The World's Greatest Superheroes..... IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME Part 1: Ripples In the River
JLA #13 - February, Year 2	by Curt Fernlund

JLA Watchtower:
06:00- Lunar Cycle

From the Observation Platform of the JLA Watchtower the Earth appeared peaceful and serene. There was a stark beauty in the Big Blue Marble, the way that it seemingly hung in space, the silent black backdrop framing its magnificence with a halo of sparkling stars. Clouds roiled across the surface, layers of misty white covering the fields of shifting blues and browns, the swaths of green. From the moon it seemed that there was nothing wrong down below, that life went on, and would go on forever. From the moon, all seemed well.

Superman stood before the huge plasti-steel windows watching as the Earth rolled past. There was not a better view of the world than from the observation deck of the Watchtower, and the Man of Steel often found himself here, staring silently at that globe spinning freely through space that he had come to call home so long ago. Despite the dark shadow of night he could see the area where he grew up, where he was born for all intents and purposes. His special sights allowed him to see far beyond what was evident to the naked eye, and darkness was as nothing to him. If he squinted just so, he could see the house where he was raised. And if he strained just slightly he could see what Martha Kent was doing in the kitchen; putting away the evening's meal while Jonathan read the latest copy of the Daily Planet flown in special from Metropolis, listening to Tom Brokaw on the Evening News. Turning his gaze ever so slightly he could see Gotham or Fawcett. A little to the left and he could see the monument at the spot where Coast City once stood, just a pitiful, flickering spark of a flame from so far away.

He saw children dying in Somalia, starving in the streets while men and women laughed and danced in mansions just yards away, glutting themselves on food that they could not even finish and would throw away at the end. Sparks of light in Europe and he saw men dying for the right to worship the god of their choice. A typhoon raged through India, killing hundreds initially, and how many more might die in the aftermath, homeless, diseased and hungry. A bomb exploded in Israel killing ten. A boy was hit by a car in Wales while chasing a rubber ball…

Superman sighed and turned away. He did not know why he tortured himself as he did. He came to the Watchtower on occasion for the peace and solitude it offered. The distance, the vast gap of the void allowed him to relax, and to shut out the screams, the voices of the dying forever calling his name-

Superman!

Superman…

He could not shut out the visions however, no matter how hard he tried. Kal-El, Last Son of Krypton had long ago come to grips with the realization that he- even he- could not be everywhere at once. The world, the Earth was still a volatile and ever-changing place. Despite the apparent serenity here, thousands of miles away on the Watchtower, the façade was just a thin masque to cover the planet and all of its faults. The thin veil of clouds covered the plight of six billion souls and the rape of the world by their hands. Ra's Al Ghul had seen it, seen the destiny of mankind and the eventual fate of the world if left in their hands. Kal-El could see it too, but of course there was nothing that he could do. He was not the extremist that Ra's was.

You're not a god, son, Pa had said many times. You're just a man. Oh, maybe a little more special than the rest of us, but you can't be everywhere at once. You can't save everybody. There just isn't time…

Time…

That was the key. If he were better, faster and stronger, even then he would need more time. Time to do the job that needed to be done. The job he was meant to do.

Time…

I have time! Time to squander…

Time to kill!

Motion caught his attention, a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. Superman turned to face the intrusion, his arms folded defiantly across his chest, hoping that his message would be received. He wanted to be alone. He stared at the eyeball hovering before him, suspended on a thin filament of flesh wavering in the air. Likewise came the ear, followed by the mouth extended and stretched around countless corners from the body in the monitor room, rooms away. Superman sighed-

"What is it, Plastic Man? We do have an intercom system."

The lips twisted into a smile, slightly disconcerting, as they were not attached to a face that could be seen. It reminded the Man of Steel of the Cheshire cat, though he knew Eel O'Brian would not simply disappear.

"And where, pray tell, is the fun in that? I ask you!" Plastic Man's voice came from the distended lips, but held the Kryptonian's attention for only a heartbeat before he turned to stare out the windows once more. "Anybody can hit the panic button, Big Blue, but it takes style an' finesse to announce a world catastrophe like-"

"What do you want?"

Eel O'Brian's chattering voice stilled, he had never heard that timbre in the Man of Steel's voice before. It was cold and distant, almost uncaring. It was more like the Batman than the Man of Tomorrow. Plastic man swallowed, clearing his throat as, like a giant rubber band, the rest of his face snapped into the observation deck to reattach to his appendages. His head bobbed about, his long neck spiraling about the Man of Steel until he stared into the Kryptonian's steely blue eyes face to face.

"I just thought you'd wanna know, since you're here an' all, that there was a dam about ta burst in Argentina."

He had not seen that…

You're not God, son…

Plastic Man's arm snaked into the vast room and his hand flipped the switch on one of the many monitors that focused on the planet down below. Superman glanced at the screen, the image coming from the far Southern Hemisphere of the world where he could not easily see. He saw the people running, carrying their meager belongings as they tried to distance themselves from the huge dam that spewed water behind them in the distance. It was like some great disaster movie from the 70's, and Superman knew that he had only seconds to react. Seconds before the great wall burst and tons of water came crashing down on those poor people. He could shore up the dam, restructure it so that it would not shatter until it could be repaired. He could burn a trace for the rushing water; gouge a path in the earth with his heat vision to veer the waters away towards the sea. With a blast of his super-breath he could freeze the torrent before it even got underway-

You're not God, son…

There was a flash of red on the monitor screen. A blur of scarlet, and in its wake was a pile of debris mounted up the side of the crumbling dam. A sudden glow of green and the debris was pulped, compressed into the fissures and cracks. Winds whipped away at the dam, and Superman saw the molded mass freeze into place, actually merged into the cement, strengthening it to the point that it would support the pressure of the raging water on the far side. The dam was repaired, partially, at least until professional engineers could come in and fix the problem properly. The disaster was averted.

"Oops!" Plastic Man flipped off the monitor now that the damage was done. "Looks like GL and Flasher took care a' that one. Sorry Supey ol' Pal!"

Superman said nothing as Plastic Man took the hint and pulled his body back, receding into the darkened halls of the Watchtower. It would be some time before O'Brian bothered him again, and Superman was just as glad. He had returned his attention to the spinning blue globe, wondering what might have happened if the Flash and Green Lantern had not been on scene in Argentina. How many might have died due to his inaction? How long would it have taken him to reach the impending disaster? A heartbeat? Two?

The Martian technology provided by J'onn J'onzz allowed any of the League to be anywhere within the range of their teleporters within the space of a few seconds. Would that have been enough? The Flash was the fastest man alive, but Superman was supposed to be the best, the one that all of the others looked up to. How was it then that the Flash had been there to save the day and he had not?

Time…

There was never enough time it seemed…

JLA Watchtower:
542 Minutes into Meditation

J'onn J'onzz, the Manhunter from Mars snapped awake. He was breathing hard as he sat bolt upright on his tatami mat, the slightest comfort he kept in his sparse rooms in the JLA Watchtower. He was sweating.

He did not need to sleep. Not really. His system, despite his years on Earth, had never really acclimated to the shorter days and nights of his new home, the shorter years. He did not need sleep as such, not like the humans, but he did need 'down time' of a sort. Once every few days he would spend several hours in meditation, clearing his mind of all but the most basic and necessary things that he needed to keep active; his personal defenses, his psychic link with the other members of the Justice League, his memories. Those things he shunted to the deep recesses of his powerfully overactive mind, sealing them away in safety as he achieved a trance-like state for a time. He would then purge all of the excess chatter, the clatter trap nonsense that he gathered over the course of his daily activities. It took some time, but was necessary in the end.

It was hard being a mentalist amongst the humans. Their thoughts were free and unguarded, and it took most of his will power to keep their stray thoughts at bay. Their constant mental chatter was an annoyance, and almost impossible to keep out of his head despite the psychic barriers he had erected and strengthened over the years. Without the occasional purging of the excess mental activity, J'onzz was certain that he would be a raving lunatic before long if left unchecked.

Still, even with all of his precautions there were some things that he had not prepared for. Sudden things that took him by surprise; intrusions on his thoughts, or attacks on his barriers by some unstable mind.

Or a sudden loss…

Breathlessly J'onzz sat in the darkness of his quarters and stared about the room. He had little by way of personal effects, a chair and table, his bed-mat, a computer link within the Watchtower. He did not wish to be reminded on a regular basis of all that he had lost, and the roots he had tried to lay since his abrupt arrival on Earth so many years before had never really taken hold. There were few momentos of his life as John Jones, Private Investigator, and less of J'onn J'onzz the man. His past was the past. His life was now, and tomorrow.

Thus there was nothing out of place when he woke. He scanned the room, wiping the sweat from his over-sized brow with the thin sheet he draped over his body when mocking sleep. He brought the lights up with a casual gesture as he willed the stretched and misshapen elongated form of his structure into the more compact and humanoid form that his friends were more used to seeing. There was little pain as his bones compacted; he had done it so often. In truth, the false form had almost become his true body he wore it so often of late.

J'onzz stood once his body was proper and slowly donned his uniform. He slipped into the red harness and belt of his rank, the blue trunks and boots that modesty required, the cloak. It was more than he would have worn if given the choice, but custom on Earth demanded that he dress so with little regard to his own comfort or beliefs. Still, like so many things in his exile, he had adjusted and now it was almost second nature.

Almost…

Something was wrong though. He could not quite determine what as yet, but something seemed out of place. Something was missing.

J'onzz reached out with his mind, subtly probing the general area surrounding him within the limits of his involuntary reactive telepathy. At a quick mental glance he could register Plastic Man in place in the monitor room of the Watchtower. It was a pleasant surprise to find him where he should be. Normally J'onzz would be on duty, not truly having a life worth pursuing beyond the League, but he had needed the time away in solitude to 'flush' his system of the mindless psychic buildup in his brain. Plastic Man had drawn the short straw this month and had taken the duty if not with a smile, at least with a sardonic smirk.

Aside from O'Brian, the Manhunter could sense no one else within the Tower, no one else on the Moon at all. Still…

It did not seem right. J'onzz stretched out with his senses, tapping into the psychic link that he had established with his teammates long ago. He sensed Plastic Man again straight off, as he was the closest, though distance meant little in such concerns. He avoided Eel O'Brian's thoughts, as they were as twisted and bizarre as the man himself was, an Escher-esque wall surrounding a darker, submerged psyche. He found the Flash and Green Lantern almost as quickly. They were in South America, dealing with the aftermath of a near disaster in Argentina. Their thoughts were similar, focused on the same thing and almost identical despite their varied psyches, both blaring with the success of their mission. He left them undisturbed, seeking out the others.

He found Diana in Mexico. The Princess of Themyscira was in battle against a group of terrorists who were threatening to explode the capitol building, extorting the Mexican government for money. The Wonder Woman, ambassador from her mythical island home to the World of Man- she was beauty and grace personified, gifted with the attributes of the very gods themselves at her birth. She seemed to have the matter well in hand.

J'onzz saw that Diana had ensnared a number of the terrorists within the confines of her magical golden lasso and was keeping the rest at bay with her great strength and skills. He thought of asking if she needed assistance, but saw that the bomb had been diffused so to speak, and the situation was about to be as well. J'onzz moved on…

The Batman was surrounded by darkness and gloom, more so even than usual. J'onzz could sense tension. He could almost smell the rank fetid odors of the Gotham City Sewer System as the Dark Knight waded silently down a dank and half-forgotten tunnel far beneath his city. The Batman's mind was easy to find, always set and determined on the task at hand. Once found however, J'onzz found making actual contact with his ally nearly impossible for the same reasons. The detective had a formidable mind, his subconscious mental defenses almost as powerful as J'onzz's own-

Bruce…

Batman!

Not now, J'onn. I'm busy.

Forgive me, my friend, but I sensed a… disturbance. I'm not sure what exactly, but something is wrong.

Well, when you figure out what it is- exactly - call me back. I can't afford to divide my attention just now.

Understood.

J'onzz broke contact, his mind drifting up and away from the detective, already seeking the others. Aquaman was in Atlantis, dealing with affairs of state and as abrupt and gruff as the Batman for being disturbed. The Black Canary seemed well enough, adapting to her new environment in New York City. The Red Tornado, the Atom, Firestorm, everyone was accounted for and none seemed to be in any imminent peril. J'onzz had found them all.

All save one-

"Superman…"

Part 2: Stitches in the Tapestry

Gotham:
10:27 p.m. EST

He slogged through the knee-deep water as silently as he could. It had been years since he had been to these particular tunnels, not since he first put on the cape and cowl, when he was still green and learning the trade. He had spent hours then, wading through the darkness, getting the feel for the city- his city. As he had walked the streets above, so too he had walked the sewers, never knowing when he might need the knowledge in his war. Then as now he lived by the law; knowledge is power.

He remembered the cut of the stone barely visible beneath the filth and slime that covered the slowly curving walls. It was granite, and strong, cut from quarry deposits upstate, rock left over from the last ice age dragged down from the north by glaciers long gone. It had been used extensively in the early days, when the founding fathers were building the city. It was in the buildings and streets, and in the sewers. At least until the last decade of the 19th Century when the engineers and builders had changed their construction to a brick and concrete mixed with smaller, weaker cobbles. Perhaps that was why the newer sewer lines were corroded and collapsing, and these tunnels, far below the streets of Gotham and long forgotten, still stood.

He saw markings as well, signs that he recalled from almost two decades past. The old remains of a gaslight line that had never been removed still connected to Gotham Gas if memory served, though not in use for almost a century. The sconces were still in place, rusting and decrepit and little more than an obsolete reminder of a world long gone. Water still poured from six of the ten traces that emptied into this tunnel and he counted them all. He saw a faded letter on the wall and remembered, knew that he was still on course.

The Batman crept silently through the tunnel. His feet slipped occasionally on the slime coating the old bricks submerged for years beneath the foul water. Offal and excrement drifted past on a slow moving current, an oily residue sparkling on the surface of the water in the soft glow of the few bulbs that still flickered dimly in the darkness. He was rather amazed that there was any light at all, adjusting the scope of his infrared goggles against the unexpected glare. He knew that no sewer worker came to these parts anymore, and even the strongest bulb would have burned out long ago. He flashed his IR beam at one of the blazing sockets and saw little dust on the bulb. Someone had been through here then, and recently.

He moved on, cycling his rebreather against a sudden stench of methane swirling up from the depths. He tried to recall the numbers of sewer workers that had died of asphyxiation in the tunnels over the years, or from explosions from pockets of gas meeting a broken bulb or worn wiring. The air was foul and barely breathable so deep beneath the city, the waste of the people settling here on the way to the ocean, caught in clogged grates and pipes made too small from budget cuts and graft. It was the worst that the city had to offer, a perfect home for his prey.

Croc was here, somewhere. He could see the signs.

There had been seven disappearances in the last nine days, all children twelve or younger, all without a trace, seemingly. All had been within the city proper, and most within the lower rent districts and slums; areas where the assailant had thought that no one would care. Children went missing everyday, kidnapped by estranged parents, or the dregs of the street: pedophiles, rapists, sharks and the like, preying on the helpless and naïve. Some simply ran away in search of a better, easier life. But a pattern had emerged, an area too confined and evident, and the Batman had seen the link between them. Investigating the scenes, the last known sighting of each victim, the Dark Knight had found residue from the sewers in three; excrement and slime with granite dust laced in at a microscopic level. It was a simple matter then to deduce where the children had been taken, and by whom.

Few of Gotham's worst used the sewers as staging areas anymore. Of the three most likely suspects, the Killer Moth was still in jail and Poison Ivy was still incarcerated in Arkham. That left Croc!

Killer Croc was a thousand plus pounds of maniacal killing fury. He was strong- maybe the physically strongest foe that the Batman had ever faced. Add to that his skin, which was far tougher than an alligator's hide and his slashing claws and jagged teeth, there were few tougher in Batman's Rogue Gallery. Croc was a mutate, born with the Meta-Gene that evolved into the deformation that transformed him at puberty into the half-man/half crocodile that he was. The mutation had affected his mind as well, slowly driving him insane as his degeneration from human worsened day by day. Worse, every time that the Batman fought him, the man seemed more and more deformed, slowly devolving into an animal with every appearance. The Batman had wondered just how long before the animal might take full control, and it seemed that now was the time. He had escaped Arkham again, the insane asylum for criminals on the outskirts of Gotham no longer able to contain him, apparently. The Batman wondered if stronger measures weren't needed.

He stopped, standing stock still in the water, the slightest noise, a shift in the water's flow catching his attention. He flashed his IR beam about the tunnel, seeking signs of movement. A failing bulb hissed and fizzled in the distance. Oil swirled on the surface of the water as bubbles broke the surface. Batman drew shuriken from a pouch on his belt, slipping them between his fingers. He was sweating beneath the thickness of his uniform, anxious-

Killer Croc exploded from the water with a roar of rage, his arms flailing, lashing out at the man before him. Batman rolled back, his cape absorbing the brunt of the initial attack, tangling the creature's claws. Staggering back in the thick water the Batman threw his razor sharp shuriken, three of the four blades striking home in the monster's arm and chest, the fourth digging into the wall behind the beast. Croc bellowed his rage!

"Why? Why can't you leave me be?"

Killer Croc screamed, his long tongue flashing spittle in the dim light. He had mutated again, his face now grown a stunted set of jaws more akin to his namesake than his humanity would allow. He seemed bigger too, taller and wider, muscles rippling beneath his thick, scaly green skin. His jaws were full of ragged, razor-sharp teeth, and his long hands ended in claws that ripped through the murky air in a desperate attempt to connect with the Batman's dodging form.

The Batman flipped back and away, trying to stay out of reach of the killer's slashing claws. He landed awkwardly, slipping in the excrement that coated the floor of the tunnel, almost losing his footing. He pulled his bat-cable from his utility belt, firing a line into the ceiling for support. He was in the Croc's element so long as he was in the water. At the killer's mercy, and Killer Croc had none!

"Where are the children, Croc?" he shouted. "Hand them over and I'll take you back to Arkham. There's no need for this." Batman eyed his foe warily, waiting for the killer to make a mistake, his usual mistake and succumb to his rage. Croc chuckled-

"They're dead, Bat." Croc sneered, wading closer through the water, unafraid of the smaller man. "They tasted good too…" Croc lunged!

Batman tried to block the monster's advance as his hands flew over the compartments of his belt. Croc was susceptible to hypersonics, and flame. All animals feared fire.

Batman felt the creature's fist clamp about his neck, the strength of his grip crushing into his throat. Involuntarily the Batman choked, his rebreather flying out of his mouth and bouncing off of the creature's chest to disappear into the dark, fetid waters. Batman gasped helplessly for air, too late, as Killer Croc drove him beneath the slime-crusted waters of the sewer.

"Die, Bat! I'll eat your heart!"

The detective could barely hear the warped threats of his attacker as he struggled against the arm that held him under the water. Croc's strength had increased with his latest mutation. The Batman, trained to the extreme of human capabilities struggled against the monster's grip, both of his hands prying at Croc's fingers. He kicked out, the force of his blows lessened in the water as he feebly connected against the creature's thick hide. He thrashed about, trapped.

Spots danced in his sight…

His heartbeat echoed in his ears…

No!

No, not his heartbeat-

The floor of the tunnel was rumbling, shaking under his back. The water was starting to churn and boil, but not from his struggles, his thrashing. There was something pounding, echoing through the old stone.

The Batman was jerked from the water, his body flailing in Killer Croc's death grip as the creature's strength drew him up and back. He felt the fingers loosen at his throat and he was suddenly, inexplicably free, flying through the air. Batman twisted, instinct taking over as he arched through the confines of the cloistered stone, skidding off of the rough wall before falling into the murk once more with a muted splash. Swimming, struggling now, the Batman fought his way back to his feet.

He burst from the water gasping for air. He staggered back, slamming against the wall as he tried to crouch in defense, tried to gather his wits and see what was happening. He raised his hands defensively, ready to fight, hacking water from his lungs and blinking the stinging bile of the sewer from his eyes. He should have been dead, drowned and lost. It was the least that he deserved. He had been weak-

"Are you all right?"

The Batman blinked. He liked to believe that he prepared for every contingency when going into battle. He knew that he would face Killer Croc, and he had prepared with ultrasonic whistles and magnesium flares. He wanted to think that he was prepared for the monster's great strength, his bestiality. Even still he had almost died. That in itself was enough to make him pause, but there was no way that he might have expected the sight before him when he was finally able to focus his blurred and burning eyes once again.

Killer Croc hung limply in the grip of the man that was probably the single most powerful being on the planet. Hovering over the water, his feet just above the filth, he held the killer by the nape of his neck, his great strength exerted just so, just enough to render the murderer unconscious. His cape fluttered in the breeze, the cool wind coming from the shaft he had bored through the steel and concrete, asphalt and granite overhead in the space of a heartbeat. His uniform gleamed in the sputtering lights of the tunnel, vibrant blues and reds untarnished in a world so far removed from his own. He smiled, light from above glistening off perfect teeth-

"Batman?"

Batman felt the anger swell within him. He hated when the others thought that he needed 'saving'. Simply because he was just a man, and they were gods…

"I didn't need your help. I had matters well in control."

Superman's smile widened. "It didn't seem that way to me."

Batman saw the Man of Steel squeeze, and Killer Croc's body spasmed before the Kryptonian dropped the limp, unconscious form down into the filth-ridden stream of water. The body sank, and then slowly floated back to the surface covered in oil and slime. It seemed a rather brutal assault for Superman, but the Batman ignored it for the moment.

"What do you want?" the Dark Knight asked walking towards Croc's limp form. It took a moment to find a pulse beneath the thick hide, but he finally did in the killer's soft throat. He was alive. Batman glared up at the Man of Steel. "You're a long way from Metropolis."

"I heard you choking. I thought you were in trouble."

"I wasn't." Batman eyed the Metropolis Marvel, floating in the air before him. There was something different about his ally. He seemed almost larger, more prominent.

"I don't have telepathy like our old friend the Martian Manhunter, Bruce." Batman glanced at Croc, but saw that the killer was still unconscious. "But I still keep an eye on my friends, the best way that I can. I can take him to Arkham for you."

Superman floated over Croc's body, but Batman was there. For some reason he did not want the Kryptonian to touch the… man.

"I'll handle it." Superman shrugged-

"Have it your way, Bruce. Watch your back. I'm not god, y'know."

And he was gone.

Batman shielded his eyes as a great wind whipped through the tunnel in wake of the Man of Tomorrow's passing. There was an almost invisible streak of violet that spiraled up and out of the hole that he had dug to gain entrance into the sewers, and as the Batman watched, debris fell away and glowed red, molding to seal the hole once more. Within moments the breeze had died, little whirlwinds spinning and fading away over the murky water. The Batman waited, expecting more.

After a time he turned his attention back on his unconscious foe. He still had to find the children, or what was left of them if Killer Croc had not been lying. He wondered too on just how he was going to move the limp, dead weight bulk of the creature back out of the sewers and to justice…

To Be Continued...

NEXT ISSUE: Superman had his doubts, but he seems to have gotten a handle on things. Or has he? Join us next time for…

TIME AFTER TIME!