Disclaimer: I do NOT own DC Comics, or anything affiliated with said franchise, merchandise, literature, film, or other media. But, if I did, I would sell a SH*T-TON of comics (I hope)!

Before-You-Read Background: This BOLD, "Pre-Story Pretext," is my important, intrinsic, "Before-You-Read Background," and these "Before-Chapter-Author-Notes," will almost ALWAYS contain UPPER-CASE Letters, of SOME sort. Proper grammar, and other things are used CORRECTLY in these "Pretext Prologues," though. …And while you should know that, you should also know that the ACTUAL STORY WILL contain GREAT spelling, grammar, punctuation, usage-and-mechanics, syntax, and semantics. Reading/RETAINING the NEXT portion of BOLDED text of IMPORTANT INFORMATION is HIGHLY RECOMMENDED! By stating the important information below, it will make this FanFic immensely more entertaining/enjoyable. Also, I am NOT insulting ANY reader's intelligence/intellect, OR, any reader's knowledge, or know-how of "The DC-MultiVerse," by explaining/elaborating on the following facts. I am simply giving the reader necessary information that he/she NEEDS in-order to properly understand my FanFic. I have read almost ANY/ALL of any-such-mentioned Marvel, AND/OR, DC Comics, and I LOVE superheroes (AND supervillains)! I mean, who doesn't? We love them, because we live though them. We live vicariously through them. They do things that we WISH we could do! It's the truth. The best part about comics, movies, films, books, media, and FANTASY, in-general, is that we can live-out our greatest fantasies, hopes, and dreams, WITHOUT EVER getting hurt or wounded! My FAVORITE superhero of ALL-TIME is a toss-up, between the following (Secret Identity Is In Parenthesis, Beside Name—If There Are Multiple Names In Parenthesis, Then It Means That ALL Of Those Characters Took-Up That Superhero-Name/Alias At One Point): BatMan (Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis—Batman Is Just SOOO Great! …I Mean, He Has NO Superpowers, Yet Can Go Toe-To-Toe With Superman—Thus Awesome!); Green Lantern (Alan Scott, Hal Jordan, Guy Gardener, John Stewart, Kyle Rayner); Flash (Jay Garrick, Barry Allen, Wally West, Bart Allen, Iris West); SuperGirl (Kara Zor-El); Green-Arrow/Red-Arrow/Speedy (Oliver Queen, Roy Harper, Connor Hawke, Mia Dearden); Black Lightning (Jefferson Pierce); Lightning (Jennifer Pierce); Spider-Man (Peter Parker); The Human Torch (Johnny Storm); Wolverine (James "Logan" Howlett); DareDevil (Matthew "Matt" Murdock); and IronMan (Tony Stark). Supervillains are important as well, though! They give us an interesting, and very relatable foil, both to ourselves, and to our heroes. The Joker is DEFINITELY my MOST-FAVORITE Super villain (His Mind Is Just SOOO Great To Look At! Once Again, He Has NO Superpowers, Yet He Can Bring The Country To Its Knees!—Thus Awesome!). Other memorable supervillains include (for me): DeathStroke (Slade Wilson—A.K.A. JUST "Slade," In The Show, "Teen Titans"); Vandal Savage (Vandar Adg); Darkseid (Prince Uxas of "Planet Apokolips"); Venom (Eddie Brock); Carnage (Cletus Cassidy); and Dr. Doom (Victor Von Doom). One of my MOST-FAVORITE comic book characters of ALL-TIME, though, would HAVE to be Dick Grayson; he is just a legend. Also, don't be surprised of you see some other OCs, as well as some old faces (*Hint-Hint, Nudge-Nudge*) in this FanFic. Also, please note that this Fic takes-place in a new "dark," "days-of-destruction," kind of future world, which takes place, in the FUTURE of the "DC Comics-MAIN-Universe."

Author Announcement(s): Okay. Listen, I KNOW that I have A LOT of OTHER FanFics STILL UN-Finished, BUT I just HAD to start THIS one! …Besides, I HAVE BEEN, and WILL CONTINUE to be updating my OTHER FanFics quite regularly! Speaking of which, I would LOVE some of your (whomever may be reading this HOPEFULLY enjoyable work of FanFiction) ratings, reviews, and thoughts on my other FanFics as well, as I use ANY/ALL comments that I get, in-order to make my Fics better for ALL who are and/or WILL be reading them.

ABOUT AGES: Most people haven't read nearly as many comics, as I have. That is why ANY AND ALL of ANY of my comic-based FanFics are made VERY EASY to understand, so that even a "NON-Comics-Reader," can pick-it-up fairly easily. The ages of ANY/ALL characters described in this story and/or work of FanFiction is, COMPLETELY IN-LINE and/or IN-ACCORDANCE with DC Comics' MAINSTREAM CONTINUITY/UNIVERSE (This "Continuity/Universe" Is The Timeline, That Encompasses Most, And/or ANY/ALL, Of The Events, That Occur, In The DC-Comics'-MAIN-Universe, Which Is ONLY ONE Of MANY, Universes, In The Multi-World "DC-MultiVerse," And The "MultiVerse," Is The Term Which Is Used To Describe The COLLECTIVE COMBINATION Of DC Comics' MANY DIFFERENT, PARALLEL Worlds/Universes). This FanFiction, is-based-on/takes-place-in, the FUTURE, of The "MAIN-DC-Universe," (ONE, Of MANY Universes, In "The DC-MultiVerse"). ALL of the "Cannon Characters" (Characters, Villains, Heroes, Or Other Supporting Characters That DC Comics Has Created, And Own The Rights To) are JUST as DC Comics' depicted them, and I have done my very best to keep them VERY IN-CHARACTER in this story! Those characters that are NOT in Dc Comics' MAIN-STREAM CONTINUITY, BUT who ARE in DC Comics' MultiVerse, HAVE BEEN ADDED INTO THIS STORY, AND I HAVE USED THEIR BACK-STORY FROM the world that THEY ORIGINATED FROM in THIS STORY! I have simplified this story as much as I could, so as to NOT CONFUSE ANYBODY (Even People Who Have NEVER READ A SINGLE COMIC Should Be Able To Understand, Comprehend, And Follow This Story VERY EASILY). For future reference (For Those Who HAVE READ The Comics' ARC, In-Question), MOST of the "Cannon Characters," Who Are NOT In DC Comics' MAINSTREAM Continuity, but who ARE in the DC Comics' MultiVerse, and also in this story, I have taken from the DC Comics' "Kingdom Come" Comics' Arc. There will NOT be many characters that are not well-known here, and those are not well-known will be PROPERLY, and/or adequately described, introduced, and characterized. I have also CREATED, and introduced, MY OWN PERSONAL characters, that I have created myself (Called OCs, Or "Original Characters") into this story. As for the ages (This Is MOSTLY Geared Towards Those Pairings That People May Find UN-Believable), the ages are done, presented, and/or, calculated with a SIGNIFICANT AMOUNT OF RESEARCH, WORK, AND CALCULATIONS! They are all (For The Most-Part), COMPLETELY and UTTERLY CORRECT! In regards to the POSSIBLE Rose-Wilson/Damian-Wayne pairing in this story, I say this:

"I LOVE that paring! They CONSTANTLY try to KILL each other, AND, win the other's heart! It's SOOO CUTE! I HATE when others say that she is way older than him! She is NOT! When she was on the Titans, and she... ...um... ...Tried to... Um... ...'Seduce' Tim Drake (Who Was Damian Wayne's Adoptive OLDER BROTHER), she was waaay younger than Tim! She tried to seduce Tim to attain the role of LEADER/SECOND-IN-COMMAND, and to ENSURE her spot on the Teen Titans Team. Her sensuality is one of her DEADLIEST weapons! Haha, Damian was kind-of getting 'distracted.' LOL. I mean, she was, like, what, SIX-SEVEN YEARS younger than Tim, but that was probably why he 'turned her down.' DAMIAN, however, and, her had a CONSTANT rivalry/relationship. I'm pretty sure that she was, like, two-four years older than Damian—CLOSER to Damian, in age, than ANY other character, who assumed the role of Robin."

AUTHOR'S AMENDMENT: This story will have a lot of action, adventure, comedy, romance, and a very deep-and-intertwined plot-and-premise. This first chapter alone is filled with descriptions, fight scenes, and explanations galore. However, although this is true, for the next five chapters of this story (EXCLUDING This One), this story's writing style will be more of a "Telling," and not a "Showing," kind-of style. It will be that way, in order to explain everything and anything that NEEDS to be explained for the story to progress BEYOND the first seven chapters. THIS chapter, however (Chapter One) will be much more if a "Showing," rather than a "Telling," kind-of style. Chapters two, through chapter six will have the more of a "Telling" kind-of writing style, and then after chapter six, it shall switch COMPLETELY to active voice (Active Voice Is "Showing," Rather Than "Telling"). So please bear that in mind as well, and bear with me, as I update this story as quickly as I can. Also, please note that the last character, who is described in the last section of this chapter is one of my OCs, and he is not a cannon character. …And, also, you should all note that ANY AND ALL of the "separate-stories," in this FanFic will eventually TIE-IN TOGETHER, and they will ALL flow chronologically, and in TIME-ORDER, and thus these "events," or "separate-stories," are actually ALL LINKED-TOGETHER, and they ALL happen, IN THE ORDER that they are written/read. …ANYWAYS, I hope that you all read, review, and enjoy!


Battlefields and Bloodlines: Fight for the Future

A FanFic By: D. Raj David

I. Soldiers, Speedsters, Shooters, and Slaves

The blonde brutally blazed through the arid atmosphere, and she hit the ground with incredible force, as the ground cleaved and split apart beneath her. She quickly rose from her resting place to look her enemy defiantly in the eye. Her bright blonde hair was now slightly stained with some of her blood. She licked her lips, taking all of the excess red fluid on her face into her mouth, and she spit the pooled fluid at the feet of her attacker. Darkseid looked in disgust at the fluid at his feet. It was blood. It was Kryptonian blood. He looked, first at the fluid, and then up at his opponent, his look of disgust deepening. He scanned her in her entirety.

Her metallic body armor was adorned with a blood-red "K" on its silver-black chest plate which contrasted slightly with her bright blonde hair that was currently tied up in a ponytail and falling over the back of her armor. She wore a confidant and defiant expression—which was odd, because Darkseid thought that he was surely winning the fight. She was wearing battle armor—Kryptonian battle armor, the armor of the long-since destroyed Planet Krypton's soldiers.

The planet Krypton had been destroyed long before the blonde-haired woman stood there, but she remained standing before her opponent, as if to somehow prove that the Kryptonian Army still existed—still fought. As long she stood there with her defiant expression, however, that army did still exist, and although it had only one soldier remaining in its ranks, it had enough manpower to ensure victory, and she knew it.

Kara peeked over to her left, and she caught sight of a piece of fabric that was caught on an aged rock formation and wafting in the hot heat of the solar wind that was bathing the city landmass she was standing on in radiation. It was a piece of fabric that was adorned with a large "S" symbol, and it was ripped, burned, and badly damaged. It was the remnants of her cousin's costume—his uniform. It was the remnants of her dead cousin's costume.

She caught sight of the once-mighty "S," and she almost cringed—and Kara Zor-El did not cringe, at least not any more. She suddenly wondered why she had even come back here—back to the floating remains of one of Krypton's foremost cities—to "The Lost City of Argo," a city that was shielded, preserved, and detached from Krypton before its untimely, unfortunate, and violent end. Its detachment from Krypton did not save its inhabitants however, as the ground beneath their very feet soon became Kryptonite itself—the very poison and greatest vulnerability to her people.

She quickly pushed these troubling thoughts out of her head, as she turned her head back to her opponent. Her deep blue eyes stared with a ferocious fatalness not seen since Parallax himself plagued the universe. Her bright blue eyes were flecked with specks of green—a tell-tale sign of Kryptonite poisoning—and Darkseid quickly noticed this. He smirked and chuckled slightly.

"You look sick, little girl. You should really take a rest." he teased, and Kara's fatal stare turned into a smirk of her own.

"I'll rest, when I kill you." she retorted, and Darkseid's smile immediately faltered, albeit he did not look afraid—rather, he looked annoyed.

"…Or when you die." Darkseid responded, his famous arrogant smirk returning.

"If I die, I'm taking you with me. It's a pretty long journey anyways—I figured we could finish this little fight of ours on our way to—" she started, but he interrupted her.

"…To hell?" he stated, somehow making his statement seem like a question.

"After what I'm about to do you, hell would be too nice a place for me." she replied, and Darkseid's smile faltered again. She really intended to kill him.

"Green is not your color, Supergirl. You should really take a breather. You wouldn't want to get winded like your dear old cousin, now would you? What would he say—that is, if he could actually say anything? You remember what happened to him, right? You don't have him to protect you anymore. You are not him, Kara. You will fail—as you always have—and he will not be here to save you." the rock-like creature known as Darkseid stated with an air of finality perfectly mixed into his menacing tone.

"It's not me that is going to need saving. And, you are right. I'm not him. He would never kill an opponent, and that's just what I'm going to do to you. Also, I believe green works perfectly on me, although you're right, it's not Supergirl's color. But then again, I'm not Supergirl—not anymore. I am the 'Kryptonian Killer' that will end you." she replied, and Darkseid's smile faltered for the final time. He was done talking. She would not seek reason, so he would reason with her physically. He would kill her.

He smirked, and he rocketed off towards her, as the "Kryptonian Killer" did the same, leaving the ground and charging towards her opponent with speed too quick for the average human eye to perceive. The two met in the middle of their warpaths, and the resulting shockwave obliterated almost every aged rock formation around them, as they retracted from the epicenter of the impact and charged at each other once again, both intending to kill the other.

For a super-fast superhuman, Bart was processing things very slowly. His golden eyes scanned over the costume again—his uncle's costume, his dead uncle's costume. The holes, burn marks, rips, and tears in the "Flash" costume's durable fabric was a great testament to its traumatic and turbulent past. He sighed.

He was a reason that this costume had such a terrible and traumatic past. He was supposed to be a hero. That was what his uncle had trained him to be. That was what his cousins were. That was the reason his mother had sent him back in time to meet and be mentored by Wally West—by his uncle. He had failed though. He wasn't a hero. He was a liability—or at least he thought he was.

He always claimed that he had earned any and all "rights" that his uncle had bestowed upon him, but in all actuality, they were not "rights." They were "privileges," and Wally had bestowed them upon an unready and arrogant Bart Allen. Bart had always accepted the challenge, though, feeling he would easily accomplish the immensely difficult and daunting task that his uncle had left for him. Wally loved his nephew, but he didn't particularly like him—for good reasons. Bart was always trying to best his uncle, to claim some unforeseeable title, some unforeseeable and intangible rank in the superhero community, and in his "family"—in the "Flash Family." Wally taught and trained Bart as best he could though.

Wally pushed him to and beyond his limits, and Bart always excelled, but he also always lacked. He lacked because he felt that he did not need to push himself, because he felt that he was great, that he was perfect. In the end though, Bart had lacked, and his lacking had cost him dearly. He had failed. In his final moments with his uncle and two metahuman cousins, he had failed, and his failure had been the central cause of Bart's absence during the past few years.

However, while Bart was away, attempting to improve himself, he was not with his family, and his absence from his family—especially during their final fight—caused them to do the unthinkable: to lose. Iris escaped, only to die at a later date. Wally died. And Jai had sacrificed his connection to the "Speed-Force," to ensure that Iris had been able to escape the battle—although Iris had been killed some years later, after being tracked by the enemy she had tried to avoid. Wally was dead, and he died a hero, sacrificing himself for everything and anything that he loved and cared for. His daughter had done the same, and in that battle, Bart lost his cousin—his best friend—and his uncle, his mentor and the only father that he had ever known.

Bart was left to fill the empty and vast void in the Flash Family's ranks, but he was not enough to do it, and after that final battle, he finally saw just how unfit he was to wear that sacred scarlet Flash costume. Bart sighed again, and he turned his head to his left, now looking on at his uncle's other costume—Wally's old "Burnout" costume.

Burnout was another alias that Wally had used—although not often. It was the costume and alias that he had assumed when he began to hunt down and destroy those responsible for trying to destroy the world he loved and the people he cherished. He loved that world so much so that Wally was willing to sacrifice his own morals to protect and preserve it, and that is exactly what he did. When Wally was acting as "Burnout," he was not a hero. He was not an agent of justice. He was an agent of retribution. The only way to stop those who wanted to stop him—and all he stood for—was to end them, and he did just that, tracking them all over the world to do so.

Bart stared at the dark black-grey costume, and finally his eyes rested on its central emblem plastered on its chest. The symbol of a flame enclosed in a red "prohibited sign" was the symbol that the secret government agency "Cadmus" had come to fear after their attempts to destroy the Flash Family.

Cadmus always claimed to be trying to "better" the world through its many exploits and efforts, but they always managed to do more harm than good, as they were always targeting the Earth's heroes as the source of most of Earth's wars and conflicts. Wally put an end to them though. Amanda Waller was done cloning Supermen, done cloning Batmen, done creating super-enhanced "Speed Stealers," and it was done sending said clones and creations after the Earth's heroes or trying to replace them.

Bart then noticed something odd—or rather, miraculous—about the Burnout costume in question. The costume had absolutely no tears, rips, burn marks, or other signs of trauma or injury. It was whole. It was complete. It was ready to be worn.

Bart's view shifted back to the Flash costume on its hanger, and then back to the Burnout costume. Barry Allen had trained Wally West. Barry had guided Wally, and Wally had tried to best him, but in the end he had failed to best Barry—to best his uncle—and as such, Wally thought of himself as a failure. Barry saw this, and the moment he saw that his nephew had acquired the one quality that he saw he lacked for becoming a true hero, the quintessential quality of humility, Barry had passed the Flash costume on to Wally. Thus, for the second time, The Flash had a new secret identity and Kid Flash was no more—that is until Iris West, and later Bart himself, donned that Identity and costume.

Bart smiled somewhat. He had almost the same relationship to Wally as Wally had to Barry. Actually he had the exact same relationship to Wally that Wally had held with Barry, but even so Bart did not feel that he deserved the Flash costume. He had to earn it first, and he couldn't earn it as a hero. He needed something else to earn that costume. He needed retribution. Bart turned his head towards the Burnout costume for the last time, and he made up his mind. Burnout was the embodiment of retribution, and he intended to do that name proud. He hadn't yet earned the right to be The Flash—or so he thought—but he most certainly had earned the rights to become Burnout.

Bart quickly donned the Burnout costume, and the speedster left his uncle's empty and vacated apartment in Keystone City, speeding away from the city at mind-shattering speeds, as a reddish-black trail was left in his wake.

Mia sprinted past the arrows that almost grazed her. She slid on her lower left leg as she found some well-needed cover behind a tree. Just as she concealed her slender body behind the tree, five well-sharpened and well-aimed arrows flew into and impaled the opposite side of the tree—the location that she had been at moments before.

Mia's blonde hair was currently up in a ponytail, although behind her dark golden-black hood no one could see her hair, as her dark eyes quickly shifted from side to side, scanning for enemies that might try to run around the tree and flank her from the rear. None did. They weren't that stupid—or so Mia thought. Five men with fatally sharpened arrows strung across their bows ran into view directly in front of Mia's vantage point.

They had run around the tree to try to attack her from the rear. However, they did not expect their enemy to be staring directly at them as they approached her. Mia's deathly fatal glare penetrated the five approaching men long enough to slightly stun them. Soon though, they snapped out of their stupors as they all raised their bows instinctively to fire at her. She was far quicker however.

Mia raised the bow that she had been concealing in left hand, behind her left leg, and she quickly and efficiently pulled the five arrows that she had been holding in her right hand across the bow. She took a quick and sharp look at her opponents and then she took off.

Her enemies released their arrows, but none of them ever hit Mia. She sidestepped at full speed, directly adjacent to the tree that she was just leaning against, and her agility was amazing as she narrowly—but efficiently and seemingly effortlessly—avoided the incoming arrows as they flew towards her at great speeds.

The arrows hit the ground to the left of her and they landed a few feet behind Mia's constantly changing position, as she continued to sidestep to her right, until one by one, all of the arrows hit the ground. She didn't stop moving after this though. She then rolled forward and to her immediate left, and out of the way of the group of throwing knives that one of the men had been so bold to throw at her.

She quickly used her legs to balance herself, as she stopped her roll, and expertly got to her feet, her five arrows now strung on her bow and ready to fire at her opponents. She swiftly and silently leveled her already armed bow at her enemies. Her eyes narrowed, and she did not hesitate.

She released all five arrows, and in a split second, one by one, all of her projectiles connected with their intended targets, and they all promptly fell to the ground, dead.

She then heard a sound that she knew all too well, and she narrowly avoided another barrage of incoming arrows, as over seven new arrows hit the ground where she had just been located as she sprinted—with expert speed—to the next nearest tree.

She reached this new tree just in the nick of time.

The arrows hit the front of the tree on the direct opposite side of the tree that Mia was currently leaning against, and she heard sounds of the arrows connecting with the tree as she listened intently to the cracks of the wood, and the resounding sting of the metal. She heard these sounds, and she used them to do her math.

There were nine arrows. But there were seven shooters. She knew this because she knew that two sets of two of the arrows had hit the tree at the same exact time—thus they had to have been fired from the same bow.

She now knew how many opponents she had to deal with. Mia quickly reached into her quiver on her back, and she pulled out seven arrows. She strung them all across her bow in an expansive triangle formation. She looked down at her bow with seriousness. Seven arrows. Seven enemies. Seven shots. She couldn't miss, or she would be dead. Then again, Mia Dearden never missed. She quickly cleared her head, and she silently nodded to herself.

She spun around the trunk of the tree, and she quickly maneuvered her way to the front of the tree's trunk. Once at the tree's front, she was greeted by the shadowy views of seven shaded figures, far off in the distance, in the clouded foggy green forest in front of her. She heard the arrows coming at her before she saw them, and she began to sprint—to her left and forwards—as she approached her seven enemies at speeds approaching the maximum limit of a very capable human.

She saw twelve arrows coming at her this time, and she slid under them—using her right leg as her guide and buffer—as she neared the twelve arrows. Just as her body ducked under the twelve incoming bringers of death, she redirected her already armed and loaded bow up and directly at her seven attackers, releasing her seven arrows at the foggy figures in a precise order and with great timing as she slid along the cold damp forest floor.

She stopped herself in her slide, as she heard the distinct sounds of seven large men dropping to the forest floor in an ordered and efficient manner.

Mia raised herself up, and she removed her hood as she went to inspect her fallen enemies. As she approached the seven foggy figures, they came into view, and she could see that not one of them moved or even breathed. They were all deceased. She had not missed—not a single shot. She smirked, but her smirk was quickly wiped off her face, as she bent down to pick up the object that she had been chasing after all this time. On the back of one of her dead enemies was the bow of her former mentor—of the man she considered her older brother—the bow of Connor Hawke, the second man to assume the identity of "Green Arrow." The first man, to assume the identity of "Green Arrow," was the man that had adopted Mia—the same man that was also the biological father of Connor. That man was Oliver Queen.

Oliver was a troubled young man. But he had fixed himself—by breaking himself. When Oliver returned from his hellish exile on an unforgiving island, he had returned with new, nearly-superhuman, skills. He had died on that island, but Green Arrow had been born in his place. Green Arrow was an instrument, a tool. Oliver had become a shell, and the instrument that he had become was an instrument that was used to keep the memory of his parents alive—parents that he had failed to save, because he could not take a life.

He kept their memory alive, by keeping their morals—their ideals—alive. When Oliver returned from that island, he was able to take a life; he was able to kill. He was able to do so, because he had promised to keep his parents alive, because they were the only people that had believed in him—and he needed that confidence in him to be present.

Oliver kept his parents alive, by keeping their ideals alive. He instilled strength in the weak, and he exposed the weakness in those that pretended to have strength; he acted on his parents' beliefs. He fought crime—and he did not hesitate to take a life; he would never hesitate again, but killing was always his last resort. He feared the act of killing, because he knew that anyone that he killed would not leave him. Anyone that Oliver killed would stay with him, weighing on his soul—whatever was left of his soul. And that weight would slow him down, and while he could afford to take that weight, he didn't always want to.

Soon, though, he found others to help him carry that weight. Oliver was a billionaire, and he used his wealth to help his city prosper, as best as he could. That prosperity included giving a home to those that needed one. Soon, Oliver had adopted Roy Harper, a lost soul that needed Oliver, just as much as Oliver needed him. And soon, Roy found Oliver's "Arrow-Lair." Roy was dead inside; he didn't like acting human, because he didn't feel human. So, Roy stared acting like an instrument, instead, just like his father—like Oliver. Soon thereafter, Oliver also discovered his biological son, Connor, and adopted his youngest child, Mia Dearden. All three of Oliver's children were lost, inhuman, broken children. And these broken children helped fix each other; these broken children helped fix their broken father, by becoming an instrument and doing the things that they needed to do—just as Oliver did.

Mia was Oliver's youngest child, and Connor and Roy—her older brothers—had been the ones that had taught, trained, and tempered her the most, but she had still inherited a lot from her father, from Oliver, from "Ollie."

Mia swiftly snapped back into the present. She carefully inspected the bow, and she blew any excess dust off of it as she carefully placed the bow on her back. She then looked down and eyed her freshly killed enemies with a new disdain and hatred. If they weren't already dead, she would have killed them again. They all wore the mark and symbol of Connor's new yet formidable foe, "Gisborne."

Mia sighed at the thought of her former mentor's bow being in the hands of these men. She had once assumed the hero alias "Speedy," Green Arrow's noble and quick-shooting sidekick. She soon ventured out on her own, but yet still she kept her alias all the same. As she looked down at her dead enemies, she sighed and discovered something very saddening. She was Speedy, yet was not fast enough to save Connor—her mentor, her brother—from these men, from their leader, from death. She did not deserve the name of Speedy. She was fast, but she needed a name that better suited her more dominant skills. She was quick, but she better at being accurate than she was at being fast. She was a sure-shot.

At that very moment, she assumed her new alias, and Mia Dearden became "Sure-Shot."

Sureshot looked down at her deceased opponents once more, and she decided one very crucial thing: she did not want to look at these men any more. She pulled her hood back over her head, and she walked away from the site of her latest conquest, away from the forest, away from Sarajevo, Bosnia.

The man awoke, and his eyes screamed in agony as he surveyed the dark, dank, damp room around him. His dark red-orange eyes were tired, exhausted, and drained. His sleep had done nothing to lessen his torment or his fatigue. He sighed, and the action hurt him deeply. He cringed slightly at the intense pain, but it was only a slight cringe. He was far too used to pain to be affected too much by it. He had spent his childhood—or, rather, lack thereof—experiencing and dealing with pain. It was forced upon him—constantly forced upon him.

The man was on his knees—as he had often been over the past thirty years—and he struggled to move somewhat, as the cold concrete floor made his very durable knees ache somewhat. He tried to move his hands to assist him in the task of relocating his legs, when he remembered something: his hands were bound.

Unfortunately, he remembered this fact slightly too late, as he tried to move his hands, and the cuffs that restrained his durable and super strong wrists generated a very large amount of electricity that flowed through the cuffs, which were made entirely of Nth metal, and the jolt of the shock flowed through the man's beaten, bashed, and bruised body.

He wanted to scream at the sheer and unexplainable pain that he felt, but he did not. He could not. He just opened his mouth slightly, and he waited for the immense pain to stop. It took some time, but soon, the shock receded, and he the man resumed his normal position of kneeling quietly on the ground.

The shock had hurt, but it had also reminded him of just how powerful and resilient he was. He had been pushed—practically since birth—and he had been breed, born, brutally beaten, taught, and trained—against his own will, which he was not entirely sure he had much left of—to be the perfect soldier, the perfect weapon, and for the most part, his brutal and hellish days had proven to make him into just that.

He was deprived of anything and everything that he could have been deprived of at any chance his captors—who doubled as his "trainers," "teachers," and "disciplinarians"—saw fit to take something away from him. He was deprived of these things, so that he could learn to live without them, and as a result he would learn to survive and thrive on the smallest amounts of fuel and nourishments. He was quite strong-minded and determined, and his constant lack of food and water made him only that much stronger. He wasn't always without food though, and when he was given food, he was given the best, most healthy pieces of food available.

His captors were cruel and uncaring, but they were not stupid. They wanted to turn this man into their greatest soldier, their greatest weapon, and as such, they needed to put good things into him to get good things out. In fact, upon his first week in captivity, although he could not remember that far back, he was given a steady stream of laxatives and harsh digestive scrapers and cleaners, as he was forced to slowly and painfully remove any and all toxins and harmful substances from his body. Ironically though, the food and water were the only good things that they had put into him.

Since the smallest age he could have remembered, he was put in the arena, forced to fight, forced to survive, forced to get better. He was trained each and every day.

He had been pushed to—and beyond—his limits of willpower, his limits of strength, his limits of speed, his limits of durability, his limits of intelligence and battle smarts, and most importantly, his limits of morality.

The man sighed once again. Today was a fighting day. Today was another day to test his mettle in the arena. He would win. He was sure of it. He always won. It used to be difficult to win against his opponents, but as time passed, and as he got stronger, swifter, smarter, and surer of himself, he became more and more deadly—just the way his captors wanted him to be. That was all he was to them though: a weapon. He wasn't even acknowledged as a living being anymore, let alone as a member of his race. They had shunned him.

They had all shunned him, even the ones who were fighting against his captors and their armies. They had all shunned him so much so, that they had even removed the trademark and iconic appendage of his species—his wings. They had removed his wings. His brother was a member of a crime fighting organization, one called the "Justice League," of Planet Earth, and his wings were his symbols—his icons, his trademarks—of justice and peace. Removing his wings not only made him less of a living being, less of a member of the race he belonged to, but it also made him the antithesis of his brother's symbol—the antithesis of justice.

Although they had removed his wings, he was still able to fly. His captors would not have a weapon—a soldier—that could not fly in battle, so they injected his cells and bonded his skeleton with his peoples' famous Nth metal—the densest and strongest known alloy in the universe, which also had a peculiar ability to defy gravity itself. Thus he was not only able to fly and defy gravity upon learning to control his abilities, but he was far more durable and strengthened than anyone else of his race—which was a very strong race of people to begin with. Nth metal was not the only thing that he was injected or bonded with, however.

He was injected with large amounts of solar energy and radiation, and thus, he could power and sustain himself—or sustain his stamina at least—using only solar radiation—energy from the sun, any sun. This enhanced solar power also gave him increased power, and that power surged throughout his cells, and throughout his entire body whenever he was exposed to any kind of solar energy. He had been tested in this regard many times in the past, and his solar absorption and power increases rivaled that of a one-fourth-Tamaranian being, but it was still small compared to a Kryptonian. Of course, his sun's energies were far weaker and more aged than most stars' energies and rays.

He didn't ask for any of this, though. He didn't want any of it. This war had caused all of this. He sighed. 'This war,' he thought silently. This war that was now not only engulfing the city around him—the city he was sure he would never see, at least not any time soon—but the war that was also engulfing the entire planet that he was on, was a war caused by a single ring.

It was an orange ring, a ring that was said to have great power, and a ring that was said to be the "power ring of greed and avarice"—one of the many power rings that controlled and influenced an individual's emotions, each ring affecting a different emotion depending upon its color and origin. Ever since that ring had landed on his planet, the people of Planet Thanagar had been engulfed in a war to find and control the small but powerful object.

Both of the factions fought for control over this ring, and he knew that soon he would be ready, as deemed so by his captors, and he would be released upon their enemies. He wondered if they stood a chance, and then he pushed the thought from his mind. They did not stand a chance, and he was not happy about that.

He sighed once again, and just as he sighed, a large metal door on the far side of the room opened, and with it came a large gust of breeze. The breeze shuffled the man's dark jet-black hair as it drifted throughout the room.

Through the door, stepped a large, burly man with traditional Thanagarian battle armor consisting entirely of Nth metal. The man had a hawk-like metal face mask on and his jet-black wings that were so obviously and graciously attached to his back were folded down at his side.

"Nytar Hol, it is time." the man said in tone that rang with finality.

The man known as Nytar Hol looked up at the man before him, and he nodded grimly, but yet not obediently. He would fight. But he would not like it.

"You know, one day, they're going to get tired of you. They're going to have to dispose of you. …And when that day comes, there will be no escaping your fate. What they say is final, and you know that. You have kept in here for many years. You have watched me grow, watched me become stronger, watch me become swifter, watch me become smarter, watch me become your ultimate downfall. In time, I will be free of these chains, and when I am, I will kill you, just as I have done to so many others." Nytar spoke, and it was many more words than he had ever said to the man before him in his entire time in captivity.

The man smirked and chuckled slightly. "But you are not yet free of those chains, and as such, I still have command and control over you. If I wish, I can kill you. Never forget that. I am the master here, not you." the man in armor responded to Nytar.

Nytar now smirked. "Then you better kill me now, because if I get out of these chains, I will do the worst thing that you all could imagine. I will do exactly what I was designed to do. I will kill you all. …And I'll start with you." Nytar replied, and the man's smirk faltered. He knew Nytar was not joking, but still the man shrugged off the chained super-soldier's comments.

The man in armor walked over to Nytar, and he picked him up off the floor, escorting him out of the large, cold, dark room as he walked with the chained Nytar at his side. The two exited the room, the man's wings brushing against Nytar's face as he did so, reminding the damaged and demented slave what he was not, and what he would never be: living.

A/N: PLEASE Rate And Review! I would GREATLY appreciate it! Stay tuned for the next update!