Down to Earth

[Matt Hagen]

"GOTHAM BLUE" STAR
INJURED IN ACCIDENT

Vicki Vale

THE NARROWS - Local television actor Matt
Hagen is in critical condition after a car
accident early Monday morning, according
to a report by the Gotham Police Department.

Hagen, who plays Detective Lucius Clay in
the popular police procedural "Gotham Blue,"
was driving on Eden Avenue when his Mercedes
Coupe overran the curb and crashed into a
chemical plant owned by Queen Industries.
His vehicle was in flames when emergency
crews arrived. Hagen was care-flighted to
Gotham Public Hospital, but not before
suffering serious burns to over fifty
percent of his body. No others were reported
injured in the accident.

Basil Karlo, producer of Gotham Blue, was
shaken by the news.

"Matt is a consummate professional and a
good friend. I'm stunned. All I can do is
wish him the best and a speedy recovery."

Karlo said he had no idea what Hagen was
doing in the Narrows this morning.

With Hagen hospitalized, Karlo is expected
to postpone filming of Gotham Blue's highly
anticipated third season, which was scheduled
to begin this Thursday, pending updates on
the actor's condition.

[Matt Hagen]

It was a bad day.

You'd think the worst had come when you flipped your car at sixty-five miles per hour and burst into flames, though, truth be told, Matt Hagen's memories of the accident were fuzzy at best. He remembered a jarring impact that nearly shattered his spine, then an explosion of searing, liquid pain that obliterated all conscious thought. He remembered hospital lights flashing by like nightclub strobes overhead, then staring at a blank white ceiling through a narrow gap in the bandages. He remembered lying for what seemed like an eternity in a drug-induced stupor that kept him from moving, kept him from complaining about the pain, but didn't keep him from hearing that bastard Karlo lean over his bed and say they were filming season three without him, right to his damned face.

Yeah, that was a bad day, too. The fact that Hagen wasn't still laid up in his bed like Karlo thought, the fact that he was out of his bandages and on his feet just days after the accident should have made him ecstatic. But he wasn't. He was stumbling through the back alleys of Gotham kitted up like a criminal, like the meathead punks he was supposed to be collaring on camera on his own damned show.

Miracle cure, they had called it. Funny, they'd failed to mention the side effects, or how much it would cost to keep them at bay. He'd run up debts already on his new penthouse, his car, debts the new season was supposed to erase. Now the car was scrap and the penthouse was three days from repossession. And seeing as he was supposed to be immobile in a hospital bed, this was the only way he could think to make any scratch.

Hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, ballcap pulled low and his jacket pulled high to disguise the face that Nielsen loved so much. He cut a brutish figure, and he had a prop gun in his pants. With any luck, his performance would do the rest.

He rounded a corner and spied his mark - tall, thin man in a flamboyant suit walking slowly along the edge of Hyde Park. Hagen set after him with a sharp, purposeful stride, then ducked under a tree at the distant wail of a police siren.

Damn it, this wasn't going to work. He had to focus. Had to become the role.

Three deep breaths. Count down from ten. Run the stage directions in his head one more time. The little ritual he'd concocted to master the stage fright no one knew about.

The name was Clay. Lucius Clay. Gotham homicide. You thought you were going somewhere tonight, chump? You had plans for that little packet of blow under your coat? The law has other plans.

Hagen closed on his target with the determination of a man possessed.

[Matt Hagen]

"Well, look who's out for an evening constitutional. Wait, don't tell me. Doctor's orders?"

The suspect was male, between six foot one and six foot three, wearing a beige-colored suit and carrying a tan briefcase. He wheeled around with confusion writ large on his face - Hagen took that as a good sign, that he'd put the man off-balance, but he was too deep in character to show it. He moved in a full-body swagger, chin held high, a sneer on his face that said he'd never seen anything so pathetic and disgusting in his all his fourteen years on the street, I swear to God.

"Who the hell--"

Hagen whipped out the badge he wore around his neck - a prop, but authentic. "Detective, Gotham PD. Park yourself right there, meatsack. I've got eyewitnesses says you been writin' out some special prescriptions."

The suspect's eyes darted from the badge to his face, appraising, but still uncertain. "Here? You doin' this here?"

"Here or the precinct. It's your choice. Hey." The dealer had taken a step forward, and Hagen lifted the edge of his jacket to show off the handle of his gun. "Let's not make a mess of the place, okay? Why don't you open up that briefcase."

It was a pitch-perfect performance - the bitter cop with something to prove, the tyrant of the streets who knew every loophole the system had to offer, who could write a rap sheet out of thin air and could shrug off misconduct charges like a ratty old overcoat. He knew he played it well. He'd stitched it together from studying the likes of Harvey Bullock, Daniel Turpin, Max Eckhardt, even the goddamn Batman. The perp should've been getting nervous by now. Instead he stared back as if Hagen had just donned a purple leotard and cape.

"Did GPD hand out stupid pills today?"

Hagen's mouth dropped open, but he couldn't find the next line on the script. He mouthed silently for a moment before he recovered his feet. "Maybe we're just one step ahead of you."

He noticed too late the suspect wasn't looking at him anymore. He was looking behind him. Which either meant the real police were closing in, or--

Guns didn't rattle and clatter in real life like they did on TV. And yet somehow he could hear half a dozen hammers cocking back in crystal clear 7.1 surround. Keyword: surround.

Shit, thought Hagen. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

"I think you're supposed to be in reruns, Detective Clay," the suspect said. His hand darted out and swiped the prop gun from Hagen's waistband. The weight gave it away immediately, and the man laughed. It was a pleasant, musical sound, surprisingly enough. Bad guys didn't laugh like that on TV.

"Or was it the hospital?" He flipped Hagen's gun over, held it by the barrel, and swatted him across the face with it. Hagen went down on one knee, and he felt one of his teeth break loose. Heavy feet closed in all around him.

Shit, thought Hagen.

[Matt Hagen]

"Stop. Please."

A thick boot caught him in the ribs, squeezing the breath right out of him. He didn't know whose it was; he was curled up with his arms clutching his chest just trying to hold himself together.

"Impersonating a cop's a crime, you know," said the man with the briefcase. "Maybe we oughta turn you in."

The briefcase swung and clouted him in the side of the head, sending him sprawling. He coughed and spat out a big gob of something that glistened in the lamplight.

"Or maybe we oughta show you how we treat cops around here. Maybe add some realism to that show of yours."

He lifted a shaky hand to the side of his head where the briefcase had struck him. The skin wasn't broken, but the side of his head had caved in. He could fit his whole hand in the hollow where the border of his skull should have been. His stomach heaved, and a huge gout of mud splattered into the grass.

"You've gotta stop," he pleaded, his voice hoarse and bubbling.

"Your show sucks, by the way. I've seen better acting from my parole officer."

The name's Lucius Clay. Gotham Homicide. Freeze right there, meatsack. You have the right to remain--

He pushed himself to his hands and knees, but someone lifted a foot hard into his gut. The right to remain--

His face sagged. The clumpy Gotham soil was sticking to his hands. He could feel his mind turning liquid with fear, helplessness, and rage.

One of the thugs seized him by the jacket collar, lifted him to his knees, and hammered a fist into his solar plexus. It sank in up to the elbow with a wet, sucking squelch.

"What the hell?" The thug rocked back on his feet but couldn't pull his arm free. His shock turned to horror when he looked up at Hagen's face. Melting, like a wax figure left in the sun too long, with pendulous lips, crooked teeth, and dead, yellow eyes.

Hagen seized the thug around the throat with one swollen, oozing hand and rose from the ground on a bubbling column of clay. The thug screamed as his feet left the ground.

"Silent," Hagen growled.

With incoherent curses and cries of terror, the gang stumbled back and fired into Hagen's back. Mud geysered from the wounds. Several bullets punched right through Hagen and struck the struggling criminal in his grasp.

Roaring, Hagen twisted around and flung the wounded man into his compatriots. There was nothing left about his face that looked remotely human. He twisted full circle to face the briefcase man, towering above him, and, with an earthen crash, lurched toward him on a pseudopod of black, glistening mud.

[Clayface]

"The name's Clay," the monster snarled. "Freeze, meatsack."

[Green Arrow]

Bruce had software that scanned the police bands, and did some kind of wizardry with vocal recognition. Honestly, Oliver didn't really understand the specifics; nor did he really need to. All that mattered was that Bruce had some doodad in his Batcave which searched the police bands for anything weird.

Shots fired in Hyde Park was tragic, but sadly not weird. However, the fact that a witness had described the victim's face as melting?

That was weird.

The engine of his Dodge Charger (http://mdwallpapers.com/gallery/wallpapers_5/Dodge_Charger_Dark_Green.jpg) growled as he sped down Gotham's tenement-lined canyons. Traffic signals flipped from red to green as he approached; courtesy of one of the many upgrades that Applied Sciences had kindly donated. It was hardly a subtle mode of transportation, but when Gotham's most notorious vigilante drove around in a black tank, that set the bar pretty low.

The last junction disappeared; tires squealed as the wheels locked, Ollie throwing the car into a side-street. His parking was hardly graceful, but it was good enough to go largely unnoticed on it's own merits; of course, anyone looking for the green Charger that had been tearing down 4th Street would probably be a little more attentive. Leaping from the car and slamming the door behind him, he set off at a fast run; hands delved into his costume, tugging out the key fob. A thumb jammed down and held the left stud; one second later the lights flashed and the car locked; another two and the surface shimmered, microcrystals in the paintwork realigning to sweep away the ostentatious green and replace it with generic black.

Green Arrow maintained his driving style while on foot, hurling himself round corners at top speed in the hopes of shaving a precious few seconds off his dash. Shots fired in Hyde Park was pretty vague; and Hyde Park was pretty big. There was no way to be sure that he'd spot -

Oh.

The sight before him literally stopped him in his tracks. Melting was hardly an exaggeration; the creature that loomed ahead of him looked like one of his failed attempts at pottery, all oozy and droopy in all the wrong places. The report had called the alleged victim a man; but if this was he, then Oliver was having trouble believing it.

Whoever it was - whatever it was - it didn't look to be the victim any longer. Whatever beating his attackers had gifted, he was repaying with interest.

"You!" He bellowed, his voice carrying across the still night air. "Crooks, back away from the clay-faced -" He searched his mind for a word. Creature? Monster? Abomination? Golem? "- thing. And, thing? Back away from the -"

He cut himself off mid-sentence, hand swooping an arrow from his quiver and nocking it on the bowstring. "Just, everyone back away from everything. Nice and slow."

[Clayface]

Clayface turned, open-mawed, to stare at the interloper. But the thugs didn't bother looking twice before scattering like rabbits in every direction.

Spotting his prize scurrying away, Clayface bellowed and lunged after the briefcase-carrying man, crashing down over his head like a tidal wave. The man's scream stopped short as he disappeared into the sludge. What had been the monster's head oozed into a spreading puddle, and what had been his feet congealed and swelled into his new head and shoulders. The creature's freshly formed face sneered at the hooded archer across the street.

"What're you gonna do about it, pixie?"

[Green Arrow]

Pixie?

Green Arrow had been called a great many things over the course of his vigilante career. Very few of those things were complimentary. But pixie? Peter Pan at a stretch, but come on: that was completely unfounded. He didn't even have wings, and there was no way sludgeman over there could see what kind of ears he was packing under his hood, pointed or no.

Still, now was hardly the time to get sidetracked by outrage. A person - criminal, granted, but a person no less - was in danger. Ollie's jaw clamped tightly. Wordlessly he loosed the arrow, the strange blend of ancient and futuristic technology sailing across the few dozen meters that separated him from the ooze.

[Clayface]

Clayface slid his head to the side as the arrow came whistling toward him. The blunt arrowhead sank into one of his huge, bulging shoulders and stuck there impotently. Heh, what a useless piece of--

Suddenly his shoulder was on fire - he didn't even know he could still burn. But, no, it wasn't fire at all. It was fifty thousand volts painting jagged arcs of white-hot agony from the crackling arrowhead to the ground. Clayface howled as his shoulder liquified, and the long, ropy arm attached to it splashed onto the grass at his feet.

Across the street, he could see the archer drawing another arrow from his quiver, and he decided he didn't want to find out what nasty surprise this one held. The mud monster bellowed and then collapsed into a huge, soupy puddle. At its center, a slimy, mud-covered shape rolled over drunkenly and coughed, still clutching at a now-ruined briefcase.

[Green Arrow]

The bowstring creaked with tension; Green Arrow's muscles were equally tight and equally poised. That was easy.

His eyes narrowed beneath the hood. Too easy.

Cautious steps advanced him slowly closer. He slackened the bowstring, and freed a hand to tap his ear. "Alfred," he called into the earpiece, leaving it active as he retrained his bow. "The victim fought back; one of the perps is going to need an ambulance." A few more hesitant steps brought him close enough to see that he was still alive, and still breathing.

"Also, you might want to call Bruce down to the cave." He eyed the pool of viscous earth, now only a few feet away, with suspicion. "He is definitely going to want to see this when I get back."

[Clayface]

The briefcase man struggled to his hands and knees and tried to wipe off his muddy face with an equally muddy arm. Spotting the Green Arrow, he started and rushed to his feet, only to slip in the muck and go straight back down on his face.

From nowhere in particular, the voice bubbled up around the Arrow. "You little Ren Faire reject!"

A wave slid over the oily surface of the pool toward the hooded vigilante, gathering height as it approached. But when it reached the edge of the pool, it didn't break. It split into two arms that swiftly wrapped around the patch of ground the Arrow was standing on.

Two eyes bubbled up from the spot where they met, and then Clayface rose from the ground behind the Green Arrow like a leviathan from the underworld, his cavernous maw twisted into a snarl.

"You SHOT me! The hell did I ever do to you?"

He raised one huge arm, which swelled into a massive club the size of a refrigerator, and brought it straight down in a decidedly Arrow-ish direction.

[Green Arrow]

Of all the things Oliver had expected to be doing today, dodging a giant mud hammer hadn't been one of them. He dove, and in a feat of acrobatics that surprised even himself he managed to get himself clear from imminent danger.

"Well for one thing," he shot back, back-pedalling as he prepared himself to fire again, "You're making me miss singles night. I should be out on the town shooting at fish in a barrel, not in a park shooting at your clay face."

His eyes flicked about, skimming the peripherals of his vision for anything in the environment or surroundings that he could potentially use to his advantage. Electricity worked, but that was all buried underground, and he'd left his mass excavation arrows in his other quiver. The park was full of mud and trees - too many obstacles for Green Arrow, and too much permeable ground for his oozyness to, well, ooze through. He'd need to push him the opposite way: move him further onto the relatively waterproof road surface.

"In fairness though," he grunted, making a few subtle steps that moved him ever so slightly between the monster and the park. "I only tased you. And you were kind of in the middle of murdering a guy."

He frowned. There was something about this guy - this thing - that seemed off. He'd fought villains before. He'd fought a few people with scientifically baffling special abilities. Usually, they were driven by anger, by desperation, or by some sort of malicious intent. But the way he moved, the way he'd reacted... while one or two of those motivations may have been in there somewhere, the biggest vibe he was getting from this creature was confusion, and the aggressive panic that came along with it.

He took a stab in the dark. "This is all new to you, right? You've never -" He searched for a tactful word. Melted? Oozed out? "- changed like this before, have you?"

He eased the tension in his bow arm; not enough to make him vulnerable, but enough that he was visibly lowering his hackles. "Something has happened to you, and you're struggling to make sense of it. Your world doesn't make sense, and I get that. But this?" His eyes gestured to the battered, beaten, and barely conscious thug. "This isn't the answer. Let the meat-head go, and come with me. Let me help you find real answers."

[Clayface]

Clayface had raised another club, ready to strike. This one had giant spikes, an innovation he was reasonably proud of. But then his foe had stopped fighting and started talking. Not just talking, but negotiating. Kind of like he'd done when the terrorists had taken the bus full of schoolchildren hostage in the Thomas Wayne Tunnel at rush hour, and he'd ended up chasing the ringleader through the sewers after he'd bugged out and kidnapped the Commissioner's daughter...

No, that was the show. His memories were all mixed up and thinned out, like slicks of colored oil in a tank of water. It took some effort to strain them out from the confusion and congeal them into something useful. His face twisted in his concentration.

"This is the second time," he said. "The first time was hell. This time ain't much better."

His club melted away into a rough facsimile of a hand, and he slouched downward into a marginally less threatening posture.

"What makes you think you can help me?"

[Green Arrow]

"Well, for starters -" Carefully, he gestured towards the quiver on his back, doing his best to keep his movements slow and non-threatening. "- these arrows don't invent themselves. I may be running around in a hood and tights, but I'm actually a lot smarter than I look."

That didn't come out as quite as much of a self-compliment as he'd intended; but it was too late to repeal the words. Besides, his next was a much more target-rich environment for blunderous mis-sayings.

Bruce had always warned him against saying too much. Anonymity was a weapon they used, that made their costumed alter egos into more than mere men; they were immortal symbols. If no one knew who Batman or Green Arrow were, then anyone could be them; and that gave the little people a sense of power and justice. It was like that weird movie with the creepy Guy Fawkes masks, and Natalie Portman shaving off all her hair, or something like that.

Anonymity was also a shield, protecting 'the ones they cared about' from repercussions. For Bruce, that was a big deal: not just because of Alfred and Carrie, but because of the tens of thousands of Wayne Enterprises employees who'd suffer if Batman's identity was revealed. But Oliver? The public cared about him about as much as they cared about Lindsay Lohan. If he turned out to be an unhinged vigilante, so what? Maybe shares in Wayne Enterprises would dip for a couple of days, but they'd recover.

It was a sad truth, and another of the myriad differences between Green Arrow and the Batman: Bruce Wayne was the one determined to push everyone who cared about him away, but it was Oliver Queen who ended up alone.

"More than that though," Oliver continued, fixing the golem with what he hoped was a trustworthy look, "I know people who can help you. Scientists. Doctors. The best ones in Gotham. I can't promise an instant fix... but if there's any way to fix you, we'll find it."

He shrugged. "And you're sure as hell more likely to find the answers you need with me, than you are by stealing briefcases from lowlife mobsters."

[Clayface]

Clayface's brow oozed lower, and his hands opened and closed with a sound like wet cement. "You want to put me in a lab?" he growled. "How do you think I got into this mess? Some doc brings in a syringe, says this is the only way I'm gonna get my face back, and NOW look at me!"

[Green Arrow]

"Easy, easy!"

Green Arrow tried to keep his tone as calm and measured as he could, but it wasn't exactly an easy task when being stared down by an oozing slime monster. He'd hoped to be able to stall for longer - enough time to think of some sort of plan if negotiating didn't work - but the doomsday clock on this was apparently fewer minutes to midnight than he'd realised.

"I don't know what happened to you," he admitted, "But my friends are not like the people who did this to you."

He floundered around in his mind for something to back himself up. His eyes settled on the unconscious thug on the ground. "That guy. The guys you attacked. They were criminals, right? That's why you targeted them. In the eyes of the law, you're just as much a criminal as they are - but you know different. I know different. You're better than they are, and that's important."

He took a leap of faith; lowered his bow completely. "These scientists, these friends, are the same. They aren't like the criminals you attacked; they aren't like the scientists who did this to you. They're like you: at risk of getting tarred by the same brush because of leaping to conclusions."

His knees bent; the bow was laid to rest on the ground beside his feet. As he straightened, he held his arms in the most non-threatening way a masked and hooded vigilante could manage. "The police paint me as a bad guy too, because I go outside the law to do the right thing. But I know that I'm a good guy. I know that we are good guys."

"Let me help you get better; help you beat these guys," he implored again. "Because beating bad guys? That's kind of my thing."

[Clayface]

The big, plasticine face bunched up again. He honestly hadn't thought of himself as a potential criminal; he figured the police would never get past monster. But this guy already had. He was looking him in the eye and speaking to him as if he were still a human being. Hell, he wasn't even sure he still qualified as human.

Clayface eyeballed the archer up and down, hunting for any sign of duplicity, and hidden angles, any motives lingering behind that mask and cowl. Help sounded pretty damned appealing right about now. In fact, it sounded tailor-made for his predicament. Man in mask stops fight, offers mud monster indefinite medical and scientific resources to fix all his problems. Hell, if someone handed him a script like that, he'd laugh.

"I already got debts to pay," Clayface grumbled. "I don't need any more."

A siren screamed somewhere in the distance. Could have been coming their way, could have been responding to shots in some other park. But he'd already spent more time in the open than he'd wanted to, attracted too many witnesses. It was time for him to disappear.

"I don't care about the thugs, but I need that briefcase. You gonna try to stop me?"

[Green Arrow]

In that instant, Oliver didn't have an answer: and that was rare.

Am I going to try and stop him?

That was not a simple question. There was no denying that this Clayface creature was dangerous; worse, he was desperate, and that posed a danger that transcended any questions of man versus monster. Were Batman here, it wouldn't matter. We can treat him from a cell. Arkham has great medical facilities. That's what Bruce would say.

But Batman wasn't here; Green Arrow was. The costume, the arrows, the Robin Hood motif; they weren't just for style. Feared by the bad, loved by the good: that was the idea. That was the plan. Green Arrow was out here to save everyone: and sometimes, that meant saving people from themselves before they made an irrevocable number of mistakes.

His shoulders slumped, hand reaching for his utility belt. "No," he answered, producing a small lidded vial. "I'm not going to stop you. What I am going to do is take a sample for my scientist friends: because even if you're not willing to help yourself, I'm still going to try to."

He held out the vial towards the golem. "What are you going to do? Are you going to do the right thing, or are you going to act like the villain everyone is going to believe you are?"

[Clayface]

A sample? A sample? What, did this creep go around collecting hair clippings and blood sticks every time he broke up a fight? Did he have a catalog with dates and annotations, like some sort of freakish field guide, or did he peddle them all off to his scientist friends?

Clayface looked around at the mud that was spread liberally around the park. Ah, what the hell. The guy probably couldn't do any harm with it. He didn't even know what happened to the stuff after it separated from his body.

"Whatever," he said. "I don't really know what I'm going to do. Frankly, it's none of your business."

His perspective changed, and, with a wet schlorping noise, he realized he was shedding material, shrinking. The mud was pooling away in layers around the spot where his feet should have been, and he couldn't control it anymore. He lifted a hand in front of his face and flexed it. It was firming up, taking a more familiar shape. He was reverting.

"Don't follow me, okay? You have your mask. I want to keep mine."

He turned around and stepped out of the mud pile, wobbling on his gelatinous legs as he shifted closer to human form.

[Green Arrow]

Green Arrow's eyes narrowed on the trio of approaching squad cars. His liberty was in just as much danger as Clayface's if he lingered too much longer; but at a guess, Ollie had more experience at evading the police.

"Then you'd better get moving," he muttered, crouching long enough to scoop a vial of discarded residue, stowing it as securely as he could muster back in his utility belt. "I'll lead them off."

His bow was recovered before he straightened back to his feet, but he slung it across his shoulders rather than readying a shot. His gaze studied the oncoming vehicles again, estimating their speed and reactions. He spared a quick glance in the reverting golem's direction. "I'm giving you a chance to be a good guy here, Clayface," he muttered. "Don't make me regret it.

Without another word, Oliver broke into a run, a hand retrieving one of the two crossbows from his belt. One of the weapons was intended for use in close quarters, and boasted a small assortment of miniaturised versions of his typical gadgetry arsenal. The other was much more fun.

He charged, watched as the police drivers recognised him; watched as the squad cars screeched to a halt; watched as doors began to open, and hands reached for pistols -

Out of the corner of his vision, his eyes caught the corner of the building he'd chosen. His finger tightened on the trigger, a long slender cord unravelling as the grappler leapt towards the masonry. It bit into the brickwork, and a moment later Ollie felt the wrench on his arm, feet sailing from the ground as momentum and centripetal forces hefted him into a soaring arc. Several stories disappeared beneath him, the building growing closer and closer; just barely he cleared the top of the wall, landing in a not-so-graceful tumble on the rooftop. Even so, he managed to clamber to his feet fast enough to retrieve the cable and snap off a quick mocking salute at the detectives below, before setting off at a sprint into the night.

[Matt Hagen]

Hagen gasped like a man who'd just regained the use of his lungs. Which, now that he thought about it, might actually have been the case. He wasn't clear on the details of the transformation, but here he was in a back alley, leaning against a wall with grit all over his face and his clothes, a frog in his throat, and a heavy briefcase in his hand. It was locked, but that wasn't anything a few good whacks with a crowbar couldn't solve. As for the rest of his problems...

He had a feeling the rest of his problems were just getting started.

A howling siren made him duck behind a group of trash cans, and a moment later a couple cruisers roared past the mouth of the alley, casting monstrous shadows outlined in strobes of blue and red. Then they were gone, and their sirens slowly faded, leaving Hagen alone with the other creatures of the night. He climbed to his feet and stumbled off in the opposite direction, praying it would all make sense in the morning.

[Victor Fries]

Gotham University

The laboratory was dark, the only illumination coming from the faint glow beneath the microscope. Shoulders hunched, the keen eyes of Doctor Fries peered into the eyepieces, muscles tensed as if sheer force of will could somehow affect the outcome of the reaction taking place. Cautiously his fingers depressed the base of the syringe, a tentative dose of Formulation 12 introduced to the tissue on the microscope's glass slide. Before his eyes, tiny seeds of ice began to form inside the cell samples, sprouting into sharp, vicious shards that tore through the membranes like paper.

Balled into a fist, the Doctor's hand slammed into the workbench before him, but the hot flash of anger quickly subsided into cold despair. Twelve attempts, and twelve failures. Each thwarted effort diminished the possibilities; diminished hope; diminished her chances.

Victor's dark eyes glistened with sorrow as he stared into nothing. "I am sorry," he whispered.

[Green Arrow]

"I'm sure she'll forgive you."

Green Arrow's voice was as sudden as it was deep, distorted by a device liberated from Applied Sciences that sent vibrations quaking through his vocal chords to make his words unrecognisable. It was uncomfortable, and frustrating, but it was a necessary precaution: especially when dealing with those who would recognise Oliver Queen's voice if they heard it.

He knew the failure that Doctor Fries referred to: the funding that allowed Victor to equip his lab, employ his assistant, and continue his research here at the university had been approved by Oliver himself. Cryogenics was a cutting edge field, and one that in theory could be immensely profitable. It was also a field that Oliver - and Bruce - firmly believed should never be profited from, hence the good Doctor's no-strings funding, paid instead from Wayne Enterprise's charity budget. No one should ever put a price tag on saving lives.

"Sorry to sneak in unannounced," he offered, "But I need your help."

[Victor Fries]

Victor mustered a grunt. "Tell me your name, and I'll have security issue a keycard for you. You can use the front door like a normal person."

Green Arrow's stare was impassive and unflinching. "Or perhaps not."

He sighed, turning slowly on his perch, heaving himself stiffly to his feet. The lab was kept cold, as was necessary for his research; but as his joints had chosen to remind him, he wasn't getting any younger.

His lips drew into a tight line, fingers splaying idly on the worktop, a covert measure to help steady his aching frame. "So, what can I do to help the Emerald Archer this evening?"

[Green Arrow]

Emerald Archer. The media called him that. Some bright spark had decided that if Batman got to be called the Dark Knight, then Green Arrow deserved a nickname of his own. Sadly, that was the best anyone had come up with just yet. It sort of alliterated, and it was punchy enough he supposed; but he couldn't hear the word 'emerald' without thinking of the Wizard of Oz, and one nightmare about being chased through Gotham by flying monkeys was more than enough.

Reaching for his utility belt, he tugged out the vial of Clayface he'd scooped up earlier, and slid it across the workbench to the Doctor. "Believe it or not, this used to be a person." He could see the scepticism on the scientist's face; he hardly believed it himself, either. "Find out what changed him, and if there's a way to reverse it."

The Archer hesitated, thinking about the assurances he'd given the golem earlier. "It doesn't react well to electricity. If it's susceptible to anything else, I need to know."

[Victor Fries]

"Used to be a person," Victor echoed, only half paying attention to the vigilante as he spoke. Gone was the remorse - for now, at least - intense curiosity taking it's place.

He held the vial upwards, relying on the scant shafts of moonlight and streetlight from the lab's far side to catch a glimpse of what lay within, but it was an effort in futility. He turned; fumbled his failed chemicals aside, and set about preparing a fresh slide of the new biological puzzle. His fingers twitched at the focusing controls, sharpening the strange image that the magnification made visible. He watched as human cells oozed about alongside something else entirely; something that seemed inorganic, and yet somehow was.

"My god," he muttered softly to himself. "Where did you get this?"

No answer came. A brief frown was followed by an over-shoulder glance that confirmed his instant suspicion: as per usual, the vigilante had disappeared without a word. "Hello, Doctor Fries," Victor muttered sarcastically to himself, reaching for a pipette to test the sample's reaction to the addition of a little water. A faint sigh vented a small shred of his ongoing frustration. "How was your day?"