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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
- 15
- 16
- 17
Interlude 4
Don’t be too worried. Half of these men can’t swing a sword properly. It’s the other half, the ones who do know how to fight, you should be worried about.
So then, ready for the fight of your life?
-Asem
The boy followed his master. They headed towards a lonely hut in the middle of nowhere, on their way to the city Aswan.
He had grown tall, despite living off scraps Asem threw him and scavenging for his own food. Trapping and hunting game did the rest, and he would salt and dry whatever extra food he had managed to obtain to get by lean times when Asem would not bother to give him his meager share of their reward money.
Theirs was a demanding trade, the killing of men. Asem had decided early on that they could tackle the better paying assignments, which were also very much tougher. 91 had lost count of the number of men he had killed, either by a stab in the back or in open battle.
He had also learnt much. Asem was not just a master swordsman, he was also an excellent hand-to-hand fighter. 91 had been put through the most intense and grueling training he had ever known. Asem would train him on slippery oil and broken glass, on top of wooden poles, with heavy weights around his wrists, on a boat in choppy waters. Always pushing, always demanding. 91 had the sneaking suspicion that if he had not done as well as he had, Asem would have killed him already.
91 thought he was a good melee fighter, but he now knew that Asem’s training had placed him on a whole new level, even if Asem had admitted he himself had not fully mastered all 21 strokes of the Sword 21 technique.
But 91 had mastered all 21 strokes, though he made sure not to reveal that little fact to Asem. He could kill Asem now, but he chose to bide his time for just a while longer.
They marched up to the door of the hut, and Asem simply pushed open the door without knocking. The place stank of death, but a man, still alive, sat in a corner of the room, huddled in blankets. He was covered with sores and bleeding wounds, though 91 could not see any obvious sign of injury. His face was sallow, pale, with boils all over.
The man rasped in explanation, “My punishment, for revealing the fates. For knowing too much, and saying too much, the gods have cursed me.”
Asem nodded, then tossed a bottle to the man. “Then have some relief for your pain, soothsayer.”
The man uncapped the bottle, and took a whiff of its contents. His mouth broke into a grin, and he chugged down the contents with a delighted sigh.
He finished the bottle, and sat back. 91 noted that the lesions on him seemed to have faded, however slightly, “Ahhh, thank you for Tenus Wine. It is the only thing that can relieve my pain, however slightly. Now then, what can I do for you?”
Asem smiled slightly, “You should know.”
The soothsayer stared back, “Ahhh, I do. Why else would anyone come to me, bearing solace and comfort for my condition?” He shook his head, “Very well then, master assassin.”
“I want to know if I should enter the tournament. Will I win it?” Some offworld media company, probably from Solaris Seven, the Game World, had learnt about the free-wheeling anarchy on Caph, and they had put up a grand prize of almost 200,000 C-bills for the survivor of a free-for-all melee. It was also more money than any assassin could ever hope to earn, a chance to get off this worthless piece of rock and towards a better future. Asem wanted to go for it, but he had his doubts. Hence, this trip to the renowned Soothsayer of Auben Hill.
The man sat back and giggled madly as he pointed one at Asem, and then to 91, “One of you will win it. But beware, victory brings its own perils.” He began to laugh.
91 thought he saw a tight grin on Asem’s face. “Thank you.”
They left.

They stood in the vast arena, packed with hard-bitten men from all over the world, who’d come here for a chance at glory and fortune beyond their wildest beliefs. Solaris Broadcasting Corporation, the organization behind this event, had sent a small group of representatives to oversee the whole thing, plus several film crews placed around in strategic spots to record the ensuing slaughter.
For the entertainment of the masses, we shall bathe in blood, 91 thought. For the sake of money, we gamble on our lives. His grip on his sword tightened, and he had to force himself to relax. Damn reality TV.
He also noted that the company executive present had about four bodyguards, all armed heavily with guns. The man in the business suit smiled as he took out a suitcase, and opened it up to the gathered fighters, showing the stacks of bound bills inside the suitcase. “Win, and it’s all yours!”
There was a murmur from the crowd, and 91 felt a sudden rising of tension in the air. Asem was in there somewhere, and he recalled the last words his master spoke to him.
“From now on, we are not master and student. You have proven yourself to be a fine assassin. But now is your final challenge. Prove you’re the best by killing me and winning the whole thing. Or I’ll kill you and take the reward for myself!” Asem laughed.
Which was easier said than done.
There would be no firearms involved. Just pure melee fighting. In his few moments in the arena, 91 had already seen more types of exotic weaponry than even his time in the brutal training camps of his youth. And many of the participants, who were mostly male, gave every impression they knew how to use their weapons.
He forced down the bitter taste of bile in his throat. This was his chance. He had spent enough time on Caph growing up. Now was the time to start thinking of a way out, to get to the stars. Start plotting his vengeance. And to do that, he had to have that money.
One of the bodyguards held up a gun, and the participants suddenly scattered throughout the vast arena, their eyes roving around cautiously to ensure that their backs would not be exposed to an easy strike.
“Ready? Three, two, one…”
The gun fired, a crack through the air.
The arena erupted into chaos.
91 spun with his blade in right hand, a dagger in his left. The sword parried one blow from another swordsman, while a dagger laid his opponent’s belly open. Then he dropped to the ground to avoid an overhead slash and rolled before sticking his sword into the guts of another warrior.
Pandemonium ruled the arena, and 91 felt as if he had stumbled onto Valhalla, where warriors fought nonstop. Only difference was, if they fell here in the Aswan arena, they won’t be getting back on their feet ever again.
Blood was beginning to flow in crimson rivers along his feet, and 91 could see the field clearing rapidly of standing people. Many of the amateurs who had arrived with little more than desperation and a battered weapon in their hands were either killed or had fled through several one-way exits. More and more, he could see that the remaining fighters were the professional soldiers and assassins.
For almost five minutes, 91 dueled with a big soldier wielding a huge double bladed halberd, along with tough armor on his body that made it extremely difficult for him to cut his way through. He danced around his slower but better protected opponent, slowly wearing down the bigger man, until another assassin moved behind the man and plunged a spear into his back.
91 repaid that other assassin for his help by throwing a dagger into his throat.
He realized that the field had shrunk to just 16 fighters, and all of them had seemingly paired off. His next opponent was a snarling but short man who used a barbed spear to compensate for his lack of reach. His speed and ability to adjust quickly due to his shorter limbs enabled him to parry and strike equally quickly.
The boy had mostly refrained from using the deadly strokes of Sword 21 so far, but there was no point in holding back any longer. He opened with Step Echo, his rapid footwork deluding his opponent into thinking he was moving back when in fact, his balance predicated a forward movement.
91 smiled thinly as his opponent found himself moving in too closely, a mistake for a spearman. His dagger locked the spear down, then his sword thrust towards his opponent.
The short man unexpectedly split his spear into half, a short cudgel and a scythe. He swung his new set of weapons in at 91 with vicious strength.
91 moved into a defensive stroke, Fan Folding. He caught the scythe between his own sword and dagger, spinning them like the blades of a fan, and countered the cudgel with his elbow, shoving it aside. He pushed the man off, and in the short instance he was off-balanced, ran him through with his sword, aiming for the man’s right ventricle, twisting the blade and then moving the blade diagonally to cut across more arteries. The man died with a wet gurgle.
The other duels ended at almost the same time, leaving only 8 men left on the field. 91 barely had time to catch his breath when the next opponent came in. It was a giant of a warrior this time, standing more than seven feet tall and wielding a massive axe and a shield with jagged spikes all along its edges. Despite his size, he was not armored, and moved too fast for 91’s comfort. Blood seeped from wounds all over his huge frame, but 91 knew better than to hold back. He knew this warrior, Gaston, a powerful mercenary by reputation.
Their first exchange ended with 91 almost flattened to the ground by the giant’s sheer strength when he tried to lock the other man’s weapon corps a corps. He kept his stance low, remembering the one weakness of tall opponents: their ankles and knees.
Gaston swung again with his axe in a heavy overhead swing, and 91 rolled low, and spun along the ground, his sword slashing across the giant’s right ankle before he had time to bring down his shield. Blood spurted out, and 91 felt the shield cut him all along his left arm as he tried to get to Gaston’s back without risking himself past that deadly axe. He dropped the dagger in his left hand due to the numbness in his left arm.
He gritted his teeth, and punched his sword through the giant’s left inner thigh. The femoral artery was there, and cutting it was a lethal move known to all trained swordsmen, with uncontrollable blood loss and ensuing death. Gaston roared, still able to fight for a while more, but knowing he had been dealt a fatal wound.
91 danced away, putting distance between him and Gaston, while observing the other duels. The nearest duel caught his eye. A heavily tattooed and bald man was wielding a scimitar and a dagger against his overmatched opponent. 91 recognized him as well. Gui Long, nicknamed the Night Dragon for his stealth and ability to kill swiftly without being touched.
“Faster!” Gui Long yelled, his lips flecked with spittle. His scimitar was a blur in front of him, while his opponent struggled to keep up with the flurry of blows.
“Faster!” Gui Long screamed again, urging his opponent on.
“FASTER!” He finally ran his hapless opponent through, then cut the man’s throat with his dagger in less than a single heartbeat.
91 had focused on controlling the bleeding on his useless left arm, but he knew who his next opponent was. Gui Long turned to him, and grinned viciously. Then he started running forward.
91 sighed, then forced himself to concentrate. He waited until his opponent was almost on him, then went into the Paper Tear stroke, a slow floating but deceptive movement that almost caught Gui Long by the throat but only punched through his left shoulder instead. The two men quickly disengaged, 91 to think up a new plan, Gui Long to reassess his chances with a disabled left arm. Both men still had their right arms, so all was even.
Then they went at it again, this time in a flurry of close in parries and twirling steel. Gui Long was fast, faster than anything 91 had ever seen before.
But he was even faster.
91 was younger, his speed, skill, and agility honed by countless brutal sessions with Asem, who held nothing back when training his protégé. From buckets of stones tossed at him to improve his parrying speed to dodging various durians on strings to practicing his strokes on slick oil, to all of the above together, he had fought his way through.
Gui Long’s eyes grew wide when 91 shifted up gear, moving even faster. It was his turn to taunt the other man, “Faster.” A slash, a parry downwards, and then changing the line of attack. “Faster.” Gui Long locked his scimitar with his own word in a corps a corps, and 91 relished the look of desperation on the other mans face. He whispered, “Faster.”
“Yaaarrrggghhh!” Gui Long wrenched his blade away, and an additional short blade suddenly extruded from the scimitar’s pommel. 91 lunged forward in a classical fencing move. The lunge missed, but 91 swung the blade quickly even as Gui Long slashed down with the revealed short blade. They parted to regain their breaths.
91 grimaced. There was a long and blood gash down his back, sending arcs of pain through his back. But he had gotten a more important hit in. He had cut a deep wound across Gui Long’s lower leg, reducing the killer’s mobility and defensive footwork.
“You’re too slow. I don’t see how you’re able to make a living in our world of death with that kind of speed, my friend.” 91 called out, even though he was panting hard.
Gui Long answered with a sneer, “I’m flattered. Shouldn’t you be in school somewhere?”
“Maybe, after I kill you.”
“That makes two of us.”
91 initiated the attack this time, sweeping in low and fast, turning Gui Long’s hurt leg against him. The killer fought back as desperately as he could, but the outcome was inevitable.
91 dropped to his knees over the dead body of his foe, gasping for breath. He looked up to see Asem face off against another swordsman who wielded a long and elegant swordstick. His master was hurt as well, bleeding from a wound over his side, but more than capable of battling on.
Asem’s opponent was a blind man, who did not bear any wounds at all. 91 shivered involuntarily. By this stage, anybody left standing should be hurt. He himself bore wounds on his back and his left arm was just dead weight. But not without a single scratch!
“Raschgel.” Asem said to the blind man, who cocked his head to one side.
The blind man’s response was a whisper, barely carried by the chilly breeze that had settled over the now quiet arena, with only 3 fighters left and dozens of dead bodies piled all over. “It’s been a while, Asem.”
“Fancy seeing you here.” Asem moved slowly, trying to gauge the threat in front of him. “I thought you’ll be begging on the streets.”
“You thought wrong.” Raschgel replied. “You took my family, my sons, my beloved wife. And even my eyes. You left me alive to wallow in my own humiliation. You should not have done that.”
Asem laughed, “You’re a blind man! What can you do?”
Raschgel nodded as though conceding the fact, “True, but one need not eyes to fight.” He raised his swordstick, “Come then. Let me show you what I’ve learnt in these ten years. You may have taken my sight, but I see better than ever before.”
Asem grinned, then charged forward.
91 watched the first few exchanges in amazement as he realized Raschgel also knew Sword 21. And while he could not see, he had an uncanny sense of knowing where Asem’s weapons were. And his master was getting the worse of the battle. Raschgel might be blind, but there was an intensity in his movements that transcended belief.
And he could not stand idly by. Asem might have treated him poorly, made him do things he still had nightmares over, but when all was said and done, he was still 91’s master. Besides, 91 did not think he could beat Raschgel on his own.
So 91 raised himself to his feet, and entered the fight.

He gasped for breath, his blade by his side as the enormity of his final stroke descended on him. Asem was still standing, but his throat had been cut out. They had defeated Raschgel, stabbing him countless times through his body. Then master and student had faced off. It was no contest.
Asem’s last words seemed to echo in the cold, empty arena.
“You’ve done well, boy. Kill or be killed, the way of the warrior. Now finish the job. Kill me and prove to me that you’re worthy to take over! Hahahahaha!”
91 turned slowly at the sound of clapping as Asem finally fell to the ground on his front. He had thought he would feel satisfaction at having killed the man who had made his life hell for the past year, for forcing him to kill his dog. But all he felt was a cold emptiness in his soul.
“Excellent, excellent!” The studio executive walked up with the suitcase of money, with two bodyguards. 91 felt a chill as he realized the safeties on their guns were off. “Who knew there would be such drama in the final few moments! Student against master! For this sum of money, men were willing to tear into each other like animals!”
The executive laughed again as he stopped several feet away from 91. “What’s your name, boy?”
“91.”
“Please, drop the false names. What’s your real name?”
“I have no real name, only a number.” 91 replied defiantly. “The money?”
The executive glanced to his two bodyguards, who brought up their guns. “Oh, I’m sorry, but you see, I have much better uses for this pile of cash. The studio won’t know, of course, and all they’ll know is that you walked off into the sunset with your prize money, happily ever after.”
91’s tone was cold, “You fucking bastard.”
The executive grinned, “Oh come on, don’t be like that. You’re nothing. All those who fought here? All suckers. You think the rest of the Inner Sphere gives a flying fuck about the winner? They just want their blood, the fight, their entertainment, that’s all. I reckon, why give up all that money?”
91 started running for them, knowing that he was too far away yet unwilling to simply lay down and die. He could them tighten their fingers, pulling the triggers for his impending death.
But a shadow suddenly rose from the ground, stabbing one guard, and unbalancing the other. His shot went wild. 91 did not believe his eyes as he saw the tattered, bloody form of Raschgel as he lashed out at the other guard, who responded quickly to fire into the swordsman. Raschgel collapsed onto the ground.
91 screamed as he threw his sword, the weapon spinning into the air and beheading the remaining guard. The executive tried to run with the money, but 91 calmly picked up one of the rifles, and brought it up to his shoulder with his one working arm. It had been a very long time since he had fired a gun, but the painful lessons resurfaced again easily, and he shot the fleeing man in the back.
He moved over and cradled Raschgel in his lap. He asked, “Why?”
The man coughed hard, blood streaming from his mouth. “You killed Asem. That’s all I needed to know. Thank you.” His eyes rolled back. 91 drew his hands slowly over the man’s eyes, closing them forever.

The cameras crews had fled. Probably to the Aswan spaceport, where transportation awaited them to take them back to their plush offices away from the hellhole that was Caph. 91 had tried to track them down before they left, but to no avail.
He knelt before the graves of Asem and Raschgel, simple wooden posts driven into the soil above their buried bodies. He kowtowed 3 times before each grave, as a sign of respect for the two elder warriors. Without Asem, he might not have gotten this far. Without Raschgel, he would not be alive. The two enemies were buried side by side. 91 thought it fitting.
A small travel bag laid by his side, filled with the prize money and whatever ammunition he had scavenged from the bodyguards. More than one assassin had tried for the money, only to find that the winner of the tournament was in no mood for sharing.
91 stood, and lifted the bag onto his shoulders. He had dyed his blond hair black, and wore a small goatee, to avoid being pursued by more assassins and identified by the hunters the Solaris Broadcasting Corporation had set on him for the supposed murder of their man. It was also the only way he could sneak past the spaceport authorities and get off Caph.
“Where would you go now?” 91 spun around, one hand on his pistol. He saw the Soothsayer of Auben Hill, slowly limping towards him.
“What do you want, soothsayer?” He kept his hand on the pistol.
“Just some friendly advice for you. Free of charge.” The old man coughed several times. “Interested?”
“Very.”
“Good. I see you’re going offworld.”
“So?”
The prophet smiled, his smile tinged with traces of madness, “Head coreward, towards the lair of the bear. There, you will find your destiny.” He began to laugh joyously, as though at some cosmic joke he did not bother to tell 91.
91 nodded stiffly, then walked away. Into the Ghost Bear Occupation Zone. Very well then. One direction is as good as any other.
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Chapter 16-Business and War
Business is war.
-Joshua Peres
Metropolis. A city of advanced technologies and hope, gleaming with bright concrete and steel, and one of the most important financial and technological centers in the world. More than that, it was home to Earth’s greatest hero, Superman.
But Superman, who is actually a mild mannered reporter named Clark Kent, was having less than a good day.
“What is it about Lex that makes it so hard for us to shut him down for good?” Clark complained to his wife Lois Lance as they ate their breakfast. He unfolded the newspaper in his hands, letting his wife read the headline, which declared the gala in the evening as Lex Luthor’s first public appearance after his acquittal.
“Well,” Lois started counting off the fingers on one hand. “He’s built up a lot of favors, he’s rich, his public image is still squeaky clean, and he practically rules Metropolis. What else could we do?”
Clark grumbled to himself. Luthor had reemerged after the fiasco where he and Batman had foiled Luthor’s plan, along with hard evidence that he had been captured by a doppelganger who had been the one he and Bruce had fought and defeated. Luthor had claimed he had been locked up in a prison for more than a year before he had been able to escape and defeat that doppelganger. As a result, all charges against him had been miraculously dropped, even if his presidential term was, for all intents and purposes, over just a few months ago.
None of the heroes bought it, but the public did. Bruce had deduced that Luthor had chosen this time exactly because he did not want to deal with the hassle of a presidency. It seemed that being the leader of the US had never been his actual goal. Luthor usually played for higher stakes, and the leaders of the JLA have concluded that what Luthor really wanted were just the advanced technologies available to the US government and the various defense firms, which he could not have obtained with LexCorp.
Many of the technologies were related to metahuman research, and the design of advanced weaponry and tools. Lex had probably gotten copies of all the research he could find, and stored it all away. Clark was more than a bit worried. Who knew what the government had cooked up?
So it was no surprise that once acquitted of his crimes, Luthor had pulled his own fiefdom of LexCorp away from Bruce Wayne, using numerous favors and a vast account he had secreted for just such an emergency. Within weeks, LexCorp was back as an independent entity, along with its owner and ruler, Lex Luthor, de facto prince of Metropolis, and seemingly more powerful than ever before.
Clark felt like breaking something, except it would be too easy, and brought him absolutely no sense of satisfaction.
“Wait,” Batman had said, “Luthor will trip up, sooner or later. Not to mention that new player on the scene, Phillip Delacroix. He looks dangerous too. If we’re lucky, they’ll take each other out.”
Phillip Delacroix, the owner of Ares Macrotech, had been publicly tussling with Luthor over contracts and deals, as well as opposing takeover bids. Batman had found evidence that both sides were being less than aboveboard; they seemed to be sending hit squads after each other’s factories and research labs, shedding blood in a vicious covert war.
Clark stared down at the invitation card on one side of the breakfast table, inviting him and Lois to an evening gala for the handicapped. It was also to be the first face-to-face meeting between the two rivals. Three, if one counted Bruce/Batman. The three richest men in the world, each with their own hidden motivations. Each carefully eyeing the others, waiting to pounce on the slightest mistake.
For all his awesome powers, Superman shivered. The night, he suspected, was going to be interesting. And he had a sinking feeling Lois would enjoy it very much. Even Princess Diana, Wonder Woman would be turning up, invited by the organizer of the gala in her capacity as the Themysciran ambassador. Bruce thought it would be a good opportunity for all three of them to observe Luthor and ferret out his schemes, if any.
“Don’t look so glum, Clark.” Lois smacked him lightly across one arm. “There’s fine food, nice music, and interesting fodder, er… I mean folks for interviews. I already have a list of targets picked out. What about you?”
Clark scratched his head, “Uhm, still working on it.” Then he added, “Although I could peek at your pad with my X-ray vision…”
“Oh no, Smallville! No way!” Lois screeched as she grabbed her handbag and ran out of their apartment. “Go get your own list!”
Clark Kent, the most powerful superhero in the world, watched in helpless exasperation as his wife went one-up on him. Again.

Lex Luthor pasted a big fake smile on his face as he turned to greet Phillip Delacroix. “Finally, we meet, Mister Delacroix.” He stuck out a hand.
“Pleasure is all mine.” Despite his words and the smile on his face, a mirror image of Lex’s own, Phillip’s eyes pooled with obvious contempt as they shook hands. Lex exerted pressure on his grip, to test the mettle of his rival, but Delacroix’s smile suddenly grew predatory, and Lex felt a moment of crushing pain in his own hand. He withdrew quickly, resisting the urge to rub his hand. No, it would not do to show any sign of weakness.
Phillip nodded to him rather sardonically as he walked off, “Have an enjoyable evening, Mister Luthor. I may speak to you later.”
Luthor barely suppressed his rage long enough to greet the next person who headed his hit list, Bruce Wayne. The vapid looking billionaire had gorgeous eye-candy, some model or some such, draped on his right arm, but Lex had started to realize that perhaps Bruce Wayne was more than he seemed to be. If one disregarded Wayne’s notorious reputation in public, he was actually quite a sharp customer. Certainly sharp enough to keep a man like Lucius Fox working for him and WayneCorp as one of the most powerful corporations in the world. Wayne even masterminded the buyout of LexCorp after Lex’s plan to discredit Superman had failed, something which Lex had decided he would never forgive.
“Lex! It’s been a long time!” Wayne called out happily, and ignored Lex’s offer of a handshake as he placed one arm around Lex’s shoulders. “Come on, it’s one big party!”
Lex recoiled with disgust. He could smell the alcohol on Wayne, and even the woman escorting him seemed to be put off by his boorish behavior. “Get a grip of yourself, Wayne,” Lex snapped. Somehow, he felt even worse. To be beaten in the past by this foppish fool!
Shaking himself slightly to regain his composure as Wayne staggered away, Lex saw Wonder Woman approaching, walking up into the reception area, resplendent in her formal ambassadorial costume. He sighed in relief to himself. At least the Amazon Princess was relatively easier to handle. Delacroix seemed like a homicidal maniac, while Wayne was a drunk. How could either man possibly be a threat to him, Lex Luthor?
He smiled as he greeted Wonder Woman. Yes, anybody who had ever crossed him and was present tonight would be in for a nasty surprise…

Diana tried to remain civil as she shook Lex Luthor’s hand, but there was a strong temptation to just crush his hand with her super strength. The customary exchange of pleasantries was quick and to the point; she didn’t want to linger near Luthor any more than necessary.
As she slowly made her way past the throng of rich businessmen and models with too much plastic on their bodies, she saw Veronica Cale and Leslie Anderson. Leslie turned to her with a ready smile, while Veronica scowled.
“Good evening, Leslie.” Diana greeted the researcher warmly. Leslie had been critical in finding a cure for Vanessa’s condition, and had somehow managed to stay neutral in the feud Veronica had for the Amazon. Diana, for her part, tried as much as possible to stay out of Cale’s hair, though Cale seemed intent on making her life difficult.
It didn’t help that Phillip Delacroix was involved with both of them in ways Diana still didn’t quite understand herself. Diana spied him fending off a bullish Lois Lane-Kent, while her husband watched the scene with interest. She smiled at the sight. Lois always had a way of making people talk.
“So, the high and mighty princess deigns to grace us poor mortals with her presence,” Cale sneered. “Why don’t you go back to your ivory tower, eh?
Diana sighed, “I don’t understand the depths of your animosity towards me, but for the last time, stay out of my way, or risk an Amazon’s wrath.” She glared at Cale.
“Uhm, why don’t we try out some of that cocktail over there?” Leslie said, trying to defuse the situation. Cale stared back at Diana for a few moments, before turning away to follow her friend. Leslie turned her head back once to give Diana an apologetic look.
The Amazon Princess smiled back, if only to assure Leslie. She saw Clark walking towards her.
“Is that Veronica Cale?” He asked.
“Yes,” Diana replied. “What about it?”
“Woah, no need to get so touchy!” Clark said, holding up his hands, and it was then Diana realized her reply to his question had carried a sharp edge.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that, she did a lot of things to me and those I love. One day, I’ll make her pay.” Diana tried to relax by letting out some of the air in her lungs, letting the tension flow out. “How’s Lois doing?”
Clark grinned, “Not as well as she hoped she’ll be. This Delacroix is a tough customer.”

“What about the explosion at Quicksilver Labs, just before their share prices dropped and you acquired them in a hostile takeover? Were you responsible for that?” Lois Lane-Kent scribbled furiously on a notepad as she talked.
Phillip Delacroix could almost see the microphone in the reporter’s hands as she questioned him with unrelenting ferocity, forgoing any subtlety and going straight for the jugular. He wondered if it had been such a good idea to allow this impromptu interview, but the Earl of Greed had assured him it would be ‘good publicity’. Yeah right.
“Scurrilous rumors. I am surprised to know that a reporter of your stature actually believes such slander.” Gee, I never knew there was such a word like ‘scurrilous’ until I got mixed up with Ares. He also noted with satisfaction the set of her jaw as she prepared to go at him again. Oh no, you aren’t getting anything more out of me.
“Excuse me, I see an associate.” He nodded to her, and quickly walked off before she could chase him down. He made his way through several tight packs of people, leading her onto a merry chase before he finally lost her. He saw Veronica Cale and walked up to her.
“Having fun?” He asked her, lifting an expensive sandwich with some exotic filling from a nearby plate and biting into it. Urgh, that tasted… weird.
“So-so.” Ronnie replied. “What do you say to getting out of here in another… say… ten minutes?” She looked at her own sandwich. “This is good stuff though. Luthor certainly knows how to throw a party.”
“The food is entirely too rich for my liking.” He looked crossly at the sandwich, and resisted the urge to throw up on the spot.
Cale stared at him. “You don’t look too good. Why don’t you go to the gents?”
He winced, “Good idea.”
“Let me accompany you. I need to freshen up myself.”
They walked for a few steps before Phillip realized Diana was also behind them. He also could not shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen, the familiar vague sensation of danger that always sent him on edge, though he felt he was hiding it well enough. Or maybe not, since Wonder Woman had apparently detected his behavior. She thinks I’m up to something.
But he wasn’t.

Why is he so nervous? Diana thought to herself. She had noticed Phillip being somewhat fidgety since the last five minutes, and Bruce had given her a silent gesture to trail him. Perhaps he has planned something to disrupt the gala.
Something told her that wasn’t quite right. She stayed just far back enough so that Cale could not see her, but she did see that Delacroix massaged his abdomen several times, and his face looked a bit green. Seemed like a simple case of food poisoning, but Diana continued to follow them until Phillip went into the lavatory, with Cale waiting outside.
Since her suspicions proved to be unfounded, Wonder Woman was about to turn back to the gala hall when several black attired men in powered suits appeared before her, surprise writ large in their eyes at the sight of the superheroine.
She didn’t even need to consider the situation as she instinctively charged forward, her bracelets flashing to deflect any bullets.

The waiter smiled. Everything was proceeding as planned. Their accomplices were in position, and ready to roll.
He lifted an eye to another waiter, and nodded. Then he reached down to one pocket, and pressed a small button.
A group of black suited thugs burst through a door, shoving several children with jackets in front of them, shouting, “Nobody move!” One man fired a long burst of automatic fire into the ceiling, showering the guests with broken plaster. Everybody dove to the floor upon hearing the gunshots.
One of the few people left on their feet, Lex Luthor pushed forward with a snarl on his face, “What is the meaning of this?” The waiter really wanted to laugh at that. Luthor deserved an Oscar award for his acting skills, if nothing else.
The waiter also acted as surprised as everybody else, but he checked the gun under his white suit again. His role, and that of three others, was to stay in cover, in case somebody tried to play hero. Intermingled within the guests, they would be able to uncover any problems and direct attention to it for their accomplices. Luthor had indeed planned well, but they had a surprise for him too...

Bruce Wayne narrowed his eyes, all pretense of his drunken state gone as he shifted into Batman mode. He gauged the odds of intervening. Not good.
A thug roared, “Stay down! And nobody move!”
One of the thugs slugged Luthor in the head, and the tycoon fell down onto the floor, drawing gasps from the gathered guests. Batman shook his head slightly. It was fine acting by the thugs and Luthor himself. The blow never connected, though it looked as though it had.
Then one of the thugs made a gesture, and ten children, none over the age of ten, were brought in.
Bruce grimaced the moment he saw the children appear, wearing oversized, thick jackets around their small bodies, wailing loudly in fright. He clenched his fists hard, recognizing the tactic for what it was. Bomb jackets. Hostages and blackmail for. Ransom and blackmail.
Time for plan B. He saw Clark Kent, who was also on the floor, but Kent was obviously faking it. Superman, in his civilian alter ego, caught Batman’s gaze, and shook his head. He can’t do anything without revealing his identity, but everybody else is incapable of action.
The situation wasn’t good at all. Time to take some risks. He could not, would not allow any of those men to hurt the children. Bruce stood up, “What do you want?”
The thug laughed, “Bruce Wayne! Just who we are looking for! Along with several more of you rich boys and girls!” He swung his gun around to cover the guests, mostly cowering on the floor. “Here’s the deal. These children are wearing the latest in fashion, terrorist bomb jackets. Anybody tried anything funny, boom! Good little children go to heaven.” The thug laughed again. “But then, don’t worry. We’ll be getting suitable substitutes for these kids soon enough! Men, grab Bruce Wayne and the others!”
Several men stepped forward and grabbed him and several others, including Luthor, by the arms. Bruce knew about 30 different ways he could have broken free of them, and about 40 more moves that he could have used to drop them flat, but he wasn’t going to reveal that much about himself in front of so many people, and it was a bit tricky with the power suits they were wearing anyway. Furthermore, the children were still in danger. The thing is to get those bomb jackets off the kids first. I can defuse the jacket on me, and help the other . Where the hell is Diana though?
He had sent the Amazon Princess after Phillip Delacroix, but neither the two of them nor Veronica Cale had returned. Bruce smiled inwardly as the thugs strapped a bomb jacket off a child and onto him. In some ways, it was even better, since the thugs would have the ominous danger of having the world’s most powerful superheroine suddenly drop onto them. The psychological fear was not something to ignore.
But with the bomb jackets still on the kids, there was still no simple solution to the situation. Bruce knew he just had to wait for an opportunity. The thugs were grabbing the other millionaires in the room and then forcing them into bomb jackets, tying up their hands at the same time. With the children still in the bomb jackets, nobody could oppose them anyway without risking the children’s lives. So he had to wait until the jackets have been transferred.
Then a problem cropped up. “Hey boss, we’re missing one guy. Phillip Delacroix. Wonder Woman isn’t here either.”
“Go look for them!” Six men started moving off. That left the thugs with nine of the richest men in the world and just one terrified kid shaking with terror, all wearing the bombs. The other kids had been released into the crowd, where concerned guests hugged them in sympathy, soothing away their fears.
Bruce looked at Clark, who seemed ready to explode into action, and shook his head slightly. No, wait.
The thug turned to him and the other billionaires, “Okay, money bags. Here’s the deal. We want 10 billion dollars for each bomb jacket to be deactivated.” A computer notebook was placed on a table. “We’ve arranged for electronic transfers through the internet, so all you need to do is to punch in your own account numbers and access codes into the laptop and wire the money to our designated account. If you refuse, we’ll kill the remaining kid, and then you. Simple enough, no? Let’s start with Mr Luthor here.”
Bruce made a small gesture with his hands, and he saw Clark’s eyes flash for an instant, a sign of his heat vision working on the delicate chips of the notebook. It was simply too bad the bomb jackets were too complex for Superman to try the same trick, though Bruce knew he could have told Clark where to cut the wires if he had the chance. Not now, though.
Lex walked up to the notebook, before exclaiming, “This notebook is not working!”
The head thug blinked in surprise. Batman was already two steps ahead of them. Next thing they’ll do is to take us out of this place, and somewhere else to complete the transaction. Kent would be able to change and come after us then. And I might have the chance to escape.

“Blllleeeeeccccchhhh!” Phillip vomited into the toilet bowl, clutching his stomach. It wasn’t actually the food nor the drink, but the fact that Ares had given him a solid thwack across the stomach in the previous evening during one of their sparring sessions. As a result, he could barely eat anything the entire day. Maybe I should stop holding back on Ares during those sessions.
He staggered over to the washbasin, and stared into the mirror, wiping away the vomit from his mouth. Bleary eyes and spittle hanging from his mouth stared back at him. I look like hell. He was washing his mouth and hands when he suddenly heard gunfire.
He dashed out of the toilet in time to see Veronica lying unconscious on the floor while Wonder Woman fought with several thugs, barely holding her own as they sprayed her with bullets.
She grappled with a thug, and as one of his mates tried to fire on her, Phillip reached inside his suit and threw a sharp knife at the would-be firer. The knife pierced into the suit at the neck area, cutting the neural interface that the trooper needed to control his suit. Deprived of that control, the firer dropped to the floor with a yell.
Wonder Woman gave the thug in front of her a vicious headbutt, cracking the faceplate over the mouth. Three other thugs laid unmoving on the ground. The remaining thug saw that he was outmatched, and was about to run when Phillip casually whipped another knife at him which severed the same neural connection. He flopped to the floor.

Diana asked Phillip. “What did you do to them?”
He shrugged, “Ares Macrotech was interested in developing power armor suits for the Human Defense Corps, and some corporate raiding for a upcoming defense contract netted us information on current combat suits in manufacture and their respective strengths and weaknesses. I just happened to know the weaknesses of this one. Exposed neural feed on the neck.” He leaned down beside Cale, before sighing in relief. “A bullet grazed her head. She’ll be all right.” He laid her gently on the floor, wiping a thin trail of blood off her forehead with a piece of tissue.
He looked up at Diana, “What happened?”
Diana listened as she took in the information from Oracle, who was giving her a live feed from Batman’s position in the gala hall. “Armed men in the gala hall, and they have hostages.” She quickly filled him in, repeating what Oracle was telling her, while anger in her grew. That children would be so threatened!
Phillip didn’t react noticeably to the horror of the situation, but she thought she saw just a slightest tightening of his eyes. He said, “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” Diana did not hesitate with her answer, even though Phillip was one of Ares’ pawns.
He smiled grimly, “Good, now here’s what we are going to do…”
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The Games that Gods Play