Replacing the chapters as they are beta'd by the fabulous T Rocket.
Story warnings: Here be crack, here be ninjas, here be teh gei. Originally started as a drabble request from the ineffable JB McDragon.
There had been over seven hundred of them; long, lancing rays of light in the atmosphere that had curled and generally scared the hell outta everyone,
without actually doing much.
But five billion mildly freaked out people meant that the super-heroes of the world had to get a look at each and every one of them.
And generally, they were finding things.
Burnt remains of scrolls with instructions had sent some of the mystic masters into a tizzy. It was hard to tell if they were happy or SAD that most
of them were too fucked up to read. They found weapons that drained your life force to form beams and arches of energy that'd cut through stone (it wasn't as bad as they'd expected, really. YES a gang had gotten a hold of it and tried to do some high level criminal nonsense, BUT the thing had killed six of them before Superman could even get there.)
A shower of artifacts. And a lot of trees and rocks from a dead world.
And then there were the bodies, often charred and sometimes still alive.
One of them had been clinging stubbornly enough to life in spite of the third and fourth degree burns. He was deep underground now, in Utah. Still clutching a sword that tried to bite everyone else, being pumped full of a steady stream of morphine.
They didn't know if the sword was keeping him alive or not. And there was a lot of talk in the League about whether it'd be better if he never woke up.
Then two corpses were found fused together in Iceland. One skeleton had a tattoo on his forehead burnt into place. They'd look at it and said that it
had been there from shortly after birth.
There were bodies with more broken-then-healed bones than the whole bat-clan combined. Not that the bat clan was telling anyone else this, but Superman knew.
And then there was nothing.
For a year.
Then the sky lit up again, and a second rain of flotsam came down.
And this time. There were survivors.
Like the wide eyed man who'd babbled in a new language, wearing a white short robe of sorts.
He'd been scared, but when he'd panic'd, he'd beaten the tar out of both Green Arrows, set Black Canary's hair on fire, and bloodied Green Lantern's
nose before they got him subdued.
It took several very LONG hours of video and generally pointing him at windows to show him a big city before he was talkative again. Seven filled
blackboards later, he'd gotten a bit of a message across.
His world had died due to something that was hard to explain with stick figures but looked bad and used a lot of ominous looking scribbles.
They explained, back, with stick figures, that they were superheroes. It took a while. Green Lantern helped.
He smiled in a strange manner, and drew his old classroom. Shaking his head.
"You need train," he said, in broken English, but still, English. "Then. I teach."
There were others too. Catching them, well, calming them down, formed a certain pattern.
Generally, you had to send someone who could take a few hits, then surrender, then pull out the damn slideshow.
If you sent someone too strong, they behaved like cornered beasts right up until they bit down on the poison capsules half of them seemed to have.
Superman had felt REALLY bad about that one.
If there were two and one was hurt, things went easier because as long as you made it really clear they wouldn't be separated....
The Teacher, the first one, refused to go help. His English was frighteningly good now, and he explained, simply that there were different clans and him
showing up had a seventy percent chance of resulting in a death match.
Once they were acclimated though, the man was invaluable. The shell shocked fighters (and only the fighters ever made it through) would be too stunned over things like skyscrapers to care too much about old world grudges.
By the third rain, they had fifty-seven survivors. They kept to themselves, mostly, moving up to Montana to take over fifty acres and an old granite
quarry. Sure, woe-befall anyone who tried to fuck with them and anyone who crossed their tidily marked little border...
But really they were more like low key lethal Amish than anything else.
Extremely friendly to the superhero community Amish.
Tim Drake was there to train.
The concept of a secret identity had been, difficult to explain. They understood undercover, yes, and even long term undercover where you fabricate
But their ideas on how to change your appearance went a hell of a lot deeper than spandex. They talked about breathing and illusions.
And some of the superheroes listened.
The general rumor was that the JLA was paying for the Lost Villages (they'd started to mark things with a question mark out of some wry old habit) cable in exchange for them staying there and training members.
There was another truer rumor that fewer people had heard about, that said it was really just one member of the JLA giving them funding and he was paying them NOT to teach anyone else.
And in spite of the odd tensions of the different clans, they were the sort who respected a contract.
"Robin," Someone called, and Tim felt himself flinch. It was a good thing they never went anywhere, because they'd accidentally out half the heroes in a
heartbeat. They asked your name and you could tell them anything, and if they saw you again, no matter what you were wearing, they'd shout that out
They said it might be a cultural thing but Tim personally thought that it was their way of saying 'you are not hiding good enough, and until you do, we're
calling you out on it.'.
The teacher, Umino, had grinned at that question and refused to answer it.
But the chuckle'd been enough.
-End Chapt one-
Thank you again, T rocket!