Earth's Moon — Three Days Ago
Surveying the ashy, infertile expanse of the moon from his window provided Steve with a rare aura of solace. As usual, he complimented the view with his morning coffee, though something in its bitterness had a habit of making him cringe.
Over the past week or so he'd worked at getting the coffee machine in his living quarters properly calibrated. Something kooky about the Watchtower's electrical system seemed to be sabotaging his efforts, causing the machine to reset whenever he neared success.
He thought at times that Cyborg might be playing a cruel, technopathic joke on him.
The young man had recovered quickly from his injury at the hands of Tombstone. His automated regenerative programs had made sure of that. Nevertheless, Steve felt endlessly responsible for the harm that had come to his comrade. He should have been watching Cyborg's back.
Steve reflected on the work he'd been doing for the better part of a day and a half. Reviewing the team's performance at Blackgate. Looking for tactical errors, communication failures and his own personal weak points. There had been many.
In the hours after they'd dispatched Tombstone, the League had directed their attention to rounding up all prisoners, ensuring medical aid for the wounded, restoring Blackgate's security grid and mending harm done to the facility and its equipment.
Steve refilled his cup. There was still much to go over. There was still much to be done.
A digitized bell chimed at Steve's door and he reached for his office desk, pressing a button. The metal door slid open and in strode Storm, graceful and commanding, smartly dressed in a blazer and ankle-length pants.
“Good morning, Captain,” she greeted.
“Ororo. Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
She declined. The two sat at either side of Steve's desk.
“Small talk?”
“Just business, please.” she returned.
“Very well. First, the training session with She-Hulk.”
“Promising. We worked for 90 minutes on situational awareness, mobility and evasive action. As you pointed out, she has a tendency to hold position and absorb damage.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged.
“It's in Jennifer's nature to stand her ground. To be the toughest one in a fight. Unlearning some of these habits will take time.”
“I understand.”
“I'll be sending you my detailed review later today. Performance stats, video footage.”
“Thank you.”
“Shall we move on to my personal assessment of Blackgate?”
“Please,” he responded.
“My assessment is that the team saved lives. Prevented violent offenders from running free. Have I seen cleaner? I have. But the mission was accomplished.”
“And your assessment of my leadership that night?” Steve asked, after wavering for moment.
“Sir?”
“You've lead teams into battle, Ororo. I want your feedback.”
“Alright,” she complied, thinking. “You kept us in line. Managed the unexpected. Acted swiftly. You got the job done, and got everyone home. If I could say the same about each of my endeavors with the X-Men, I'd sleep much better at night.”
“Point taken,” he started, “but I'd kindly request that you hold me to a higher standard.”
“I'm not sure I follow.”
“The team took some hits. Thank God you and Batman weren't seriously harmed. And Cyborg getting bushwhacked like that. It could've gone much worse for him.”
“Respectfully, sir, I think you'll find that we're tougher than you might be giving us credit.”
“I'd rather you not have to prove it, though.”
“Captain—”
“What happened with Tombstone was also a failure on my part. I pulled the team back, got us pinned down. Flash and Kara got us out of that bind, not me.”
“Is that not what you recruited them for? Flash is the fastest man alive, and Kara could give any one of her relatives a run for their money. Putting their incredible gifts to work is their job. Yours, sir, is to guide us, and when necessary, to anchor us.”
Steve sipped his coffee, considering her words.
“I know that a lot is riding on this team,” Storm insisted. “We are called upon to defend the nation, and to preserve her future. But the last thing we need is for Captain America, shining symbol and experienced leader that he is, to start doubting himself now.”
Hours later, Steve toweled off sweat at an alcove within the Watchtower's training room. Unsatisfied with his performance against Killer Croc, he'd tailored the morning's session towards improving striking power and heightening his tolerance for pain.
As he stilled his breathing, a frigid voice sounded in the distance.
“Got any energy left for a few rounds of sparring?”
Steve turned. It was Batman, who'd just entered the high-tech training arena.
“I don't think that would go well for you,” Steve retorted.
“You're entitled to your opinion.”
“Actually, I've been meaning to speak with you. The incident at Blackgate resulted in quite a bit of property damage.”
“Regrettably,” Batman uttered.
“The facility has always been known for its state of disrepair. Perhaps if, say, Wayne Enterprises were to make a small donation—”
“Wayne Enterprises doesn't fund the prison industrial complex.”
“But Batman certainly keeps it well-populated,” Steve challenged.
“We bailed out Blackgate because they're keeping super criminals, super criminals, out of my city. But don't think for a second that it isn't as crooked as any other place in Gotham. For the time being, Blackgate is a necessary evil.”
“Perhaps it can be reformed,” Steve suggested.
“Perhaps. But the roots of its misconduct run deep.”
“I happen to know a team of seven very good gardeners.”
Batman shook his head. “That'll have to wait. There's something you need to see.”
He approached, brandishing a computer tablet. After a few taps with his index finger, a security camera feed appeared onscreen.
“What's this?” Steve inquired.
“Security footage at Blackgate. The night of the breach.”
Steve sighed. “That footage doesn't belong to us.”
“Sure it does.”
“If you want to play cyberthief, I think you may have joined the wrong team.”
“On the contrary,” Batman scowled, “I'm just what this bunch needs. Wars aren't won with soldiers alone, Captain. Reconnaissance, subterfuge, entanglement. We must wield them like any other weapon.”
“And where might those weapons lead? It starts with a Blackgate security feed, but where else will you cross the line? Hacking into the Baxter Building? Stark Enterprises? How dirty will your hands get?”
“I'd rather have dirt on my hands than blood. All warfare is based on deception. I'll cross the line if it means the war can be won.”
“Why do you keep talking as if we're at war?”
“Because, Captain, I believe we are about to be.”
Batman played the feed. On it, an authoritative prison warden ushered each of the nearby guards out of the cell block array. Moments later, a raven-haired businesswoman stepped inside, followed by what appeared to be soldiers of fortune.
The mercenaries wheeled in a number of crates, and per the businesswoman's instructions, opened them. Inside waited rows upon rows of clear containers, each housing a cluster of medicinal-looking capsules.
“MGH,” Batman noted.
The mercenaries distributed containers amongst the prison cells, while the businesswoman spoke out to the full floor of inmates.
“Her name is Mercy Graves,” Batman explained. “Personal assistant to Lex Luthor, the most powerful human being in Metropolis.”
Steve frowned. Lex Luthor, chairman of the board and founder of LexCorp. Simultaneously, one of the most gifted and dangerous criminal minds in existence. Like most men of immense wealth and influence, the extent of his corruption had gone unexamined, his crimes unassailed.
“What interest would Luthor have in a Gotham prison?” Steve pondered.
“I agree, it's curious.”
“Was he trying to draw you out? Perhaps one of the other Gotham heroes?”
The two thought silently for a moment.
“I think we should go ask him,” Batman exclaimed.
“Bringing the Justice League to the doorstep of LexCorp is something of a hostile action.”
“Not what I had in mind,” Batman replied.
He selected another window on the computer tablet. It displayed a recent news article. Luthor's photo rested beneath the headline.
“Luthor's opened a new research facility. He's spending seven days there to oversee operations. A stretch of land he owns in the Arizona desert. Private. Isolated.”
“So you're saying we take a look,” Steve offered.
“I'm saying we take a look.”
“Reconnaissance.”
Batman nearly grinned. “Now you're getting it.”
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