"Side by side, destroying the world..."

I remember the first time I went into the water.

I was terrified.

Alone, standing on a beach. Somewhere up behind me—I didn't look back to see—Mom wasn't paying attention. And so I went for it. I was trying to be brave, you know. I think everyone does that. Especially when someone's looking. You do your best. You do all you can. Only. Only sometimes it isn't enough.

I was thirteen. We were in California in those days. San Diego before it became a hideous sunken wreck. Thirteen. Full of all those hopes and uncertainties. Growing pains. I didn't know it then, I mean, whoever does know when you're living in like a time of change? The sky was clear and blue, the sun beating down on you, you feel warm and relaxed. It's a relaxation borne of the understanding that you're exactly where you want to be

I started thinking about other people. And people I knew. A friend named Lorena I met during one summer in San Diego. We kept in touch, and kept meeting up during those summers in the Gaslight. We shared a curiosity at the world of which we were part. We used to stand on the boardwalk, not a word between us and stare at the sea. Wonder. How many have stood here. In this spot. In this place. On this earth. In this universe. Just think. How many people. How many people have stood here. Had these same problems. Dealt with them. It's just what you do. You deal.

We think we're so big.

I still think about them sometimes. People I've never met. Abstractions really. I wonder. If I was ever one of them. Or was I just, what, an insertion. A bit player. Among them but not of them. I don't remember when I started thinking this way. I guess it was just always there. Always questioning. Wondering where I fit in.

It was later I found out damn well where I fit. Imagine my surprise.

Humans explored twenty percent of their world five hundred years ago and they've barely scratched the surface since. Europeans and the mercenaries they employed sailed along barely defined shores and strange civilizations that killed most of them. In my lifetime, and by the time I'm writing this in the Earth year 2016, humans have still only explored five percent of the oceans. So what lies beneath.

All the monsters. And I mean that.

I had this conversation with my father once. I told him I'd read some news story about him. That he couldn't fight with all the super villains and superheroes on the surface, so he went under the ocean and picked fights of his own. He wasn't wearing his helmet: he smiled at me and said, don't believe everything you read, son.

It was kind of a powerful moment. The first moment I knew he was withholding information from me. The first moment I learned not to trust him. People, you know. They tend to show you who they are. Without even trying.

But. Like I said.

I was scared of the water. There I stood on the beach, my feet buried in the sand. I imagined I could feel every grain between my toes. The sun warm all over me. It's a cherished memory.

But. Here. It's so peaceful here on this beach. Writing this out to you. Even though I know you'll never read it.

I took a step forward. The waves lapped at my foot. I shrunk back. From the shore I heard my mom calling down.

She screamed first. And then she yelled in a voice I'd never heard before. I'd never forget it.

Get Away From There!

Caught. I pivoted and ran back to her in that instant. I didn't look back at the water.

It wasn't until later that I found out what I really was.

But I need to tell you about some other things first.

I need to tell you about the end.

When it came, it came with startling speed.

And none of us were prepared.

Because you see it was the end times. Darkest days, falling skies, and all the monsters in between. The end came with meeting of the old Legion of Doom. Stalwart adversaries of the Justice League in better days gone by. Ten of the world's worst, gathered from remote parts, and rededicated to a single goal.

The conquest of the universe.

My father told me about it.

Naturally they started with the Justice League.

Naturally one of their number, the Black Manta, started with Aquaman.

Aquaman.

Arthur Curry, Orin, the Atlantis Chronicle, the King of the Seas.

The Black Manta struck back at Arthur with a vengeance he himself had never witnessed. For as obsessed as he was with his apocalyptic vision, he had to admit its finality and its sheer scale gave him pause. For years he had always gone after Arthur in small skirmishes. Battles in an afternoon. Easily lost. Always lost. His life a cascading defeat. But this was.

Final.

It felt right. A last strike at Arthur. Vengeance for all the Aquaman has done.

He would die for Arthur.

He could.

And eventually, long before this moment, in the ruins of Lex Luthor's post-heroic wasteland, the Black Manta did.

But.

Reality it seemed had other things in store for all of us.

And I say all of us because.

Because.

We're family. His family.

Arthur's.

The man of two worlds and belonging to neither.

I don't think I need to tell the story. You know it. You know Atlanna and Tom Curry. Orm Marius and Vulko. Garth and Tula. The Black Manta and...

Me.

Jackson Hyde.

His son.

Uniquely positioned to be there. For the end of all things.

So here we go.

The first thing worth knowing is that yes, Black Manta is my father. The second thing is that he was the one who told me. About the Legion meeting. About everything.

He tried to recruit me.

What father wouldn't want his son at his side, after all?

Side by side. Destroying the world.

So this is the Black Manta:

A pirate.

A terrorist.

A man.

In another age his name was David Norris. A man with a future. A father.

Now he had none of that.

Aquaman had taken Father from him in an act of blind rage. So Manta took his son.

They spent years fighting each other. A cycle of violence.

To no end.

What he felt most, what he thought about most, was the pit in his chest where once purpose burned. And aside from the burning loss of his father, there was little else.

He didn't remember a time before. A time above. A time when he could have been happy.

Once there was Father. A life spent scavenging-scavenging, but it was with him and so it was worth it. Side by side with your father doing something you loved.

His father. The only real source of strength in his life. You grow up at sea and there aren't many chances to find a real role model. To have that security. You grow up around rough men in rough worlds. Deckhands and greenhorns alike, hardasses who know the sea like they know breathing. They know when the clouds turn and the sea starts to roil underneath, and what that means. They know what it is to dive deep. Seek treasures unimaginable for rewards unimaginable. Treasures beyond your wildest aspirations.

In his youngest days David was timid. Father did not allow him into the seas until, he said, he was old enough. He retreated into books. Mahan and naval histories. Roosevelt and conquest. And more fantastical elements: Hamilton and the myths. Bulfinch. He came to embrace, as he grew, that the world beneath their feet was not merely darkness unexplored or undisturbed life from before men walked the earth. No. it was a vibrant, changing society. As diverse as the surface, with cultures and customs-whole societies-existing in the lurch. Hidden away from man for years.

Waiting for colonization. Waiting for conquest.

He came to learn of Atlantis. And not just learn of it but embrace its existence as a fact. So many artifacts recovered near the Outer Banks convinced Father, too. "It's there somewhere Father. We should go looking for it." Father just stared at the ingots. And at David. He rubbed his chin, he daren't speak. "If you think it's honestly worth it?" "I do." "And if they're peaceful?" "They've spent what I'd guess is eons down there. Away from everything. I don't think they would begrudge a couple of archeologists exploring." Father smiled: "You and your embellishments."

He got along with his father. They were best friends in that rarest of ways. The way family usually aren't. Being all the other had was a major part of it all. Dependency creates friendship, a universal constant over which we have no control. Independence breeds separation. And Manta, David, was, after the occasion of his father's death, an independent.

And so when it happened that David became a father years later, he never got along with his son.

Luthor asked him once, of Jackson: "You've killed so many people. Dozens, left and right. Why is this one different."

"I want to use him on Aquaman."

Luthor did not move. "A human weapon."

"Yeah."

"They disappoint. I should know."

"Don't do that," David said. "This is not some clone or some...march down Fifth Avenue and play King of the Mountain bullshit, Lex. I'll use him and I'll win."

"Maybe. You can hide behind that helmet all you like. Take a weapon you call a son and use him as a tool. Point him at an inconvenience you call a King. You won't fool a fly or me."

Manta looked at him.

"You think I can't do it myself?"

Luthor said: "If you could have. You would have."

They were silent. The chrome helmet belied nothing. Manta just said, "Fuck you."

Luthor was already storming away, calling into the darkness: "Impress me. Then we'll talk."

Continued...