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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
- 16
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- 18
I’ve seen horrors beyond the pale, and done worse. Nietzsche was right. I have stared into the abyss, and it has become a part of me.
-Tom Serra
Lex Luthor gritted his teeth as he was pulled brusquely to his feet and led by the nervous villains out of the gala hall, along with the other billionaires. The remaining child stayed in the hall together with eight more thugs to keep the guests docile, with the different groups of hostage-takers keeping in contact using the built-in communication devices in their suits.
The leader stepped up close to Luthor, and spoke softly, so as to avoid having the others overhear their conversation, “Slight change of plans. We’re bringing you to the parking lots in the basement. Our vans have the hardware set up as well. That alright with you?”
Luthor replied, “Yes. Now hurry up, before the alien appears and messes up my plans. It’s bad enough the Amazon was not around for you to take as a hostage.” So much of his plan hinged on Wonder Woman offering herself in exchange for the children, and with the Amazon Princess as a hostage, not even Superman would have dared to stop the thugs.
Without her as a hostage, it was still possible, just a lot harder. Luthor had planned this carefully, offering the men involved equipment and a split of the ransom. He himself needed the influx of funds to finance LexCorp’s recovery, and also to continue his personal crusade against the Man of Steel. He could still salvage the situation, but it was not going to be easy.
Under heavy guard, the group of billionaires stumbled forwards to a nearby lift.

Diana remained still as she was carried into the gala hall, held in the grip of one of the power suits. She heard gasps of dismay from the gathered guests, and fought the urge to reassure them.
She laid over Phillip’s shoulder, and he himself was inside the suit, pretending to be one of the thugs. They walked up near to the other thugs who were lounging about, and Diana risked a slight peek to ascertain the location of the various armed men.
One of them asked, “What happened? Where’re the others? Where’s the rich guy?”
Phillip, mimicking the voice of one of their attackers perfectly, replied, “The rich guy got gunned down, but Wonder Bitch here took out the others.” He laid her down onto the floor, and continued, “So what next?”
One of them said, “Don’t you know? We tie her up with that magic lasso.” As he walked over to Diana, she knew that there was no point to continuing the pretense.
She lashed out with a foot that sent the man flying backwards to hit a wall hard, and then flipped over to punch out two men almost simultaneously. Phillip had moved into action as well, grappling with a thug and knocking his opponent out with a savage palm to the face. He had decided not to use a gun, because to do so would have tempted the thugs into firing their weapons as well, and the stray rounds could hit the guests. Diana liked to think that her insistence that he refrain from using a gun was the basis behind his decision.
In the space of a few seconds, they had downed most of them, but one man remained, and got to holding the terrified child in the bomb jacket in front of him. “One more move, and the kid blows!”
That made them halt in their tracks, and Diana swore, “Hera help us!”
“Watch out!” Phillip yelled as he suddenly barged into her, and Diana heard several gunshots ring out from behind her as she regained her balance, turning back to see Phillip sprawled on the floor and several men firing at her. She deflected several more bullets, fired by the men who had disguised themselves as waiters, making sure to deflect the bullets to where they could not harm anybody.
The faux waiters stopped firing, and quickly grabbed several nearby guests who were shrieking in fear. They held their weapons to the heads of those people as well. “Move one more step, Wonder Woman, and they die!”
She clenched her fists, trying to figure a way out of her predicament and finding none. These men are truly despicable! Is there nothing they would not do?
“Let me.” Phillip grunted as he staggered to his feet. “Cover my back.” He took a single step towards the man holding the child. Diana thought, he should be wounded. Then she saw the blood seeping down one side of his suit. She wanted to tell him to stand down and let her take care of the situation, but something in the way he carried himself stopped her.
“Don’t move! Stop right there!” The man called out, as did the other thugs.
Phillip took another step.
“Shit! You want to see this kid die!”
“Phillip!” Diana yelled. What is he doing?
Phillip raised his own gun, the weapon moving out of a holster with smooth blinding speed. “I’m going to take another step. You can kill the kid if you want, but that won’t stop me.” And he took another step.
“You asshole!” The man was visibly trembling in the face of Phillip’s nonchalance. Diana shivered. It was as though Delacroix did not care about the child at all!
“Doesn’t the life of this kid mean anything to you?” the man screamed.
“No, it doesn’t. I don’t know him, I don’t know his name. Why should it matter to me?”
“His death will be on your hands!”
“It won’t be on my hands, it’ll be on yours.” Phillip said calmly. “Go ahead, kill him.” He turned to the faux waiters. “Kill those people too, if you dare. I can assure you I won’t give a single penny to save their lives, but who is going to save you from me?”
He lowered the gun slightly. “Kill them, and I can promise you you’ll be begging for death in six months.” He smiled, a predatory grin that chilled the blood and terrified the soul. His eyes promised everything he had said.
“What can you do to us?” One of them asked. “Nothing! So just put down your fucking gun!”
“Nothing?” Phillip repeated. “No, there’s plenty I can do. If you kill them, you’ll be headed for jail terms. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you out of jail.”
“Huh?” Diana saw confusion on their faces.
“I’ll keep you out of jail so that I can mete out my own justice on you.” Phillip smiled, his eyes glinting with the promise of horrors in store. He began to speak very softly, but that softness belied the deadly seriousness of his words, “I will tear your eyes out, cut your tongues, burn your ears off. I will sever your limbs, leave you hanging by your throats in a noose in the midday sun. When I am done with you, you will know the meaning of terror and beg me for mercy which I do not have.” He paused, his voice still in a whisper, “Deny me, and I shall promise you this fate.”
Diana heard somebody mutter in horror, “Monster.” No, he’s not a monster, she realized. Maybe he’s just playing a deeper game than anybody else is capable of. But as the goddess of truth, she also realized that he meant every word he said. That alone made her realize there was great evil within him, evil of such extent and power that exceeded any villain she or the Justice League had ever met before. An evil that made Neron, Darkside, or Mongul seem like amateurs. There was evil and there was evil, and Phillip Delacroix seemed to belong to the latter.
“He’s telling the truth,” she commanded. “Do not make things any more difficult for yourselves. Turn yourselves in now!” She spoke to Phillip as well, “Put down your gun. There has been enough violence.”
Phillip didn’t obey her, but she didn’t expect him to. On the other hand, the felons were all shaking slightly at the end of Phillip’s threat, and Diana’s confirmation of his words only served to unnerve them further.
“Enough talk. I think I’ll just kill you now.” Phillip raised his gun, and shot at the man with the child before Diana could stop him.

“Something’s wrong.” The leader of the criminals said. They were at the vans, where they would make their getaway. Bruce hoped Oracle was getting all that information, though he had no idea what was happening in the gala hall.
“I’m not getting anything from Billy.” Somebody else said worriedly. “Could it be… Wonder Woman?”
“We leave now!” Somebody declared as he shoved the closest hostage into a van. “We get out of here, and then get the money!”
“Go, go, go!” Spurred by the fear of being captured, they started pushing the hostages into the vans. In moments the three vans were moving off, barreling out of the tower and onto the roads.
Pushed into one of the vans, Bruce worked his ropes, hiding his movements from the two thugs watching him and two other billionaires with guns at the ready. In moments he was free, but he gave no sign of his lack of bondage, continuing to wait for an opportunity. Damn it, Kent, Diana, where are you?

Clark Kent watched with macabre fascination the trajectory of the bullet from Phillip’s gun as it flew from the barrel of his gun and through the air. He traced its passage right next to the boy’s head, and then grazing the temple of the thug with incredible velocity. He did not kill the man!
Superman blinked in astonishment as the thug fell to the ground, blood spraying from the gash on his temple. Diana was already in rapid movement, punching out the remaining thugs, who were stunned by what they perceived as the death of their comrade and too slow to react to the Amazon heroine. Better that than suffer Delacroix’s promise, Clark reckoned. There was more to Phillip Delacroix than anybody had suspected, and the evening had thrown up plenty of fodder for stories.
“Go, Clark.” Kent turned to see Lois nudging him. “Get the rest of them. I’ll cover for you.”
Superman nodded gratefully to his wife as he dashed off to change into his heroic persona. Bruce, hold on.

Phillip felt his legs give out from under him, falling to the ground as his strength failed him. He lifted himself up with his arms, shifting into a sitting position, grunting as he fell back heavily against a table. He placed one hand against the armor to examine the wound in his left chest, and the hand came away bloody. Every breath he took hurt, and he could feel blood gurgling up into his mouth. Lung hit. This is bad.
He tried to focus himself, and closed his eyes as Diana rushed towards him, shouting for medical help. Despite his best efforts to do otherwise, his mind slipped back into old, familiar patterns of meditation, seeking to repair the damage to his body. At the same time, an old memory came to him, an event from the wars, as a result of his earlier threat.
Halfway through their patrol, they came upon a hilltop with ten barrels standing under the midnight moon. He tapped the trooper taking point on the shoulder and made a gesture with his hand, signaling the rest of the squad to stop. He left the dark safety of the forest foliage, and walked up to the barrels, keeping his senses wide open for a possible trap.
When he reached the barrels, he almost retched. Each wooden barrel was filled with sand, but what horrified him were the heads above the sand. Blood seeped from the noses, mouths, and even the ears, while cakes of dried blood were encrusted around the eyes. The barrels were also far too small to contain a fully limbed human being; their limbs were chopped off in order to fit their torsos inside the barrels.
Worse of all, they were still alive, though they could not hear anymore, see anymore, nor talk anymore, only making tiny sobbing noises that hinted at the horrors they had undergone. He recognized them as men captured by the enemy, and presumed dead, but it seemed there were fates worse than mere death, for death would be a mercy compared to this. One of the barrels had a piece of paper tacked on it, a written promise to those who opposed the empire, “This will be your fate.”
He cocked the trigger of his pistol, while the other members of the patrol squad slowly approached him, all of them aghast at the atrocity. “What can we do for them?” Somebody asked, his voice shaking with emotion.
He replied, “Release them from their pain.” He aimed the gun carefully.
As he squeezed his trigger, he had to struggle to see past the moisture in his eyes.

“Mister Luthor, I wish to renegotiate the terms of our agreement.”
Luthor shook his head, and snapped, “No, Chas. You’ve had your chance, and you botched it!” The other three billionaires with him were hammered into unconsciousness so that he could converse with Chas, the leader of the gang.
“We still have you, and the other hostages.” Chas said with a sneer. “And we have five more children as hostages…”
“This wasn’t part of the plan!” Luthor seethed. “Don’t you dare cross me! Or…”
“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Chas laughed. “Do you realize that our conversation right now is being recorded? Everything you say, everything I say, is being recorded. I may lose a great deal if I get caught,” Chas shrugged, “But you’ll lose even more.”
“Why you…”
“Shuddup, Luthor. Now you do what we tell you to. And first up is the money!”
Luthor smiled evilly. “You think I wasn’t prepared for something like this? You have family in Philadelphia, if I recall.”
Chas paled. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“You’ll be surprised at just what lengths I am willing to go to. So sure, release the recording. Tell the whole world. Tell yourself you’ve won when you’ve nobody to share your victory with.”
The criminal cursed. “Fine. So what do you want us to do?”
“Stick with the original plan. Any pesky superheroes appear, you threaten to kill the children. That should keep them off you backs long enough to complete the transaction. After that, leave a few men behind with the hostages while the rest of you get out. You didn’t misplace the teleportation device, did you?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” Luthor smiled. “Now, I need some things from you. Like the bomb switch…”

Diana tore off the part of the combat suit Phillip was wearing, so that she could staunch the wound over his left chest. His eyes were closed, but she could tell he had not lost complete consciousness.
All around the gala hall, the guests were running out of the hall to seek some refuge from the events of the night. Several well-meaning guests took care of the children who were formerly hostages, while some of the present police personnel were carefully inspecting the bomb jacket of the remaining hostage, afraid to take it off due to some hidden mechanism that might set it off.
She looked hard at the wound on Phillip’s chest. The bullet had gone clean through, and blood was still seeping out from both sides of his torso. Her trained eye noticed with some puzzlement that the bleeding was less than she had expected, and did not seem to have hit any vital organ. Perhaps Ares granted him some kind of boon? It would fit the pattern of gods granting their followers gifts to aid them in their tasks, much as she had been granted special abilities by her patron goddesses.
Satisfied that Phillip was in no immediate danger, she stood to her feet, and quickly left the gala hall, with Oracle in her ears giving instructions on Batman’s location. The bomb could wait for the bomb dispersal squad to arrive, though she hated leaving helpless kids behind. There was the important job of getting the hostages free, and she suspected that even Clark might need help. She ran one finger along her lasso as she flew through the air, preparing to use it the first chance she got.

Cale stumbled over to Phillip, who was being attended to by a medic. She clenched her fists in anger as she saw the blood on his chest. It was all that hussy’s fault you got hurt. One day, Princess, I will destroy you and your reputation.
The medic was looking at the wound, and reaching for bandages when Phillip suddenly opened his eyes, and pulled the medic’s hand away from his wound.
“What the…” exclaimed the medic. “Hey! Stay down!”
“I’m fine.” Phillip said, his eyes clear and bearing no sign at all of his injury. “You were mistaken about my injury.”
The medic repeated after him in a daze, “I was mistaken about your injury.”
“You’re going to see if there are others who need help.”
“I’m going to see if there are others who need help,” parroted the medic, then packed up his kit, and walked off to do exactly as he had been told.
Cale stared at Phillip in awe. “Was that some mind trick you used?” She added, “What the hell are you?”
He did not answer, instead getting gingerly to his feet, using the table to help out his shaky legs. Then he finally said to her with a sad grin, “What am I? I am a monster.”
When he started walking away, Cale said after him, “Where are you going?”
He did not reply, and instead broke into a run towards the street. Cale stared at his receding back. Who are you, Phillip Delacroix? She knew he worked for Ares, the god of war, as her own investigations had uncovered, but the identity and background of the man himself remain shrouded in mystery. She was quite sure, however, that the man she knew was not the same man listed in the records as Phillip Delacroix, a rich dilettante with no special record to speak of and a history of mediocrity. This Phillip was driven, talented, and brilliantly ruthless. And this was the first indication she had seen that he wasn’t a normal human being.
She was also quite sure that other Phillip Delacroix, the original one, was dead.

Phillip could feel his skills, the ones he had suppressed for so long, slowly coming back to him. He could hear the dull roar of the traffic in the busy city, the bright lights of the street almost blinding in their brilliance, the smell of exhaust from the many cars, the people of Metropolis dressed in their bright fancy clothes.
His own breathing seemed unnaturally loud to his ears as he tried to get a bearing on Lex Luthor, seeing in his mind’s eye an image of several vans leaving the building. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his instincts guide his path. There! To the left! He was about to start running when he realized he was still clad in the black combat suit of the thugs, soaked in some of his own blood, drawing stares from the passer-bys.
Never mind about that, just get moving, he told himself as he ran into an alley. Up to the rooftops. Less eyes to gawk, no need to worry about traffic.
In the alley, he took several long looks at each section of the sides of each building, and chose the most suitable one. He grabbed a pipe, and started clambering up the pipe, using the suit-enhanced strength and his own agility to squirrel up the sturdy metal pipe until he reached the top of the building.
Phillip looked out over the city, and he glimpsed a flash of red and blue streaking towards the same direction he was heading. Well, at least that confirms my suspicions. He did not know why exactly he wanted so much to go after Luthor, even if he was almost certain his business rival was behind the night’s ‘festivities’. Or maybe I’m just pissed off he tried to pull that off and I didn’t.
He began running over the rooftops and jumping across gaps between the buildings. He lost sight of Wonder Woman, who was flying in a straight line through the air, but was not bothered. In fact, the residue pain over the wound was more bothersome, but he ignored it.
There were a flight of crows around the area his tracking sense had led him to, and as they flew off, they were all complaining loudly about some brightly colored figures disturbing their sleep and making a hideous racket.
Despite himself and the grim situation, Phillip grinned at the confirmation. Diana’s here. So is Superman. He drew out a set of knives from the suit, slipping a knife into each hand. He took a good look at the warehouse, a typical hiding place for thugs and villains, and slipped into the shadows, blending into the dark so seamlessly that even a person who knew of his presence could not see his movements. Time to go to work.
If there was ever a situation that required his skills, this was it. Stealth, deception, and the ability to disarm or kill without a sound. He doubted the superheroes understood how important that was.

“Stop right there!” The thug said as he held a hostage in front of him as a shield.
Wonder Woman had learnt enough by now to disregard anything the thugs said. Phillip had shown them to be unable to carry out their threats, and thus she could very well knock them out without fearing for the lives of the hostages. If it had been terrorist extremists, it would have been different, but these were just common criminals out to make a buck, not fanatics.
They just weren’t willing to die needlessly for a hopeless cause. Within a few seconds, she had disarmed more than five of the thugs, despite the automated defenses they had thrown at her, and the enhanced strength of the thugs.
Superman took the lead this time, his heat vision slicing into the thug’s suit, and making him drop the hostage in surprise.
“That’s four men we’ve rescued,” Superman said, as Diana told the grateful billionaire where to go. As he ran away to the outside of the building, where the police should be arriving, Superman asked, “Where’s Bruce Wayne?”
They might be alone, but Diana knew as well as anybody that it was better to be cautious when dealing with Batman and his alter ego. Hence, Superman’s referring to Bruce Wayne, and not to Batman. But still, where was the secretive detective?
Oracle came to their aid. “Diana, Superman, Bruce is on basement level of the building. He says that there are still 5 children held as hostages!”
“There’s no basement.” Superman said.
“It’s lead shielded.” Oracle explained. “You’ll have to bash your way in.”
Diana looked at Superman, and he nodded as they both prepared to burrow their way to the basement.

Batman frowned. It had been all too easy to slip away from the thugs in the thick of the fighting, and he knew why now. Luthor was directing operations, pitching expendable muscle against Superman and Wonder Woman while he prepared to depart the scene, leaving behind a mess that he could conveniently blame on Superman. With some of the hostages with him as they were taken away, he could set himself up as the hero of the night smelling like roses, and gaining a victory in his perpetual war against Superman.
He cursed the fact he was clad in a suit and tie, and didn’t have a chance to change into his gear. All he had was a mask and a extremely lightweight costume tucked into a corner of his suit.
Batman moved away from the small corridor he had been using to spy on Luthor and his cronies, taking care not to trip any of the sensors. He entered a small empty room, and proceeded to change. He could explain the absence of Bruce Wayne away by getting Superman to claim that he had already been rescued.
As he quickly changed into the makeshift costume, he did not notice the shadows stirring. All he felt was a slight tingling on the back of his neck, but when he turned to look around the room, he saw nothing amiss.
Batman was not one to waste time. He was already planning how to rescue the hostages. Luthor had quietly split them into two groups, one leaving with him with a translocator much like the one the Justice League had, but with much less range, and the other group to stay. Superman and Wonder Woman would be left dealing with the remaining hostages, buying Luthor enough time to salvage his operation.
According to his analysis, Luthor would not pay a single penny, but would later claim that the thugs had released them on his payment of the ransom. The other hostages, especially the billionaires, would feel obliged to ‘return’ pay their share to Luthor. It was a smart plan, except for one problem.
Batman didn’t intend for it to work. But as it was, he was only one person, and poorly armed at that. He did, however, have a location tracer ready, though he needed just an opportunity to use it. There were simply too many people in the room for him to sneak in, and the suits of the thugs had advanced detection sensors that could trace him. Even the Dark Knight of Gotham had his limits.

Bruce Wayne is Batman. Phillip Dlelacroix noted, not exactly surprised by his find as he moved silently past the changing detective amongst the shadows. He was so close, not more than 10 meters away, but the famous urban legend did not detect him, even with a cursory sweep of the room.
For a moment, Phillip had the urge to sneak up behind the Dark Knight and give him the fright of his life. He smiled at the thought. But no, it would not do to give away too much, and that would mess everything up. Hell, he was already sure Ares was hopping mad in his abode, especially if the God of War had been watching him for the past few minutes. And the God of War was only going to receive more surprises before the day was over.
It was going to be a long explanation and debrief to Ares later, but he couldn’t care less at the moment. Phillip moved past Batman and into the corridor. He found a dark corner at one end, and stayed there, watching for his chance, since not even he could get into the brightly lit room with all the thugs. At least, not yet. Wonder Woman and Superman would be appearing soon, and there would be opportunities to free the hostages.
It was only too funny when Batman slid out of his impromptu changing room, moving almost as quietly and stealthily as he was, and proceeded to park himself in the same dark corner where Phillip was quietly waiting. Batman stood there, not knowing there was man with knives aimed at his back, with the ability to kill the master tactician of the Justice League with a single flick of his wrist.
Phillip resisted the urge to snicker.

Diana smashed into the main holding room, with Superman close behind. They descended into the room, with the thugs clearly surprised in the act of clearing out their equipment. The hostages were piled up in one corner. The children were badly terrified, and the adults were unconscious, except for Lex Luthor.
“Put down your weapons!” Superman bellowed. They did not comply, instead forming a tight circle around some of the hostages.
Her enhanced hearing picked up Luthor’s whispered commands to the thugs, “Take us out, now!”
She watched in frustration as the thugs suddenly dematerialized out of sight, along with some of the hostages, mostly the billionaires. The five child hostages were left behind, as were four thugs, who were stunned at the sudden turn of events when they found that they had been double-crossed.
Then there were a series of explosions around them. Superman did not hesitate, grabbing up the children, bomb jackets and all, since his invulnerability would protect him if the bomb jackets did explode. Diana proceeded to punch out the thugs with her superspeed and strength, while the room was collapsing around them. She prayed fervently for the children to survive the ordeal unscathed.
She lassoed the four villains, and then followed Superman as he powered a way out of the basement trap, pulling their captives along just in time to avoid their being crushed by the collapsing ground.
Wonder Woman noted Batman following them out of the basement, a moving shadow on the ground. As they landed outside the warehouse, he handed them a small tracking device. “I managed to get a tracer on one of the thugs as they materialized out. They’re not too far away.”
Superman nodded his thanks to his friend. “Can you disarm the bomb jackets?” Then Superman blinked.
Batman was already examining one of the near-petrified child hostages and the jacket he was wearing. Diana wanted to laugh at the expression of hero-worship on the faces of the children towards Batman. He had a larger fan base than most people knew.
Wonder Woman did not have to wait for a response from the Dark Knight, and grabbed Superman by the arm as she flew into the air, “Let’s go!” There was still Luthor’s plan to foil.

Chas sighed in relief when the group appeared about a kilometer away from the warehouse, in another building basement they had prepared beforehand. The hostages save for Mister Luthor were all unconscious. Then there was an ominous sensation on the back of his neck, as though death was imminent.
One of his men collapsed onto the ground. Chas whipped his head around in surprise to see a dark shadow appear from behind the fallen figure of his man. Even more surprisingly, it was not Batman. The man wore one of their combat suits, one that Chas recognized as belonging to one of the men who went off to find Phillip Delacroix, but only with a piece of black cloth instead of combat gear on the head. What the…
He tried to fight down the wave of fear that threatened to paralyze his limbs, but his men had less luck as they broke under the ominous presence of the stranger. Their nerve seemed completely gone as they ran screaming from the dark figure.
“Get back! It’s only one man!” Chas shouted at his men, trying to rally them. The shadow moved, a blur of black as it rushed towards him.
That was the last thing Chas saw.

“Who are you?” Luthor seethed at the dark figure. The thugs were all down in mere seconds, sprawled across the floor of the basement room.
Phillip pulled off his mask, and his pale face took Luthor by shock. “Didn’t expect me here, did you, Lex?”
“Phillip Delacroix.” The words made it seem as though if Luthor could, he would have ground Phillip under his feet.
“I applaud you for this ploy.” Delacroix smiled. “Too bad you had to meet with one trifling problem.”
“You.”
“Yes, me.” Phillip raised his dagger, and in a blink held it against Luthor’s throat. Luthor stood impassively where he was, not backing away in the least. He had to hand the master criminal that; Luthor was courageous in his own way. “I’m not any of the pansies you faced before. If you doubt what I can do, throw away your doubts now.”
“All I see is a scruffy little man who gained a god’s favor.”
“True enough. But look at yourself now. One flick of this blade, and I can kill you. All your plans, schemes, and plotting, washed away in an instant.” Delacroix leaned forward, staring into Luthor’s eyes. “Deny me what I want, and I shall crush you.”
His senses flared, informing him of the approach of Superman. He taunted Luthor, tapping the tip of the dagger against Luthor’s cheek several times as he spoke. “Farewell for now, Lex Luthor. I do not wish for our game to end so quickly, so try your hardest before I bury you the next time. Remember, the challenge you pose to me is the only reason you’re still alive, for the worth of a man is measured by his enemies.”
Phillip melted away.

Luthor fell to his hands and knees, trembling with fear, his breath coming in labored gasps. He had never felt such terrible terror before. Not in the presence of a furious Man of Steel. Not before the mysterious Dark Knight. Not when facing the imperious Amazon Princess. Nor the gathered might of the JSA and JLA.
But one man with a knife and an attitude almost broke him. All his plans, for nothing.
Just a man with a knife.
You should have killed me, Delacroix, Luthor swore. I shall make you regret your decision to spare me.

“I’m glad this ended well.” Diana remarked to Superman as they watched the freed hostages embrace their loved ones at the police station, while the thugs, stripped of their weapons and armor, languished in the lockup.
“Who took them down?” asked Clark. “None of them really saw anything, and Luthor isn’t talking.” They had come across the thugs, a furious Luthor, and the hostages where the tracking device had led them. The fact that somebody had settled the situation before they did was a nice surprise after considering the events of the night.
“It was Phillip Delacroix.” Batman cut in brusquely while Diana rolled her eyes at his habit of appearing out of nowhere and inserting himself into a conversation. “He was seen leaving the scene of the gala and running in the general direction of the hostages.”
She asked, “Could he have set this up?”
Batman shook his head. “No, it was Luthor. What Luthor did not count on was Delaxcroix,” and me. Though Batman didn’t say that out loud, Diana and Superman exchanged knowing glances.
Wayne explained, “I overheard Luthor and one of the men discussing their plans, and that was it for me. Too bad we don’t have any evidence to pin on Luthor.”
“The men who worked for him?”
Batman waved that idea away, “Luthor probably has some way to ensure their silence. We’re better off figuring out what to do with the new information we have.”
Superman raised an eyebrow, “Which is?”
Batman smiled mirthlessly, “How Luthor and Delacroix’s private little war is going to be hell on the rest of us.”

“You’re holding out on me.” Ares pointed a finger accusingly at Phillip as he handed in his report for the night. “I conferred a title onto you, but no powers. No boon. And yet tonight I saw you do things which no man should have been able to do.”
Phillip played dumb, making Ares even more angry. “Do what?”
Ares raised a hand, and started ticking off his fingers. “One, healing from that gunshot wound to your chest. Two, moving like that across the city. Three, moving so quietly that even the Kryptonian could not detect your presence. Four, Luthor’s men panicked for no good reason when they saw you.”
“And here I thought it was my charming personality.”
“When will you cut that bullshit?” Ares roared, flinging a Greek vase in Delacroix’s general direction, which barely missed his head. The King of Pain did not move a single inch, icy calm as ever. “What exactly can you do? And how?”
Phillip shrugged as he turned away. “You’ll know. When you need to. And when you do,” Phillip let out a breath, tinged with sadness and regret, “You might not want to.”
Ares smoldered quietly as his rebellious minion left, his eyes glowing with anger. I will know. One way or the other, I’ll find out what you are.
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Interlude 5

I wake up in the morning
And I raise my weary head
I've got an old coat for a pillow
And the earth was last night's bed
I don't know where I'm going
Only God knows where I've been
I'm a devil on the run
A six gun lover
A candle in the wind, yeah
-Blaze of Glory, Jon Bon Jovi
91 felt the firmness of the ground beneath his boots as he surveyed the small village. He had used up the last of his money in getting to Predlitz. Smuggling on one border runner after the other on exorbitant rates had cost him the small fortune he had gotten on Caph.
It had not been easy, with his face pasted on ‘Wanted’ posters throughout the galaxy. He had killed more than his share of men seeking his head and the reward. Some in fair battle, some in their sleep.
Life was death. He was death.
He had arrived on the planet a few days ago, following the instructions of the strange soothsayer. He had no idea of what he was supposed to do or find, but such things, he figured, had a way of sorting themselves out. My path towards my vengeance begins here!
He had been traveling on foot for the past few days, getting a feel of the land. Scouting the terrain, knowing where possible enemies might lurk. To him, the entire village he found himself in could be his enemy. If its people knew the bounty on his head…
The village was small, but hardly poor. Certainly not as poor as the villages in the hellhole of Caph. There weren’t any television sets around, but he did spot a few radios perched next to the windows of the wooden huts.
“Warrrrggghhhh!” A yell of sheer pain brought him out of his ruminations. He turned a corner to see a middle aged man roughly handling a small boy of about 8 years old. Anger surged within him, but he forced it down, observing the situation instead.
Then the man raised an arm up high, and swung down.
Before he knew it, he had moved forward and caught the man’s arm before he managed to complete the blow. “Stop it.” 91 warned.
“Stay outta my business!” The man’s other hand came up, and 91 instinctively ducked away. He stepped back for a few steps, feeling something warm trickling down one side of his face. He raised one hand to his cheek, and the fingers came away bloody.
The man held a knife towards 91, its tip coated with blood. “Nice,” 91 taunted. “Does it come in adult size too?”
“Fuck you!” The man came in again, his knife raised high in the air and slashing down. It was so simple for 91 to catch the hand with the knife, and redirect it such that it stabbed into the man’s heart.
The man fell with a gargle. The boy scampered away in fear at the sight.
91’s actions did not go unnoticed. Several men loitering around saw what he did. “Get him!” They rushed at him, and he drew his SMG, ready to fire a series of warning shots into the ground at their feet.
Then the fallen man suddenly got up, charging into him and unbalancing his aim. 91 tried to shove him off, but the dying man held onto his right arm, but then one of the men reached him and tore the gun away. Another went in with another knife, the blade gleaming as it arced towards him.
91 drew his sword with his left arm, slicing the man off his arm, and then around in a swift motion that took out the other two men. With his right arm freed, he went for his secondary firearm, a pistol in his left shoulder holster.
He realized with a shock that the weapon was gone, snatched away by one of the men he had been grappling with, and there was no opportunity to pry it free of the dead man’s fingers. More than 10 men surrounded him, armed with axes and spears. And he didn’t have a gun, only his sword and a few daggers.
They charged him. He spun around, killing two men with fast accurate strikes that sliced their throats. Another stabbed with in a long spear, catching him by the left shoulder and opening a wound there. He grabbed the spear with one hand, and pulled the spearman towards him, and stabbed the other man right through the neck.
He tried to stay aware of the positions of the men around him, but many of them were wielding long spears which outdistanced his sword even if the sword was far more effective up close and in the hands of a trained fighter.
He saw his chance. One man rushed in, his spear just a fraction too slow to strike. 91 allowed the spear tip to brush past his chest, while he held his sword fully extended horizontally with his right hand, letting the man run himself through the blade. That left an opening in the encirclement for the barest of moments, and 91 dashed through it.
“Stop right there!” They shouted after him. He ran into the forest, shouts of anger behind him for the slaughter he had wrought. There was no way he could take an entire village of angry men on his own. No matter how good he was.
He slowly outdistanced his pursuers, and he almost thought he was safe when he suddenly stumbled, tripped by a walking stick held above the ground. If he had not been wounded, he would have noticed the stick, as well as the person holding it, but his injuries were distracting him.
He cursed, rubbing his bruised legs when a figure stepped out from a nearby bush. “Ho, what do we have here? A deer? Or a pig?”
91 looked up to see a man who looked more than sixty, in plain brown robes. He quickly stood up, his sword raised. Strange, I don’t sense any danger from him. I think he’s a monk. And most odd of all was that he didn’t feel compelled to kill the monk at all.
The man smiled, “Hmmm, seems like I’ve caught something bigger.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with one hand. “A bit lacking in the courage department though.”
The monk continued, “You’re pretty big, but…” He looked over 91, “Too bad your courage isn’t in proportion with your size.”
91 lifted his sword to the man’s throat. “Who are you?”
The man giggled. “There’s no need to tell a beast my name.”
“Come on! Hurry up! Down this road!” They began to hear shouts from the direction of the village. His pursuers were catching up.
91 glowered, “Beware what you say, priest, for I will just as soon kill you.”
The man arched an eyebrow, unperturbed at all by the threat on his life. Inexplicably, he asked, “Are you scared?”
“What?”
“If I touch you, you’ll kill me instantly. Your heart is like a sword’s edge, unable to approach others because you fear them.” The monk’s smile disappeared. “You are the weakest man on this world.”
91 could hear the villagers almost upon him. He cursed, and quickly moved into the bush nearby.
He watched silently as the villagers came up to the monk. “Ah! Sorry, Father Francis! We thought you were someone else!”
Another asked, “Francis Gravesend, did you see a tall man, about six feet, bearing a sword, pass by this way?”
Francis Gravesend thumbed a direction down the road. “He went that way.”
“Thank you! Let’s go!” They moved off, a large group of more than ten men.
91 breathed, “Francis Gravesend, don’t think I’ll feel grateful for your help. Those men will never catch me.”
Gravesend folded his arms, then suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs, “Hey! He’s here!”
91 cursed, then ran away. As he ran, he could hear the old monk laughing behind him.

91 stumbled, and stared up at the scorching midday sun. He had not had any food for the past day, and only a few sips of water. He had lost his water canteen sometime during the fight. Hell, all he had on his person now was his sword, and some other weapons. Everything else, his bag, his belongings, was gone.
He felt like retching, his stomach rebelling at the emptiness inside it.
A shadow fell over him, and 91 instinctively rolled to the ground in front of him, feeling something brush his legs as he ducked. As he rolled, his eyes caught sight of the weapons. Shuriken.
He rolled up to see a young man with a sword leaping from a tree straight at him. With no time to draw his own sword, 91 countercharged, moving forward to grab the man’s sword. However, the other man had greater inertia, and they fell to the ground with 91 below the other man. The tip of the man’s sword hovered above 91’s face, while 91 had his hands on the man’s arms. They strained against each other, 91 trying to hold the sword away.
“You’re a bounty hunter.” 91 ground out.
“Nice of you to state the obvious.” The man said, a sneer on his face. “A lot of people want your life. Why don’t you let me relieve you of it?”
91 gritted his teeth, and pulled the man’s arms away from his sword. The man pulled his arms away from 91’s grasp, and then lashed back down with vicious punches. 91 managed to turn his face away in time to avoid breaking his nose.
“I’m Cassian. Remember my name, for it is the last thing you’ll hear.”
“Oh right.” 91 grabbed one of the shuriken and slashed Cassian on his legs. The bounty hunter jumped away in surprise, and the two men went into ready postures, 91 drawing his sword.
Cassian attacked first, his blade a blur even to 91, slashing him across his left arm. 91 could only swing his own sword somewhat belatedly, forcing Cassian back.
“What’s the hurry, kid?” Cassian asked. “Even if you die, nobody will care. Just like all the men you killed.”
91 whispered, “We are born. We go through life, and then we die, and return to the soil that spawned us. This is our fate. But,” his eyes glinted, “you’ll go before I do.”
He moved forward, his speed surprising his foe, and he made a horizontal cut that only nicked Cassian on the forehead as the bounty hunter stepped back to avoid the blow. Damn.
“Here he is!” A shout came from behind him. “He’s wounded!”
Cassian cursed, and fled the scene. The villagers were unlikely to share their kill with outsiders. 91 knew the feeling.
Before he could run away, he was surrounded again. Eight men wielding an assortment of weapons, all around him.
“Encircle him!” a man shouted. “If he resists, kill him!”
91 did not respond immediately. He could feel the blood on his cheek, still flowing down. He raised one hand to wipe the blood away. “17 years of living. For what?”
Then he sprang into action, shouting, “FOR WHAT?” His blade brushed away one man’s feeble attempts to defend himself, and laid the man open from head to groin. The other men stared at him with fear and hatred. “Get him!”
The slaughter did not take more than five minutes. By the end of it he had sustained more wounds, and knelt on the ground, tearing strips of cloth off his dead enemies to bandage his injuries.
He stood up, weariness permeating his body to the bone. What would tomorrow bring? Hatred. Fear. Hunted by others. Kill and murder without end. Until I am killed myself. He walked off into the forest. This is my road, a road of no return, ordained by fate. So be it.

By the second day, the village and the other neighboring villages in the area were fully mobilized. They were sited in a valley with steep mountains on both sides, and passage out was extremely difficult and only possible through certain paths. Hence, it was relatively easy to set up a tight cordon on all exits of out of the area.
It still didn’t help them catch the killer, whose name was not even known. What was known was that there was also a large bounty on his head. The men of almost seven villages scoured the valley and its forests, seeking the killer and the 50,000 C-Bill bounty for bringing him in, dead or alive.
By the fourth day, quite a few of the men had managed to find him, but were killed. That added to the anger of the villagers, then all of a sudden it just wasn’t about the bounty anymore.
It had become vengeance and the thirst for blood. A vicious circle of death and murder. The killer would be brought down, eventually, but a lot of lives would be lost in the process. And worse of all, not a single person wanted to inquire into the cause of the murder. Nobody thought to ask the boy of his abuse by his father, the scars on his young body, the bruises on his arms. A week passed without any findings, but the bodies just kept stacking up.
Francis Gravesend watched as the warrior in charge of the region, a man by the name of Oplin, shouted angrily at his men, telling them to look harder without telling them exactly how to do it. Then Oplin went back inside the hut he had commandeered, to do more drinking. He had done nothing except drink the whole day away, while expecting the men of the villages to fight and die for his job.
Francis frowned. That was no way for a warrior to act. He was about to walk away when he felt a battered looking boy tugging on his sleeve of his robes. “Well, what do we have here?” He offered the boy a warm smile.
“Father Francis, I…” He winced slightly when the old cleric grasped him gently by the right arm.
The perceptive priest quickly lifted up the sleeves of the boy’s shirt, and then bared the boy’s torso, which all revealed the bruises and scars on the boy. “Who did this to you?”
The boy stammered, “My father.”
“Where is he now?” Francis spoke gently. He wanted nothing more than to wring the neck of whoever would do this to a boy, but it would not do to frighten the boy now.
The boy did not reply immediately, organizing his thoughts. Then he whispered softly, as though afraid of what he was saying, “He’s dead. The killer everybody was looking for killed him when he tried to beat me. He was the first man the killer killed. I am not sorry that he was dead.”
With that information, it all came together for Francis. “Come with me. Let’s see Warrior Oplin now. What’s your name?”
“Oleg,” replied the boy.
“You’re a good boy, Oleg. Now come.”
Gravesend led the boy to the hut, and he entered the hut without so much as a knock on the door. Oplin looked up in surprise from his beer bottle at the priest’s entry. “What…”
Francis did not hold back, and said, “A useless warrior who drinks all day will never catch the killer.”
“What did you say, old monk?” Oplin sputtered at the sudden insult.
The monk sat down on a spare stool facing Oplin. “To catch a single killer, you mobilized the men of seven villages. And you still could not catch him.” The few men in the hut, local villagers, all paled at the monk’s words. Oplin was the designated overlord for their region, and to defy his orders carried grievous consequences. Then Francis continued, “Disturbing the peace of the villagers, with nothing to show for it. If that isn’t being useless, what is?”
“How dare you!” Oplin stood up, drawing a sword from the scabbard on his waist and pointing it at Francis. “I’ll kill you!”
Francis pooh-poohed the idea. “Useless warriors can’t hurt me.” And then he pointed a finger at his own neck, taunting Oplin. “Come on, try your best.”
“How dare you!” Oplin roared. “I dare you to repeat what you said!”
The monk smiled, “I thought I had made it clear enough. Oh well, I’ll say it again, slowly for your benefit. USE. LESS.”
“Sir Oplin, Father Francis was just jesting!” One of the village men exclaimed, trying to defuse the situation before it got out of hand. He looked at the monk, a plea on his face for the monk to stay silent.
Francis was made of stubborn stuff. “My dear man, the truth’s the truth! Telling him this is good for him!”
Oplin’s face was beet red by now, and he yelled, “Stupid monk, do you wish to die, mocking me like this?”
Gravesend sighed. “That idiotic killer. Running around in the hills all day and not ridding the village of the true menace: You! Why hasn’t he killed you yet?”
“What?”
“Isn’t that so? You told all the men of the villages to go hunt down the killer, scour the valley and bring him in dead or alive. What about the crops in the fields? Don’t people have to eat?” He continued. “The killer is a beast in a human shell by now. You care not a single bit about the safety of these villagers, sending them to face him. Does the safety of the people need to be paid by the lives of the common folk?”
“Grrr…” Oplin growled, then found the monk staring at him with interest.
“By the way, warrior, when are you going to kill me with that big shiny sword of yours?”
Those words struck deep into Oplin, and he swung his sword down at Francis.
The men in the room were all too petrified to move.
The sword dug deep into the ground. Francis smiled from where he had easily sidestepped the attack, and moved forward, slapping Oplin on the back ad making him release his blade. “Hahahahaha! You can’t even kill a rabbit with this level of technique!”
Oplin stared at him. Then he saw the tattoos on Francis’s arms, winding colors of red, green, and blue, revealed by the pulled up sleeves as the monk placed one arm around Oplin’s shoulder.
Francis whispered softly to Oplin. “Loyalty and service to the people. These are the precepts of a warrior! Now that this matter has got out of control, did you think your superiors would not know?”
Oplin paled, and Francis could see realization dawn on his face as he realized who Francis Gravesend actually was.
“If this carries on, you will die.” Francis released a shocked Oplin from his hold, and walked over to Oleg. He asked the boy, “Are you afraid of the killer?”
Oleg answered truthfully, “A little.”
“Would you be willing to go into the valley with me to look for the killer?”
The boy looked up, “Yes.”
“Good, so it is settled! Young Oleg and I will go into the valley to look for the killer, and save your life.”
Somebody protested, “But Father Francis, the killer is too dangerous…”
Francis smiled confidently, “We won’t need any weapons.”

As he prepared the items for the search in his room, Francis Gravesend felt a presence near him. ”I was wondering when you’ll get here.”
A deep chuckle rumbled from behind him. “If Oplin knew I was here, he will probably be dead on the spot already.”
Francis Gravesend turned to look at the huge form of Jake Kabrinski. “I hope you’ll forgive Oplin for what he did. He wasn’t actually malicious, just, well…”
“Useless.” Jake completed for him, and Francis smiled. “Still, you and a young boy, alone without weapons, against this killer? More than a hundred men have died hunting him.”
“And what makes you think more men with weapons could bring him down? Sure, you could whistle up an actual combat unit of battlearmor, but he’s just a man with a sword.” Francis paused. “Correction, a teenager with a sword. Let’s not go into overkill territory.”
Jake started in surprise, “A teenager? To have killed so many?”
Francis frowned. “Yes. I believe so. And he has reached a level where few warriors have ever touched.”
Jake sat down heavily on the ground of Gravesend’s small room. “Explain.”
“A swordsman practices all the time to hone his skills, but actual combat is still the most effective and fastest way to improve one’s technique and skill. Imagine our young killer. Alone in the valley. No food. No water. No sleep. Facing hordes of enemies, chased by hounds and worse. His enemies are mostly untrained villagers, which makes it worse because their moves are wholly unpredictable. The long spears they wield negate many of the advantages of a sword, especially when deployed in numbers.”
Jake listened intently as Francis continued, “Such combat, even for a few days, is actually worth several years of practice to a swordsman. Without a strong body and mind, without a certain standard of skill, only death or madness beckons.”
Francis sighed heavily. “After killing ten men, twenty men, a hundred men, a person would gradually become familiar with the actions he had to take to survive till the next round of battle. To be the strongest or swiftest at wielding a weapon, is based on one’s understanding of himself, all the time pushing his mind and body past their limits in order to survive. Our young killer has had an entire week of this training. To have survived this long means that his ability has reached a level most would never dream of.”
He lowered his gaze sadly to the floor, “And why do I know all this? Because what the killer is now, I was years ago. I know well what he went through. And because of that, I know how to capture him.”

91 staggered, his rusting blade held before him. His vision was blurred, his movements heavy and tired, but he had no problems killing. His body and mind would move instinctively in combat, summoning up reserves of strength from within him, only to leave him ever more exhausted after it was over.
He could not remember anything of those desperate battles though. He could only remember flashes of blood, pain, and fear, all mixed up and congealed into a never-ending nightmare of reality. He was a demon in the nightmare, a dealer of death, a shadow of destruction. Existing only to destroy.
He stumbled on, biting into the hard tuberous root he had managed to come across. It was extremely low in nutritional value, but he had no other choice.
A faint smell of food wafted into his nostrils, and his stomach suddenly rebelled, sending signals of weakness and yearning to his brain. He fell to his knees, before using his sword to push himself back up again.
He knew it was a trap, yet he could not ignore the enticing aroma. He readied his sword, prepared to kill whoever stood in his way.
He walked silently towards the fire, which was now visible in the distance. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of hiding himself when a voice called out, “You can come out now!”
91 spun around, his senses at full alert, ready for a trap. But there was nothing. Save for the old monk and a boy by a fire, sipping at their bowls of soup. They looked at him, and the monk’s expression was remarkably gentle for a person facing death.
Francis Gravesend. What are you doing here? Then his eyes set upon the boy. He recognized the boy as the one who had, in a way, started it all.
91 raised his sword, trying to will himself into killing the two people before him, and take their food, but something just prevented him from dong so. He simply could not summon up the strength or the willpower to do so. Why? He tried to speak, but no words came out of his parched throat.
The boy stood in front of him, his eyes bright with tears. “My father abused me as long as I could remember. He would hit and beat me. Never a kind word. I was just a slave to him, somebody to beat when things did not go right.” He breathed in deeply, then continued, “My fondest wish was granted when you killed him.”
The words staggered 91, and his vision swam. He no longer saw the boy. He saw himself, being beaten by his trainers. Toughening exercises, they called it. Torture and worse. He saw himself crying softly on his bed, trying to sleep past the pain. Bruises and scars were a fact of his life. How many times did he wish death on those who made his life a living hell?
The boy ran towards him, tears in his eyes. 91 did not move as the boy hugged him, whispering, “Thank you.”
Nobody had ever said that in such a heartfelt way to him before. 91 dropped his sword, his mind in a whirl.

Francis placed his bowl of soup onto the ground. “How is it, young man? I was right, wasn’t I? You would not listen to me. You’re a vicious killer, why should you? No matter how adverse your situation, no matter how hungry you were, how hurt you were, you would not have surrendered. Your pride, your honor would not allow it. But just two simple words, spoken by a child, could bring you to your knees.”
He stood up from his sitting position, “Oleg is the strongest of us all. He was brave enough to come to me for help. Brave enough to accept his own fears.” He looked at the killer, who had keeled over, and was only held up by Oleg’s fierce grip. Oleg was crying softly, letting out years of pain and suffering.
Francis walked up to the two boys, and engulfed them in a gentle embrace. “I’ve finally caught you.”
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The Games that Gods Play