Well her friend is looking at me with an evil grin

I think the bloody racket might soon begin

I must have said something

To the George street queen

The boys are joining in!

Because the old black rum's got a hold on me

Like a dog wrapped round my leg

And the old black rum's got a hold on me

Will I live for another day?

Hey, Will I live for another day?

********

"One Homeboy," the waitress said, sliding the beer over to Clark, who thanked her kindly. "One Caped Cruiser."

She set the drink in front of the smiling form of Bruce Wayne, who thanked her in turn, shooting me a glare when she looked away for my choice in order.

I smiled guilelessly at him.

"And one 'most absurd drink you have on the menu," she drawled playfully at me before giving me a wink. "Otherwise known as the Trash Can."

"Thank you, dear," I flashed her a charming smile as I paid for the drinks with a generous tip. Her smile deepened. "Keep them coming?"

"Will do." She sauntered away to her next customers, hips swaying suggestively. "Holler if you need me."

There was a beat of silence before Clark spoke.

"Your married," he reminded me, taking a swig of his beer. "And she's not even twenty."

"First off," I pointed out, sipping my drink. The cup was massive, the liquid was glowing neon blue, and an upside-down Red Bull floated in it.

It wasn't that bad.

A bit sweet.

"I'm tens of millions of years old. Even if all the ages of my wives were put together, I'd still be robbing the cradle. How do you know her age anyway?"

"Her ID's in her pocket," Clark shrugged. "She can serve but not drink alcohol in the states."

I stared at him for a second.

Did he seriously card our waitress?

I shook my head wryly.

"Secondly," I continued. "Looking is a free action. Look but don't touch is the rule. I don't begrudge any of my wives if they find other men or women attractive, and they return the favour. Basic trust. We're possessive, not jealous. There's a difference. You can't tell me, in your industry, you don't appreciate the... colourful costumes some of your coworkers wear."

I stared the pair down, daring either to lie and say they had never stared at an attractive heroine or villain in tight or revealing clothes.

Clark looked away, taking another swig of his beer.

Bruce took his first sip, not wilting under my questioning look.

"Why Montana," the disguised Batman asked.

"Less chance of either of you two being recognized," I shrugged. "Look around this bar and tell me that anyone here knows Daily Planet photographer Clark Kent or reads celebrity magazines and knows infamous playboy trillionaire, Bruce Wayne."

The bar I had brought them to first was a small town tavern in some town nestled in the Rockies whose name I didn't care to remember. The type of place with all wood furniture, a pool table, and a picture of Chuck Norris on the wall.

Perfect for two men in their middle age and an infant Great One to have a few beers and get to know each other.

"Then why are you the only one disguised," Clark asked.

"If you hadn't noticed, I'm kinda a big deal," I ran my hand through my long blond hair, my now green eyes shining in mirth.

Keeping up the illusion was easy. The most annoying part of this whole disguise was the tightness in my body. I could see why Priscilla didn't like shrinking. It was like squeezing into too-tight pants. You could still move, but it was uncomfortable.

"My face is on every magazine and every news channel, and my name is the current most trending search on the internet. If I were to go anywhere undisguised or without a Stranger effect, I'd be mobbed in moments."

"Fair enough," Superman nodded. "To be honest, when you said you'd be taking us out for drinks, I was afraid you'd take us to some loud club or neon-lit dance floor. This is nice. Reminds me of the first bar my Pa took me to when I turned twenty-one."

"The night is young," I smiled mischievously before softening it. "But neither of you two would enjoy that. I'm more at home with a cup of tea and a good book than any large party with blasting music. Maybe when we have a few more drinks in us."

"Please, no," Clark smiled shakily. "If Lois finds out I went somewhere like that, I'll be sleeping on the couch for a week."

"Whipped," I said in good humour.

Clark nodded, looking proud rather than embarrassed.

What happened tonight didn't depend on me.

"What are we here for," Bruce interjected suspiciously. "Why all this? You know as well as I that alcohol or poison won't work on us."

"Chill, dude," I said in my most nauseating 'surfer bro' accent. "Let the wave of life ride you to the beach of happiness, man." Bruce didn't look amused, but Clark did chuckle. I decided to toss the bat a bone. "We are here to relax. Get to know each other. Build some bridges. Get away from all the estrogen in our lives. I don't know about you two, but I am drowning in it. In my household of twenty-one, the only males in my Family are two drakes and our two horses."

"You have a farm?" Clark asked, interested.

"On an Island that big, of course we have some land to cultivate," I said wryly, my words laced with double meaning. "Not counting anything Tsunade does or Medea's garden of ingredients, we have an orchard and have recently started harvesting animals."

"I thought you said your Island was a deathtrap," Bruce interjected.

"It is," I nodded. "But it is also MY Island. Not only have I cordoned off my home, but I am the top predator there. Nothing messes with me."

Dragon Fear was great for dissuading anything without higher brain functions from trying to escape. "I won't be inviting anyone not part of the Family home, you'd still probably die, but I've been meaning to spend some time with Best Boi Torrent, my steed. If you want, I can ride him there next time you visit the folks in Smallville."

"Thanksgiving is coming up," Clark nodded genially while Batman scowled, not liking the reminder that I knew almost everything about their civilian identities. "We'll be up there all week. Ma would like to meet you, so it should be fine if you want to come by on Monday or Tuesday."

I had been expecting some conditions, maybe a veiled threat or two. This was his family, after all. I guess he really was on board with this whole trust thing.

"Great," I nodded. "Would she mind if Artoria came as well? We've been meaning to have a race, and Kansas would be a great place since my Island doesn't have a good prairie or hill land large enough for us. You can referee since she's so competitive, and I like to cheat."

"Only if you bring Diana," Clark agreed. "Ma's been bugging me to bring them over since the whole Doomsday incident. Wants to thank them in person."

"That it? Sure," I blinked, a bit surprised. "Fair warning though, if there is going to be any food available, she will want to make triple the amount. Artoria has the stomach of a black hole."

"I know," Clark's smile twitched slightly. "The League's chefs have been... vocal since she started dining with us on the job."

"You didn't answer the question," Bruce said. His face returned to a well-practiced smile as the waitress passed by again, but I could tell it was fake. His eyes had been observing me intently the whole time. "Why all this? What are you hoping to achieve by bringing us here?"

I sighed and finished my drink.

Clark being a friendly, farm town homeboy, made it hard to fuck with them.

I would still do it, but I'll go easy on them for now.

"I'm hoping that if we can't be friends, we can at least be friendly," I said, waiving down the waitress for another. "I'm sure you guessed, but Diana is the last survivor of her world."

Clark winced, but Batman kept staring at me intently, not even blinking.

"You aren't her dead friends," I continued before pausing to give a nod of thanks to the waitress and waiting for her to leave. "But you are men almost identical to her best friends, fighting for a cause she believes in. Unless something happens, you'll naturally be friends again in a few years. It would break her heart if something happened to you because of me. And, I am sorry to say, if a fight were to break out between me and this world, there is a clear winner."

"We would stop you," Bruce insisted. Clark almost looked like he would say something but remained silent, watching for my response.

"There's nothing to stop," I sighed again. "I am, quite literally, a sleeping dragon. So long as nobody decides to come to tickle me, I will be content to remain sleeping in my lair with my hoard of wealth and my princesses in the tower."

"And when someone does tickle you?" Bruce asked suspiciously.

I rolled my eyes.

"I will deal with them," I emphasized the last word. "Accordingly. I am not some gibbering madman. I'm reasonable, measured, and controlled. I won't lash out blindly because some villain decides he wants to commit suicide by Elden Lord."

"But you'll kill them," Batman pressed, his playboy mask slipping as he scowled at me. Clark touched his friend's shoulder as if to tell him he had gone too far.

"Probably," I shrugged, not offended in the slightest. "I'm not going to go on a killing spree if that's what you're worried about. If someone bumps into me on the road, the worst they can expect is a spell to tie their shoes together or similar pranks. But, yeah, if someone really fucks with me or mine, I'm gonna kill them. If they're lucky."

This was my bottom line.

I was willing to play nice, both because of Diana and because I genuinely thought I could be friends with them, but they should never forget who I was.

Their laws were not mine.

Their morals were not mine.

They should never mistake my complacence for compliance.

"Remember those thieves who tried to take my weapons," I reminded the pair. I had set that trap for just such an occasion. "I got my stuff back, so I let them off with a little scare, and then I let you deal with it. Even though I knew the PRT and SHIELD agents were operating on the orders of their superiors, I sought no further reprisals or dispelled the little charade on camera. I didn't burn down their organizations or even touch their agents."

While Bruce continued to meet my eyes without issue, Clark winced.

I didn't blame him.

After all, I had baited that trap for just such an opportunity, and those loveable greedy bastards had dove right in. I'll be milking that one for a while.

Aren't I such a kind, understanding abomination?

"We appreciate your cooperation," Clark nodded agreeably. "Now and in the future."

I internally golf-clapped the Kryptonian. By wording it that way, he implied I should leave it to them to deal with similar situations.

Keeping my ego intact while also getting my agreement.

Homeboy knew the game better than expected.

Bravo.

"So long as they don't cross a line," I gave him the slight win while keeping my options open.

Honestly, I was too lazy to deal with everyone who'd ever annoyed me. I'd just sick the League on them now.

I could imagine it now.

'Superman! Go beat that guy up. He bullied me!'

"I hope that has given you some peace of mind," I nodded at the disguised Cape Crusaider. "Though it brought the mood down. Do you know what will solve it? More booze!"

"I'm still working on mine," Clark replied sheepishly, a third of his beer remaining.

Bruce took the second sip of his cocktail of the night.

"Please," I waived him off. "You can't tell me you honestly think that stuff will do anything for you. It was a tension breaker to start the night. Pregaming the pregaming, if you will."

I finished my second Trash Can with a chug, and rather than call the waitress over again, I dipped my hand into my Bottomless Box.

I withdrew it holding two clay jugs and three clay cups.

"What do you get when you marry a celt who can't get drunk with regular booze and give her supernatural cooking ability," I asked rhetorically as the two men opposite me eyed my prizes warily. "You get mead that will get even a Kryptonian drunk."

"Uh," Clark stammered as I poured him a cup before using the other jug to pour one for Batman, who eyed it suspiciously. I poured myself one from the first jug. "Is this safe?"

"It's fine," I waved his concern away before looking at the billionaire. "Feel free to test it. I'm sure you brought something to test your drinks. That jug is fine for humans. Don't have any of this one, or Alfred will be scraping you out of bed in the morning."

I was unsurprised when a small device fell out of the man's sleeves and dipped in the amber liquid. He then repeated the action with Superman's cup.

After a second, Batman scowled and put away his tool.

"Now that we know it's no more poisonous than all other alcohol," I chuckled, holding my cup aloft. "I propose a toast!"

The other two raised their cups uncertainly, wondering where I was going with this.

"To good friends and happy wives!"

"I can drink to that," Clark smiled in relief as he clinked his cup with mine. Batman did as well without a word. "That's good!" The Kryptonian said in surprise as he took another sip of his drink.

"Supernaturally good cooking includes brewing," I reminded him with a grin as I drank. Batman took the smallest of sips. "Just remember to pace yourself. Scathach likes her booze like she likes her men. Strong and able to knock her on her ass. Don't drink too much."

"I'll be fine," Superman waived me off, taking another sip.

********

Clark had drunk too much mead.

"I like that plashe," the Kryptonian slurred as Batman half carried his friend from the building pulsing with light and music.

"Good to know," the Elden Lord smiled mischievously. "I'll bring you and Lois again when she can drink again. It can be a regular haunt for you two."

"Than-ksh," Clark slurred. "Ya know, you're a good guy. Ebry one is shhhooow nish. Like 'at nish lady."

"You mean the bartender?"

Batman could understand Mikael's confusion, even if it didn't stop the glare he was levelling on the man for getting him in this situation. Despite supporting his friend over his shoulder, the hero kept his eyes open as he followed the man down an alley and away from a view of the street.

"Ya. Ya," Clark nodded drunkenly. "Don tell 'ois, but I think shhhheeee was into 'e. I 'ried ta let 'er down eashee. She's purtty, but 'ois is the 'est. I wuv Wois."

The Elden Lord howled with laughter, doubling over and smacking his knees.

Once the disguised man was looking away, Bruce allowed himself a small smile at his friend's expense.

The Kryptonian, unused to alcohol that could affect him, had drunk way more of the enchanted mead than the other men had recommended.

At one point, using Superman used his superior speed to grab a full jug from Mikael's hands and run away to chug it.

He only returned when it was empty.

Things devolved from there as the two heroes were swept up in the dragon's pace.

Mikael had taken the Kryptonian's inebriation as a challenge and showed a willingness to use illusions to trick the pair into 'funny' situations.

Once Clark said the bar was 'boring,' the Elden Lord decided it was time to take the pair on a world-hopping trip using his magic to teleport the group to various establishments.

Their destinations included, but were not limited to, a vodka factory in Siberia, the Sahara, the Antarctic (where Clark decided to help the melting icecaps using his ice breath), and some sort of magical grove where the trio was chased by monkeys after Mikael swiped some drinks from a tree.

In the privacy of his mind, Bruce could admit that peach wine had been one of the best things he had ever drunk.

The monkeys had only stopped chasing them once Mikeal had thrown a jug of mead at them.

Now they were back in the US, on the east coast, and the night was almost over as the moon descended closer to the horizon.

Bruce thought they might be in Boston but wasn't sure. The Elden Lord had given them little time for recognizance before disguising the pair with another illusion and heading into another bar.

A gay bar.

Themed around superheroes.

With a drag queen dressed as Captain Marvel as the bartender.

Bruce had subtly slid them a thousand-dollar tip when they kept Clark occupied long enough for him to go on a much-needed bathroom break.

Unlike his small-town friend, the Gothamite knew what sort of people 'cape groupies' tended to be as he was the one that oversaw the League's merchandising operations.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

So long as there was no crime, Batman didn't care, even if he was slightly put off by the number of Batmans and Robins engaged romantically with each other.

Returning, the Caped Crusader had half carried his drunk friend out of the bar after 'Captain Marvel' slipped him their number.

Mikael had been laughing from start to finish.

The Caped Crusader had watched the Elden Lord for any trouble throughout the night.

Batman was ready to call the League in at a moment's notice.

He tested every drink for poison, evaluated every destination for an ambush, and used his equipment to disrupt any cameras nearby in case the man thought he could use compromising pictures as blackmail.

Nothing.

Oh, the man was no saint.

A few of the things they had done tonight skirted the line of illegal, to say nothing of the embarrassing situations Clark found himself in.

But the alien dragon had been mischievous and playful, never malicious.

At one point, Mikael had even stepped between Clark and a group of women looking to take advantage of his friend's inebriated state.

Bruce was, dare he say it, starting to relax.

He'd never let the Elden Lord know.

"Oh god," Mikael panted, still chuckling as he rose from his knees. "You're a great drunk."

"'m not drunk," Clark slurred out, his shifting weight making Bruce's life difficult. "'ou are."

"Nah," the Elden Lord denied with a chuckle, approaching the pair and holding up his hands, which began to glow subtly. "I'm a terrible drunk. Too much trauma."

Bruce took a step back, made difficult by his friend's unsteady form.

"What are you trying to do?" He asked suspiciously, finger ready to press the emergency signal in his cuff in the blink of an eye.

Just because there hadn't been a trap yet, didn't mean he had ever dropped his guard.

"Chill," Mikael rolled his eyes. "This is just going to flush the alcohol from your systems. I don't know about you, but I have no desire to bring a drunk Superman home to Lois."

Maybe it was the drinks, as Batman had been forced to have a few, but the billionaire allowed the disguised dragon to lay his hands on his back.

Warmth passed through the pair as the Elden Lord whispered, 'Flame, Clease Them.'

Then everything was clear again. The slight sluggishness of Bruce's thoughts, thanks to the late hour and the drinks, disappeared.

Clark staggered away and threw up on the ground.

"How much did he have to drink," Mikael asked, looking at the Kryptonian in surprise. "That spell shouldn't have any side effects. I've been using it all night."

"Too much," Clark said after he finished retching. "Way too much. Oh god!"

"There, there," the Elden Lord patted his back consolingly. "Everyone knows what beer goggles are like. Nothing to be ashamed of. And he was a very convincing Captain Marvel."

"Oh god!" Clark repeated in horror as Mikael howled with laughter again.

"This has been great," the Elden Lord said, wiping a tear from his eye as the Kryptonian finished emptying his stomach and stood up. "What do you say, one more stop before the night is through?"

"No," Superman denied. "No more drinking. I've had enough for the decade."

"At least I didn't leave you to deal with the hangover," Mikael playfully pouted. Then he placed his hand on both men's shoulders, and they started to glow the pale blue that indicated he was teleporting them somewhere again. "And relax no more alcohol tonight. We're just dropping Bruce off before you."

They disappeared from the alley.

And reappeared in another.

Bruce's breath froze in his throat.

It didn't take more than a glance to recognize this place.

He visited it every night.

Either in person or in his nightmares.

"Where are we," Clark asked suspiciously, seeing his friend tense. He tensed as well at the Elden Lord's answer.

"Crime Alley, behind the Monarch Theatre in Gotham."

Mist began to gather, its pale white tendrils visible in the glow of the city.

"Why have you brought me here," Batman snarled, fists clenching and body tensing for action.

He should have never trusted the Elden Lord.

"I told you earlier," Mikael shrugged, not intimidated in the slightest. "Tonight is about building bridges."

Batman was about to show the infuriating man precisely what he thought of him when a voice paralyzed him in place.

"Bruce?"

The Dark Knight barely heard the Elden Lord's following words as he stared in shock at the see-through forms of a man and woman.

"Mom? Dad?"

********

"Do you want me to drop you off at home? Or would you rather fly?" I asked Clark as we stood outside the alleyway.

"I'll stay with him," the Kryptonian said seriously, eyes never leaving the alley. I was looking away, not willing to watch. "You said he has till sunrise?"

"Yep," I nodded easily. "That'll give him a few hours. If you're not going home, let your wife know. I'd hate for there to be a dragon hunt for me because she woke up without you."

"I already did."

"Then I'll see you around."

As I made to teleport back to my home, Superman's voice stopped.

"This is a kind thing you are doing," he said softly. "You didn't have to do it."

"Eh," I shrugged. "No skin off my back. I'm sticking with my promise to not bring anyone back, but letting him talk to them is easy."

At his core, Batman was still the scared, traumatized child who watched his parent's murder. Targeting that aspect was the best way to ingratiate myself.

I got Batman's favour, and he got closure.

This was the kind of emotional manipulation I liked, one that benefited both parties and cost me nothing.

"Still, I know how much this means to him." Those blue eyes stared me down intently. "Thank you. He'll never say it, but this will go a long way towards building trust."

I snorted at Superman's words.

"He won't ever trust me," I denied. "For the same reason I am sure he has a plan for every hero if they go rogue. It doesn't matter what I do, he will keep trying to find my weakness and never rest until he has a plan to put me in the ground. That is who Batman is. Tonight was never about stopping his fear and paranoia. That is impossible without changing who he is. It was about building a rapport that we can live with."

If tonight were a win/lose game of who gained the most information between Batman and me, then the bat won.

He was more intelligent than me. No ifs or buts about it. I am sure he gained a host of valuable data about me, my habits, and my powers.

I had only learned one thing.

But that one nugget gleaned was all I needed to consider tonight, my victory.

My win condition tonight had never been about getting Batman to completely trust me.

It was seeing if he would play along with my game.

At the end of the day, Batman was like me.

We were ruled by our fears, and learning to channel and overcome them was our most significant advantage in a world so much bigger than us.

We'd never leave our paranoia behind.

So, if I could convince Batman, the Man with a Million Plans, the Dark Knight, the mind behind the greatest organization on this planet, to go along with my games and whims, there was nobody left who I needed to fear standing in my way on earth.

Tonight he had engaged in breaking and entering, illegal border crossings, theft, and a host of other minor crimes.

He had done those things before; he was Batman, after all, but that had been in pursuing justice or stopping other crimes.

Tonight he'd done them at my urging.

And I'd rewarded him for playing my games.

We both had lines we wouldn't cross, but until those lines overlapped, we'd be friends.

We'd be friends not because we trusted each other but because we trusted in the other's nature.

Because we were the same type of men.

********

"They're going to betray us," Deathstroke said calmly.

"No shit," Killer Frost deadpanned at the mercenary. "What gave it away, Sherlock? The fact they sent us to an Island full of goddamn monsters? That they asked us to try and cut the dragon the size of a continent? Which we can't do. Or the bombs in our skulls?"

"Speak for yourself, cunt," Gavel ground out, not looking at the others as he continued to roast one of the piglets they had killed. Everyone had already eaten, but he decided he was still hungry. "Ain't nothing in my skull. I'm just here for those weapons and to show a stuck-up dragon that he can't park on my planet."

"We get it," the white-skinned woman smirked. "Your heads empty. We all knew that."

"You wanna go, bitch!" The massive man said as he rose to his feet in a second, an enormous already mallet in his hand.

"Try me chucklefuck!" Far from being intimidated, the cryokinetic sneered right back.

"How?" Taskmaster asked him, ignoring the two posturing villains as he sharpened his weapons.

Slade could appreciate his willingness to stay professional.

Especially when they were in dangerous territory.

"The portal," Deathstroke nodded at the ship they had landed with. Apart from the six pods they had woken up in and the containers with their equipment, an archway was the only other feature of the remote-controlled craft. "They told us it has seven uses. Six for samples and the last for extraction. None of us are tinkers. We can't verify their words."

"It only has six uses," Taskmaster nodded in agreement. "And I'm sure they will blow our brains out if we go through early."

"So what," Killer Frost interjected. "They leave us to rot here? What stops us from going south and telling the dragon about them? We won't have much choice."

"We don't know who the fuck they are, you frigid bitch," Gavel mocked.

Killer Frost flipped him the bird.

Deathstroke didn't say anything, nor did Taskmaster though they shared a look.

There were very few organizations with the means to extract all six from different prisons, outfit them with premium alien tech, and do it all in a week.

The portal tech on the ship was something Deathstroke, one of the greatest mercenaries alive, had never seen.

As far as he knew, there was only one, maybe two, Tinkers in the world who could tunnel through dimensions.

"If I were them," Taskmaster said calmly, not letting another argument start. "The sixth time the portal is used, it will self-destruct and set off our bombs. The only possible witness will be Gavel, who won't go to the Elden Lord."

"I'll go to him, all right," the massive man waived his hammer suggestively. "I'll smash him after I crush all those birds of his. I want to see his face."

"You're one sick bastard," Killer Frost spat to the side, though there was some grudging respect in her voice. "Got a pair on you, I'll give you that. I'm staying the fuck away from Lordy. I don't want to mess with something that ate the fucking Simurgh."

"The Elden Lord is the least of our concerns," Deathstroke interjected. It was like herding cats. "He admitted that he doesn't care who lands on his island. Instead, we have to worry about the local flora and fauna."

"And escaping," Taskmaster pointed out as he set his spears in their sheaths. "As of right now, that portal is our only way out. If we don't use it to send samples through regularly, boom. If we try and go through ourselves, boom. If we trust their word that we'll be free, boom."

"So we're fucked no matter what!" Killer Frost threw her hands up in frustration, to Gavel's amusement, as he took the pig off the spit. It wasn't large, only the size of a regular pig, but it had been a nasty little thing that had tried to tear his leg off.

"For now, we play along," Deathstroke outlined. "Send samples through once a week. That gives us five weeks to find a way out of this. Either something on this island can help us, or one of the other invaders might be a Tinker we can coopt to mess with the portal."

"Invaders?"

"We are definitely not the only ones sent here," Taskmaster explained to the woman. "Countries, other organizations, or Super groups will have sent their agents or armies. The island is so big that nobody will notice a few ships entering in the middle of the night. Once they learnt the Elden Lord wasn't killing invaders outright, that number will have multiplied."

"They won't have the portal we do," Deathstroke continued. "Those that are still alive will be trapped. Desperate. Even a basic battlefield surgeon with their equipment will allow us to get the bombs out. I'd prefer a Tinker."

"We can't go far from the ship," Killer Frost pointed out. "Not if we want to bring 'samples,'" she air quoted, "back."

"That's what she's here for," Deadshot nodded at the fifth figure around their camp.

The six-armed woman had been sitting there, staring vacantly at the night sky.

Since they had landed, Spiral had not said a word, just following every order given to her.

If Deathstroke was being honest, he wished the other four of his companions would be more like her.

"Who's she anyway?" Killer Frost asked.

"Sprial," Taskmaster said. "Mutant. Touch paralysis. Magic. Teleporter. Her numbers are Blaster 4, Mover 7, Striker 5, and Brute 2. All her ratings can increase by one or two, depending on her spells."

Killer Frost whistled.

"Damn. Can she teleport us out of here?"

"Can you?" Slade asked the mutant, already knowing the answer.

The woman stared at them blankly.

"Didn't think so," he drawled, looking back at the villainess. "It might only look like a few miles away, but we are in a completely different dimension. That's Mover 9. Minimum."

"Still, how come I haven't heard of her? That's B-list at a minimum."

"She's a Ziz bomb," Deathstroke said plainly.

The effect of his words was immediate and violent.

Killer Frost blasted herself away on a sheet of ice, the cold destroying their fire as she pushed herself tens of meters away.

Gavel, who had been in prison since before the Simurgh first showed up, still threw himself away, food forgotten on the ground as he raised his hammer in a defensive crouch.

Spiral did not even blink.

Deathstroke and Taskmaster shared a long-suffering look.

Amateurs.

"What the fuck!" Killer Frost screeched, ice building around her. "What the fuck?!"

"I hate to agree with the pale cunt," Gavel rumbled, eyeing the two mercenaries. "But what the fuck? Why aren't we killing her?"

"Because she's harmless," Taskmaster drawled. "Watch. Sprial, punch yourself in the face."

Three fists smashed into the woman's face hard enough to split her lip, bloody her nose, and blacken her eye.

"The fuck?" The cryokinetic asked again, her tension easing slightly. "You a Master? Cause you totally got to tell us if you are."

"He's not," Deathstroke said, watching as the mutant did a little dance, and the marks on her face disappeared in a small flash of light. "The Simurgh fucked with her mind. She does everything anyone tells her to."

"Anything?" Gavel leered sadistically at the woman, who was back to staring blankly into space.

"The one thing she does on her own," Slade drawled. "Is paralyzes everything that touches her. Then she tortures them. It's how we know her. The PRT tried to make her a hero by blocking her ears to all orders but theirs. It didn't end well for them."

"That's messed up," the 'sane' woman of the group said, cautiously returning to the temporary camp.

"So long as you don't touch her and know what you're doing, she's a useful tool," Deathstroke said.

Of course, he wouldn't let his guard down just because the Simurgh was dead. Whatever she had planned for the six-armed mutant might still be in effect.

"She'll be useless against any of the other invaders if they know of her, but she can teleport any animals we capture back to the ship and send them through the portal. Or bring us across obstacles, and she'll be useful to escape any sticky situations we find ourselves in."

There was an unsaid agreement between the group that if the portal was a trap, the Ziz bomb would be the one to trigger it.

"Fine," Gavel grunted, sitting back down and looking at his fallen meal in disgust. "I won't touch the daft bint."

"Why are you still here anyway?" Killer Frost asked the mountain of a man as she settled down as well. "Thought you wanted to throw down with the Elden Lord. If you keep travelling south, you're bound to run into him or those bimbos of his."

"Cause I ain't stupid," he grumbled, poking the fire back to life. "I've been in the 'cage for years. No idea what's what, who the players are, or what's up with this fucky island. Costs me nothing to stick with you bastards for a while. You better be thankful."

"So thankful," the villainess drawled sarcastically.

Gavel flipped her off.

"Hookwolf has been gone too long," Taskmaster pointed out.

"Probably ditched us," Killer Frost waived off. "Good riddance. I may be a villain, but at least I'm not a goddamn nazi. Maybe he's going to throw down with the dragon. He's into that dipshit 'gladiator honour' stuff, right?"

"We'll follow his trail in the morning," Deathstroke ordered. Taskmaster nodded, seeing the wisdom in his words right away.

The other two weren't so quick on the draw.

"Why the fuck would we do that?" Gavel asked. "He's the one who left chasing dogs. We don't need him."

"We don't," Deathstroke agreed. He had taken jobs from many unsavoury types in the past, but the nazis had been some of the worst. It wasn't their ideology that bothered the mercenary, just their unprofessionalism.

You'd think they'd have realized after WWII that racial ideology only works so long as you don't shoot yourself in the foot.

Then again, they were nazis.

Nobody accused them of being smart.

"He's carving a path for us," Taskmaster explained. "Our hunting dog. So we're going follow his trail."

"We're using him as bait," Gavel grinned.

"He's going to get rid of anything in our way," Killer Frost nodded. "If he dies, we learn what got him."

"We'll move out at sunrise," Deathstroke said, looking to the sky to judge the position of the stars and moon. "Six hours or so. One person on watch at all times. Spiral never takes a shift. I'll take the last one."

"I'll take the first one," Taskmaster called, getting rough agreement from the other.

It was apparent neither of the others had really roughed it before, or they would not have let the two most desired shifts go without argument.

The discussion finished for the evening, the mercenary found a defensible position, set up some rudimentary alert traps, and fell into a light doze.

The slightest crinkle of a nearby leaf or the breaking of a twig would wake him up.

Four and a half hours later, when Killer Frost tried to kick him awake, he was already awake.

"Next time you and Gavel want to get your rocks off, do it when you are not on shift," Deathstroke whispered, unhanding his pistol.

"Whatever," the white-skinned woman waived him off as she lay between two trees and tried to get comfortable. "Don't clam-jam me. First action I've gotten in years."

Slade took a deep breath to recenter himself as he started his vigil.

Fucking amateurs.

The very slight hope the mercenary held that the pair's tryst would calm them down flew out the window as soon as they started arguing again in the morning.

The pair would not shut up despite the clear danger the island represented.

Deathstroke would kill them both if this is how the next few weeks would be.

Taskmaster looked like he'd help.

There was no greater enemy than an incompetent ally.

If there was one blessing, it was how obvious Hookwolf's passage was.

It was clear early on that he had transformed into his metallic form, a path of destruction carved through the forest's underbrush.

Following the road of torn-up dirt, knocked-over trees, and the destroyed forest was easy, and they passed the day unmolested by any island inhabitants, munching on meat leftover from last night's meal as the day wore on.

Tens of miles later, with the afternoon sun beating down on them, something finally changed.

They heard the barking well before they saw anything out of the ordinary.

The deep braying of wild dogs in the distance echoed off through the forest, reverberating between the trees unnaturally loudly.

It set Slade's teeth on edge, and the group's progress slowed,

their guard raised from the offputting sound.

The next minute passed in silence but for the howling of mad dogs in the distance.

Then they crested a hill and saw what was causing that awful barking.

Not dogs.

Birds.

A dozen black crows, each half the size of Gavel, their skin sallow and feathers dripping from their body in a disgusting slurry of diseased flesh.

They pecked and clawed, beating each other with their wings and barking like dogs as they fought over the bloody carcass.

"The fuck?" Killer Frost asked in a low whisper.

It was loud enough.

One Carrion Crow looked up, a half-eaten eyeball hanging from its beak as its milky eyes caught sight of the group.

For a tense second, nothing moved.

Then the crow launched its fat, flightless body at them.

Sickly black feathers filled their vision as its compatriots left the dead body and threw themselves with mad abandon at the fresh meat and eyes.

"Jesus Crist!" Killer Frost yelled in fright, stumbling backwards in fear. On instinct, she blasted the murder of crows before they could murder her.

It was enough.

Creepy and disgusting as the barking birds might be, they were still just animals and could not deal with being flash-frozen. The dozens of black birds were trapped in a block of ice a dozen feet across.

"Jesus fucking Crist!" The villainess repeated, trying to calm her pounding heart. With a shaky finger, she pointed to the improvised ice sculpture. "What the fuck are these things?"

"Birds," Gavel spat on the ice. "You live long enough Down Under, and you learn all birds are evil and should die. These were just bigger than most. Good job."

"Thanks," Killer Frost replied sarcastically. "But seriously. Why were they barking? Fuck that noise!"

Deathstroke and Taskmaster ignored the byplay, inspecting the body the crows had been eating.

Vast swaths of flesh were missing, and the face was completely unrecognizable after the birds had gotten a hold of it.

Still, the tattoos and long blond hair were unmistakably Hookwolf's.

"He hasn't been dead long," Slade judged. "Blood is still pretty fresh."

"The birds just arrived," Taskmaster pointed out. "Crows eat eyes and tongue first."

After that first exchange, the pair fell silent as they studied the body and the surroundings.

With every second that passed, their mood continued to darken.

Gavel let out a low whistle as he walked up to the corpse as well.

"Those things did a number on poor Hooky. Couldn't happen to a nicer mutt."

"The birds didn't do this," Deathstroke declared grimly.

This wasn't good.

Not Hookwolf's death. He didn't care about the dead nazi.

It was what this meant for them.

"Look at the back of his skull," Deathstroke used his blade to lift the bloody hair to show the hole to his companions.

"They ate his brain?" Killer Frost asked in morbid curiosity.

"Not yet," Taskmaster said, his voice grim. "They would have eventually, but the birds just got here. Whatever killed him did that."

"That is where you want to shoot if you want to kill someone with a Corona Pollentia," Deathstroke explained. "Something took that little part of his brain right out of his skull. He was still alive when it happened."

"How can you tell?"

In reply to the villainess's question, the mercenary pointed his blade in the direction they had been walking all morning.

A few feet wide, a clear duvet had been carved in the upturned dirt and mud. Red and brown blood dotted the trail from the nearby hillock and ended at Hookwolfs body.

"He crawled his way here," Deathstroke explained lowly, careful to keep his voice from echoing into the distance. "Still alive but bleeding. He would have shifted for better mobility or defence if he could have. He didn't, so he couldn't."

"If he had a hole in his skull, how did he live that long?"

"Say what you will about the mutt, but he was a tough son of a bitch," Gavel grumbled with grudging respect.

Deathstroke shook his head, but his eyes never left the hill they hadn't crossed.

"This was sadism, not endurance. Whatever did this was smart enough to know exactly what to tear out to leave him alive, awake, and helpless. It didn't eat him and let him crawl away and die slowly. For hours before finally passing. He died less than an hour ago but has been crawling since the morning, at the least."

"Ffffffuuuuuuccccckkkkk," Killer Frost let out in a terrible whisper, staring at the mangled remains.

Then her eyes shot in the same direction Taskmaster and Deathstroke were staring at.

"Is it... still here," Gavel whispered, hands tightening around his hammer as he glared at the trail Hookwolf had carved.

"We need to find out," Slade said, his voice even.

Running wasn't an option. Not without seeing what it was and if it was still here.

Hookwolf had been a Brute 7 in his Changer form, tougher than all except Gavel.

He would not have died easily.

They would be ignorant and helpless if they ran before even discovering what had killed the nazi.

With careful, quiet movements, the group of five slowly inched their way over the next hill. Their breaths were even and measured, and their steps light upon the dirt.

Even Gavel and Killer Frost remained quiet as they slowly and carefully exited the shallow valley containing Hookwolf's body.

What was on the other side would have been beautiful if they didn't know what it represented for them.

It still took their breaths away.

A massive hill of metal blades, hooks and other sharp weapons lay in a circle of destroyed forest. It wasn't wolf-shaped, indicating the Changer had felt pressured enough to give up his favoured form to survive.

Not that it helped him.

Across the pile of metal, small glittering forms scurried, refracting the light of the afternoon sun in a thousand different beautiful hues. They were lizard-like in movement, though the enormous crystals on their backs made them look closer to turtles than lizards.

They chewed on the metal, feeding off the inadvertent monument to Hookwolf's death.

The entire picture reminded Slade of that art gallery he had bombed a few years back.

The crystalline animals obviously weren't the nazi's cause of death.

They were scavengers like the crows, only they preferred metal to flesh and had found an easy meal.

Hookwolf's killer was obvious, though the group stared uncomprehendingly at the sight.

Like someone had taken a bite out of an ice cream cone to get to the creamy caramel center, a massive hole was torn into the hill of blades.

In that hole, napping in a ball in the afternoon sun with bloody paws, was a chubby brown and white housecat.

For several seconds the Suicide Squad watched the Crystal Lizards teem over the metal and The Cat enjoying a midafternoon nap.

This time, it was Taskmaster's whispered voice that broke the silence.

"The fuck," he asked in an uncomprehending whisper, the absurdity of the sight breaking through his professionalism.

The Cat's ears twitched.

Deathstroke glared at the man as the rest of the group remained frozen in fear.

They watched for agonizing seconds as The Cat's ears twitched again and again.

Then it sat up.

Slade's heart almost stopped as The Cat looked over at them.

He would swear until the day he died that its verticle slits met his eyes.

And laughed.

With languid movements, The Cat stretched in a cat yawn.

Its back arched as it stretched, showing off a pair of tiny draconic wings. The Cat was only slightly fatter and larger than a regular house cat, but those wings were obviously too small for its rotund form.

Finished with its stretch, The Cat started licking its bloody paws as it eyed them.

Deathstroke didn't know if it was mocking them, contemplating killing them, or simply cleaning itself.

Probably all three.

He readied his gun.

The Cat gave the group one last lazy look, then turned around.

It made a point of showing them its asshole as it lept into the air, tiny wings flapping as it flew off to who knew where.

Nobody said a thing for a long minute and kept their eyes on the sky, fearful of The Cat's return.

When nothing happened, they unclenched.

"Holy fuck," Killer Frost let out a shuddering breath. "I have never been so scared in my life."

"Same," Gavel grunted in agreement rather than argue. "I don't think I want the Elden Lords' weapons anymore. Let's get off this fucking island."

"Spiral," Deathstroke ordered the mutant, regaining his composure. "Capture a few of those crystal creatures. Paralyze them, send them through the portal, and return."

With a wiggle of her hands and hips, the six-armed woman disappeared in a flash of light.

"That will satisfy whoever's holding our leash for now. Let's get back to Hookwolf's body," the mercenary told the group. "I want his bomb so we know what we are dealing with. Then we're going to find someone who can take them out. I want off this fucking island."

There were noises and nods of agreement as everyone was just as eager to leave.

Deathstroke had a reputation as a mercenary that got the job done, but that was predicated on a job being possible in the first place.

With a contractor planning on leaving them to die on this island, he felt no guilt at reneging on his promise.

The Suicide Squad had been on the Elden Lords' Island for less than a day, and the first one had already died.

He wouldn't be the last.