JLA Watchtower (Archive)

Ostensibly the room was being used to store lab supplies while the hospital's monolithic bureaucracy made its lethargic crawl through the red tape involved in reassigning its purpose. Previously however, the room had been used by the pharmacology department and as such it contained many of the tools he required. Other more exotic materials he had been forced to find elsewhere, but resourcefulness and centuries of experience helped to surmount that hurdle.

In days past, he this would have been a matter of tedious rote. A grand library of tomes and a sanctum cultivated over the ages used to be at his disposal. Now he had to reconstruct the formula by memory and constitute and distill the essences from scratch. If things had been different, it might have even been a refreshing exploration of foundations. Things were not different however and time was his enemy and the meager materials at hand were his unpredictable nemesis.

Much to the disappointment of his current 'employers' he had called in sick and had ensconced himself in the lab for three days. A minor manipulation of the janitorial schedule and a few tricks of misdirection ensured that no one would be interrupting his basement chamber for at least another two days. This was all to the good, for even he would be hard put to explain the intricate drawings and ornate arcane designs that covered the east wall of the room. Numerous beakers containing liquids of varied hues simmered over bunsen burners while the regular snap of an intermittent current was sent through the large jar of deep purple thick liquid at the center of the table.

Most of his preparation had been completed. In the last 24 hours he had consumed only clear water and in the last six, he had spent in deep meditation. Now he only had to wait for midnight

At midnight he would drink the potion, and hopefully it wouldn't kill him...

The Eighteen Hands of Lo-Han. It was the foundation of the arts he developed over a lifetime, his first lifetime at any rate. There were other more difficult and demanding techniques, but this was the foundation. Swift and graceful like wind over water, his body moved as the ancient form played itself out again and again. It helped him to find his center.

The Spectre was growing impatient. Even in the stillness and peace his regimen brought him, the spirits discontent and building wrath roiled like an angry storm front in the horizon of his consciousness. His time was running out. Soon the vengeful ghost would brook no further delays.

The first articles of clothing he found smelled sour. A shirt and painter's overall's, stained with chemicals and the refuse of the dumpster in which they were found, has sufficed until he could acquire something cleaner. It would have been easier to simply take what he needed. He could have even rationalized the theft with silent promises to pay for them later, but it would have remained theft and he was reticent to begin dabbling in petty sins so early in his new life.

The stern cold eyes of the Spectre upon him when the thought occurred might also have factored into the decision.

So it was that Ras Al Ghul did something that he had not done in a long time in life. He swallowed his pride. Wearing his disheveled dumpster won clothes, he walked into the soup kitchen at the end of town. It was a humble place run by the local church. The priest and volunteers were open and kind and treated him with respect. The food was simple but filling and he expressed his gratitude at the offer of clean clothes and a place to rest. ‘Ras Al Ghul, the beggar'.

He had expected the Spectre to mock him, but it did not. The vengeful wraith was more complex than he had believed. It's manner seemed markedly different than before. Something about their union had influenced the spirit's character. It chilled him to think that the effect might be two sided.

The day was hot and the landscape severe. His travels had led him to many strange places. Some might consider it a curse, 'Doomed to wander along the borders of the after life'. Others might consider it a blessing, "A never ending adventure." He simply accepted it as the path his karma had forged. The rest was academic.

Currently the realm he was traveling through possessed a level of 'physicality'. It contained the illusion of substance and form, so consequentially he did as well. At times he reflected upon the prosaic irony of a ghost having flesh. Illusory flesh to be sure, but then how was that different from 'real' flesh in the greater scheme of things? Material reality was a fiction in it's own way after all.

The sound of rushing water broke his reverie as he climbed over the embankment of sharp stones. As he surmounted the steep incline, his eyes caught sight of a wide river before him. The sun was low in the sky now, it's reflection sparkling on the river's surface. Crossing the river at night would be complicated. There were things that prowled this place when the shroud of night fell; things that he would rather not face chest deep in water, no matter how ‘illusory’ it might be.

Setting himself to the task, he began to prepare by gathering his robes together.


"I beg your pardon traveler," came a voice from the rushes by the bank.

"I was wondering if you might help me cross this river?"


Looking closer, the monk saw a golden scorpion sunning itself on a rock.

"Ah I see.", answered the monk, his voice colored with wry amusement.
"I take it, you propose to sit upon my shoulder while I cross?"


"Why yes!" chimed the Scorpion brightly.


"Very well." sighed the monk. Then, quick as a cat, he scooped up the creature in a gourd and closed it shut.

Ignoring the Scorpion's protests, he proceeded to cross the river. Once upon the other side, he released his passenger upon a dry log.


"What was that for!?" demanded the Scorpion.


"My apologies my friend, but I too have been a Scorpion in my time."


Frustrated, the Scorpion left the monk in search of others who might help him cross back to the other side of the river. As the monk watched him go, he wondered if the world might have been better place if he had simply stepped upon the creature.