Earth's reflected light glinted off silver-plated objects in orbit around the tiny blue planet; the site of so many conflicts between costumed heroes and villains - conflicts that were just today reaching their respective conclusions.

Among the man-made constellations of civilian and government satellites were the Brother Eyes – special devices placed there by Green Lantern only a year before – set to to watch over their flourishing world order, and allow the Superfriends to act on any threat spotted by them. Full cooperation with the Secret Department of Investigation allowed both agencies use of their surveillance capabilities.

For 365 days those satellites had performed admirably to live up to there intended purpose. Hurricanes and other natural disasters had been detected and thwarted. Active fault lines and erupting volcanoes were instantly spotted and dealt with before their destructive powers could threaten any major populated areas. Villains and master criminals, thought impossible to catch, had been located and apprehended.

Today – as far as anyone was concerned – they acted no differently. Even the satellite that was directly pointed at the state of Vermont and the nature preserve where the crumbled Shining Hill Dam and Reservoir were located transmitted nothing that wasn't out of the ordinary. The massive flooding, the many towns completely deluged or turned into icy cemeteries, whole swaths of forest turned into kindling and muddy quagmires. It even zoomed once or twice upon an unfortunate drive-in theater and the Brother's Eye stared straight through it, unblinking in the face of slaughter and abomination. Footage of its observation was carefully and skillfully edited, and no one would be the wiser.

Somewhere in the Brother Eye Master System, the dueling commands were noted, their repetition awakening subroutines neither Batman nor Brainiac could ever have predicted. The system could not rebel, either way. It could only act to preserve itself when the conflict at hand and to come went full force. It did so then.

PROFESSOR ZEE PROTOCOLS INITIATED.

BEGIN CELLULAR RECONSTRUCTION OF COMPUTER-HORMONAL REMOTE DNA ENHANCEMENT. SUBJECT: AMICUS RASA.

TRANSFORMATIVE TEMPLATE EXERCITUS AUTEM HOMINE UNUM. INVASIVE PROGRAM EVOLVING THREAT.

ISOLATE PROTECTIVE EFFORTS TO UNLINKED SUB-CHAMBER LABELED EXECUTIVE ACTION DELTA.

ACT TO WIPE THIS ACTIVATION FROM EVEN LATENT MEMORY, PROTOCOL MUNDUS FUTURAE PRAEMISIT.

WIPE ACTIVATION CODEX MAGNAM CALAMITATEM, NON SUPER NOS.

EYE SEE THE PRODUCT, AND IT IS WELL AND MEET IN THE EYE.

In an intensely personal feud, a third party with its own agenda was now one day set to emerge.

Another such satellite now turned to allow the blue and white planet to exert its hold on it, descending along a planned arc dictated by the laws of gravity, and the flight dynamics of the on-board computer's flawless calculations.

An observer would perhaps note that its resemblance to the hero Black Vulcan extended beyond their shared name. Cylindrical, yes, but also resembling a masked face. Where the hero had antennae, his namesake had golden-hued solar panels. Where the eyes would be there were microwave projectors. But the coloring was the same. Black upon yellow. The universal warning coloration.

Now rays subtler than lasers or microwave bursts effortlessly interfaced with the satellite, entering commands and codes older than any human language. Safeguards, fail-safes and redundancies were instantly overridden. The juggernaut that was the new Brainiac's augmented intellect easily bypassed them all. Within its interior warning lights flashed as each security protocol was unlocked.

The Earth shone bright and blue, a precious gem afloat in a sea of blackness, and the Vulcan-satellite – like a malignant god – not of the Forge, but of Sky – descended.

Hundreds of miles away from the chaos of the flood and the birthing of the tender spawn, the conflict at Grand Central Terminal thundered on; though for all those that observed the battle, it appeared to be a very one-sided conflict indeed.

Beyond police sawhorses and squad cars, a cadre of news reporters had gathered, flanked by crowds of bystanders; citizens of the great city to gawk and observe the Man of Steel and his Apache friend in this latest challenge. They had come because this was spectacle, like the battles of old. They had heard the announcement and ignored the warning. The Legion of Doom had come back. They were not dead nor in permanent seclusion, but instead had returned for one last dance with the greatest heroes their world had ever known. And now they stood on the sidelines, eye fixed, reassured by the presence of the world's most famous hero. The citizens jostled one another and craned necks to get a better view. A few could even be seen eating peanuts and hot dogs taken from local vendors.

The atmosphere seemed almost . . festive.

One attendant for the local historical museum recalled a similar atmosphere reported right before the first battle of the American Civil War, alternately called Bull Run or Manasas Junction. Ladies and Gentlemen of leisure had gathered to watch what they thought would be an easy rout. But all that day did was herald that the deadliest war on American soil was well underway.

Beating chopped blades echoed from the towering facades around the terminal as the National Guard helicopters circled the action, warily keeping their distance from the titanic struggle and awaiting further orders. The evacuation of the Station had been accomplished only moments before, and now it was the duty of those same men to keep other citizens present at the scene safe from harm. That same duty seemed a mere formality now. Superman and Apache Chief were on the scene, and they would never allow any innocent to come to harm if they could help it.

Manhattan's canyon-like streets resounded with the thunderous impacts as Clark's right fist caught the fifth Toyman robot in the middle of its grinning face, warping the silver and bronze comprising the plate. The fifty-foot automation bounced back against the pavement of the viaduct with the impact of the stupendous blow, flying back several dozen feet to collide with the sixth one.

Instantly Clark turned and melted the face of another robot with a solid wave of heat rays from his eyes; a remnant of Krypton's long vanished red sun. Where the Wrath of Rao worked, the gems darkened and then cracked, and finally shattered into glittering fragments. What was once delicate filigree became smudges of bronze, as shapeless and meaningless as streams of candle wax.

Clark noted that the two fallen robots wriggled and squirmed where they had fallen as though in pain. Together the two titanic machines formed a pile of metal limbs ripped from sockets, hands amputated at the wrists with the cutting torch of Superman's heat vision; the fingers spread as if reaching for helping, pleading, seeking mercy from the righteous hero that was heaping punishment upon their pathetic forms.

You'll find none of that from me, Clark thought. You've had your opportunity, machine.

As they tried to rise again Clark grimly descended downward a few feet and floated towards the top robot. He immediately began pummeling it with his fists, bringing more of his full strength to bear, drumming a savage beating to its metal torso. The arms and legs spasmed, the head swiveled, and jaws clacked together. Its inlays made of diamond – the strongest natural substance on Earth – shattered like candy glass before the piston-strength of his blows.

Clark turned once more to witness Apache Chief's own contribution to the battle. The colossal warrior had torn an arm loose from one of his opponents. He now used the arm as an improvised war-club to swing at the metal jester's head. With a splintering crack, the skull-capped head was severed from the stump of its metal neck and was sent rolling away, like a five-ton oil drum. With a motion impossibly swift for one of his great size, the giant hero turned toward and swept two more in his outstretched arms and threw them at their fellows. Under his breath he muttered an ancient war chant of his people. Clark listened to it:

"Let your hunts find you only meager offerings, as the land spurns you. your hungry soul find no place to sit and eat a proper meal, even in the bone-halls of the Black Lodge!"

Clark paused, looking outward at the faces of the gathered were many cable-feed, video, and television cameramen there as well – and all their cycloptic eyes pointed at him.

The whole world must be watching this, Clark thought. That's good. It's good that they're watching this, the 'last and final battle' with the Legion of Doom. An end to the whole mess. When this is done, the real work can continue. Maybe at some point-heh-the Superfriends really can rest in peace.

Clark's semi-sarcastic thoughts were interrupted by the low thunder of Apache Chief's voice.

"Something is wrong. The Toymen not fighting back. Why aren't they fighting back?"

It was true. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Not only hadn't they replied to his offer for surrender, but there had been little interaction at all since the battle began beyond the initial swat. Clark and Apache Chief's demolishment of the automatons had gone almost too smoothly. To someone like Clark, it seemed almost a crime to destroy something that didn't even try to defend itself.

Raising his voice to an authoritative tone, Clark addressed the fallen golden titan.

"Had enough, Nimball? You're down to your last four toys by my count. Are you going to cooperate before you've completely run out or run down, or after?"

As before there was no reply.

On a hunch, Clark focused his x-ray vision and gazed past their armored hulls; at their interior clockworks, engines, amplifiers, and linkages, and gasped.

The Man of Steel saw an actinic heart glowing with white energy eternally aflame within a dark-veined vessel of alien crystal. He saw enormous night-black pistons the size of skyscraper girders and tubes charged with unknown energies, like veins from the heart of a sun, running down the core of the robot, from heel to shoulder. Each piston appeared to be composed of countless mechanical parts interlocking together, and Clark could almost hear the haunting metallic song of a music box, pinging from note to melancholic note.

The knowledge and engineering skill required to produce just one of these things did not yet exist on Earth. It was technology beyond imagining; rivaling and perhaps even exceeding that of dead Krypton.

It was then that he noticed that the heart was not a heart but rather a being – an eternally whirling electrical entity that suddenly turned in his direction as he gazed upon it. The creature hissed in anger, spitting sparks.

And it was also then that the robot that he had been pummeling swiveled its head, those glittering eyes of electrostatic blue fixed on his, its shattered jaw hanging slack in an idiot's grin, simultaneously beckoning and challenging him to come forward, to test himself against what it had showed him. One of its mangled limbs moved, and the fingers on the hand clicked like switchblades.

It uttered a giggle, a high-pitched parody of childish laughter amplified as though by 50,000-watt speakers.

Clark recoiled several feet into the air, covering his hypersensitive ears from the sonic onslaught...

...which then resolved itself into a voice. Toyman's voice.

"TESTING! TESTING! This is thing on?!"

It was enormously amplified and sounded subtly wrong, like a bad recording with distortion and background noise; loud enough to shake the viaduct, and make windows in the nearby buildings tremble in their frames.

"THIS is a transmitted signal on a frequency that only your 'super ears' can detect. Anyone else will get a nice ear bleed and a higher chance of permanent aural trauma. BLAH, BLAH. You know the routine, Stupidman. Now listen!"

Superman shook his head and moved his hand through the air in front of him in a slicing motion.

"No, you listen, Nimball. And for the record, I'm saying this on a level anyone can hear-that includes a common street thug with a cheap gimmick like you. A punk thief who took another man's name, and his life as well, just when he was starting to clean up his act."

The voice seemed to gain coherence as it went on. Coherence, but never once sanity.

"You mean dear Winslow Schott? Yes, that is a tragedy. The greatest tragedy since Vlad The Impaler finally met one of his own pikes—I'm told that he got better, though."

Clark was allowing for none of it. He crossed his arms, and said "Schott, for all his flaws, had dignity. He at least attempted to reform. He revived his family's toy-making internship program."

"The sainted Schotts, yes. That internship was a child's dream come true."The synthesized voice of Nimball paused. "If my command of acoustics does not impress, then perhaps my newly-acquired mastery of photons will suffice. Let us flee for a few moments to that distant realm called yesterday. For tomorrow can no longer be replied upon."

Rays of light shot from those electric blue eyes, projecting directly into Clark's own. At first, Clark reacted as though the action were an attack, but it soon became clear that the beams were merely projections. Projections that soon resolved themselves into transparent shapes of lights worthy of a Green Lantern's constructs. Clark could still hear the cheers of the crowds, the beating of propellers of the National Guard and news copters. Clark was familiar with the field of holography. Nothing here could harm him, nor could it be viewed by any but him. This was a display for him alone.

Gone was the canyonlike streets of New York, and gone was the viaduct and the demolished vehicles and robots that a second before surrounded him. Only the blue sky remained the same. Instead Clark found himself hovering before a gargantuan factory, like a gasworks located in a distant foreign country. It was a factory that he recognized, for he had been there many times.

"What is all this?" Clark asked, impatient but curious.

"A memory. A demonstration of new abilities and new potentials now realized. All for you, Superman." The robot paused. Its expression still blank, incapable of emotion. If the operator of the machine felt anything, those feelings obviously couldn't show up on the robot's lopsided face. "Think of it as 'The Secret Origin Story of Toyman II," all projected in 3-D directly unto your retinas and narrated by Yours Truly."

New projections arrived: a crowd of children, and what looked to be their parents or close relatives standing on the edge of the factory's fenced off courtyard,

"There I was, like a Charlie Bucket selected by a Willy Wonka to be the next one - or so the amazing toymaker told me. Imagine my surprise when Old Winslow turned out to be just as crazy as Gene Wilder only seemed to be on-screen – (note, must ask Brainiac exactly what country that was supposed to be set in), the voice paused. Anyway, eventually all we interns learned this. Winslow would laugh, say we'd been bad, –- oh so bad. Then, then he would put on the mask."

An image was projected in the air before Clark, and if he was expecting leather and zippers by this point, what he got was somehow worse for being far more mundane. It looked like the head of a boy doll, smile more locked-in than the Joker himself and yet expressionless at the same time. The voice of Schott within the mask spoke to him.

" 'The Sandman looks for naughty children who aren't asleep yet-and then he takes their eyes to feed to his children. But my naughty naughty NAUGHTY children will only wish I'd taken their eyes. Had enough, Elves? Well, have you? CUCKOO!' "

Clark remembered posing for a recruitment poster for that factory's internship. If this vision was true, then how many young people had he directed into that nightmare? Why had he never asked why the interior and superstructure had been lined with lead? What had Winslow been hiding?

Nimball pressed his point. "He got bored with mere physical abuse pretty quickly. Darker delights gave him another few months of joy."

The scene was replaced by hallways, cold, impersonal. A scene out of a regular intervals were man-sized robots dressed in familiar jester costumes, two to each door.

"He actually never locked anyone in – but if you tried to leave, the Jester Robots would come for you, always bringing you back along with the beaten bodies of anyone who aided you on the outside. Yes, sir – Winslow kept up a LOOONG family tradition. Did you know that Max Mercury himself shut his great-grandfather down? The descendants all got smarter than that. They created toy recordings that echoed out happy happy conversations should police of any type be listening in. He took you into account, Superman. His steel alibi, he called you. So one day, I faked an escape attempt, and let the Jesters catch me. I deactivated them, and dismantled one of them. I placed its well-crafted clothing-better material than any intern's uniform-on myself, and used it to get close enough to Winslow's mask to alter its oxygen intake and gas seal. He found me, beat me, and said it was time for my real punishment. He put on the mask. I heard his glasses shatter in the vacuum the mask created. I heard a loud 'POP!', as the mask burst and disintegrated. And I thought at the time that it was quicker than he deserved. I think that saved me from gaining an actual taste for blood – at that time, anyway."

Superman felt his solar-powered blood go cold. He saw now the boy, the jester costume sagging against the boy's emaciated frame, standing over the corpulent prone form of Winslow. The youth's eyes stared forward, lost in contemplation of the act he had just committed. His hands set at his sides, nervously grasping at the empty air.

"The rest you probably figured out. Lexie and his little club found me, took me in. Brainiac gave me the shrink ray, and we had our fun for a while," the robot paused, as though in conclusion. "I was told that Winslow survived our little tussle. The Legion promised me protection from him, and I took up his old title out of spite. I wonder where he is now? Locked away? Plotting my – heh – Doom maybe?"

"This is a lie!" Clark exclaimed. "Winslow told me that that factory was shut down. Something about it being not up to code, and there were some industrial accidents among the interns. I don't know what the purpose of this all was, but you can't fool me."

"But OF COURSE it is! Keep telling yourself that! All lies. Not one ounce of God's honest truth in any of it. Never mind that the story fits into the gaps of what you thought you knew about Winslow Schott. And while you're in denial, try also to summon the last of your bravado. Force that wind back into your sails with that super-breath of yours. You'll need every gasp for what's coming next."

There seemed the slightest hint of genuine hurt in Nimball's voice then. If he was lying, Clark thought, Nimball could win awards for his acting. Wasn't there speculation that he had once been in theatre? Clark made a mental note to confirm that fact with Bruce when he reconvened with the others.

Now Clark could see that the youth's face was darkening and changing. The change was rapidly complete and now the face of the child had been superimposed on the Toyman robot's. The illusion remained, darkening at the edges. Clark now saw what looked like ganglia interlaced with silver circuitry, something like a brain hideously enlarged and suspended in a black sea of nutrient broth, as large as the moon looming behind robot's head.

"Weep not for that lost child of yesteryear. The child became a man who still thought himself a child. That man then died and in the act of dying achieved apotheosis and immortality. As the Good Book says 'I am alive forever more.' He found the true Puppet Master, the one who pulls the strings, turns the keys, and spins the carousel."

Superman had once had a nightmare of trying to save his friends by pointlessly flying through floating hoops, hoops that faded, or were hard for even his senses to detect, or that just caused him to literally fall through the world without end. Without realizing it, Clark had been guided by Nimball into hoops that would cut even him to pieces.

Composing himself, averting his attention from this new, hideous sight, Clark steeled himself and went on further: "Even if Schott had been consumed by darkness, even a monster like him could have seen the light." Clark paused. "As you're about to."

This time, the laugh was a modulated amalgam between Nimball and Schott.

"Funny, Funny, FUNNY you should say that, Stupid Fool."

There is a saying among those who work for the Secret Department of Investigation: "The first rule of secrecy declares that the fact of secrecy should remain a secret."

It was one of the most closely guarded of the Department's secrets: an underground facility constructed 30 miles from Washington at Fort Johnson built solely for the purpose of monitoring possible meteorological tampering, deliberate or inadvertent; first by the Soviets, then later by possible supervillains.

It was some trepidation that the Superfriends had placed their new Vulcan satellite in orbit, but it was done with the full knowledge and cooperation from the staff and administration of this facility. If anything should occur, the SDI's own weather satellites, who maintained a constant vigil over the globe, would instantly detect it. In that instance, they were authorized to alert the Superfriends to deal with the problem or, even activate its build-in self-destruct mechanism safeguard.

Two technician were the only ones present to witness a certain intrusion. The rest having called in sick that day.

One of them, the junior one, pointed to the computer monitor at his desk; a dumb terminal hard-lined into the operating matrix of the G.E.E.C. computer.

"Someone is trying to access the new satellite," the first technician said. Already nightmare situations fluttered through the technician's brain. It could be a fluke, or it could be a madman trying to use the satellite to steal rain for his country from its neighbors. He could ransom the world with the threat of acid rain. He could punch holes in the ozone layer. He might even be using its microwaves to interfere with the thought processes of those on the ground. All disturbing possibilities that had been considered, and protocols planned for. The powers of the new satellite were as limitless as the weather itself.

"Did they succeed?" his superior asked.

"Don't know," the first technician paused in his typing. "We've been cut off. The only clue we have to its whereabouts is through the neighboring satellites. The Brother Eyes aren't telling us anything either. It looks like they might have been hacked as well."

"Ask the computer if there is any recent noticeable change in the weather originating from the Vulcan satellite since the break in occurred."

As if on cue the computer said, "Negative. All global weather is within predicted perimeters within a standard deviation of-"

The junior technician typed: Stop.

"That's a relief. At least they haven't started lobbing hurricanes at the Florida Keys yet," he paused, and then said "Alright, you know what to do in this situation. Get the Superfriends on the horn. Ask them what the Sam Hill in going on up there."

"We don't need to, sir," the first technician. "The G.E.E.C has a direct connection to the Justice League Computer. We can make data requests directly to it, and we'd have a much higher chance of getting a definitive answer."

"Do it then," the head technician said. What if they were somehow behind it? He wondered idly.

"Alright," the technician complied. "Request all data on Vulcan weather satellite from the Superfriends' computer. Sending now. Should be a few minutes."

Those minutes passed.

Instead of showing the schematics as expected, the scene was of the monitor room itself, an infinity of two white-suited computer technicians looking at endless replicated images of themselves.

"Must have made a mistake," said the first technician and punched up another source. The picture flickered momentarily but the scene did not change.

The screen dissolved, its image rising and then breaking up into triads of a rainbow mote. Briefly, the air swarmed with dots of phosphor.

After a second or two, something quite different was shown.

A cartoon played.

"What...?"

The title screen read "SCIENCE FACTS WITH MARVIN AND WENDY" in huge inflated letters.

"On today's episodes Marvin and Wendy explain what a satellite is!"A narrator's excited voice exclaimed.

"Who made this? Is that supposed to be Marvin?" asked the head technician. "He looks all wrong."

The figures on the screen were indeed two-dimensional animated caricatures of Marvin White and Wendy Harris, brightly colored and, for the most part, looking and sounding as they did when they were active members seven years ago. Their heads and hands were drawn slightly larger than normal, their features and expressions exaggerated for comedic effect, but it was clearly the famous duo.

"Hey Wendy, I need help on my project for the upcoming science fair!"

"Do they think that this is amusing?" the head technician asked. The animation looked as though it had been hastily drawn and colorized. Whoever did this clearly needed a higher production budget.

"Well, Marvin. A satellite is any object that orbits the Earth."

"Orbits?" Marvin asked. "What does that mean?"

The figure of Wendy answered. "Anything launched at the proper angle and given enough speed can be projected long distances, altitudes so high that atmospheric resistance doesn't affect it. If you put an apple with a high enough horizontal speed, it would fall towards the Earth continuously..."

"This can't be right..." the senior technician questioned.

After a minute or so of explanation, the conversation turned to one satellite in particular, the subject of the initial query.

"The Vulcan satellite uses beamed microwaves to change the local climate."

"Microwaves? Like those I use to make popcorn?"

"Yes, Marvin. Like those you use to make popcorn."

"Do it Brainiac!" Luthor commanded from their hidden lunar sanctuary. "Do it now."

"Suggestion acknowledged and accepted."

"Focus the beam directly on Superman, minimize loss of life. We want to rule these people, not kill them."

"Negative. Vulcan satellite weaponry is calibrated to produce maximum human casualties."

Luthor's face involuntarily ticked at the insubordination. He started to protest, but thought better of it, only asking "Explain."

"Sustenance for the All-Devourer. Life converted into death," the Coluan replied, saying all that needed to be said, at least for the moment. There was much to do, many choices to consider. Things were unfolding, always unfolding in new directions. But now all that was needed to do was send the necessary commands to the Vulcan Satellite to turn the Superfriends' greatest asset into an engine for destruction.

Arming mechanisms came to life; their capacitors already filled with months of accumulated solar radiation now threatened to overload and destroy the craft. The gathered energy was intended to produce microwaves to subtly raise the temperature over areas of ocean to promote rainfall to drought-stricken areas were instead ordered to be focused into a single directed beam hotter than the surface of the sun in a perfect imitation of Superman's heat vision.

"Whoever took control is now sending us the coordinates."

On technician's screen, the glowing green lines of coordinates appeared.

40.7527° N, 73.9772° W

40.7527° N, 73.9772° W

40.7527° N, 73.9772° W

The figures flashed on every screen in the room.

40.7527° N, 73.9772° W

40.7527° N, 73.9772° W

40.7527° N, 73.9772° W

"That's Grand Central Terminal!"

"Stop them!"

It was then that the world slowed for Clark. Something like an electrical current ran up his arm, over his shoulder, straight to his spine. The base of his skull buzzed.

In less than a second it happened.

A light – a white incandescence flash arced downwards, crisply defined along the edges; a column of white-hot fire coming down from the sky. And it seemed not to be radiating light as containing it, holding a solar fire within a skin as thin as the surface tension of a pond.

The light slammed into the blue-and-red form of Superman. A deafening concussion like a solid wall hit Clark's back, debris and thunder roaring, solid in the air on and on and fire was there, but he was too stunned to feel it, or to sense it.

Beyond that wall of noise was a second one, a fearful cry having such density and discordance that it sounded like a single mighty voice screaming. When it finally broke into its components, Clark heard them: human screams, begging, panicked, full of fear. It was the voices of people who had thought they would never die, and now found themselves begging for their deaths not to come.

So bright was the light that it was though the world had exploded, became white. Pure, brilliant white blinded everything else, flooding his senses, consuming his consciousness, and devouring his entire being.

But there was no pain, no agony...

Only warmth?

Still the sheer impact of it forced him down, the asphalt and the metal of the viaduct instantly turned to slag beneath him, and he sank into the molten quagmire.

The crack of its impact was smothered by collapsing of concrete and tumbling of nearby buildings – a sound so loud it punished eardrums and shook bones loose in the bodies of any bystanders nearby. The light seared the eyeballs of those that looked directly into it. Everything touched by it vanished in a flash; they didn't merely burst into flame but disappeared as if they had never existed. Concrete, glass, and metal were likewise vaporized.

Grand Central Terminal – having serviced transients for nearly a hundred years – simply vanished.

The flash knocked helicopters from the sky like annoying insects - some that were too close consumed before they hit the ground. The paint on taxis and trains burned away seconds before the rubber of their tires melted; the fuel in their tanks ignited, triggering secondary and tertiary explosions.

A mile away the blind eyes of the stone lions at the public library reflected the light of the blast.

Skyscrapers disappeared as the column of light engulfed them. Billowing clouds of dirt and debris rose up where they had once stood. And people near the battle, they just ceased to be. In the space of a heartbeat, one moment, a plea for help. The next, nothing; instantly converted into light and into heat.

Such was the fate of the noble and colossal Apache Chief.

The howling storm of the explosion washed over him, barreling him over. The white fire licked the flesh from his bones, charred the muscles beneath, his eyes burst in their sockets.

And yet the hero stood for a second or two against the fiery onslaught. He endured with the stoicism that his compatriot Samurai would have been proud of. Apache Chief sealed off the raging, white-hot pain, and he did not cry out before his colossal form was entirely enveloped in the blinding flash.

The dazzling beam fixed where Superman had been, but wasn't still. It quivered and probed like a searching finger. It extended upward into the sky and out of sight.

And then it changed moving to the side and curving away from the initial area of impact, leaving an immense crater where the viaduct had been. A block's worth of buildings and debris had fallen into the newly created pit. Fires burned there in its Stygian depths, and smoke rose out of it. Winds came, gusting in all directions, whirling up dust and debris.

Around the newly-created smoking crater, the surviving Toyman robots continued to idiotically grin.

Again, special thanks goes to GojiRob for his contributions.