Charity Begins At Home

[Oliver Queen]

It will be fine, Bruce had said. Take the lead on it, Bruce had said. It's only a fundraiser, and it's a fundraiser for science! You've got this. That's what Bruce had said.

The guests had arrived, the bow tie wrapped around his throat felt like it was trying to strangle him, and part of Oliver was kind of hoping that it would just hurry up and succeed. It might seem absurd that someone who routinely leapt from buildings and dove into gunfights armed with nothing but a longbow and a hood could be rattled by something as trivial as hosting a charity ball, but honestly Oliver would rather have been facing an army of supervillains instead of the horde of Gotham socialites waiting for him outside.

"You got this," Oliver muttered to himself, hoping that echoing Bruce's sentiments aloud would somehow make them stick. It didn't.

It was worse when he stepped out into the main function room of the Wayne Foundation Building, and he had to muster every ounce of self control to stop himself from making a break for the elevator, and retreating to the safety of the penthouse apartment that - for now, at least - Bruce was allowing him to call home. He felt like he was back in the Army again: a rookie soldier on review. Worse, he felt like Nicholas Cage, and the swarm of billionaires and celebrities were the bees about to be poured into his eyes.

Finally, Oliver reached the spot where he decided to make his stand. There was a stage, but he chose not to use it; instead he stood among the crowd, clearing his throat for attention, half hoping that he wouldn't be noticed. Suddenly feeling the gaze of three hundred and fifty wealthy guests upon him. A lump formed in his throat.

"Ordinarily -" he began slowly, easing his voice into the reluctant speech. "- I would assume that everyone here knows who I am. However, I did notice a couple of reporters from the Gotham Globe on the guest list, and we all know how terrible they are at getting their facts straight." There was a scattered rumble of laughter, and Oliver recognised a few of the sympathetic faces from the embarrassing tabloid reporting that so frequently plastered the front page of the Globe.

"I'm Oliver Queen, and I run the Applied Sciences division of Wayne Enterprises. I wish I could say it was something that I earned through my own hard work and achievements, but in truth the fact I know far too many embarrassing childhood stories about Bruce probably had something to do with it, too." Another laugh, a little more widespread this time. It was going well.

"While I may not have earned this job in advance, I'm doing everything I can to make sure I earn it now. That's what this is about; that's why we're here, for this evening of expensive food and even more valuable company. Science is our way forward: not just in terms of Wayne Enterprise's business strategy, but in terms of us as a city, and as a society. We can invest in new equipment and new research, but that is only a short term solution. What we need to do is invest in the future: in the next generation of scientists, engineers, and -"

Ollie hesitated, throwing a quick gesture to one of the members of the crowd. "What's the plural of genius, Professor? Geniuses? Genii?"

"Why doesn't it surprise me that you don't know?" Professor Hall quipped back. The crowd laughed again. Oliver flashed a winning smile.

"Gotham University is already a fantastic institution, and most of us here tonight are alumni. If they are going to maintain their reputation for excellence though, we need to help them remain ahead of the curve, so it's graduates can continue to be exceptional. We need to make sure that our future is being educated in the best facilities available, and that Gotham U is equipped to attract the very best minds and educators to nurture that future."

He let the smile slip, a more sombre tone creeping into his voice. "Bruce Wayne -" he gestured across the crowd to his employer, and friend, "Has approved a sizeable donation from the Applied Sciences budget to build a new research centre at the university, and to overhaul the computer labs and lecture halls; a contribution that the Wayne Foundation will be matching. But lets not stop there. We've just experienced an Olympic Games: lets invest in their sports facilities, and get more Gothamites winning this country medals, and doing this city proud. The American film industry seems to be making everything in Canada these days: lets invest in drama and media, and see if we can't compete with that on our turf. Lets invest in literature; in music; in languages; in architecture. Lets invest in educating our way to a better tomorrow. A better Gotham."

There was applause; polite for the most part, but then Gotham's high society were seldom enthusiastic about the prospect of parting with their hard-stolen money. Oliver didn't care; the grudging nod of approval from Carter Hall, and the told-you-so smile from Bruce Wayne was all the recognition he really needed. He caught himself smiling, again.

"Now that we've got that out of the way," he added, gesturing for quiet once again. The smile broadened into a grin. "I'm pretty sure the invites mentioned something about there being a free bar, so if anyone needs me, I think you can probably guess where I'll be."

[Catwoman]

Crest Hill – Bristol Township – north of Gotham City

I know what you're thinking: what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?

Luca Inzerillo asked me the same thing, just last week. He said, you look like you could be modelling in Milan, and he almost sounded like he meant it. I was working the bar at the Black Bass. It's a dirty place run on dirty money. That's why you'll find Luca Inzerillo there most Saturday nights, stuffing dirty dollar bills into the underwear of girls who deserve better. Luca is Sicilian – or at least, his family is. Or was. It's hard to know with the mob.

Luca Inzerillo could be the Pope for all it matters. The important thing is that he can't handle his liquor. Right now, he'll be spilling it all over the guests at Bruce Wayne's latest charity circle-jerk. I know he's there, because – under the influence of one too many drinks – he told me he would be. Invited me even. Said he'd show me the night of my life – then take me for a dip in the jacuzzi at his Crest Hill mansion. That's what a girl like me is doing in a place like this. Making the most of Luca Inzerillo's absence and his offer.

It's not breaking and entering if you've been invited in, right?

I can see the jacuzzi from the window ledge I'm perched on. As I climb into the darkened bathroom, part of me is tempted to slip out of the catsuit and into the hot tub. At least until I see the disco ball dangling over it. Mob money can get you almost anything in this town.

Anything except class, apparently.

Luckily, that's not what I'm after. I could have gone to Wayne's party if I wanted class. The trouble with that kind of party, though, is that there's only so many pockets you can pick before you run out of space in your purse. That, and I don't think I could stand the company. Fortunately, Luca Inzerillo's mansion has been vacated for the evening and is currently empty.

- and it'll be a little more empty once I'm done with it.

[Barbara Nolan]

Attending high society parties was beginning to become a habit of hers, mused Barbara as she snagged a champagne flute off of a tray that was walking by. Her uncle and aunt had been invited, but Uncle Jim had typically shirked the limelight that came with his position and found something to do at work. Aunt Barbara was at home with Barbara's adopted siblings, both of whom had contracted chicken pox.

A veritable Who's Who of Gotham's rich and powerful swirled around her as she sipped her champagne, eddies forming where acquaintances met and spoke, only to break off and float along until another group was set upon. It was like a dance - a slow moving, extremely boring dance.

No, not boring, Barbara thought. Interesting. She walked along, listening to snippets of conversation when she could, determined to stay unnoticed. Perhaps she could glean something fascinating for her blog. In her fashionable, but off the rack, and relatively inexpensive dress, she was already being ignored by nearly everyone.

[Ted Kord]

The secret about these functions was that no one actually wanted to be there. The wealthy didn't actually want to part with their money regardless of how noble the cause was: it was just a necessary sufferance in order maintain their presence in the public eye.

The not-so-wealthy didn't particularly want to be here either: they were usually experts in some field or other sewn amongst the group in order to get the wealthy talking, in the hopes that their cheque books would open as much as their mouths did. Agent Kord recognised a few of the faces - professors from the university of course, plus a few scientists from Wayne Enterprises, doctors from local hospitals, and other academics who could really help reinforce whatever it was that Oliver Queen had been prattling on about.

The handful of plain clothes detectives and police officers that the GCPD had sewn through the crowd were also there reluctantly. It was a sad truth that in cities like Gotham there was a real danger that a gathering of so many socialites would be an irresistible target for some gang or solo psychopath; but the cops who pulled babysitting duty were familiar with the real Gotham, and seldom appreciated the opportunity to rub shoulders with people whose wealth allowed them to live in this happy little delusion.

And then there was Agent Kord: he was here for an entirely different set of reasons. One of the key weapons on the DEO's arsenal was profiling. By analysing the psychology and technology behind masked criminals and vigilantes, they were able to build a template of what the man behind that mask must be like. It sounded like nothing but guesswork, but it had been that approach that had led the DEO to Ted Kord all those years ago, when he was still gallivanting around Star City in blue tights. And it was that approach, allegedly, that would bag them the Batman.

According to the profile, the driving force behind Batman's crusade suggested that he felt a sense of entitlement and ownership over the city: someone of high enough standing to feel that Gotham was his. He either had the skills to develop technology for himself, like Kord had, or the finances to buy it. His physical performance put him somewhere in his thirties; average height; and average build, given the male population's obsession with staying buff these days.

Ted let out a sigh. Barring a few exceptions, that could sum up just about any man in the room.

His hand strayed subtly to his ear, shielding the small receiver concealed there from the gala's ambient noise. "How's the facial recognition going, Mike?" he asked quietly, making sure to keep up the subtle movements that were allowing the camera concealed in his lapel to sweep the room. "Anyone here who shouldn't be?"

[Guy Gardner]

Among the crowd stood a red-haired man, and unlike many gathered in the room, that night, he was smiling. In Central City, he would have been picked for one of these events because of his tenure. Here in Gotham, he got picked because he was the new guy, and as such he didn't have any say in the matter.

But where most of the undercover MCU operatives wore their suits or dresses with visible stiffness or discomfort, Guy Gardner felt quite at at home and casual in one of his best suits. As such, he appeared the least like a police officer out of the lot, highlighted by the champagne flute in his right hand. An officer on duty isn't allowed to drink, so it was the prefect cover for anyone who might even remotely suspect who he really was. Sure, he might get written up later, but he doubted it. Besides, it was decent champagne, and he wasn't paying for it.

It was a nice enough event, certainly more stiff than the ones he'd attend among Central City's socialites, but having grown up in Baltimore, Guy knew that northern money never had as much fun as southern elite. Not that he swung in those circles often, but there is something to be said about music slightly livelier than a string quartet dirge. Conversation wasn't terribly interesting, either, and it was plain enough to tell the truly wealthy and powerful here from those who had just made it big and were now fighting to hold their place. He'd collected a half-dozen business cards, and handed out a few of his own. His cover? Representative for a Swedish solar power manufacturer looking to expand production in the United States. G'Nort Photovoltaic, his cards read. It was a perfect way to get the needy-greedies to go away, because it meant he would be asking for their money, and a delightful way to bore off anyone who might actually catch on to his cover.

Mr. Queen had delivered a nice enough opening, while Mr. Wayne managed to remain elusive, as Guy had been warned would happen. Over there was Mr. Cobblepot, and... well, he couldn't remember the name of the woman in the yellow dress, down the way, but she was big money, too. Sure, there were intellectual bigwigs he'd love to go talk to, but Guy wasn't there to be social. He was there to be a police officer.

And, speaking of police, there was a girl he recognized from the office. The commissioner's... daughter? Niece? Something or other, she was related to him, that much he remembered after only a week on the job. Pretending to take a sip from his champagne, spotted the table beyond her with shrimp cocktails, and decided that was good enough reason as any to pass by and say hello.

But, as he started, he fought back a cringe. He did succeed in an eye-roll, however, as he saw Ted Kord by the table, his hand going up to his ear. From their encounter earlier that day, he knew just who Mr. Kord was.

Secret agent? More like secret idiot, with that move.

Still, a smile came back to his face as he nodded hello to Barbara. "Miss Gordon, good to see you," he said. "I wasn't aware you would be at this function."

[Barbara Nolan]

Barbara tried to turn her flinch of surprise at being spoken to into something like a nod of recognition, but it probably looked like she was having some sort of seizure. "Ah, well, I wasn't really aware I was coming until this afternoon." She smoothed a hand down the side of her knee length dress, the white skirt covering a mess of black tulle that made it poof out from the bright raspberry pink sash. Maybe it was too prom night. She hadn't had time to change her mind more than once and it wasn't like she could wear the dress she wore a few weeks ago to that other event.

She looked at him with a suspicious half-smile. "It's... Gardner, right? My uncle didn't send you to keep an eye on me, did he? He practically made me come in his place, he could at least let me enjoy myself."

[Guy Gardner]

Flustered or not, Miss Barbara Gordon was at least a refreshing spark of life among the sea of dull rich people. Guy couldn't resist indulging himself in a light chuckle, and he shook his head.

"No, no, Miss Gordon, I am sure that you are free of a chaperone, this evening," he answered. "And, good memory. Yeah, it's Gardner. Guy Gardner."

He paused to look over the crowd once more, this time actually taking a sip from his drink instead of pretending to. "So, forgive me, but I've only been in Gotham a week, now: is it always this dreary at these things? As it's a science and technology fundraiser, I was rather hoping to see... well, some of the stuff we should be raising money for, for starters."

A casual glance back to the shrimp cocktail table showed that Mr. Kord hadn't moved, yet. "And, don't look now, but our resident secret agent is touching his ear, again."

[Barbara Nolan]

She followed his eyes, and chuckled. "Aw, he's adorable. I've only met him once or twice - I tend to hang around the Commissioner's office too much." Trawling for information, she added mentally. She was beginning to talk too much, so she took a breath and then drained her champagne. Smooth, real smooth.

"I think there's a display near the front of the room," she gestured with her empty flute, "With a model of the new buildings they're going to be constructing for the University. Might actually bring Gotham U up to Metropolis standards." Barbara smiled, wondering how old Guy Gardner was...early thirties was her guess. She wasn't really worried about him hitting on her, but then he'd only been with the department a week. Probably wasn't long enough for an intense fear of Jim Gordon's wrath to have settled in.

[Guy Gardner]

Polite nods followed Barbara's words, as well as another sip from his glass. She was cute, and perhaps if he were ten years younger he might make a pass at her, despite knowing who her uncle - yes, uncle, she'd unlocked that part of the mystery for him - was. But he wasn't ten years younger, and as much as he'd love to be a lech, Guy had other interests in the room.

"I was going to attend Metro U, myself, but, family commitments back in Baltimore kept that from happening," he admitted. It was a lie; he didn't go to Metro U because he couldn't afford it. "But, if this lot can improve higher education and everything else around here, more power to them."

A deft left hand plucked another flute of champagne from the tray of a passing server, and he extended it to Barbara. "Couldn't help but see your glass was empty, madam," he smiled. "You know, I would ask if you could introduce me to Mr. Wayne, there, but we're under pretty strict instruction not to bother him, and that he has his own security detail. Though I suppose Mr. Queen would be the one to talk to, now, about some ideas for new toys for the department, wouldn't he. Have you met him, before?"

[Barbara Nolan]

"Oliver Queen?" she squeaked. No, no she didn't. She didn't just squeak. That would be utterly ridiculous. Barbara cleared her throat and added, "Oh, no, I don't know him. But yes, he'd be the one to talk to." She sipped her refreshed drink, and looked around over the rim of the glass.

"If you'll excuse me," she mumbled, pretending she saw someone she knew and giving a half wave in the opposite direction of Oliver Queen.

Way to go, Babs, upholding the family name of being terrible at social events. She edged away from Gardner and tried to find a corner to go die in.

[Michael Holt]

"Facial recognition is working fine, just stop moving around so much," Holt leaned into the mic resting on the table in front of him. "I don't know why you get to be there while I'm stuck here. You're not nearly subtle enough. For instance, you're probably touching your ear."

"I am not," Ted retorted. The video Holt was watching stopped swaying from side to side, allowing the software to capture a few faces and go to work. Nothing was popping up as out of place.

"Look, I'll let you know if anything comes up, Kord. Stop trying to eat your weight in giant cookies."

"I am not," his partner replied, but it sounded more like Mmm mmmgh mot and a large cookie that was floating in the edge of the video feed disappeared.

"Uh, huh, well, all I got to say is you best be bringing me something to eat when you come back." Holt grinned, then reached down and released the break on his wheelchair and eased out from under the desk. His earpiece kept him in touch with Ted, but it sounded like he'd found someone to talk to. Michael rolled to the mini fridge and got himself a bottled water, and then made his way back to the desk and babysitting the computer. And Ted. Mostly Ted.

[Guy Gardner]

Way to go, Gardner. Not even one minute and your boss's niece can't wait to run away from you. You're really off to a great start, you dumbass. Well, so much for good first impressions. Downing the rest of his Champagne, Gardner made a beeline for the shrimp cocktail.

Setting his empty glass on the table, he loaded up a small plate, then took a step sideways to bring him about four feet from Ted Kord, though slightly behind him.

"You make a terrible James Bond, you know that?" the ginger detective said, not facing Kord.

[Ted Kord]

Gardner. Great. Just what I need.

Ted's lips drew into a tight half-smile. "James Bond is hardly the pinacle of espionage, detective. He reveals his name to everyone, and takes outlandish risks that succeed only by a mix of sheer fluke and plot convenience. He is insubordinate, reckless, a manipulative credit-whoring chauvanist, and is more than likely an alcoholic to top it all off."

"As far as espionage goes, James Bond is hardly my aspiration." He shot a quick sidelong glance, dismayed eyes settling on the detective's champagne. "And when it comes to incompetence and inappropriate behaviour, I'm already in the presense of a far more suitable role model."

[Guy Gardner]

The tongs in Guy's hand hovered over the tray of shrimp, selecting only the most plump and succulent ones to go on his plate, followed by a snazzy little cup of cocktail sauce.

When at last Ted had stopped monologuing, Guy set down the tongs, popped a shrimp into his mouth and said, "Yeah, but I didn't lose ten grand in Jame's Bond's stock when his company went bankrupt overnight."

A sly smile was all he needed to accent his words, but for good measure he leaned in close to where he suspected the mic was hiding on Ted's person. "And that's why you don't send Q Branch out into the field."

Chuckling, Gardner left his empty champagne flute behind, clapping Ted on the shoulder before heading off to mingle with the crowd, and see what he could learn with his own angle of espionage.

[Michael Holt]

"Oh snap!" Michael hooted, his fist going to his mouth. "Do we like this cop? I kinda like this one. But he's misinformed - you know I'm a better inventor than you are."

He kept scanning the facial recognition results while Ted started wandering the crowd. Michael said, "Wait, that woman to your right, in the red dress. Turn a bit toward her..." He leaned back a little, admiring the view.

"Did the software flag her?"

"Huh? Oh, nah. But dayum, she looks good."

[Ted Kord]

Do we like this cop?

Ted was only half paying attention to the buzzing pest in his ear. It was like having a nagging housewife, only without any of the emotions, attraction, and perks that made that sort of thing tolerable. No, Michael. We do not.

As Holt's misuse of government equipment revealed itself, Ted's eyes rolled. Casually scratching his jawline with the corner of his thumb, Ted poised his hand in front of the concealed camera. "Let's keep it on task, shall we?" he muttered. "We're meant to be looking for Batman; pretty sure he doesn't have an ass like that."

"Pretty sure?" Holt echoed. "Maybe I should grab some stills for further analysis? Better safe than sorry."

Ted let out a grunt. "You need to get out more," Ted said with a sigh. Despite himself, now that Holt had pointed the woman out, he couldn't not look at her now. He forced his eyes away, hands falling back to his sides as he decided to abandon the buffet in favour of an alternate vantage point. We both do.

[Catwoman]

Kneeling on Luca Inzerillo's king-sized satin sheets, I've got to admit that the boy does not disappoint. At least, his Crest Hill mansion lives up to and exceeds every gaudy expectation I had of him. It's everything a girl could never want and more. Satin and leopard print and even a mirror right above the bed. I glance up at my reflection and smile at the inverted image of myself.

On the way to the master bedroom, I picked up a few souvenirs; a grab bag of trinkets that'll fence easily. Watches, necklaces, even a diamond ring. They're strewn about on the bed behind me. In front of me is Luca's safe, set into the wall and about a minute away from being cracked open.

Everything I've grabbed so far would be more than enough to call this a profitable night – but I can't resist a challenge. Especially not one 'hidden' behind a painting. It'd just be rude to leave that cliche untouched.

[Victor Fries]

This was not exactly Doctor Fries' idea of fun. It might have had some appeal to him once, but he had long since grown cold to the idea of social gatherings. He refused to enjoy them on principle: how could he justify time spent here instead of at his lab? How could he excuse the abandonment of his life-saying work?

The money, of course.

That was the truth of it, when the misguiding surface was scratched away. The Applied Sciences division of Wayne Enterprises had made huge contributions to his work; and they had asked for nothing in return. Fries was a natural sceptic, but even he found himself buying what Oliver Queen was selling. Despite the fact that his cryogenic research could make Wayne Enterprises billions, he had somehow convinced the company to abandon any proprietory claims to the technology. Once Victor succeeded, his work would be available for all, to save as many lives as could be saved.

This was all Oliver Queen asked for his money and support: a few token appearences to bolster Wayne Enterprise's already glowing reputation as a sharing, caring corporation. It was a necessary concession, just like his lectures at Gotham University were mandatory if he expected to continue using the university's facilities to carry out his work.

He just didn't want to be here. He wanted to be there. With her.

His wandering attention returned to the discussion he'd been swept into: several professors, Wayne scientists, and an assortment of presumably important but utterly unfamiliar people discussing the merits and dangers of Gotham City's vigilante epidemic.

"I don't understand the fixation on the psychology," Victor uttered, making a rare contribution. "The costume is practically a social requirement; and bats are noctournal creatures. Journalists and psychologists would have us believe that it's proof that he was beaten as a child, or that he was bitten by a radioactive bat, or some such nonsense. Occam's razor: the simplest answer is usually the right one. Maybe he just really likes bats."

[Jervis Tetch]

"Heh, yes, being bitten by a bat would probably have just given him rabies, after all. Not a penchant for crime fighting." Jervis Tetch sipped his champagne, enjoying the swirl of bubbles down his throat. "But perhaps the Batman -"

"Maybe he enjoys baseball. And all the criminals are balls." The socialite to his left giggled, and Jervis forced himself to smile and nod.

"Yes, well, I was going to say perhaps the Batman finds bats repulsive and so could not think of anything more terrifying to dress as. But that... that works too." He smiled at the woman, who simpered and preened as the temporary focus of attention. Jervis still found it strange how women reacted to him, when they made him feel so uncomfortable. Not that he showed it; he had been to hours and hours of therapy and appeared as comfortable in public as any other person. Perhaps more so, even - there were several of his fellow scientists who were having trouble speaking to anyone other than their coworkers. Jervis felt a little proud that he'd found his way into a diverse little group such as the one he was now conversing with.

Even if some of them were as intelligent as a sack of hammers.

[Alan Scott]

"Whatever his reasons for dressing up as a creature of the night, I do wish he'd stop. All of them, for that matter," spoke Alan Scott. "My journalists and photographers waste far too much time and money trying to get shots or stories of these so-called vigilantes, even though they know damn well I can't broadcast or print a scrap of it. They should be out there looking for real news."

Alan Scott, president of Gotham Brodcasting Services, or GBS for short, was no stranger to such gatherings and events. Despite being in his eighties, he carried himself with the poise and presence of a much younger man, and at 6'2", he could still look down upon most of his peers. Not that he thought that highly of himself, though. No, if anything Mr. Scott had been a humble man about his own life, instead promoting his radio stations, newspapers and television stations far more than he could ever talk about himself. At an age when most men would enjoy the quiet life, Alan Scott relished his job, and it was clear that Wayne Industries liked the way he handled it, as they had made no changes to GBS after acquiring controlling interest.

Sharp in his modern tuxedo, Alan raised his champagne glass in his left hand, the heavy gold and diamond ring upon his middle finger glinting in the room's light, and he carried on. "Besides, with what Wayne Enterprises is trying to do here, there won't be any need for these... costumed vigilantes, soon enough. And that, my friends, is something I can most certainly drink to."

[Dinah Hall]

A flash of light illuminated the group as Dinah snapped a candid shot of Alan Scott raising his glass to his companions. She paused, lowered the camera a bit and smiled at the group. It gave them enough time to arrange themselves and pose politely for the camera's second shot.

Another picture for the society page. She moved on and scanned the room for her next victim... subject.

Not exactly the assignment she had rejoiced at receiving but it gave her an excuse to wear a dress while working for a change and with the free bar it was better than a fashion shoot. Speaking of bar, her gaze wandered towards it to see Oliver Queen speaking with a few potential donors.

Target acquired.

[Carter Hall]

Carter struggled hard against the urge to squirm uncomfortably. Being photographed was hardly something he had a fondness for, and usually he was able to evade the lens of his daughter's camera; but every now and again she caught him unawares.

"Hear, hear," Carter muttered, tipping his champagne flute in Alan Scott's direction as the stealth photographer disappeared. His attention had only partially returned to the group, however: half an eye was still tailing Dinah, and projecting her trajectory through the crowd. A scowl threatened at the corners of his brow.

Damn it, Dinah, he muttered internally. I just don't understand what you see in that boy.

He tore his eyes away, returning them to the circled of allegedly educated minds that had gravitated together. "These vigilante's think they're helping, but they aren't. They labour under the delusion that a costume and a few gimmicks will make them invulnerable: but instead it makes them a target. Idealism and spandex is no substitute training and due process."

He grunted out a sigh. "Until we as a society stop indulging their comic book fantasy, we're condemning ourselves to an ever-worsening spiral of escalation: each hero trying to outdo the newest villain; each villain trying to outdo the newest hero; ad infinitum."

[Ray Palmer]

Fingers pulled at the impeccably neat full windsor knot of his dark blue silk tie, yanking it off and stuffing it in his pocket as he walked. His steps echoed in the mostly empty hallway, the din of the party up ahead growing louder for a brief moment as one of the doors opened.

Ray sighed and paused, tugging open a few buttons of his crisp white shirt and smoothing out the lapels of his navy suit jacket. He'd much prefer a casual mode of dress but such functions demanded formality.

Or, at least, as much formality as Professor Raymond Palmer could be bothered to muster.

Once inside, he paused briefly at the bar to acquire a drink before glancing around the room, taking note of who stood where. He caught sight of Oliver Queen heading towards the bar and stepped away to avoid the inevitable rush that always followed the young man wherever he went. Ray barely stifled a smile as Dinah made her way through the crowd behind Oliver, and wondered where Carter was...and how disapproving his expression would be.

Making his way through the crowd, he joined a group of people around Alan Scott just as Carter finished speaking. He lofted a brow and remained silent, sipping from his drink in order to keep himself from retorting.

[Louise Lincoln]

Her tall, slender frame moved slipped through the lobby of the Wayne Foundation building, heels clicking rhythmically along the inlaid stone floor. The delicate vellum invitation was scrutinized a second time as she passed through a set of glass doors and into atrium, the far side of which had a grand staircase leading up to where the function was being held.

Louise sighed softly, one hand rising to brush a loose lock of hair back into place as she paused near a mirrored pillar. Blue eyes cast to her reflection, eying herself critically for several moments, before gently smoothing out her dress (http://i46.tinypic.com/2upeono.jpg). The sleek, black silk was revealing but still sophisticated, striking the perfect balance for an evening function.

Tucking her clutch under one arm, she proceeded up the stairs and down the hallway, smiling as the door to the impeccable decorated space was opened for her. The din of voices enveloped her as she strode forward, pausing here and there to greet those few people she recognized. A waiter paused at her side, receiving a soft 'thank you' as she plucked a flute of champagne from his silver tray.

After a moment and a sip or two, she found herself on the fringe of a particularly eclectic group. Alan Scott was, as always, holding court, with a number of academics and socialites joined in conversation around him. Louise lifted a hand and delicately tapped Victor on the shoulder, "I didn't think you would ever leave the lab this evening, Doctor Fries." she said with a small smile.

[Alan Scott]

A look of concern came over Alan Scott's face at Carter's last words, and he shook his head.

"Now, I'm not sure I quite agree with that," he said. You all are fairly well too young to remember, but back during the war, and for some short time thereafter, there were heroes who did a damn good job, and the baddies never got the better of them. Of course, that said, once the threats were gone, the heroes disappeared. That, and from what I understood, they actually had some pretty fantastic powers. I rose to the head of GBS on the back of some of those stories, so I can't condemn the idea of heroics completely."

Taking a sip from his champagne, he then continued, "However, in those days we didn't have the technology we do now, and the police force is far better equipped, so I don't see a need for such heroes, powers or not, these days. Capes and tights are all well and good in some of the television shows we make, and some of our comic books, but I don't think anyone could ever make a leap from such fantasy to any form of reality. It's merely entertainment for children, these days. And lonely men who live in their mothers' basement."

[Carter Hall]

"And how many people died as a result of their damn good job, Mister Scott?"

A scowl formed across Carter's brow. "Your news services cloud the facts to fit whatever spin is going to appeal most to the public. The truth is, no one really knows whether it was the heroes or the villains who put on costumes first: but we do know that it escalated. It was a cold war back then, each side building a caped and cowled arsenal against each other. There were more than a few Cuban missile crises; we were damned lucky that those reckless kids playing at comic books didn't bring nuclear winter down on our heads."

He shook his head; his frowning scowl deepened. "We dodged a bullet back then, but from it we learned nothing. We've got a whole new generation of impulsive idiots following the terrible example of the one that came before. No one learned from history's mistakes, Mister Scott, and now we are all doomed to repeat it."

[Alan Scott]

"There are always Huns to any Romans, Dr. Hall," Alan replied. "And I did say 'during the war,' did I not? You seek to find the negative. Living in those days, I felt compelled to consider how many of our boys those costumed men and women saved. Forgive me for being slightly optimistic in my nostalgia.

"And I wouldn't say we learned nothing. The problem is, powers, capes or not, men are still men, and no amount of history can fill the void that greed or avarice has left in so many hearts. Compassion, outreach and our work here, however, can. You don't see me donning tights and running through the streets, do you? Of course not. Nevertheless, I fight injustice with my own weapon: my pocketbook."

[Jervis Tetch]

The conversation had gotten quite away from him after the flash of a camera had distracted Jervis. His eyes followed the blonde photographer as she wound her way through the crowd, and when he returned his attention to the group several others had joined, listening to the back and forth between Professor Hall and Mr. Scott. Their words seemed to have a special weight behind them, as if only those who'd also lived through The War could understand what they were talking about.

Jervis found himself on the outer edges of the group, and wandered away. Too many cooks in the kitchen adding pepper to the soup. His contribution would be lost. He found himself standing by the intricate model of the proposed research center, silently stewing while pretending to admire the workmanship.

[Curtis Knox]

"Ah, someone else who can't stand the prattling of old men."

There was something odd about Doctor Curtis Knox - not just the odd mongrel accent, but his entire demeanour. Despite spending a lifetime in medicine he carried himself like a weary general, and his eyes shone with an odd mix of wisdom, mischief, and mystery. He seemed almost timeless, trapped in that amorphous zone between young and old that made some people's age so hard to guess.

"Curtis Knox," he introduced, with a slight incline of his head. "And you are Jervis Tetch. I've read your work," he added for clarity, to reassure against any untoward stalking. "Impressive."

[Jervis Tetch]

"Ah, yes, thank you," Jervis managed not to stammer. He looked back at the group he'd just abandoned. "I've been instructed to mingle." He couldn't help the slight curl of his lip which indicated his distaste of the assignment.

Taking about his research was much easier than trying to engage another social butterfly in conversation. "I am working on another paper - hopefully to be published next year. Very exciting developments regarding brain structure and how we might manipulate it." Jervis patted his jacket pocket absently while he was talking, then clasped his hands behind his back.

[Kendra Saunders]

Hazel eyes swept across the crowd as she made her way through it, smiling softly and politely inclining her head towards Agent Kord as she passed. The click of her stiletto heels was lost in the chorus of voices that rose in concert, one trying to top the other as the usual discussions and colorful arguments broke out.

It was enough to give a girl a headache.

Kendra muttered under her breath and strode over to the bar, suddenly incredibly thankful that it was 'free". That simply made everything more tolerable. But, she mused, glancing over the drinks menu, she was on duty tonight. So it was a fruity, non-alcoholic concoction she ordered, thanking the bartender as he placed it before her.

She plucked one of the cherries out and savored the taste of it as she leaned back against the bar. Her free hand smoothed out the soft fabric of her dress (http://i45.tinypic.com/rky2bd.jpg) before gently touching her up-swept locks, ensuring that not a single one was out of place.

[Curtis Knox]

Knox nodded along with Tetch's words, but in truth at least some small fraction of his attention was captured by the woman in the white dress who strode past. There was nothing sordid or untoward in the way that his eyes followed her across the room: if nothing else she was far too young; not to mention the fact that his tastes were far too discerning and refined.

No: it was familiarity that drew his gaze. Detective Saunders had visited him at Arkham a few days ago, bringing with her the DEO agent who had been loitering around the buffet for quite some time. He smiled quietly to himself; despite their best efforts, the gathering's covert security wasn't nearly so covert if you'd actually met them before.

He turned his attention back to Jervis, adjusting his expression into one of interest. "Manipulating brain structure?" It was an intriguing prospect, with so much potential: everything from the benevolence of repairing brain damage to the more sinister applications of mind control. "Purely for medicinal applications, I hope."

[Jervis Tetch]

"Medicinal purposes. Of course," agreed Jervis. "Mostly I have been testing the technology's mental health applications. But, and this is just a theory at this point, if one could stimulate the right portion of the brain one might be able to increase reflexes. Creating a meta-human could very well be within the realm of this science."

He always added things like that when he was speaking to donors. The military practically frothed at the mouth at the thought of amping their soldiers up. Could he create a super-man? Jervis was very careful to never say yes. Muscles and healing were physical things, beyond the realm of reshaping the landscape of someone's grey matter. Reflexes, reaction times, and pain thresholds were brain and nerve related.

Not that he'd really been studying any of that. It was all... incidental to his real research. Jervis resisted the urge to check his pocket again.

[Curtis Knox]

Creating a meta-human.

That notion in and of itself was equal parts intriguing and alarming. For as long as the human race had been aware of the special abilities that some of it's members possessed, they had attempted to find ways to replicate it. In ancient times they relied of magic, spirituality, and divine intervention; in the modern day it was chemistry and cybernetics that took the foreground.

Humanity was obsessed with bettering itself, and unlocking hidden potential. It was with a strange melancholy that Curtis mused over whether or not such aspirations were born from hope and optimism, or from deep-rooted insecurities that being only human was not 'good enough'. Perhaps both.

"An intriguing prospect," Knox admitted with a bow of his head. "God knows we need a few breakthroughs in the mental health field: there's only so much we can do with talking therapies and drug cocktails." He offered what he hoped was a friendly and reassuring smile. "If you ever find yourself at a loss for funding, Doctor Tetch, Arkham Asylum would be more than happy to help support your research."

[Oliver Queen]

Oliver Queen was bored. It wasn't that he was being forced to endure unpleasant conversation - on the contrary, he'd managed to stumble across one of the plain clothes detectives at the bar, and was in the middle of a joke about how he was probably funding at least half of her department in speeding fines alone. Most of the undesirable conversations were being soaked up by the assortment of scientists and professors he'd seeded into the crowd: that incredible feat of social strategy was working surprisingly well.

His boredom stemmed more from being here, and not being out there. Functions like this were necessary: high profile events that fooled the public into believing that Oliver Queen still had an active nocturnal social life, and drew suspicion away from him being the man behind the hood. That didn't mean that he enjoyed them. The much younger man who'd made front pages with his trust funded, alcohol-fuelled exploits was long gone, beaten to death by military training and island solitude. He played the part from time to time; but in truth, Oliver Queen the socialite was the mask, the costume. Green Arrow was his truer self.

"- and that's why I'm not allowed to ride the Metro any more." His eyebrows twitched into a slight frown. "I never did get those pants back."

Laughter followed, and Oliver gestured to the barman for another drink, shifting his position to gaze out at the party he'd fabricated, and the familiar faces he'd invited. There was Jervis Tetch, crowbarred out of the lab, and now talking to the mildly unsettling administrator from Arkham Asylum. There was Victor Fries, the cryogenics expert who Ollie had agreed to give funding to purely on the basis of his amusingly apt name; he had no idea what Louise had done to convince him to attend, but he was glad she'd succeeded. There was Carter Hall, who Oliver had only invited because he knew how much it would annoy the old guy: no matter how intensely Carter seemed to hate him, Oliver knew that his odd sense of manners would make it impossible for him to turn down an invitation. There was Dinah, the world's most photogenic photojournalist, making a beeline directly for him. There was the DEO agent, who'd shown up with fancy paperwork to strong-arm Oliver into inviting -

Oliver's brain leapt back a few carriages on that train of thought, gaze settling on Dinah. Heading directly for him, and the probably suspicious-looking conversation he was having with an attractive redhead at the bar. A knot began to form in his stomach.

"Hey, Dinah," he blurted out, mustering what he hoped would look like a charming smile. "Allow me to introduce Detective Kendra Saunders, one of the people Gotham's finest sent to keep us all safe from crazy supervillains." He gestured a hand between the two women. "Detective, this is Dinah Hall: probably the most talented photographer on the planet."

[Dinah Hall]

"You're just saying that because I don't chase you around the city trying to snap photo's of you in compromising situations." Her eyebrows twitched a bit as a knowing smile played across her lips. Dinah leaned past Oliver and gave a quick order for a dry Martini to the bartender.

Dinah slid back to her upright stance,"Detective," and slung her camera over her shoulder. "Aside from trying to keep the intellectual elite from boring the pseudo-aristocrates out of their minds, what brings one of Gotham's finest to this little shindig tonight?"

She was genuinely curious at the number of undercover individuals she had spotted in the room. They all looked the part, but there was something just a bit off about them. Not interested in the technical conversations of the scientists nor the banter between differing political opinions, not even the various chit chat of current social scandals; they moved about quietly and politely among the crowd.

If Dinah had been attending the gathering as a guest she may have missed the difference, but in doing her own rounds grabbing photos of people she picked up on the subtle difference. In her opinion, it went a little beyond your average security measures for the attendees who might be interested in a little corporate espionage.

The bartender handed her the Martini and Dinah took a sip. "I mean, you don't strike me as the simple security guard type."

[Kendra Saunders]

The immediate shift in Oliver's stance from pretty rich-boy socialite to little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar was as amusing as it was abrupt. She might not be the expert in body language that so many others were, but Dinah's approach certainly made things even more interesting.

Kendra smiled bright as she stood a little bit straighter, and took another sip from her drink. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hall."

Hall? Dina Hall...the name and the face floated about in an almost disjointed fashion for a few moments. Hazel eyes slid across the room to where she already knew Carter was standing, the strange sensation returning to sit heavily in her chest. His daughter. About her age. Well. Didn't that make things more...interesting.

Her mind circled back to the present conversation, as she smiled and shook her head, expression turning rueful. "I'm usually not, as an MCU detective. Normally, this isn't our purview. But my department works with the DEO and I'm here as a liaison to the DEO presence." Her words were polite and her tone even, but it would likely be obvious that there was much more behind them.

Hazel eyes drifted back to Carter briefly, before she shifted her stance, turning slightly more towards Oliver and Dinah instead. "I have to say, Miss Hall, I've greatly admired some of your work. How did you ever get into photojournalism?"

[Dinah Hall]

Dinah took a delicate sip of her martini, "My father actually introduced me to the camera as a child." A memory of Carter giving her a small point and shoot one Christmas and patiently teaching her how to use it surfaced in her mind.

"It was his way to keep me preoccupied, out of his hair and," she broke out into a wide smile, "ultimately a little quieter on our summer digs. I quickly discovered I love catching the unnoticed moments in time often overlooked by people. There is a certain beauty in every moment, even in the most tragic." Her smiled faded.

She looked directly into Kendra's eyes. "Who would I talk to about doing a ride along? I've had my fill of the society page and would like to get back to doing more serious work."

[Kendra Saunders]

Head canted to the side as she listened, Kendra found herself gently nodding. "I can certainly agree to that." she added quietly, her own smile fading a bit after Dinah's did. Fond memories of her childhood exploits in her father's garage, climbing around the cars he was working on, causing trouble until he gave in and started teaching her.

Arching a sculpted brow, Kendra sipped from from her drink, savoring the taste of the sweet concoction, absently wondering about recreating it at home. But with vodka, which would make it sublime.

Hazel eyes met Dinah's direct gaze as she answered with a thoughtful tone. "Depends on who you want to ride along with, really. But anyone of at least Captain level can you official permission. You're more than welcome to come with me, though, providing you don't mind someone who drives a fair bit faster than she should. If I wasn't a detective, I'm fairly certain I'd have racked up more speeding tickets than Mister Queen here." her expression brightened with a bit of mirth and mischief as she took another sip.

[Oliver Queen]

"I've only ever had two speeding tickets, thank you very much," Oliver muttered defensively, swallowing a defiant mouthful of his drink. The silent hesitation that followed undermined his point somewhat. "Okay, so I have a DUI, and I was once written up for driving whilst naked -" It was hard to tell whether the small smile he threw in Dinah's direction was nervous or embarrassed. "- but only two for speeding."

Another awkward moment appeared, and Oliver decided that coughing to himself would help dislodge it. It didn't work. He offered the ladies a smile each, and these ones were definitely embarrassed.

"Oh, look," he said suddenly, picking a random direction and pointing in it. "There's some person that, I really should, you know -" He downed the rest of his drink in one and reached awkwardly between Kendra and Dinah to set it down on the bar. Another smile. "- do the whole socialising thing."

With that he made as speedy an exit as he could without breaking into an actual run, swooping through the scattered clusters of conversationalists that had broken away from the main party group. As he passed he retrieved a glass of champagne from a waitress working her way through the crowd; a growl from his stomach reminded him that he should probably eat before he drunk too much more. However, the integrity of his lie was provisional on him actually finding someone to talk to; a conversation with the buffet probably wouldn't cut it.

Reaching his randomly selected member of the crowd, he placed a hand gently on their arm, voice dropping into a quiet but smiling half-whisper. "I don't think I actually know you, but if you could pretend to talk to me for a few minutes so the women I left by the bar don't think I'm a total crazy person, I would really appreciate it."