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Scott hadn’t realized how dirty he had felt until he got clean. Five years had taken him further and further away from Apokolips, the light from its Fire-Pits aging with each parsec. The first weeks he had spent in a feverish daze. Despite his precautions, he must’ve imbibed some of Apokolips’ addictants. Withdrawal was a bitch. 

As soon as he recovered, he was put to work. The ship that had picked him up was a cargo freighter fifty years past its prime. Scott had always been good with his hands. He helped the chief engineer patch up the decay. For three years he was a part of the crew, putting more distance between himself and Darkseid… and Barda.

Every chance he got, he sought out escape artists on their route, learning what he could. He would never be caged again. There was too much beauty in the universe to live with ugliness. Blue skies, white clouds, green plants… for starters! An endless buffet of variety was brought before him and he gorged himself. His only quibble was having no one else to appreciate it. The rest of the crew was far too blasé about not living in hell.

The crew also hid him. Occasionally an Apokolips assassin, freelance bounty hunter, or Green Lantern/Darkstar would come looking for him. Scott stayed hidden, despite the tales they brought of a war brewing between the Gods. It seemed like Scott had gotten out just in time. What did he care? It wasn’t his fault. Let them all kill each other off, the Apokolips bastards and the sanctimonious New Genesis preachers who let them rot. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted Barda to get hurt or not. 

As to the rest of the crew, he stayed aloof. He had no frame of reference to converse with them. Women offered, he accepted, but all the exercise accomplished was reminding him of Barda. The longer he spent away from her, the more his heartache grew. Half-drunk, he wrote letters to her she would never read. They were by turn vitriolic and… emotional. Scott kept the emotional ones. Burnt the rest.

Three years in, the cargo ship reached the end of its trade route and turned back around. Scott disembarked with the feeling he wouldn’t be missed. He carried some of Apokolips with him. Apokolips was creepy.

He threw his lot in with a crime syndicate, learning the tricks of the trade from professional sneak thieves and prison breakers. His choice of job took him closer to Earth with each planet he visited. Inevitably, he reached a line he wouldn’t cross, refused to hurt someone. They hunted him all the way to the third planet of the Sol system, which he now journeyed to out of protection. Earth was protected. They wouldn’t dare risk the ire of the superheroes by hunting him there.

Or so he thought.

***

Scott hit Earth, the Boomtube’s concussive death-rattle behind him. His damaged Mother Box’s connection to the Source was weak. He had been lucky to make it from outside the solar system. So, this was Illinois. He’d heard that one of Earth’s famous escape artists resided here. If Illinois was good enough for the world-famous Mr. Miracle, it was good enough for him.

Pulling the metallic fibers of his clothing tighter, Scott looked around. He was in a forest, the wooden kind. Dark, too. He had arrived during the night-cycle. His eyes adjusting to the dark, Scott set out to find his next teacher. Twigs crunched underfoot as he made his way through the trees. He took off a glove, reached out to touch every tree he passed. The bark rasped against his palm.

“Barda, you would’ve loved this.” It was the first time he’d said her name in five years.

He plucked a leaf from a low-hanging branch, rubbed its veined surface between his fingers.

“No thorns,” he said, finishing the thought. 

***

Jimmy Olsen was bored.

Given how cool the Cadmus Project sounded – genetically engineering the next evolution of humanity to defend against the Apocalypse (or however you spelled it) – the actual work it was doing was. So. Boring. He was Mr. Action! How was he supposed to make the tedious hours spent painstakingly resequencing DNA sound interesting?

The armed guards on duty just outside the clear-walled lab gave it an air of danger, but it was all for show. Another pork project trying to justify its inflated budget. Jimmy whirled on his swivel-chair (a sure sign of government spending… they had sprung for the swivelly, rolly chairs) to the scientist he was embedded with.

“So, why do they call it the Cadmus Project anyway?”

“You know who Cadmus zas?” Dr. Weird Accent returned. 

“Nope.”

“Me neither.” He pronounced it naither. “I think it just zounded interesting. That’s how most projects get zheir funding. No one wants to cut funding to Project X.”

“What’s Project X?”

“Rezearch into zea turtle migration patterns. All the good names are taken, you zee?”

“I zee.”

Jimmy yawned and switched his Palm Pilot to the novel Miss Lane was making him edit. It was about an alien superhero who fell in love with a beautiful female reporter. Jimmy didn’t know if the Martian Manhunter was really that close to Cat Grant. He made a note to tell Lois that.

Dr. Weird Accent was examining a slide under a very elaborate-looking microscope. “Ze genomes are multiplizing nizely. You want a zook?”

“No thanks. I’m cool.”

“I could turn the AC up.”

VVVRRRRRR! The blaring music of Cadmus’s alarm filled the halls. Jimmy stood, quick-drawing his camera. Warning lights painted the facility blood-red. He’d have to compensate for that.

“What is it?” he demanded, attaching himself remora-like to the first squad of soldiers he saw.

“Boomtube detected in Illinois. We’re scrambling fighters.”

Jimmy stabbed his signal-watch. If Dark-Side was attacking, he had a pal with something to say about it.

***

It began to rain. That by itself was nothing special – it rained on Apokolips – but this wasn’t acid, it was water! Clean, pure, delicious water! Scott caught it on his tongue and laughed. No, giggled. He had never had a home, but he was closer to it here than anywhere else. A sharp pang struck his heart. All he’d been through to get here…

Shaking his head, Scott stripped off his shirt. The rain pelted his bare chest. It was cool, almost cold, but he felt no chill. Just… clean.

His wet hair had fallen across his eyes. He swept it back and moved forward, kicking off his boots as he went. He tied the shoelaces together to wear around his neck. His naked feet squished through the mud. It felt heavenly.

Thunder boomed without lightning. A sonic boom, echoing over the rainfall. Scott’s trained eyes scoured the stormclouds, picking up a blur of red and blue as it pierced a thunderhead. The heat of re-entry was bled out in a trail of steam as the blur swooped low over the treetops.

Scott strained his eyes. What was it, up in the sky? A bird? A plane?

With a rustle of dislodged leaves and snapped branches, the blur landed. The earth shook. Then the blur resolved itself into a man.

“Welcome to Earth,” Superman said. “On behalf of America, welcome. We’re friendlier to immigrants than most.”

Scott shook his hand. The Kryptonian didn’t let go.

“But we also don’t take kindly to threats. Which are you?”

“What if I haven’t made up my mind yet?” Scott laughed and clapped Superman’s muscular shoulder. “I’m just kidding. But I’m gonna need that hand back.”

Superman doesn’t give it up. “You’re from Apokolips.”

Scott doesn’t deny it.

“I’m not under the illusion that where someone’s born determines who they are, not entirely, but people are right to be suspicious. And Kanjar Ro said…”

“Kanjar’s a crook.”

“So are you. Transporting banned substances to Theta IV.”

“Books.”

Superman frowned. “Selling arms to terrorists.”

“Freedom fighters.”

“Freeing a prisoner from death row.”

“He was falsely accused.”

“So what are you then? Thief with a heart of gold?”

Scott blinked. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never checked.”

Scott’s hand was still trapped. He could feel the power in that grip, the texture of Superman’s hand, the heat that would no doubt be reassuring if Superman were pulling him out of danger instead of into it.

Becoming an escape artist… that was just something to do that fit with his interests. And since he had nothing better to do, he had decided to become the best. But the real goal of escaping from Apokolips had been to find himself. And after five long years and hundreds of worlds, Scott had learned one thing about himself with great certainty.

He had very big issues with authority.

Scott pivoted, jerking his hand away from Superman, while chopping Superman’s wrist with his other hand. The very specific combination of moves undid Superman’s grip just like picking a lock. Scott had no desire for a fight and no chance of winning. He took off, hoping to lose Superman deeper in the forest, but there was another sonic boom (right behind him!) and Superman was standing in front of him.

“If only it were that easy,” Superman said.

“There are twenty-four time zones on this world,” Scott bit out. “That means twenty-four days. Doesn’t one of them need saving?”

Superman blinked with uncertainty.

“How long’s it going to take you to fly me wherever I need to go? I’ll fight, so you’ll have to go slow to make sure you don’t drop me. Then when I get there, if you’re at all conscientious you’ll have to see how I’m being treated. Would you really be able to live with yourself if I died because of you? How much time are you willing to spend hassling an innocent man when you could be saving one?”

Suddenly Superman cocked his head. “There’s an earthquake in Mexico. I don’t have time to argue.” With a great gust of breath he froze Scott’s feet inside a lump of ice. “I’ll be back for you. Don’t go anywhere.”

By the time he got back, Scott Free was long gone.

***

Escaping from the ice block was the easy part. Just a wiggle of his toe and his boot-lasers melted his way out. From there it was jogging. Given what he knew of Superman’s enhanced senses, Scott thought it prudent to practice some Talokian walking meditation to alter his heart rate. The rain took care of his scent, and as for the rest… well, Scott doubted it would be helpful to disguise his taste.

Hopefully, another disaster would catch Superman’s savior complex before he could get back around to little ol’ Scott Free. Still, Scott could take no chances. He liberated some clothes from a clothesline (what the hell, the universe owed him some good karma). He was out of the woods, literally, in the outlying farmland of a big city. It was subsidized now, suburbia creeping in. He was just another guy out for a walk. Dog-walkers and joggers passed him as he slowed. They waved. He waved back. Worked hard to mimic the exact nature of their greetings. Sometimes a nod, sometimes a wave, sometimes a spoken “Morning.”

Yes, it was. So?

Then the sun came up and he actually staggered, physically staggered, to the nearest fencepost for support. He’d never thought to not sleep through sunrises on shore leave and Apokolips… Apokolips didn’t have sunrises like this. He didn’t have words for it. He could live on Earth a lifetime and not have words for it.

But he would try.

The sound of a door being shut, bolted, and locked caught his attention. Scott turned to see a wooden shack locked up tight, a man inside... in the path of a dwarf with a flamethrower.

Scott jumped the fence and ran to save a man he’d never met

And thus his fate was sealed.

***

Thaddeus’s house was quiet in a way Apokolips never was. There was background noise, but it was all so restful. Peaceful. That’s what was missing. It was the best sleep he’d gotten since he’d begun to drift away with Barda, her strong heartbeat filling his eardrums…

Thaddeus’s house was too quiet.

Scott got up. The couch was comfortable enough, but nonetheless he threw on clothes over the undershirt and boxers that Thad had furnished for him. He padded through the house, doing his customary ritual of searching out escape routes. There was comfort in the routine. Less so when he came across the closed door to the study and found light escaping out from under the door.

“Come in, Scott,” Thaddeus said from inside. “It’s open.”

The doorknob turned easily and Scott stepped inside. The study, more than any other room, reflected Mr. Miracle. Old posters, models of traps, tools of the trade. It was a treasure trove for Scott, but Thaddeus’s plight drew his eye. The old man was at his desk, running his aged fingers over a paper.

“Something’s bothering you too,” Scott said. “Trouble.”

“Makes life so much more interesting, doesn’t it?” Thaddeus chuckled wearily. “How long have you stayed with Oberon and I?”

“Three months.”

“Three months. I haven’t asked about your strange skills, because I believe you have a right to privacy and I appreciate the way you’ve refined my escapes.”

“You still take too many risks.” Scott took the chair Thaddeus offered, sitting in front of the desk.

“You don’t belong in this business if you don’t take risks.”

“Oberon says it’s the job of a good escape artist to minimize risks. To be in control at all times.”

“Oberon worries too much,” Thaddeus said. “Makes up for my recklessness, I suppose. You’re not one to agree with him.”

“It’s the new trap.” Scott indicated the paper Thaddeus was working on. “It’s suicide. Too many variables. Someone else’s equipment, someone else’s trap? Insanity.”

“Unfortunately, insanity wins out over sanity far too often.” Thaddeus coughed. “I’m old, Scott. And I’m a showman. I can’t be content with fading away.”

Scott looked away from him, over to the newest tour poster. “You…”

“Can I please finish?” Thaddeus took off his reading glasses. He seemed, just a little, stronger. “People don’t put the same stock in miracles they used to. They don’t believe any more. It used to be a man like me could snap his fingers and get enough money for a national tour. Now I have to…”

He shoved the paper across the desk to Scott. “It has a weak point. It has an escape. Every trap does.”

“Because we design them to,” Scott replied.

Thaddeus reached across the table and tapped Scott’s head. “You’re thinking too cynically! It’s true that some of what we do is faked, but some of it is magic! The danger, that’s real! The crowd… they’re real! Deception is not our stock in trade – reality is! A reality that most people never manage to look at until we open their…” Another coughing fit engulfed him.

Scott got up, brought him a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. Thaddeus gulped it down. “Thank you, Scott.”

Scott took the plans, looked through them. 

“Steel Hand bet me twenty years ago that he could design an inescapable trap. And if I can escape from it, there’ll be more than enough money for all of us.” 

“Think he’ll let you bring a blowtorch?” Scott asked, only half-joking.

“Scott, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I know you can make all kinds of impossible gizmos and gadgets to assist you… but it’s not the tools that make the man.”

“Then what does?” Scott’s face was carefully concealed behind the paper. 

“You tell me.”

Scott lowered the paper, his eyes moving over the wedding ring that Thaddeus still wore, the family framed on his desk. “Love.”

“Yes. Even love for a cause can make a difference. But what do you love?”

“Freedom.” Scott set the paper down. “The bomb gives you five minutes to get out. That’s precious little time, too little of it to waste on the chains you’ll be shackled with.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Cheat.” Scott held up a small device. “Intense magnetic repulsion could cause the chains to simply fly apart.”

“That still leaves the bomb. Not enough time to pick the lock to the safe with that thing ticking away.” There was a twinkle in Thaddeus’s eye, indicating he knew the destination, he just wanted to know how Scott would get there.

“Defuse the bomb.” Scott sat down, quickly shuffled to the edge of his seat. There was too much excitement coursing through his body for him to recline. “Then you have until you run out of air. Plenty of time to pick the lock, step outside, and take your bows.”

“Steel Hand will be furious!” Thaddeus laughed. “Oh, that old blowhard deserves to be taken down a peg. He always was a bullying miser. The man is motivated by love as well, but love for money and power!” He chuckled again, lower and darker. “Of course, given my motives, I suppose I can’t complain. It just goes to show… even love can be twisted.”

“Into hate,” Scott finished sadly. 

Thaddeus squinted at the dark words. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” 

“Nothing.” Scott stood. “I suppose we’ll practice the new escape tomorrow, bright and early. I’d better get to bed.”

“You do that.” Thaddeus sat back in his chair, waiting until Scott had padded over to the door to sleep. “What did you want to say to me earlier?”

“Just…” Scott paused, his hand on the doorknob. “These past few weeks, you’ve been like a father to me. It was nice… to see what I’ve been missing.”

“And you have eased the pain of the son I lost.” Thaddeus smiled, crooked and wonderful. “Get some sleep, Scott. No one’s using Ted’s room.”

Scott blinked. “Your son…”

“Would not want a shrine kept for him. Not when there’s a guest tossing and turning on the couch. Go on.”

“Thank you,” Scott said, and closed the door before anything further could be said. On Apokolips, there was only room for the strong. The strong did not let others see them bleed. Or cry.

***

Everyone knew Steel Hand was dirty. It wasn’t even a “whaddya gonna do?” sort of John Gotti dirty, where tourists stopped him for photographs. There was a seething wave of resentment directed at Steel Hand wherever he went and that was the way he liked it. Resentment was a side effect of fear and fear was good for business.

Even the jaded citizens of Gold Coast, always sporting for blood, kept away from the escape… some would say execution… site. Only a TV crew and Thaddeus’s people were permitted to stay. A reporter was filmed in front of the death-trap. He was allowed to swing a sledgehammer to demonstrate how strong it was. The hammer blow didn’t leave a scratch.

The sky was cloudless, a vast expanse of blue like a calm ocean flipped upside-down. They were a couple of miles outside the city of Gold Coast, in an old park. A statue of some war hero or another stood vigil over the concrete-paved picnic area, its shadow straining to touch the death-trap that had stolen its thunder.

“It’s not too late to back out, old friend,” Steel Hand said. His namesake hummed with power. It could’ve been from motion, but the metal appendage seemed to always be moving. It reminded Scott of a lobster, for some reason.

“Forty years and I’ve never backed out of an engagement.” Thaddeus’s mask was on. He looked like a young man. “I’ll take your wager… and your money.”

“So be it,” Steel Hand said, his metal hand tingling.

Steel Hand’s two main enforcers, Fitzgerald and Munch, finished prepping the steel vault. It was twenty feet long, state-of-the-art, and seemed more a monolith than a bank vault. Scott walked a circuit around it, earning some nasty looks from the two men. They could’ve been brothers, save that Munch was the shorter and Fitzgerald was scarred about the face. Stony-faced, Scott returned to Oberon and Thaddeus’s side.

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“I beat him.”

“By your rules, probably. Not by his.” Scott looked at the vault again. “There’s no shame in recognizing a losing fight.”

“Scott, stop worrying. You’re gonna shrink. It’s what happened to Oberon.”

Oberon straightened the chains he was, on a footladder, wrapping around Thaddeus. “Kid may not have his head screwed on 360 degrees, but he knows trouble when he sees it. Steel Hand’s bad news.”

“Do I have a mutiny on my hands?” Thaddeus turned from Oberon to Scott. “I’m asking you to trust me. Five minutes is plenty of time.”

Fitzgerald stepped between Thaddeus and his assistants, checking the chains. He secured them with a thick lock. Scott’s jaw twitched as the lock clicked shut. Oberon patted him on the back.

Thaddeus was led away, his chains rattling together with each step. Scott kept a close eye on the hand he knew his magnetic inverter was clenched in. It could be the only thing that stood in-between Thad and certain death.

Each footstep thudded loudly against the sun-baked concrete, reflecting the chains that weighed Thaddeus down. He stopped briefly in front of Steel Hand, the television camera framing him inside the entrance to the vault.

“So, will you be paying in cash or will you cut me a check?”

Steel Hand smiled. “See you on the other side, Mr. Miracle.”

Thaddeus stepped inside.

The vault door closed and locked like a boulder rolling into place.

“Start the timer,” Steel Hand ordered. Munch pressed a button.

Five minutes and counting.

There was a sound from inside the vault which curiously resembled rain falling.

Scott smiled in relief. “Good ol’ magnetic inverter.”

His mother box pinged. Oberon gave them a look.

Four minutes and counting.

Three minutes. 

The vault bulged in the middle, almost imperceptibly, but with an impossibly loud thundering. It seemed to broadcast out of the vault, rolling over the park plains, a scream. Scott was in motion before he knew where to go. Towards the vault. The vault where smoke was leaking out like blood. He spun the vault from the outside, hitting the pins with genius born of panic. The door creaked open with the noise of a dying animal, a groan. 

Scott stepped inside, dimly aware of the TV crew and enforcers crowding behind him. Like a cloud of insects, flaming scraps of paper were billowing the air. It wouldn’t be until later that Scott would learn it was monopoly money. The exact amount Thaddeus would’ve won.

Thaddeus. On his back. His face and chest ripped up. His eyes blank, unfocused. Impossibly, he still clung to a blind, pained life.

Scott knelt down next to him… more like fell to his knees.

“Thaddeus?” he asked softly, fearing the answer.

“Ted…” Thaddeus said weakly.

Scott took off Thaddeus’s mask. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me dad.” He stroked Thaddeus’s hand comfortingly. “I’m here.”

“Slow… in my old age… silly of me… no more miracles…”

“Sure there will be,” Scott said, swallowing his fear.

“Not for me.”

A hand rested on Scott’s shoulder. Scott violently shook it off. “Get back!”

They withdrew.

Scott took off his jacket, folding it into a pillow for the old man. Thaddeus coughed up blood, which speckled his white beard crimson. Scott’s mouth worked soundlessly for him before he took out his mother box to speak for him. It pinged lowly as Scott held it over Thaddeus’s eyes.

“What is it?” Thaddeus asked, just barely able to distinguish the noise. “I hear… a sound… a voice. Comforting, easing.. the pain… gone. Gone. Go…”

The rest was lost. Scott stood, slowly, his legs almost refusing to support him. The mother box he returned to his pocket. It pinged once more, marking the final closing of Thaddeus Brown’s eyes.

***

Scott didn’t go to the funeral. Oberon thought it was because he blamed himself. It was his gadgets that had convinced Thaddeus to go through with it.

Steel Hand showed up though, crying crocodile tears behind dark sunglasses. Oberon scowled up at him from across the Brown family plot, where Ted’s headstone sat over earth which had never been disturbed and Ava Brown had long since been interred. 

It was a sparsely attended funeral. Few remembered the name of Mr. Miracle and those who did were too busy to come from halfway across the country to say their goodbyes to a man who they hadn’t seen for years already. 

Oberon was too short to be pall-bearer, so there was nothing to stop him from stampeding through the rows of folding chairs to get to Steel Hand. He leaped up onto one of them, putting him just about at face-level with the mob boss.

“Oberon, old man. Didn’t know they made suits in your size.”

“You killed him, you son of a bitch. You shorted his time! His winnings wouldn’t have even made a dent in your coffers and you killed him like a dog in the street!”

“Rich men don’t stay rich by spending their money frivolously. And powerful men don’t stay powerful by letting themselves be disrespected.” He shoved Oberon off the chair. “Buzz off, midget.”

Oberon would’ve made a point with it, but the enforcers looked like they were carrying. Scowling, Oberon went back to his car. His suit would be due back at the rental place soon anyway.

***

When Oberon got back to Thaddeus’s place, the first thing he noticed was Scott’s bag. It was open, and he tripped over it. Found it to be empty.

“Scott?” That bag was full of the tricks of Scott’s bizarre trade. 

“The house is yours,” Scott said from inside the study. “I won’t be needing it. I’ll be leaving shortly.”

Oberon stopped outside the door. “Leaving where?” 

“Doesn’t matter. I thought this place would be different. But it’s brutal… so brutal… turns my stomach!” he said, suddenly vehement.

“Hey. Don’t you start in with that. You can’t give up on people. We’re not all bad.” He pushed the door open. “Scott?”

“I think…” Scott looked at him, looking surprisingly shy in the red and yellow and green of Thaddeus’s suit. The lack of mask and cape was a jarring discrepancy. “I think he would’ve wanted it this way.”

Oberon swallowed and said nothing.

“I’ve made some upgrades. Better fabric… more like armor, really. Breathing filters in the mask. Aero-disks in the boots. Some other surprises. But I kept the look exactly the same.”

“You’re going after Steel Hand.” 

It wasn’t a question. Scott treated it accordingly.

“On Apoko…” Scott pulled up a chair. “Where I come from, injustice abounds. Those with power walked all over those who had none. There was no accountability or justice. Tyrants got away with hurting people every minute of every day.” He picked up the green cape, which now flowed like a living thing with each motion. “Not this time.”

Oberon nodded a little. “Anything I can do to help?”

***

Steel Hand’s headquarters were inauspicious. Just a four-story office building with an underground parking garage. He kept an apartment fit for a king in the top story, with guards on hand at all time. At night, there were only the two. Fitzgerald and Munch. 

It was a quiet night, just like any other. Until a boom shook the world. 

By the time Steel Hand had thrown a robe on, his guards were at attention. Just Fitzgerald and Munch. It was a small operation.

“Call in more boys,” he said. “And the cops, for good measure.”

Fitzgerald went to do that.

“It came from the roof,” Munch said.

“We’ll check it out.”

Fitzgerald returned, a shotgun at the ready. Munch pulled his piece as well, a handgun. Steel Hand flexed his namesake and kept in-between them as they went up the stairs. His slippers padded over the harsh concrete at the top of his headquarters, quartered by safety railings and marred by an air conditioning unit. The three men filed out, aghast at what they saw.

The bank vault Thaddeus Brown had died in, its closed door facing them.

“What the hell is this?” Steel Hand stroked his chin, the fingers that did so even colder than the night winds batting at them. “Some kind of sick joke?”

“The dwarf, ya think?”

“I don’t know if he has the cojones to pull this off.” 

The lock moved suddenly. First to one side, then the other. Like a clock ticking off. 

“What the hell is this?” Steel Hand asked again. “I shouldn’t have to put up with this.”

The lock flew to the right, to the left, right, right, left. The pins falling into place with greater and greater resounds. 

“Something’s in there,” Fitzgerald said, both hands nervously gripping the shotgun.

“It’s automated. All smoke and mirrors. A trick!” Steel Hand insisted. 

The combination lock hit one last time, then grinded open. The vault gave a jolt as the door opened a slice, a tendril of grayish smoke drooling out of the narrow opening.

“I hope you don’t mind the delay,” a voice said from inside. “But we didn’t set a time limit, did we?”

“Thaddeus…” Steel Hand said quietly, then with a greater conviction. “Thaddeus is dead! And if this is supposed to make me feel guilty, it won’t work! I’m innocent.”

The door coughed open a little more, shaking on its hinges. “I’m sure you’re a lot of things, Steel Hand, but innocent isn’t among them.”

“Stop hiding! Come out where I can see you! We’ll talk about this like gentlemen!”

“Gentleman isn’t among them either,” the voice said. “You want to talk, come in here. It’s nice and toasty.”

Steel Hand gestured for his men to bring their guns up. “Why don’t you open that door all the way? Maybe I will.”

“Fair enough.”

The door swung open all the way and a flood of smoke poured out. Fitzgerald and Munch fired immediately, the great explosion of the shotgun adding punctuation to the peppering pops of the handgun. Their shots scorched the inside of the vault, ricocheting around the back of it like a great drum. Gunsmoke thick in the air, they exhausted their ammo. Reloaded.

“Check it out,” Steel Hand ordered.

Fitzgerald looked cross at him. 

“What are you waiting for? Someone will have heard and called the cops! If he’s dead, I want the body disposed of. If not, he will be soon. Get in there!” 

Fitzgerald pumped his shotgun and stalked forward towards the vault. The inside was black with the residue of the explosion earlier, and the deeper black of dried blood. Although the smoke was clearing, anything could’ve been inside there. He kept his gun trained at the back of the vault. Given its narrow constraints, the spread from a shotgun would give anyone a hurt. 

Switching the shotgun to one hand, Fitzgerald angled the vault door open a bit further. He didn’t want it to close on him. He stepped inside, both feet. Took hold of the shotgun with both hands once more. 

“There’s nothing in here,” he said finally.

Gloved hands reached down from the roof of the vault, grabbed his head and slammed him face first against a safety deposit box. The shotgun went off, boom deafening in the enclosed space, the flash making Munch and Steel Hand squint. With an indescribable sound, Mr. Miracle was released from whatever hold he had on the ceiling. He swung down, maneuvering the dazed Fitzgerald into position as a human shield and dragging him towards the edge of the roof.

“Shoot him!” Steel Hand screamed.

“I can’t, Fitz is in the way!”

“Shoot through him!”

Mr. Miracle’s feet slapped against the concrete as he got closer to the edge. Fitzgerald’s eyes blinked open through the blood of his broken nose.

“Aww, shit…”

Steel Hand grabbed the handgun from Munch, fired a single shot into Fitzgerald’s chest. The enforcer slumped and Mr. Miracle released him, diving off the edge of the roof, a hail of bullets trailing him.

“No way he could survive that fall,” Munch assured himself. “No way.”

“It’s only four stories. Check it.”

Munch looked at him, aghast.

Steel Hand casually pointed the gun at him. “Check. It.”

Munch cautiously stepped to the edge, as if by taking his time he would give that weird vault demon enough time to hit the ground. Taking firm hold of the railing, he bent over the side. His tie dangled over the edge. It looked like there was nothing there. Not even a body on the ground far below.

Then Mr. Miracle looked up, breaking the tight hold he had to the wall. With the speed of a striking cobra, his hand sunk into Munch’s tie.

“God!”

“Actually,” Mr. Miracle said thoughtfully, “yes.”

He yanked Munch over the edge. The enforcer disappeared so quickly it was like he had never been there at all.

Steel Hand stared at where Munch had been just a moment ago, breathing hard. A cold sweat devoured his features, bleaching them in the moonlight. The gun in his hand wavered, so he switched to the metal one.

“Come on up here, you freak! Face me like a man!”

“If you insist…”

The aero-disks buzzed as they levitated Mr. Miracle over the side of the building. Munch was in front of him, an arm wrapped tight as steel around his neck. Steel Hand aimed carefully, trying to decide whether or not to fire. On the one hand, this time he might be able to blow that monster out of the sky. On the other, shooting Munch would leave him all alone with…

“You?” He racked the chamber. “You’re dead! I saw you die!”

With a final gasp, Munch gave up the ghost. Mr. Miracle let his unconscious body slip out of the chokehold and fall to the floor.

“The age of miracles isn’t over yet, Steel Hand. You needed a bomb to kill an old man. Do you really need a gun to kill a young one?”

Steel Hand grinded his teeth. Crushed the gun between metal fingers. “All I need… are these five fingers!”

The aero-disks irised shut, disengaging into Mr. Miracle’s boot heels. He landed with a slight bent to his knee, rose. His cape gathered tightly around him, they circled each other. Steel Hand’s thumb grinded against his palm. He was a hard man. Harder than anyone else, that’s how he’d gotten where he was. No way some two-bit punk kid was harder than him.

“You know, Thaddeus Brown… don’t know why you’re bothering to avenge him. He was destined to end in an early grave. Never was willing to fight for what was his. That’s why he failed in the first place. That’s why his son left, that’s why his wife died, and that’s why you’re going to fail. Because there’s no such thing as miracles and it’s gonna take one to bring me down.”

The new Mr. Miracle’s stare was impenetrable. “Good. I brought two.”

He rushed forward, legs pumping a staccato rhythm before he hit Steel Hand. Two quick punches, bam, bam, to the left of his face. Steel Hand’s fist moved like lightning. Mr. Miracle was almost as fast. His head threw back, turning a killing blow into a glancing one, but the steel still knocked him off his feet. He rolled along the ground, jerking to a stop when Steel Hand stepped on his cape. 

Mr. Miracle pulled on the cape, stretching it. Steel Hand smiled, thinking he had Scott held fast, but Mr. Miracle was just setting him up. He snapped up with the cape’s elastic rebound, hitting Steel Hand in the midsection like a charging bull. Steel Hand flew back a few feet. Mr. Miracle threw his cape over his shoulder. The punch had chipped one of his lenses.

“You’re not ghost,” Steel Hand spat. “You’re flesh and blood.” Steel Hand shook his metal fist. “But flesh and blood are nothing compared to metal!”

“Show me.”

Steel Hand rushed him and Mr. Miracle dove out of the way… coming up short when that damned hand closed around the folds of his cape. He continued his somersault forward, bringing the heel of his foot hard against Steel Hand’s wrist. A bone cracked in it and Steel Hand released him. Mr. Miracle rolled up to the mouth of the vault and popped up, on his feet again. Steel Hand growled.

“Is that your best? Because if that’s your best, you’re gonna have to do better.”

Steel Hand rushed him again, pivoting on his heel to turn his momentum into a backhanded swing. Mr. Miracle pulled the vault door in the way of the blow. The metal dented, but it held. Using the door as a gymnast would use a pommel, he leapt up and delivered a two-footed kick to Steel Hand’s face. Teeth chipped and blood poured out of the mob boss’s nose. Enraged, he chased Mr. Miracle into the confines of the vault.

Mr. Miracle ducked and weaved, avoiding the hammer blows that demolished the safety deposit boxes around him. The vault creaked and groaned like a dying body in response to the battle waging inside it. Mr. Miracle struck forward with a jab to Steel Hand’s throat and stomach, danced backwards again to avoid the return blow. Steel Hand kept moving him back, intent on pinning him against the end of the vault and finishing him there. Mr. Miracle played right into his hands, moving inexorably backward even as he scored a number of ineffectual hits.

His back hit the wall. Mr. Miracle was surprised long enough for Steel Hand’s flesh hand to settle around his throat.

“Gotcha.” Steel Hand pulled back his metal hand for a final punch. “This is the second time I’ve had to kill a Mr. Miracle this week. This time, learn your lesson.”

Steel Hand threw the punch.

Then he had a vague sense of pain in his human hand and the sound of metal tearing and Mr. Miracle was beside him, unharmed.

“How…?”

“Sleight of hand. I’m faster than I look. Sorry about your thumb, by the way.”

Steel Hand looked at it. Mr. Miracle had broken it and it flopped along the back of his hand. Before he even had a chance to process that, Mr. Miracle was holding a metal puck.

“This is an EMP magnet. Disables electronics. I really don’t know how that prosthetic of yours works, but I’m guessing its mechanical rather than magical.” 

“Kill you…” Steel Hand struggled to pull his hand out of the wall it was embedded in. “I’ll kill you!”

Mr. Miracle’s voice hardened. “No, Steel Hand. You won’t be killing anyone ever again.”

He slammed the puck home into Steel Hand’s palm, magnetism nailing it to the metal vault. The eponymous hand’s fingers curled inward like the legs of a dying insect. Steel Hand reached for Mr. Miracle with his remaining hand, but the escape artist was already backing out of the vault.

“You can’t just leave me here!”

“You’re right.” Mr. Miracle reached behind his back, produced a small electronic device. “I can’t. Drop something?” He pressed a button. LED lights lit up and five minutes appeared on the device, counting down. “Say hi to Thad for me.”

He closed the vault as he left, leaving Steel Hand’s screams to echo in on themselves.

The next morning, the police found Fitzgerald, his wound cleaned and bandaged. He was handcuffed to the door of the vault along with Munch, Steel Hand’s taped confession hanging around his neck. And inside, the police found Steel Hand, staring blankly into space. They never figured out how a mere clock radio drove him mad.

***

Scott Free switched off the TV. The news report on Steel Hand was depressing him anyway. 

“Hey, I was watching that!” Oberon groused. He was a good grouser. Scott would miss that.

“Just thought you’d want to say your goodbyes.”

“Why?” Oberon’s head swiveled to regard him. “I gave you an alibi. Not that I think the police will be knocking down your door to find out who handed them Steel Hand on a platter.” He stroked his bristly beard. “Intergang might, once they send someone to take over this city’s mob. Not that I’m saying we’re not better off, but better the devil you know, right?”

Scott fixed him with a cold stare. “I’ve met the devil. Trust me, sometimes you’re better off.”

“Leap of faith, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Scott adjusted his fedora. “Leap of faith. I left the suit in the den. Be careful who you give it to you. Those upgrades could be dangerous in the wrong hands. In fact, I’d just as soon let it die with Thaddeus.”

Oberon hopped down from the couch, following Scott to the door. “Thaddeus wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he left you the name in the will.” Oberon pulled an envelope out of his pocket, handed it to Scott. “It’s mostly a merchandising thing, action figures, cartoons, that sorta thing… but if he were here, I’m sure he’d tell you it meant what I’m telling you. You are Mr. Miracle.”

“Mr. Miracle’s a vigilante?” Scott asked with some humor.

“He is now. You’ve got a great act, Scott. I’d be proud to assist you.”

Scott mused it over. The truth was, it had felt good to finally make a difference instead of running away. To stand and fight instead of always letting men like Steel Hand and Darkseid take. They had taken so much already… why let them take this? Mr. Miracle meant more to him than anything had in a long time. And as much as the tenets of anti-life said different, there was more to life than survival.

It felt good, to suddenly have a home. Scott smiled widely.

“Done, Oberon. From now on, we’re both part of Mr. Miracle—super escape artist!”

***

Scott was the oddest man Oberon had ever met. If he weren’t Scott Free, Oberon would think he was bipolar. He would loosen up while planning a new stunt, laughing and joking with Oberon, then he’d fall into deep melancholies after he pulled one off. Oberon left him alone when he got that way. When he came back to the house Scott lived, it would either look like a tornado had blown through it or would be fastidiously clean. Oberon didn’t ask. 

Thaddeus Brown’s house was, slowly but surely, conforming to its new owner’s tastes. Each of Scott’s little episodes transformed it a little further. The Goya prints of war that Thad had bought when his son was sent to the frontlines… Scott threw them out and it was only Oberon’s quick thinking that saved priceless artwork from a garbage heap.

As much as Oberon joked about Scott growing up in a barn, he was starting to think it bore more resemblance to a war zone. He never stayed in that house long enough for Scott to sleep, but sometimes he caught Scott in a nap. They were always restless, fitful affairs. Nightmares. 

His phone rang. Oberon fought his way out of the warm embrace of his bedsheets, hoping for Scott’s sake that boy wasn’t calling to figure out a dishwasher. Oberon’s apartment was no paradise, but it was infinitely preferable to a trek to Thaddeus’s house in the country. 

“Yeah?” he answered.

“Oberon, Zatanna Zatara is here. I’m almost entirely sure that’s a real name.” Scott’s voice was still as neutral as ever, that sell-you-something voice that always made Oberon wonder what Peter Coyote sounded like as a young man, but there was a quickness in it that betrayed his apprehension.

Oberon grabbed his car keys.

***

Zatanna didn’t like Scott Free. There was something a little too ethereal about his boyish good looks. His eyes were too blue, his graceful movements too quick and sure. And yet he was having trouble brewing tea.

“I’m really not thirsty,” Zatanna demurred.

Scott struggled to untangle a teabag. “I insist.” He accidentally ripped it open, reached for a new one. “Oberon will be here soon. If you have any questions about Thaddeus…”

“I’d rather hear it from you,” Zatanna interrupted, standing up from the leather couch Scott had invaded the living room with. She remembered this home growing up, constant, and now this stranger was turning it into something it wasn’t.

The teakettle whistled. Scott shut the stove off, abandoning the teabags to the trash and the boiling water to the sink. Steam wisped up from the sink as Scott leaned over it, hands bolted to the counter. 

“Thaddeus died doing what he loved. He was doing an escape. A criminal named Steel Hand sabotaged it. He died...” Scott choked on emotion, quickly spat it out. “A good death. I brought Steel Hand to justice. I don’t know what else to say.”

Zatanna almost guffawed in disbelief. She settled on the obvious: “What about ‘Mr. Miracle’? You’re not him.” It was as much an accusation as a statement of fact.

“I try to be.”

“Why?”

Scott shrugged. “I admired him. His mission. He was a good teacher and wearing the mask—it’s a bit like giving him credit for all I learned.”

“Yes… he was a good teacher.” Zatanna walked to the bookshelf along the far room, Scott shadowing her out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Some of the dust-covers were clean, others still unread. There seemed to have been some new books added, glossy sides next to frayed and yellow pages. Dickens, Shakespeare, Twain… authors no one read unless they had a paper to write.

“What mission was that?” Zatanna stuck her hands in her pockets, examined the bookends closer. They were new. “Thaddeus was a great showman. The cape, the mask, the name. But that’s all he was. An escape artist.”

“He was so much more than that. He put a little wonder, a little mystery, into life. He gave people hope that everything hadn’t been filed away in dusty drawers. He gave them an escape from the ordinary.” Scott paused a moment as Zatanna pulled one of the older books from the library. “He taught you too?”

“Some. My father never was much for escapology, but his good friend Thaddeus… I have a lot of fond memories of visiting this place—like Grandma’s house, I suppose, or the uncle I never had. I figure someone should see to his memory, and when I think someone should do something, I have a habit of being that person.”

“I suppose you have as much a right to tell me I can’t be Mr. Miracle as I have to say I am. You knew him longer than I did; if you think he wouldn’t have wanted this, I’ll accept that. You can have… everything. But the last thing I’m trying to do is disrespect him.”

Zatanna paged through the book she’d taken out. “I don’t want to stop you from honoring his legacy—even if it is by beating up thugs. I suppose I’m the last person to complain about a magician sidelining as a vigilante.”

“That was a one-time thing. I’m not a very violent person.”

“I can think of one or two crime syndicates that would say differently.”

“I’m not.”

The sudden stridentness of Scott’s voice caught Zatanna’s attention and she eyed him, the man suddenly shamefaced. Her initial impression of him—some kind of street magician who’d taken advantage of an old man to get a leg up—was fading rapidly. It was possible the man behind the mask was actually quite a bit more dangerous than a con man. That interested her.

“I’d like this.” She held up the book: Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. “It was a favorite of his. He always tried to get me to share his love for it. I figure I owe him one more shot.”

Scott made a permissive gesture, burying his earlier outburst in a slight attempt at a smile. “Sounds like it’s more yours than mine.”

Zatanna cracked the cover once more, examining her inscription on the inside cover. Thaddeus had had her mark it, adding to the long list of owners the old tome had had, but she hadn’t taken it with her when she left. She’d been traveling light.

“I hadn’t talked to him in years,” she said, staring at the clumsy, blocky letters of a child’s writing. “We didn’t have a falling out, I wasn’t angry at him, I just—didn’t have time. I kept meaning to get him down to one of my shows, bring a tour through here, but there were always more important things…”

An electric jolt turned Zatanna’s body rigid. With the preamble of a thunderbolt on a clear day, a tear rolled down his her. More followed. Zatanna turned away, scrubbing at her eyes with her sleeve. She coughed, choking with misery, and it turned into a strangled sob. Her hands were curled into fists that boiled with impotent rage. It wasn’t just Thaddeus. It was her father, it was John, it was everything she’d lost and this was the last straw. It was one thing to lose the Flash to a crisis, or hear that the Joker had killed Robin. But someone she loved just slipping away while she was playing on her phone, taking a hot bath, watching Netflix—and someone else, a stranger, caring for him more, being there for the man she’d known all her life while she wasn’t…

“I didn’t even make it to the funeral,” she said, voice cracking. She spidered her hand over her eyes, like a mask.

Strong hands spun him around, so fast Zatanna thought it was an attack, but then Scott had pulled her into a hug. The embrace was too harsh, too tight, like an amateur trying something he had heard about but never done before. Still, Zatanna felt herself drawn to the freely offered intimacy from the man she’d been judging just a minute ago.

“He was proud of you.” Scott had such raw humanity in his voice that Zatanna didn’t doubt a syllable. “Prouder than he was of himself. He talked about you all the time. Told me you learned everything I did in half the time and with half the complaints.”

Zatanna laughed through her tears, still clinging to Scott unashamedly, a drowning woman with a life preserver. “Trust me. There’s no way you complained as much as a teenager spending a Saturday night in a chained up straitjacket.”

She broke away from Scott, leaving the shoulder of the man’s T-shirt wet. She went for a box of tissues and found it right where Thaddeus used to keep it. She blew her nose. Wadded it up and dropped it in the trash can.

“Mr. Miracle. I suppose if you actually want a name like that, you deserve it.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” Scott said, his armor back up. 

“I know. You keep doing what you’re doing, okay? Don’t stop. Don’t stop for nothing.”

“Eh, maestro? Zee?” Oberon called from the doorway. “I hate to interrupt the moment, but I heard something on the radio while I was riding over here. Take a listen.”

Oberon flipped on the TV. Scott examined it quizzically as Oberon turned to a news channel. Watched as the news report played out. Two hours ago an impenetrable forcefield had appeared around Galveston. A man inside claimed responsibility; the police believed him, owing to the personal forcefield he wore. He’d gathered some local legbreakers into a feudal army and was going to start executing hostages at the city limits, just inside the forcefield.

“What are his demands?” Zatanna asked. “He’s gotta want something.”

“He wants the name of Darkseid to be feared,” Scott said. “I know that guy. He’s a big shot as long as he’s got his shield, but take it away… Oberon, where’s this taking place?”

“Galveston.” Scott’s look was a prompt. “Texas. Why?”

Scott was already off, pulling his costume out of the wall vault and throwing it on. He heard Zatanna say Krow sehtolc and the next time he looked at her she was in a tuxedo and she seemed to have bagged her legs in one of those nets like oranges came in.

Did all humans do that? Weird.

“Shieldos has a forcefield that protects him from any damage. They can’t get through it, but I can.”

“Wait a minute, Shieldos? You used to fight this guy?”

“Not really…” Scott pulled his mask on. “I served under him.”

“You were one of them?”

”Oberon! Zatanna! I know you have a lot of questions and believe me, I’m willing to answer them, but right now there’s a maniac tearing up my home and I’m the only one who can stop him.”

“We,” Zatanna said simply.

***

Illinois to Texas was a short-trip by Boomtube, even a short range one that had a tendency to… wiggle. Texas was warmer than he was used to, a burst of warm air greeting him that reminded him of a Fire-Pit. That was quickly tempered by the chill of the sea and the night. The night was lit up by gathered police and other rescue workers, unable to do anything but wait. Scott could already feel the tension they were generating. Although he knew it was sawhorses keeping the press back several tens of feet, from his bird’s eye view it seemed as if the tension itself were separating them.

Lit by portable lights and flashing sirens, seven hostages knelt, chained, just inside the forcefield. Only one of them was still begging for help. The rest were either crying or stoically staring forward… either accepting their fates or just plain checked out, Scott couldn’t tell. 

They (the ever-omnipotent They) had called out the big guns for this disaster. Superman, Aquaman, the Flash, Green Lantern, and Wonder Woman were all searching for ways in. The longer this dragged on, the more would show up. Scott wasn’t going to let it drag on.

“Superman,” Wonder Woman cried, pointing out Scott, Zatanna flying beside him (he was pretty sure most humans couldn’t do that).

Scott skidded to a stop on his aero-disks, waiting as Superman hovered up to meet him. They regarded each other, Scott feeling the tingle of Superman X-raying through his mask.

“You’re the one from Apokolips,” he said, a note of judgment entering his voice. “If you have anything to do with this…”

Scott held up his hands quickly, pleadingly. “I’m here to put a stop to this, same as you. That forcefield is basic ionic. I can bypass it with a simple application of quantum vibration.”

Superman looked to the Flash, who stopped an attempt to shake his way through the forcefield to nod. “It could work, but it’s hard to imagine anyone trying it without being shaken apart.”

Scott drew a device from his belt. “This shakes me. The mesons built into my suit will keep me together.”

“And if they don’t?” Superman asked.

“Well, then I won’t be your problem.”

Superman stared into him, unsure. Scott let out a deep breath. He’d known Apokolips had a bad reputation… one well-earned… but he felt sure that by keeping his nose to the ground and coming as far from the galactic mainstream as Earth he could avoid the worst of it. And yet, here he was. Funny, in a way. After all the convolutions he’d gone through just to decide to fight, now he couldn’t.

“Zee?” he asked, looking to the magician.

“He’s a friend of the family.”

Superman crossed his arms, turning it over in his mind. “Are you sure you can handle him?” he asked Scott.

“Oh, believe me. I’ll handle him.”

“Then get in there.” No longer had Superman spoken the words than Scott was flying past him.

“And be careful,” Zatanna added.

Scott spun to look at her. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Smiling, he flew backward through the forcefield.

Mr. Miracle felt a shiver of something not quite anticipation as he came out the other side. As alien as they were to him, the sight of the strange costumes of the Justice League and their law enforcement helpers were comforting… after a fashion. It had been their ilk who had dealt with Steel Hand so efficiently, sometimes asking for and giving Scott help during his adventures… although he had tried to steer clear of the superheroes, who had more perceptiveness when it came to extraterrestrials. He still had no wish for his origins to be common knowledge.

But now they would be no help to him. For most of his life, he’d had someone to rely on… Himon, Barda, the crew of his freight, Oberon… now he would face Shieldos on his own. Fear. That was the word for it. He was actually afraid.

How novel. How entirely inconvenient. 

Mr. Miracle landed, retracting his aero-disks into his bootheels. With a razor hidden in the index finger of his glove, he severed the hostages’ bonds. From across the forcefield, Superman nodded in approval.

“Where should we run?” the crying hostage asked, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Or should we hide?”

“Neither,” Scott said, turning on the city. “You’re going to want to watch this.”