Northeast Africa, north of Egypt, Kandak Kingdom.
A group pressed on through a howling sandstorm that scoured the skin and filled every seam of their clothes with grit. Thick yellow sand clung to them, and their weary footprints carved brief impressions in the shifting dunes. In a few steps the wind erased those marks.
Seven or eight figures moved without speaking. Heads were bowed toward the ground, exhaustion heavy in their limbs and faces.
The leader wore a long black cloak, its hem shredded. A pitch-black cowl hid half his face, two sharp decorative ears jutting from the top. White stubble traced his chin.
He pulled his foot free from the sand and froze, listening. Then he barked, "Conceal!"
These were all elites. At his command, the exhaustion fell from their faces and their eyes sharpened. They sank to the ground in unison.
One member threw back a linen cloak to reveal a body of polished machinery. His arm unfolded into a cannon barrel with precise mechanical clicks. The barrel sighed and expelled a choking blast of gas, throwing a screen of sand over them.
In seconds the travelers vanished into the desert.
Less than half a minute later a swarm of locust-like scouts swept overhead. The creatures had humanoid torsos, four dragonfly wings and crimson eyes. They carried firearms, scanning the dunes below. Finding no signs of life, they moved on.
After they were gone, several heads rose from a ring of dust. The leader watched the departing scouts and said, voice firm, "Safe."
The others climbed out of the sand, shaking sand from their shoulders.
The mechanical man looked up at the sky, hatred in his voice. "How much farther to the ruins?"
"Soon," the leader answered, his voice low and hoarse.
The mechanical man's joints clicked as he walked toward him. "We must hurry, Batman, the world is on the brink, we don't have time."
The leader was Batman. The mechanical man was Cyborg. Both bore the scars of recent battles. Cyborg's frame, rebuilt by a Mother Box, sputtered with electrical sparks and bore burn marks. Batman's suit had been stripped down to a battered chest plate.
"No time? Then why come all this way?" the lone woman in the group snapped, her voice cracking.
"He killed Arthur, he controlled Superman, he wiped out most life and enslaved the rest. Running won't change that, how much longer do we flee?" Her words trembled with grief.
Batman's tone tightened. "Mera, we are here to save people. Flash is dead, we have no retreat, we must find help. Malrick Stark, whom Flash mentioned, has not appeared, so we follow Diana's last message and find Black Adam. This is what Diana told us before she died, don't be emotional."
Mera, Arthur Curry's wife, burned with vengeance. Arthur was dead, killed by Darkseid, and Mera's grief had hardened into rage.
"Emotional?" Mera stared at Batman. "Bruce Wayne, what do you know of being emotional? You have never loved."
Batman regarded her coldly, his blue and white eyes visible beneath the cowl. "Keep moving."
He turned and pushed deeper into the desert without inviting argument.
A low, ragged laugh cut across the wind. It scraped like fingernails on a board, a sick, metallic quack.
Everyone but Batman looked. The Joker stood there, pale paint streaked across his face, his mouth a smear of crimson. He wore a plain white shirt under a commando vest and laughed until his back bent.
"Little mermaid," he said, his voice sliding between a high falsetto and a grave undertone. "You're wrong, quack quack. Bruce has loved, more than you realize."
He steadied himself and, suddenly serious, began a story. "For example, a father. For example, a mother. Oh, and an adopted son—everyone called him Robin..."
Batman stopped. He turned slowly, eyes fixed on the Joker.
"You should think carefully before you continue," Batman warned, his voice low and controlled.
The Joker only grinned wider. "An adopted son, Robin. How you loved them, Batman, loved them until they all died."
Batman closed the distance without expression. The Joker used his fingers to drag the corners of his mouth into a rictus.
"Why so serious? So what if the world ends? Hasn't it come to this because of your choices?" he taunted. "Maybe the people you loved are gone so the rest do not matter. You're numb, Batman. When Louise died in your arms, weren't her eyes beautiful, like a fleeting shooting star? Poor Louise, she suffered the worst before she died."
The Joker's lids fluttered as if he might cry. He looked truly stricken for the girl named Louise.
Batman stood over him, calm. "You're right, I'm numb. My heart's been buried for a long time, but cross my line again and—"
"What will you do?" The Joker cradled his face with both hands, a mock expression of hurt. "Are you going to kill me? The great Batman will kill me?"
He scoffed, then cajoled. "Don't be ridiculous, Bruce, you won't kill me. I'm your friend, your savior, the trump card for this world. You can't bring yourself to kill me, just as you couldn't sacrifice yourself to save Louise, and the world was destroyed because you wouldn't. Poor Flash—he kept restarting the world for you, only to let it fall because of your cowardice. He died for nothing."
Batman studied the Joker and then said, cold and precise, "Interesting joke. It wasn't Louise who died in my arms, it was Harley Quinn. She lay there, covered in blood, and with her last breath she begged me to take my time when I killed you. Don't doubt it, I will kill you one day, and I will make you die slowly, in torment, just as she begged."
With that he turned and walked on. The Joker trembled but remained motionless, frozen in place.
The others glanced at the pair, then followed Batman. Even Mera fell silent as they pressed onward into the sand.
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Happy new month, Ladies and Gents 🍁
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