom wanted to reply, he wanted to tell her, but he found that he couldn’t. His blood sang with the thrill of battle. He could not deny that this was where he belonged, the one thing he was most suited for. The art of killing men.
He cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts. “Get the kids away from here. Call the police. More of these commandos could be on the way. I’ll escort you as you move.”
“No,” Mildred said firmly, somehow getting her fear of him under control as she realized he wasn’t about to hurt them. “They got Wonder Woman and some of the kids. You have to rescue them.”
Serra blinked, “What?”
“John, you didn’t tell him?” She asked Miles, who was shaking his head to clear his grogginess as he was helped to his feet by some of the older children. The rest of the kids were still in shock, wailing loudly as several of the staff tried to console them.
“I did. He didn’t bother to listen.” John said. He looked at the dead bodies. “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you…”
There was suddenly a series of coughs from the commando Tom had disarmed.
He strode over, pausing to pick up a gun and a clip of ammo from a dead commando corpse. He inserted the magazine into the Ingram SMG. “Mildred. Tell the kids to turn away,” he told the headmistress.
“But...”
“Do it!” He yelled, then spoke in a softer tone, “I don’t want them to see this.”
The commando was still alive, and the bleeding on his arms wasn’t too bad. Tom lifted the man up by the throat, then propped him against a nearby wall, the Ingram pressed against the other man’s forehead.
“Tom,” John began to speak.
“Shut up and watch.” Serra snapped. “If you want me to save the kids and your precious Wonder Woman, let me do things my way.”
He turned back to the commando, and pulled the guy’s mask off. Tom snarled into the man’s face, and spoke only a word, “Where?”
“Fuck you!”
Serra grinned maliciously. He lowered the Ingram, and fired a burst at the man’s right knee. “Arrrrrgggghhh!” The man screamed.
“Where?” Tom asked again.
The man did not have any comeback this time, though he clenched his teeth, apparently still unwilling to talk.
Another burst of fire, this time into the left knee.
Tears now ran freely down the commando’s face. “Where?” Tom pressed the Ingram against the man’s groin. The intention was clear.
“Warehouse!” The man finally broke. And he told Serra the location of the place they were taking Wonder Woman and the children.
“Good. If I find you’re lying to me, I’ll come back for you and make you sing soprano for the rest of your fucking life.” Tom slammed the stock of the gun into the man’s head, knocking him out. He turned to see the orphanage staff, their faces pale as ghosts at his brutal actions.
He walked over to John Miles. “I need some wheels. Your bike.”
John numbly handed him the keys to his motorcycle. Serra nodded his thanks, then said, “Tie this fellow up, bind him as best as you can to stop the bleeding, then go down three blocks, and tell the street gang there what happened. They should hold you safely until the police arrive. Also, tell the police the warehouse location.”
The Night Gazers were not the nicest of people, but they had their own brand of street honor. They stayed hands-off on the orphanage, and Tom happened to know that their boss grew up there, and had occasionally donated money from his dealings. He would be able to protect them until the police arrived.
However, the best way to protect them in the long term would be to eliminate the commandos. One way or the other. He started walking towards John’s bike, pausing to gather up as much equipment from the dead commandos as he could carry.
Several minutes later, Tom Serra was riding into the heart of the city harbor. If his estimates were right, he would get there before the police could. Considering the firepower the commandos were packing, nothing short of a SWAT team could deal with them. And one man could do things that a group couldn’t. Considering the possible hostage situation, the police were likely to make things worse.
He just had to get there first to avoid all that. In the midst of all his planning, Tom had not noticed his own urge for survival surging to the fore again.
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The Games that Gods Play