What's the matter with these people? Booster thought in frustration. Don't they realize how important this is? He thrashed frantically against J'onn and the others. I have to fix things before the future changes forever!
"Booster!" a new voice called out. A figure cautiously approached the fracas from one side. Booster caught a glimpse of a civilian in a powder blue business suit. "They're not coming! They're-nggghV'
Flailing wildly, Booster accidentally elbowed the poor guy in the nose. Oops! The clumsy mishap briefly startled him out of his frenzied state. He stopped struggling long enough to find out who exactly he had just clobbered. Sorry about that, pal.
He saw a mild-mannered reporter wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. A press pass, pinned to the lapel of his blazer, identified him as working for the Daily Planet, the same newspaper Jimmy Olsen was employed by. Booster suddenly remembered that the reporter had been trying to tell him something right before their’collision.
"What do you mean they're not coming?" he asked angrily. "How the hell do you know?"
"I just know/' Clark Kent said. A trickle of blood flowed from his nose. Oddly enough, he didn't seem too upset that Booster had just walloped him by mistake. If anything, he looked more worried about Booster. "And I'm sorry."
Tell me about it, Booster thought. J'onn and the others let go of him as he gradually quieted down. He realized glumly that there was nothing he could do here.
The future—his future—was screwed.
WEEK 2
GOTHAM CITY.
The loft looked like it hadn't been cleaned in weeks, mainly because it hadn't. Unwashed dishes were piled in the sink. Fast-food containers, crumpled beer cans, and empty liquor bottles covered nearly every inch of counter space. Dirty laundry carpeted the floor. An open cardboard box, advertising Nachie's Gotham-Style Pizza, occupied the small table in front of the sofa. Roaches fed on the few remaining slices. The only illumination came from the city lights shining through the window curtains. The stuffy atmosphere was badly in need of air freshener. A trail of discarded clothing led to the king-sized bed at the far end of the loft.
Renee was oblivious to the general squalor as she dozed in the bed, entangled with a fetching young blonde she had picked up earlier tonight. Sweaty, disordered sheets hinted at the strenuous activity that had left both women spent and momentarily at peace. The blonde was curled up against Renee, breathing softly as she slumbered contentedly in the ex-cop's arms. Renee thought her name was Carla.
Or maybe Carol.
Renee was only half awake when a man's shadow fell over the bed. A gloved hand lifted a plain white bra from the floor, the faint noise causing her to stir uneasily. Shadows cloaked the figure as he stepped closer to the bed. A voice asked quietly, "Who are you?"
What the hell? It belatedly dawned on Renee that a stranger was standing at the foot of her bed. Her eyes snapped open and she reached across the startled blonde to grab the semi-automatic pistol resting on top of the nightstand. Twisting around, she sat up and fired two rounds at the intruder. Gunshots blared inside the loft. The blonde screamed in terror.
The flash of the muzzle, as well as the lights from outside, revealed a startling sight: a man with no face. Smooth pink skin covered the intruder's face from his hairline to his chin. Only two shallow indentations existed where his eyes should have been. A bump gave a vague suggestion of a nose. There was no mouth at all, just an unbroken expanse of flesh.
For a second, Renee thought that maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her, but then she heard the blonde cry out in fear. "Ohmigod, he doesn't have a face!"
Her shots hit him directly in the chest. In contrast to his bizarre countenance, the man's attire was unremarkable. Renee caught a glimpse of a suit and tie beneath a rumpled brown trench coat as the intruder tumbled backward. Her bra flew from his fingers, and he seemed to fall to the floor, dropping out of her line of vision. She listened for the sound of a body smacking against the woodwork, but heard nothing except the terrified young woman beside her.
"Ohmigod! Ohmigod!" the blonde kept shrieking. She grabbed onto Renee, getting in the way. "Where was his fac—?" ■
"Shut up!" Renee snapped. Breaking free from the other woman's panicky embrace, she scrambled out of the bed. Years of training and experience asserted themselves as she assumed the high-ready position, gripping the gun in both hands. Circling around the bed, she expected to find the intruder stretched out on the floor.
But all she found was the fallen bra.
"Wh-where'd he go?" the blonde asked, clutching a sheet to her chest. She sounded just as bewildered as Renee, and a whole lot more frightened. "You shot him, right? You ... you hit him?"
Less concerned with modesty, Renee moved about the apartment, searching for their uninvited visitor. Goose bumps tingled upon her bare skin. She was fully awake now, with enough adrenaline flowing through her veins to power most of Gotham. A digital alarm clock informed her that it was 4:30 in the morning. Her pistol was raised and ready.
"Do you see him?" the blonde asked anxiously. "Did you get him?" She huddled fearfully on the bed, hiding behind the thin sheet as if it could actually protect her. "What do we do now? Do we call the cops?"
Renee tuned her out. Given the small size of her apartment, it took her only a few minutes to determine that the intruder was nowhere in the loft. It seemed impossible, but somehow he had escaped unobserved. Kind of like the way Batman always disappeared into the shadows when he was no longer needed.
But that wasn't the Bat, she thought. Nor did the faceless stranger fit the description of the Joker, the Riddler, or any of the other grotesque lunatics that infested Gotham. Just what we need, she thought sourly. Another freak. During her years on the force, Renee had encountered just about every one of Gotham's costumed lunatics—hell, she had even been stalked by Two-Face for awhile—but this one was new to her. First, Two-Face. Now, No-Face. She shook her head in disgust. Why me?
As her eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom, she spotted an unfamiliar piece of paper sticking out from beneath the flung bra. Holding on tightly to the pistol with her right hand, she knelt down and picked up the paper. An empty whisky bottle lay on the floor nearby.
"What is it, Renee?" the blonde called out. What exactly was her name again? "C'mon, Renee! You're freaking me out."
The loose slip of paper appeared to have been torn out of a pocket-sized notebook. Renee stood up and stepped toward the window to get a better look at the handwritten message scrawled upon the slip:
520 Kane Street ?
•
The question mark was at least twice the size of the address above it.
That's the Riddler's trademark, she recalled, thinking like a cop. But this didn't feel like one of Eddie Nigma's usual word games. Besides, the last time she checked, the Riddler had a face....
"Renee?" The blonde sounded a little less panicked, but desperately wanted to be told that everything was all right now. She crawled across the bed toward Renee, the sheet wrapped tightly around her. Renee doubted that this particular blonde would ever set foot in her apartment again, let alone her bed. "Uhm, hello ... ?"
The former detective had other things on her mind right now. She stared at the puzzling note, examining it as if it were evidence at a crime scene, which she supposed it was. But who was the intruder and what was he after?
"Put some clothes on," she told the blonde.
METROPOLIS.
A large bronze globe spun atop the Daily Planet Building as Booster Gold zoomed past it into the skv. Photographers on the rooftop snapped shots of his heroic ascent. He hoped they managed to get his good side.
“hurry, sir!” Skeets urged him. The compact robot was up and running again, looking none the worse for wear despite his temporary crash at the disrupted memorial service, “there’s a falling jetliner coming
IN FROM THE NORTH!”
"Are you sure about this?" Booster asked. He couldn't help recalling how Skeets had gone hay
wire before.
“ABSOLUTELY, SIR. LAST WEEK WAS A GLITCH, I ASSURE YOU. MY SELF-REPAIR PROGRAMS HAVE ALREADY ELIMINATED THE PROBLEM,”
Certainly the robot's voice sounded back to normal, “nowthati have successfully REBOOTED MYSELF, I CAN STATE C O N C LU S IVE LY TH AT TH I S IS A JOB FOR BOOSTER GOLD!”
Booster hoped so. "Okay, I'm on it."
He let the robot guide him over thirty thousand feet into the air. A field of fleecy white clouds billowed beneath him. A clear blue sky spread out above. Booster looked to the north, yet saw nothing but empty air and sunlight. A powerful headwind blew against his face. There was no sign of any imminent aeronautic disaster.
"Are you positive this is the right place?"
His confidence in Skeets' predictions had been shaken by the Big Three's no-show at the memorial service. A week later, Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman remained MIA.
What else might history have gotten wrong?
“THE JET’S FLIGHT PATH IS A MATTER OF HISTORICAL RECORD,”
Skeets insisted, “you’re positioned perfectly, impact—”
The wind roared in Booster's ears, so that he had to strain to hear what the robot was saying. "Speak up!" he shouted. "I can't hear you over the wind!"
Skeets turned up the volume, “impact in five seconds, sir! ypur
FORCE DAMPERS ARE FULLY CHARGED! BRACE YOURSELF!”
"For what?" Booster squinted into the wind, grateful for the goggles protecting his eyes. He assumed a stationary position in the sky. He held out his arms in front of him, as though to catch a beach ball. He still couldn't see anything amiss. "You said north, right?"
All at once, the wind shifted and the smell of burning jet fuel flooded his nostrils. A gigantic shadow blotted out the sun. What in the world . . . ? He almost had a heart attack as, without warning, a burning 747 came barreling out of the sky behind him. Narrowly missing him and Skeets, the rushing jetliner flew over Booster, less than a yard above his head. The back draft generated by the plane nearly sucked him in. Skeets beeped in surprise.
"Oh God....."
The jumbo jet was plunging toward Metropolis at a horrifying speed. Thick black smoke gushed from both wings. Flames erupted from the burning engines. No loud thrumming came from the dead turbines. A whistling wind carried the smell of gasoline.
Choking on the fumes, Booster dived after the plane. Force-field projectors in his gauntlets locked onto the jet's wings in a desperate attempt to slow its breakneck descent. The effort was intense; only the future tech in his uniform kept his arms from being yanked from their sockets. It was like trying to drag a rocket back with your bare hands.
"God...."
Skeets darted beneath the undercarriage of the plummeting 747. A metallic probe extended from inside the robot, making contact with the plane's aluminum alloy skin. Twenty-fifth-century technology' allowed Skeets to establish a cybernetic link with the jet's internal circuitry. An override command persuaded the plane to lower its landing gear.
His work done, Skeets withdrew his probe and scooted out of the way.
Good job, Booster thought. But would the robot's assistance make any difference in the end? Bits and pieces of the plane flew off the disintegrating wings. Loose flaps and panels went spiraling off into the sky behind it. Burning debris pelted Booster, bouncing off his protective force field and body armor, as he chased after the endangered aircraft. Terrified faces were pressed against the windows, staring aghast at the flames. Booster's mouth went dry. There had to be at least three hundred passengers aboard.
The plane tore through the cloud cover, shredding the damp mist. Metropolis Airport came into view below. The sprawling complex seemed to grow larger by the second as the jet rocketed toward the ground like a missile. Booster's headpiece picked up the frantic transmissions coming from the cockpit of the plane:
"Mayday! Mayday! Metropolis Tower, we have experienced a major instrumentation malfunction! Enact Emergency Landing Protocol 2X-2L!"
Booster had no idea what that protocol involved, but he doubted that it would do any good. At the angle the jet was descending, a fiery crash seemed inevitable—unless he did something about it in the next few seconds. Putting on a final burst of speed, he caught up with the blazing plane and came up beneath it. He pressed his palms against the fuselage and pushed upward with all his might. Energy flashed and crackled around his body as he pushed his suit's technology to its limits. Repulsive thrusters fought a losing battle against gravity.
An empty runway came rushing up at him. Need to keep the nose up, he realized. Just a few moments more. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give up. I can do this. The heat from the burning engines drenched him in sweat. I'm Booster Gold, dammit!
The flaming 747 hit the tarmac at high speed. The tail section scraped against the asphalt as the plane skidded down the runway, throwing off a rooster tail of white-hot sparks. Scarred metal screeched in protest. Staring down at the runway, only a few feet below him, Booster prayed that the jumbo jet would hold together.
C'mon, he thought. Superman could do this with his eyes closed.
Finally, just when Booster thought the plane was a goner, the jet squealed to a halt only fifty yards from the end of the runway. Fire trucks, ambulances, and other emergency vehicles came racing onto the scene. An inflatable slide sprouted from the side of the plane. Trembling passengers slid to safety. There appeared to be no casualties.
Booster let out a massive sigh of relief. Shaking, he flew out from beneath the jet and landed several yards away from the rescue operation. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the tarmac. He was sweaty and breathing hard. His heart was still racing.
That was a close one. •
A news crew came running toward him. Booster realized that they must have been on hand to cover the crash. "Booster! Channel Seven News." A female reporter, whose name Booster couldn't recall, thrust a microphone in his face. "Can we get a quote?"
Rising to his feet, he waved the news crew back. Despite the opportunity for publicity, he wasn't quite up to providing a choice sound bite just yet. "Right with you, folks!" he promised, mustering a cocky smile. "Just give me a moment to ... reflect on our luck."
“sih!” Skeets zipped down from the sky. “it wasn’t luck—*
"No kidding!" he snapped at the robot. Stepping away from the news team, he lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. "'North?' What the hell was that?" Skeets' faulty directions had nearly gotten them all killed. "You're still fragged!"
“not to worry, sir.” Skeets declared. »my apqldsies. merely one
LAST RESIDUAL BUTCH IN MY SELF-CORRECTING PRDBRAMMINE,” The
metal probe had receded back inside the robot. His polished casing appeared completely seamless, “everything’s in order now,”
Booster looked over at the jet, now liberally coated with flame-retardant foam. The passengers and crew had made it to the ground safely, but he was all too aware that things could have easily turned out very different. Hell, a few more feet and he would have been splattered all over the nose of the plane. He glared at Skeets.
"You'd better be right about that!"
GOTHAM CITY.
Mystery solved, Renee thought.
520 Kane Street turned out to be an abandoned building down by the waterfront, in a bad part of town. A thick layer of dust and soot smeared the front windows. The entrance was boarded up. The nondescript structure offered little indication of its function, but she guessed that it used to be a warehouse, or maybe a shipping office. In any event, it was nothing but a potential firetrap now. A sign posted above the door read, Private Property—Keep Out!
The neighborhood around the building wasn't much more hospitable. A solitary street lamp created a small oasis of light amidst the nocturnal darkness. Renee's car, a beaten-up old sedan, was parked across the street, which she seemed to have all to herself. There was nobody else around, not even a few homeless vagrants. Waves lapped monotonously against the dilapidated pier to her right. A sa
lty breeze blew litter past her ankles. Cardboard boxes and rusty trash cans were piled against the building. Greasy puddles filled the potholes in the.pavement. Rats scurried in the shadows. Renee glanced up at the sky. It was odd not to see the Bat-Signal shining overhead. She wondered if the commissioner knew what had become of the Dark Knight. Not that it's any of my business anymore.
She used her sleeve to wipe some of the soot away from a filthy window. Scowling, she peered through the glass, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just murky shadows and cobwebs. From what she could see, the place had been empty for a long time.
Fine, she thought. Curiosity satisfied. She had wasted enough time checking out the address on the slip. The mother of all hangovers had kept her from driving down here earlier, but apparently she needn't have bothered. So much for playing detective on her own; it was time to get back to the serious business of drinking herself into oblivion. She briefly flirted with the idea of tracking down the blonde from the night before, but figured that ship had sailed. Chances were, Carla would rather go straight than hook up with her again. Renee took one last look at the abandoned building. Why would anyone bother to slip her this address?
"Kind of a dump, isn't it?"
A voice spoke up behind her, accompanied by a faint chemical odor. Renee spun around to find the faceless stranger emerging from a column of thick blue smoke. The swirling fumes briefly took the form of a question mark, before the breeze blew them away. Her jaw dropped in surprise.
"Son of a b—!" She hastily drew her pistol from beneath her jacket. Before she could take aim, however, the stranger grabbed onto her wrist and shoulder. Gloved fingers expertly twisted the gun from her grip. Some sort of fancy jujitsu move flipped her into the nearby trash cans, knocking them over. Metal lids clattered onto the pavement as she crashed to the ground. Rotting garbage spilled on the asphalt beside her. "Uhh!" she grunted, wincing from the impact. That was going to leave a bruise.
“Do you shoot everyone you meet," the stranger asked, "or is this a personal thing?" He loomed over her, holding onto her pistol. The glare of the street lamp revealed a head of light brown hair above his blank countenance. He seemed to be wearing the same suit and trench coat as before. Renee fully expected to be gunned down with her own pistol, but the stranger casually dropped the gun's magazine into his other hand. The act did little to quell Renee's anger at being ambushed like this.