Beware the Ides of March
“Beware the Ides of March”
I don’t own any of these characters; they are all property of the wonderful DC. And the Ides of March…not my creation either. Read and review!
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My eyes burn. The neon white glow of my computer screen pierces my retinas behind the mask, making them water. A seemingly harmless shipment of rubber duckies intended for the United States’ East Coast is now on its way to the Bermuda Triangle. Through painstaking and thorough investigation, I discovered that these rubber duckies had been equipped with nanite sized security cameras by none other than the Central Intelligence Agency. There is no doubt in my mind that their purpose is to spy on the average American family during the crucial parent-child interaction period known as bath time. I always knew that rubber duckies were truly sinister, and now I have solid evidence as to why one should never purchase them. Thankfully, I managed to reroute a rather large freighter carrying millions of the bugged toys by simply adjusting the coordinates in the shipment company’s computer system. I finish covering my tracks through cyberspace, leaving nothing behind that could be traced back to my location here on the Watchtower, or anywhere else for that matter. I am invisible. My name is Victor Sage, better known to the world as the Question. Today is March 15, and today is my birthday.
There exist three people that are aware of this, and these people are Bruce Wayne, Aristotle Rodor, and Helena Bertinelli. Bruce Wayne, alter ego of the Batman, is in possession of personal files on every single Justice League member. So, it is only reasonable that the dark knight have knowledge of my date of birth. My dearest friend, Aristotle Rodor, learned of my date of birth long ago when he had been my college professor. Both of these people discovered this sensitive information by their own means, but Helena Bertinelli knows my birthday because I told her myself.
The silence of my room is amplified when I turn my laptop off, stopping its quiet purr. My watch tells me it is 6:19 P.M., Eastern Standard Time, but for all I know, the magnetic field of Earth could have been interrupted by a deadly force, throwing off all clocks throughout the world. However, I do not have time to dwell upon that frightening possibility, so I will trust that it is indeed 6:19. My neck aches from leaning over my work for an unknown amount of hours. Hopefully, the knots and kinks that have embedded themselves in my muscles will be massaged out of existence by two deadly Italian hands later this evening. The idea sends shiver down my spine, and my lips curl up into a smile almost involuntarily. Perhaps, since it is my birthday, other parts of my body will receive extra special attention from those beautiful, smooth hands. Another stronger shiver erupts through my entire body at the thought of what those hands are capable of. They are the only ones that posses the power to render me completely incapable of forming coherent sentences, or thoughts for that matter. In 41 minutes, now 40, I will be within a small distance to those hands, as well as every other part of the woman I love. Although my fantasies of Helena Bertinelli are enjoyable to say the least, the reality of the things I dream about is even better, and if I do not arrive at her apartment before 7:01, none of them will come true. And seeing as it is my birthday, it is in my best interest to make damn certain they do.
It is 6:21, and I am nearing the transporter pad in the main bay of the Watchtower. Still lost in my reverie, I do not notice that there is no one standing in the transmitting station until I physically step onto the transporter pad. I must remember to remove my head from the clouds before entering civilization. Why is there no one immediately ready to teleport me to my destination? This tends to happen sometimes, but it is especially frustrating when a stunning Huntress awaits my return to Earth. Frustration trickles through my veins. Louder than truly necessary, I stomp back off the transporter pad searching for a human, metahuman, alien, robot or any other sign of intelligent life able to work the transporter. But there is no such sign of life anywhere near me. It is now 6:22. I swear under my breath at the lack of organization within the Justice League. The cafeteria is a promising place to search, since many heroes take advantage of the constant supply of food and other delicacies. However, upon finding this place just as lifeless as the last, I force myself out of my angry state to step back and examine the situation. Where the hell is everyone? It is not like superheroes to be this difficult to locate, especially around a fully stocked buffet. Something can’t be right. My ears start to prickle with the uncomfortable silence surrounding me. Something is definitely not right. 6:23. Time is scarce. But there must be a logical explanation. Perhaps physically kicking the nearest table will help me find it, or perhaps it will just alleviate the anger that has started to build up inside of me once more. In the process of performing this act, I notice something shift on the table as my foot meets it with force. A small, oddly shaped rock rests atop the smooth surface. After examining it closer, I realize it is not a rock. The straight lines and grooves that slice through the material are familiar. My throat constricts and my pulse rises exponentially. I am staring at a piece of Brainiac. But this is impossible. Flash had been successful in separating Brainiac from Luthor months ago, and the remains of the Kryptonian supercomputer had been disposed of. Or had they? My heart pounds violently into my ribcage. No. Someone hadn’t properly disposed of Brainiac, either mistakenly or purposefully. But that did not matter. My brain makes a correlation between this mysterious fragment of unwanted Kryptonian technology and the uncharacteristic emptiness of the Watchtower. I must do something. At first I am scared to touch this scrap of alien existence, but I have a responsibility. Gently as possible, I clutch it between my thumb and forefinger and bolt out of the cafeteria.
I have 35 minutes. The air whips past my covered face as I sprint through the empty Watchtower. But something in the distance catches my eye. It sits on the floor, shining under the glow of the fluorescent light. It is larger than the last piece. My feet freeze and my body almost topples over. I can see my hand shaking as I reach to collect this fragment of Brainiac. Nausea creeps through my insides, but I force it back, since it impairs my thinking. Summoning the courage to examine this piece more closely, I bring it closer to my face and scan the threatening pattern. Obviously, someone had to have put it here. The laws of science clearly state that matter cannot materialize out of thin air. These remnants of Brainiac came from somewhere, and were somehow put here on the Watchtower. A few seconds of deep breathing allow me to keep my composure, and I barrel on down the hall. Helena’s face flashes in my mind. I force my legs to run faster. The windows looking out over the javelin bay fly past me, but a split second is all I need to see that it too is void of life. Despite my growing fear, I still manage to retain the intense frustration that this is happening on my birthday, only a half hour before much anticipated romantic escapades with an exquisite Italian heroine. The alien remains feel heavy in my hand. I have to find the answer. My destination is only yards away now. Yes, the analysis room will hold the answer. I am forced to a halt in front of the door, not because it is closed, but because another piece of Brainiac peers back at me from the ground. I can feel my pulse in my toes. By this time, my whole body is shaking. I scoop the piece up as gently and quickly as I can and shove open the heavy door into the analysis room. The air is strangely warm. Turning on the light does not seem important at the moment, for I may well be faced with a lethal killing machine, and I am just not ready to die yet. Sure enough, I can hear strange rumbling and hissing sounds deep within the room. Even the scent is not right. My head pounds and I can hear the beating of my heart in my ears. The Brainiac pieces seem to claw at my right hand. With as much effort as I have left, I lift my left hand up to the light switch. After a few last seconds of cherishing my existence, I summon the courage from somewhere deep within me and force the light switch up.
“SUUUUURRRRPPPPRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSEEE!”
The utterly terrifying wave of sound knocks me backward. Now, standing in front of me, their faces screwed up into odd smiles, are the missing heroes of the Justice League. Are they possessed? Out of the corner of my eye, I see a black figure move. Instinctively, I pull away from the sudden movement, but my senses sharpen and I realize it is Batman. He takes the Brainiac remains out of my hand and grinds them into dust between his own. The corners of his lips twitch up into a smirk, and understanding smacks me in the face. I am tricked, and I realize those remnants of Brainiac are not real. But why? Revenge. My thoughts flutter back to February 19, less than a month ago. The entire day, the caped crusader was hounded with “happy birthdays” and hearty slaps on the back. Everyone said Diana had spilled the beans, but in reality, I had done it. The Flash shamelessly tricked me into revealing the dark knight’s birthday during an intense game of Clue. The Scarlet Speedster insisted upon carrying on a conversation while I feverishly searched for the murderer, their weapon, and location of said killing act. With my thoughts honed into the game, I hadn’t noticed that I answered his quick inquiry into Batman’s birthday. It had been completely involuntary. The answer was a single independent fact stored in my mind, and since I wasn’t paying attention to what I was saying, I had revealed the secret. Bruce must have discovered that I was, in fact, the guilty party of that ordeal. And now, I must pay for my lack of ability to compartmentalize my thoughts under the extreme pressure of a competitive board game. It is imperative that I remember to reveal to the entire League that Wally wet his Scooby-doo themed bed until the age of fourteen.
“Et tu, Batman?” I say to his devilish grin. He nods and lets out a snicker.
“Beware the ides of March, Sage,” he declares triumphantly, folding his arms across his chest.
“Brainiac…very clever,” I muse, mostly to myself. Who says the Bat doesn’t have a sense of humor? My ruminations are interrupted when I feel her approach me from behind.
“That,” she whispers in my ear, grabbing my tense shoulders in her vice grip, “was my idea.” I melt under her touch. The sensation of her warm breath on my neck catapults my nerves into screaming hilarity. “You’re insanely predictable, Vic.”
“And you are wickedly brilliant,” I admit, turning to stare into her chocolate brown eyes. This woman really knows how to bewilder me better than anyone I know, just one reason why I am in love with her.
“I know,” she replies proudly. “Happy birthday, baby doll.”
Although I initially wanted to keep my birthday a secret, I find it difficult to be annoyed with the current situation, especially when she smiles at me.
“I love you, Helena.” She giggles and plants a kiss on my concealed lips that would have been heaven without the mask.
“I love you too, Vic. And don’t worry; you’ll still get your birthday surprise from me tonight.” Her alluring voice makes my heart beat uncontrollably. “We just have to put up with Batman’s plan for a little while, and then we can ditch.”
Impending doom and bad omens aside, the ides of March is not such an unpleasant day after all.
I don’t own any of these characters; they are all property of the wonderful DC. And the Ides of March…not my creation either. Read and review!
*****************************
My eyes burn. The neon white glow of my computer screen pierces my retinas behind the mask, making them water. A seemingly harmless shipment of rubber duckies intended for the United States’ East Coast is now on its way to the Bermuda Triangle. Through painstaking and thorough investigation, I discovered that these rubber duckies had been equipped with nanite sized security cameras by none other than the Central Intelligence Agency. There is no doubt in my mind that their purpose is to spy on the average American family during the crucial parent-child interaction period known as bath time. I always knew that rubber duckies were truly sinister, and now I have solid evidence as to why one should never purchase them. Thankfully, I managed to reroute a rather large freighter carrying millions of the bugged toys by simply adjusting the coordinates in the shipment company’s computer system. I finish covering my tracks through cyberspace, leaving nothing behind that could be traced back to my location here on the Watchtower, or anywhere else for that matter. I am invisible. My name is Victor Sage, better known to the world as the Question. Today is March 15, and today is my birthday.
There exist three people that are aware of this, and these people are Bruce Wayne, Aristotle Rodor, and Helena Bertinelli. Bruce Wayne, alter ego of the Batman, is in possession of personal files on every single Justice League member. So, it is only reasonable that the dark knight have knowledge of my date of birth. My dearest friend, Aristotle Rodor, learned of my date of birth long ago when he had been my college professor. Both of these people discovered this sensitive information by their own means, but Helena Bertinelli knows my birthday because I told her myself.
The silence of my room is amplified when I turn my laptop off, stopping its quiet purr. My watch tells me it is 6:19 P.M., Eastern Standard Time, but for all I know, the magnetic field of Earth could have been interrupted by a deadly force, throwing off all clocks throughout the world. However, I do not have time to dwell upon that frightening possibility, so I will trust that it is indeed 6:19. My neck aches from leaning over my work for an unknown amount of hours. Hopefully, the knots and kinks that have embedded themselves in my muscles will be massaged out of existence by two deadly Italian hands later this evening. The idea sends shiver down my spine, and my lips curl up into a smile almost involuntarily. Perhaps, since it is my birthday, other parts of my body will receive extra special attention from those beautiful, smooth hands. Another stronger shiver erupts through my entire body at the thought of what those hands are capable of. They are the only ones that posses the power to render me completely incapable of forming coherent sentences, or thoughts for that matter. In 41 minutes, now 40, I will be within a small distance to those hands, as well as every other part of the woman I love. Although my fantasies of Helena Bertinelli are enjoyable to say the least, the reality of the things I dream about is even better, and if I do not arrive at her apartment before 7:01, none of them will come true. And seeing as it is my birthday, it is in my best interest to make damn certain they do.
It is 6:21, and I am nearing the transporter pad in the main bay of the Watchtower. Still lost in my reverie, I do not notice that there is no one standing in the transmitting station until I physically step onto the transporter pad. I must remember to remove my head from the clouds before entering civilization. Why is there no one immediately ready to teleport me to my destination? This tends to happen sometimes, but it is especially frustrating when a stunning Huntress awaits my return to Earth. Frustration trickles through my veins. Louder than truly necessary, I stomp back off the transporter pad searching for a human, metahuman, alien, robot or any other sign of intelligent life able to work the transporter. But there is no such sign of life anywhere near me. It is now 6:22. I swear under my breath at the lack of organization within the Justice League. The cafeteria is a promising place to search, since many heroes take advantage of the constant supply of food and other delicacies. However, upon finding this place just as lifeless as the last, I force myself out of my angry state to step back and examine the situation. Where the hell is everyone? It is not like superheroes to be this difficult to locate, especially around a fully stocked buffet. Something can’t be right. My ears start to prickle with the uncomfortable silence surrounding me. Something is definitely not right. 6:23. Time is scarce. But there must be a logical explanation. Perhaps physically kicking the nearest table will help me find it, or perhaps it will just alleviate the anger that has started to build up inside of me once more. In the process of performing this act, I notice something shift on the table as my foot meets it with force. A small, oddly shaped rock rests atop the smooth surface. After examining it closer, I realize it is not a rock. The straight lines and grooves that slice through the material are familiar. My throat constricts and my pulse rises exponentially. I am staring at a piece of Brainiac. But this is impossible. Flash had been successful in separating Brainiac from Luthor months ago, and the remains of the Kryptonian supercomputer had been disposed of. Or had they? My heart pounds violently into my ribcage. No. Someone hadn’t properly disposed of Brainiac, either mistakenly or purposefully. But that did not matter. My brain makes a correlation between this mysterious fragment of unwanted Kryptonian technology and the uncharacteristic emptiness of the Watchtower. I must do something. At first I am scared to touch this scrap of alien existence, but I have a responsibility. Gently as possible, I clutch it between my thumb and forefinger and bolt out of the cafeteria.
I have 35 minutes. The air whips past my covered face as I sprint through the empty Watchtower. But something in the distance catches my eye. It sits on the floor, shining under the glow of the fluorescent light. It is larger than the last piece. My feet freeze and my body almost topples over. I can see my hand shaking as I reach to collect this fragment of Brainiac. Nausea creeps through my insides, but I force it back, since it impairs my thinking. Summoning the courage to examine this piece more closely, I bring it closer to my face and scan the threatening pattern. Obviously, someone had to have put it here. The laws of science clearly state that matter cannot materialize out of thin air. These remnants of Brainiac came from somewhere, and were somehow put here on the Watchtower. A few seconds of deep breathing allow me to keep my composure, and I barrel on down the hall. Helena’s face flashes in my mind. I force my legs to run faster. The windows looking out over the javelin bay fly past me, but a split second is all I need to see that it too is void of life. Despite my growing fear, I still manage to retain the intense frustration that this is happening on my birthday, only a half hour before much anticipated romantic escapades with an exquisite Italian heroine. The alien remains feel heavy in my hand. I have to find the answer. My destination is only yards away now. Yes, the analysis room will hold the answer. I am forced to a halt in front of the door, not because it is closed, but because another piece of Brainiac peers back at me from the ground. I can feel my pulse in my toes. By this time, my whole body is shaking. I scoop the piece up as gently and quickly as I can and shove open the heavy door into the analysis room. The air is strangely warm. Turning on the light does not seem important at the moment, for I may well be faced with a lethal killing machine, and I am just not ready to die yet. Sure enough, I can hear strange rumbling and hissing sounds deep within the room. Even the scent is not right. My head pounds and I can hear the beating of my heart in my ears. The Brainiac pieces seem to claw at my right hand. With as much effort as I have left, I lift my left hand up to the light switch. After a few last seconds of cherishing my existence, I summon the courage from somewhere deep within me and force the light switch up.
“SUUUUURRRRPPPPRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSEEE!”
The utterly terrifying wave of sound knocks me backward. Now, standing in front of me, their faces screwed up into odd smiles, are the missing heroes of the Justice League. Are they possessed? Out of the corner of my eye, I see a black figure move. Instinctively, I pull away from the sudden movement, but my senses sharpen and I realize it is Batman. He takes the Brainiac remains out of my hand and grinds them into dust between his own. The corners of his lips twitch up into a smirk, and understanding smacks me in the face. I am tricked, and I realize those remnants of Brainiac are not real. But why? Revenge. My thoughts flutter back to February 19, less than a month ago. The entire day, the caped crusader was hounded with “happy birthdays” and hearty slaps on the back. Everyone said Diana had spilled the beans, but in reality, I had done it. The Flash shamelessly tricked me into revealing the dark knight’s birthday during an intense game of Clue. The Scarlet Speedster insisted upon carrying on a conversation while I feverishly searched for the murderer, their weapon, and location of said killing act. With my thoughts honed into the game, I hadn’t noticed that I answered his quick inquiry into Batman’s birthday. It had been completely involuntary. The answer was a single independent fact stored in my mind, and since I wasn’t paying attention to what I was saying, I had revealed the secret. Bruce must have discovered that I was, in fact, the guilty party of that ordeal. And now, I must pay for my lack of ability to compartmentalize my thoughts under the extreme pressure of a competitive board game. It is imperative that I remember to reveal to the entire League that Wally wet his Scooby-doo themed bed until the age of fourteen.
“Et tu, Batman?” I say to his devilish grin. He nods and lets out a snicker.
“Beware the ides of March, Sage,” he declares triumphantly, folding his arms across his chest.
“Brainiac…very clever,” I muse, mostly to myself. Who says the Bat doesn’t have a sense of humor? My ruminations are interrupted when I feel her approach me from behind.
“That,” she whispers in my ear, grabbing my tense shoulders in her vice grip, “was my idea.” I melt under her touch. The sensation of her warm breath on my neck catapults my nerves into screaming hilarity. “You’re insanely predictable, Vic.”
“And you are wickedly brilliant,” I admit, turning to stare into her chocolate brown eyes. This woman really knows how to bewilder me better than anyone I know, just one reason why I am in love with her.
“I know,” she replies proudly. “Happy birthday, baby doll.”
Although I initially wanted to keep my birthday a secret, I find it difficult to be annoyed with the current situation, especially when she smiles at me.
“I love you, Helena.” She giggles and plants a kiss on my concealed lips that would have been heaven without the mask.
“I love you too, Vic. And don’t worry; you’ll still get your birthday surprise from me tonight.” Her alluring voice makes my heart beat uncontrollably. “We just have to put up with Batman’s plan for a little while, and then we can ditch.”
Impending doom and bad omens aside, the ides of March is not such an unpleasant day after all.