Green Arrow
Sep 18th, 2013, 06:14:21 PM
Gotham City.
Oliver Queen wrinkled his nose as he stared at the sky. It had been glorious and sunny back in Star City, but here in Gotham the skies were overcast and the air weighed on him like lead. The city was in mourning, and it seemed like the weather had decided to get in on the action.
Carefully, he shifted his grip on the handle of the suitcase that he'd refused to let the airline staff separate him from. It wasn't that he didn't trust airlines with his luggage per se, though honestly he didn't; but there were certain things that you just didn't allow out of your sight no matter how trusting you were.
Gaze returning to the ground, Oliver's eyes swept ahead of him, settling on the stoic figure that had clearly arrived to meet him. The Englishman didn't wave, didn't gesture, didn't move; he didn't need to, same as always.
Alfred Pennyworth. The man with 'Keep Calm and Carry On' tattooed on his soul.
It never ceased to amaze Oliver that, despite Alfred's eternal stoic nature and stiff upper lip, you could always tell exactly what he thought of you. In Oliver's case, that opinion had been negative more often than positive. Which made the unexpected phone call from the Wayne family butler all the more surprising.
If he's asking me for help, he really must be desperate.
Oliver on the other hand was much less easy to read. He didn't guard his intentions emotionally: he just had one of those faces and auras that didn't really give all that much away. It meant that when he did want emotions to show through, he had to force it: had to be the wild extrovert, the cliché romantic, the raging ball of righteous fury.
He forced a smile. Alfred didn't respond in kind of course, but that wasn't even remotely a surprise, all things considered. Instead, he simply shifted his gaze ever so slightly towards Oliver's case.
"I assume you'll want to put that in the boot, Master Queen?"
Oliver had no idea why the British called it that, but then he supposed that calling it a 'trunk' wasn't that much more logical either. Before he had the opportunity to say anything on the matter, Alfred had already sprung gracefully into action, popping the latch and standing beside the open trunk lid like some kind of five star hotel doorman. Oliver hefted the case of his most important worldly possessions into the back of the car, and only just managed to snatch his hands out of the way before Alfred swung the lid closed. A fraction of a second later, Alfred was already at one of the rear doors, holding it open for Oliver to enter. Ollie ignored him completely, stepping around him towards the front of the car instead.
A flicker of discomfort swept across Alfred's features. "Passengers usually sit in the back," he explained.
"And yet," Oliver countered, "The one in the front is called the passenger seat."
A sense of victory tugged at the back of Oliver's mind as he watched that faint flash of surrender in the butler's eyes. While Oliver had been born into the same kind of money as Bruce Wayne, his home had always been the most modern that money could buy, not labouring under some outdated tradition imported from England along with the first colonial settlers. He'd made it his mission every time he encountered Alfred to try and grind away at the veneer of propriety that Alfred was coated in, and make the man speak to him like a normal human being.
Now, that quest seemed more important than ever. Though Alfred would never admit it, Bruce Wayne had to all intents and purposes been his son. That wasn't the kind of loss you could just soldier on through, no matter how much resolve and determination you had.
The clunk of Alfred's door and the click of his seatbelt heralded the beginning of a long, awkward silence, one that lasted as the butler manoeuvred the car away from the runway, between the terminals and hangers, and out onto the open road beyond Gotham City Airport. It lasted all the way into the downtown afternoon traffic; to Oliver's surprise, it was Alfred who broke it.
"I've made arrangements for you to use the penthouse of the Wayne Foundation Building," he explained, the skyscraper in question looming a few blocks ahead. "I presumed you would prefer not to stay at the mansion."
"Why am I here, Alfred?" Oliver blurted out, not the response the butler was looking for nor the one that Oliver had expected to give, but rather the only sentence that really mattered.
A slow sigh escaped from Alfred as his shoulders sagged, and for the first time he looked more man than Superman, the lines and creases etched into his features seeming deeper than ever. "I am worried about them," he said finally. "About all of them, but -"
He trailed off. "Bruce was a father to all of his wards. He may not always have acted like it overtly, but they all loved and respected him. He was their compass; it was his approval they craved." His brow tugged into the slightest of frowns. "He always complained about being in Bruce's shadow, but I think deep down he needed it. He may have skirted the edge of that shadow too many times, but as long as he never stepped beyond it he never went too far. But with that shadow gone, there is no telling how far he will go."
Oliver's frown was deeper, and more puzzled. There were many "he's" in the Batman family, but for the most part Dick and Tim were remarkably well adjusted young men, given the circumstances. "Damian?" he guessed; the al-Ghul boy trained as an assassin since birth and the only one to be the biological son of Bruce Wayne seemed like a good guess.
Alfred's answer was only one word. "Jason."
An invisible hand tightened around Oliver's chest. Every family had it's black sheep, but the Wayne Family's was blacker than most. Jason Todd had never been the most law abiding or well-adjusted of sidekick candidates, but after his brutal murder at the hands of the Joker, and after being brought back through the twisted magic of the Lazarus Pits by Talia al-Ghul, Jason's train had begun to run seriously off the rails. He had no qualms about killing when he felt it was necessary, and the only thing that kept him from putting bullets in the heads of every villain in Gotham was the fear of what Batman would do to him if he did. With Batman gone -
No wonder Alfred is worried.
It explained why Alfred had contacted him of all people, too. Oliver's hands weren't blood-free either: he'd walked the vengeance path more than once, but he'd found a way to turn back. Doing so didn't vindicate his actions, but he was on a road to redemption and fully intended to keep walking down it for the rest of his life, until fate decided his time was up. Again.
"I'll talk to him," Oliver promised. He peered out of the window at Gotham's grubby streets, before glancing back to the butler. "Assuming I can find him, of course."
"Jason never really grasped the detective skills that Master Bruce tried to teach him," Alfred mused. "I imagine if you look for the most obvious place to find criminals, that is where he will be."
* * *
You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.
Jason Todd knew that for a fact: he'd trawled the underbelly of Gotham City looking for every mob bar, every illegal casino, every known venue that Gotham's worst was known to frequent. He'd scoped out the Monarch Theatre. He'd even snuck into the Iceberg Lounge, and shoved a .44 in the Penguin's face to see if he couldn't shake a few leads loose. It was surprising how eagerly the fat little bird could sing if you shattered a few bones for motivation.
It all led here: the Lonely Hearts Club, some swanky new joint on the edge of one of the scummy neighbourhoods that the city was trying to keep up. Some out of towner looking to take advantage of the generous subsidies and tax incentives Gotham was offering to those who helped gentrify the neighbourhood.
Though he didn't like the we can fix everything if we throw enough money at it attitude - it reminded him too much of Bruce - he did like the alleyway that ran alongside the club's kitchens and staff exits. It was dark, the shadows were deep; and as he was currently demonstrating with the squirming ex-con employee that Jason was holding shoved against the greasy brick walls by the scruff of his shirt, it was the perfect venue for a little motivational speaking.
"I told you, man!" the ex-con protested. His heart rate, breathing, and the pitch of his voice all spiked as Jason's free hand cocked the hammer on his Desert Eagle. "I don't know nothing, I swear!"
"You know something," Jason scowled and growled, the ex-con's poor grammar not withstanding. He brought the pistol to bear square between his victim's eyes. His voice dropped to a deep snarl. "Where is he? Where is the Joker?"
Jason heard the sound, but didn't have time to react to whistling hiss of an arrow shooting through the air, slamming full force into his gun and wrenching the pistol from his grip. His scowl aimed anew, settling on the the Emerald Archer silhouetted on the rooftop opposite, another arrow already nocked and ready to fire.
"Put him down, Jason." Green Arrow's voice didn't falter in the slightest. "You don't know where he's been."
The leather of Jason's gloves creaked as his knuckles clenched into fists. "Are you lost, Robin Hood?" Despite his obvious anger, he still managed to inject an arrogant swagger into his words. "Last time I checked, the forest you and your men in tights are supposed to protecting was on the West Coast."
"Men in tights?" Oliver echoed, with something that was almost a chuckle. "This, coming from the kid who thought lime green hot pants and a yellow cape was a good idea?"
There was a groan of tension from the bowstring as Oliver drew it back further, and suddenly all the mirth from his voice was gone. "I won't tell you again, kid. Put him down."
"Or what? You'll -"
Jason never finished the sentence, his words exploding into a grunt of pain as Oliver's arrow slammed mercilessly into his hand, wrenching it open and depositing the ex-con in an unceremonious heap. In an instant Green Arrow had abandoned his perch, kicking off the wall as he descended to propel him into the perfect position to line up another shot: this time aimed squarely at Jason's head.
"The first two arrows were blunted," Oliver explained from beneath his hood. The dim night light glinted off the sharpened sheen on the arrowhead's edge. "This one isn't."
He could see the muscles tensing across Jason's shoulders; could see the silent calculations behind his eyes. No one in their right mind would try to attack the world's finest bowman at this range; but then, Jason Todd was hardly in his right mind. A stern look shone from Oliver's eyes like omega beams, imploring Jason to back down.
Jason's shoulder's slumped; Oliver felt an internal sigh of relief wash over him as he loosened the draw on his arrow. He spared a quick thought for the ex-con, though didn't take his eyes off his main target. "Are you just going to lie there," he grunted, "Or are you going to run away before I change my mind and let Anger Management here shoot you after all?"
The ex-con probably tried to make words, but they were swallowed by the sound of him shuffling away. Oliver paid attention long enough for his escape to succeed; the fire escape slammed closed with a resonating thud. Half a second later, Oliver's fist - bow still in hand - connected with Jason's face.
From the alley floor, Jason looked up with more surprise and confusion than anger. He faintly pressed the back of his hand against his nose; sniffed against the small trickle of blood that had begun to leak into the sweaty stubble of his upper lip. His mouth turned into a faint grin. "That's how you want to play, huh?"
"Play?" Oliver echoed harshly, not just a note but an entire overture of disapproval in his tone. "Do you think this is some kind of game?"
"I don't have time for lectures," Jason grunted, clambering back to his feet.
"No," Oliver agreed. "You don't time for questions either. Or for thinking from the looks of things." His expression twisted into a frown of disbelief. "What exactly is your plan here? Keep roughing people up until they point you in the right direction, then kick the doors down and go in guns blazing?"
Jason's jaw clenched. "Something like that."
"And what about the innocent bystanders?" Oliver pressed. "Are all the minimum wage kitchen workers part of this gang you're chasing? All the customers and patrons too? Or is it just a matter of wrong place, wrong time, tough luck?"
"Everyone is guilty of something."
Oliver's disbelief peaked at an almost laugh. "And it's your job to bring them to Todd brand justice for their sins?"
Jason shrugged. "Doesn't really seem like anyone else is gonna bother any time soon."
A grunt of disgust escaped from the archer. "I had a friend who thought like once. Name of Hal Jordan. Of course, he was possessed by the Angel of Vengeance at the time, which is pretty solid as far as excuses go. So what's yours? Resurrection mess you up in the head? Daddy issues because Bruce didn't kill the mean nasty clown that beat you up?"
Jason's anger flared. "I died -"
"Nearly died," Oliver interrupted. "And then Damian's mom dumped you in a Lazarus Pit, which is why you've got those fancy highlights in your hair and a head full of emotional scars. I actually died, was magically resurrected without my soul for a while, and I'm still less screwed up than you are. You wave your damage around like it's a shield to protect you from reprisals and responsibilities, but in truth it's just a lens magnifying how pitiful you've become."
He shook his head. "It's a good job Bruce never threw everything away to avenge you. The man you've become would not have been worth it."
Jason's fist clenched so tightly that his arm practically shook; but something in him stepped forward, and cracked his anger just enough for a little restraint to shimmer through. "You would have done it. If you were in his place... you would have killed the Joker. I know you would have."
"Damn right I would have." The muscles in Oliver's jaw bunched. "When Prometheus broke into the Watchtower; when he took Roy's arm, killed my granddaughter, I hunted that son of a bitch down and I put an arrow between his eyes. And as I watched the blood pooling out from the hole I'd made in his skull, it felt right."
He hesitated for a moment. "But it wasn't enough. Killing him didn't bring Lian back. It didn't take the pain away. And so I started targeting the people who'd helped him. And Mia? Speedy? She... I was supposed to be her example of what was right, and so she followed me down that path, nearly killed someone herself just because I'd shown her it was the right thing to do."
"A hell of a lot more people look up to Batman than look up to me." Oliver's eyes locked squarely on Jason's. "And when people start walking that path the way that you and I have, it takes a hell of a lot for them to stop; and they lose everything. We lose our families. We lose everyone's respect. We stop being heroes, and we become hypocrites: just as bad as the people we're trying to stop."
Oliver shrugged. "You've got a simple choice to make: either you stop, or you don't. But if you don't, you might as well swap out those guns and that mask for a crowbar and clown make-up, because by the time you're done no one will be able to tell the difference between you and the rest of the villains out there."
Jason stared and glared into the eyes that peered out from beneath Green Arrow's hood, no clearer on what he was going to do next than Oliver was. Finally, he mustered a few words. "You talk too much," he grunted.
Oliver managed a laugh. "Yeah, I get told that a lot."
The archer shifted awkwardly. "So, are you gonna do some more shoot first and ask questions later, or are we going to find this Royal Flush Gang of yours the proper way." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I passed a strip club a few blocks back there, so I'm fine either way."
Jason arched an eyebrow. "And what is the proper way? We get our information with hugs and kittens?"
"No," Oliver countered firmly. "We do it the right way. We do it Bruce's way."
* * *
Jason peered out from beneath the windshield, the stark brutalist box of Ace Chemical looming ahead of them on the water front. The sight of the building, and the implications that it's history presented filled him with a profound sense of unease; Jason's mind reacted to that weakness of emotion with a wave of anger, coursing through his body like white blood cells hunting a disease.
"This is stupid," he grunted, eyes narrowing to a scowl behind his domino mask.
"It's the only place that makes sense," Oliver replied, verbally shrugging off Jason's comment. "They hit the clinic at 10 Park Row. A warehouse at the old Navy Yards. The Queen Consolidated offices downtown. The Arthurian Theatre."
He turned, eyeing Jason intently. "Ten, Jack, Queen, King. Ace is the only target that fits the pattern."
Jason's jaw clenched. "You're assuming these thugs are smart enough to know that 'Knave' is another name for the Jack card," he countered, admittedly a little embarrassed that he hadn't known that himself, but not about to admit it. "But even if your stab-in-the-dark is right: these guys aren't the Riddler or Cluemaster. If they're leaving a trail for us to follow, it's probably so they can lead us into a trap."
"Of course it's a trap," Oliver muttered, shoving the driver-side door open and climbing to his feet. He hesitated, peering back into the car's interior. "You coming?"
As they worked their way through the shadows of the parking lot and loading bays, Jason found himself with a profound understanding of how Mutley must have felt, frustrated and griping to himself about the stupidity of Dick Dastardly's plans. Admittedly, Oliver wasn't still sporting the stupid trimmed facial hair any more, but what he lacked in visual similarity to Dastardly, he certainly made up for by being an oversized Dick.
Jason's hands flexed impatiently on his pistol grips, tech enhancements in his helmet trying to filter through the ambient steam and noise for heat signatures; movement spikes; anything.
A hand shot forward, the cold steel of a Desert Eagle tapping against Oliver's bare forearm. "Two o'clock high," Jason growled softly, eyes focused on the faint silhouette that he'd spotted in infra red.
Oliver nodded. "In the shadows to the left," he added, not making any visible indication. "Ducked behind the middle steam valve."
He'd caught a glimpse of the figure darting from cover to cover out of his peripheral vision; one of the only sensory perks that Jason's full-facial helmet didn't grant him. Practice and experience at spotting those sorts of things gave him a vague guess at who the blur had belonged to: female probably, judging from the height; and a pretty quick and nimble woman at that. He rolled his shoulders, preparing for the inevitable fist fight that was bound to occur.
Oliver pressed forward, weaving through the deepest shadows that the tanks and pipes and scattered crates could offer; but the chemical maze came to an abrupt end, an open clearing that Oliver couldn't help feeling that they'd been driven towards.
A figure appeared, a calm swagger turning his otherwise smart brown pinstripe suit strangely casual. "Welcome, Mister Queen," he called, a deeply unsettling grin forming on his features. "You're right on time."
Clock King. Or at least, one of them. This wasn't William Tockman, who'd turned to crime to pay his sister's medical bills, and blamed Green Arrow for her death because Oliver had helped send him to jail. That Clock King were dead and gone, killed on an errand for the Suicide Squad. But this heir? Of him Oliver new practically nothing, aside from the fact that he had a slightly less niche perspective on fashion.
"Well," Oliver uttered quietly, stepping into view, no point in hiding any longer. "That certainly explains why the Flush Gang's heists were so meticulously planned."
Clock King flashed a smile. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my emerald friend." He cocked his head to the side in thought for a moment. "Not that you were ever going to make it out of here alive."
"And who is going to stop us?" Jason cut in, snarling like an angry pitbull on a leash. "You and what army?"
Oliver's eyes snapped to Jason, shooting him an emphatic Really? glare.
"We don't need an army," a voice interrupted: feminine, sultry, and predatory. From another shadowed corner stepped Veronica Sinclair. Even without her signature revealing red dress, her hips still swayed like a viper; the ruthlessness of a woman who kidnapped metahumans and forced them to fight each other for sport shone bright in her eyes. "There's only five of us, and we still have you completely surrounded."
On clue, the figure that Oliver must have spotted earlier stepped into view, her petite form an odd mismatch to the oversized sledgehammer propped casually over her shoulder. Her look had changed, boots, corsets, and two-tone pigtails of red and blue replacing the gymnast jester ensemble she'd always worn before, but her identity was unmistakable.
"Roulette, and Harley Quinn," Oliver acknowledged, partly to warn his companion, and partly to vent his surprise: these three were B-List, a much higher calibre of villain than the Royal Flush Gang would usually boast. Still, only three of it's supposed members were in sight; and Oliver knew he'd feel a lot better about being surrounded if he knew exactly who or what was surrounding him.
"So -" he stared, taking a single step into the chemical colosseum they'd been herded into. "- he's the King, Roulette's the Queen, and Harley is the Ace? Whose missing?"
"Harley is a Ten," an eerily mirthful voice echoed from the shadows, followed by the faint hint of a chuckle at the pun. The voice was instantly recognisable, and yet something was different: an undercurrent of ruthless intent that sounded far too rational for the typically psychotic and deranged Joker.
"I'm the Ace."
Jason's heart rate quickened. he could hear the blood pounding in his ears, louder and louder with every word the clown uttered. His fists clenched tighter; his mind reminded him of every agonising sound and sensation of the crowbar smashing into his flesh, shattering his bones and his mind alike.
His resolve snapped, and both pistols levelled themselves at the shaded outline of the Joker. "Enough talk," he snarled. "It's time someone wiped that smug smile off your -"
A faint whistle was the only warning Jason recieved before the arrow errupted through his chest, razor-sharp tip breathing through his ribs and his kevlar vest with ease. His eyes turned to Oliver in disbelief, but the archer's attention was elsewhere, bow aimed somewhere above and behind them. Jason tried to turn and look, but his legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled to the floor before he had a chance.
"Oh, and that's Jack," Joker added, sounding a little too pleased with himself.
Bow drawn, Oliver trained his sights on the shooter: an archery villain if the top-of-the-line custom crossbow was anything to go by, but no one that Oliver was specifically familiar with. Then again, with a featureless black mask that completely covered his face from the eyebrows down, and shoulder length raven black hair that obscured the rest, there wasn't really all that much to recognise.
He calculated his chances; it'd take two or three shots to incapacitate the other archer, and by that time he'd have the others to worry about. Clock King would have everything planned and predicted so that he didn't have to lift a finger; Harley was pretty brutal and unpredictable with that hammer of hers, and Roulette was no slouch when it came to hand to hand, either. Without Jason keeping everyone off-balance by indiscriminately firing bullets everywhere -
"Here's the thing, Ollie," the Joker cut in, interrupting his thoughts and apparently taking a great amount of pleasure in using Green Arrow's real name. "I don't want to kill you. I don't even want to kill the alias-stealing knock-off here either."
He unleashed a theatrical sigh. "Batman is dead, god bless his grief-blackened soul. He's gone. The bad guys won. This city belongs to us, fair and square."
His chlorine-bleached brow furrowed. "If I kill you, that will just pave the way for new heroes to stroll in and try to take back my city: and you heroes breed like rabbits. I'll hve to call in an exterminator, and then the Justice League will shove their lycra-clad noses into my business..." Another sigh, as if it was all some tirelessly trivial ordeal that he didn't deserve to deal with it. "I'll never see the end of it."
"So here's the deal, green bean. You have two options: you chase us, I let Harley and Jack wail on you until your insides are your outsides, both of you die, and we get away -"
With a grunt, the Joker hefted a small duffel bag, and tossed it unceremoniously at Ollie's feet. "- or, you take the medical supplies we boosted from the clinic in the Narrows, we walk out of here without you even trying to stop us, and maybe, just maybe, the Bat family wont have another funeral to plan."
He cracked a broad grin, rotten yellowed teeth all on display. "Whadayasay, Greenie?"
There was no choice; no decision. He knew what Batman would have done; he knew what Jason would have wanted. Hell, he knew what probably most people in their right mind would have wanted him to do, for the greater good. But Oliver just didn't give a damn; there were some morals that you just didn't shrug off.
His arms fell to his sides; his bow clattered as it landed on the factory's concrete floor. "This isn't over," he warned, his voice strangely quiet. "We'll find you. We'll catch you. And when we do, the box we throw you in won't be a padded cell in Arkham."
Between the shadows and the grin, the Joker looked practically demonic. "Good. Because without the Bat, I was worried things around here would get boring."
With a cackling laugh that echoed everywhere, the Joker and his entourage disappeared back into the shadows from whence they came. A wheezing cough escaped from beneath Jason's mask; "I told you it was a trap," he muttered faintly.
Oliver crouched beside him. "I know you did," he replied, fumbling with the latches necessary to remove the mask. Beneath, Jason's face had already turned pale from shock, a trickle of blood from his punctured lung collecting at the corner of his mouth. Grim guilt wrapped around Oliver's internals; he placed a hand on Jason's shoulder, and looked him straight in the glazed over eyes.
"Just do me a favour and don't die, okay?"
* * *
Oliver Queen wrinkled his nose as he stared at the sky. It had been glorious and sunny back in Star City, but here in Gotham the skies were overcast and the air weighed on him like lead. The city was in mourning, and it seemed like the weather had decided to get in on the action.
Carefully, he shifted his grip on the handle of the suitcase that he'd refused to let the airline staff separate him from. It wasn't that he didn't trust airlines with his luggage per se, though honestly he didn't; but there were certain things that you just didn't allow out of your sight no matter how trusting you were.
Gaze returning to the ground, Oliver's eyes swept ahead of him, settling on the stoic figure that had clearly arrived to meet him. The Englishman didn't wave, didn't gesture, didn't move; he didn't need to, same as always.
Alfred Pennyworth. The man with 'Keep Calm and Carry On' tattooed on his soul.
It never ceased to amaze Oliver that, despite Alfred's eternal stoic nature and stiff upper lip, you could always tell exactly what he thought of you. In Oliver's case, that opinion had been negative more often than positive. Which made the unexpected phone call from the Wayne family butler all the more surprising.
If he's asking me for help, he really must be desperate.
Oliver on the other hand was much less easy to read. He didn't guard his intentions emotionally: he just had one of those faces and auras that didn't really give all that much away. It meant that when he did want emotions to show through, he had to force it: had to be the wild extrovert, the cliché romantic, the raging ball of righteous fury.
He forced a smile. Alfred didn't respond in kind of course, but that wasn't even remotely a surprise, all things considered. Instead, he simply shifted his gaze ever so slightly towards Oliver's case.
"I assume you'll want to put that in the boot, Master Queen?"
Oliver had no idea why the British called it that, but then he supposed that calling it a 'trunk' wasn't that much more logical either. Before he had the opportunity to say anything on the matter, Alfred had already sprung gracefully into action, popping the latch and standing beside the open trunk lid like some kind of five star hotel doorman. Oliver hefted the case of his most important worldly possessions into the back of the car, and only just managed to snatch his hands out of the way before Alfred swung the lid closed. A fraction of a second later, Alfred was already at one of the rear doors, holding it open for Oliver to enter. Ollie ignored him completely, stepping around him towards the front of the car instead.
A flicker of discomfort swept across Alfred's features. "Passengers usually sit in the back," he explained.
"And yet," Oliver countered, "The one in the front is called the passenger seat."
A sense of victory tugged at the back of Oliver's mind as he watched that faint flash of surrender in the butler's eyes. While Oliver had been born into the same kind of money as Bruce Wayne, his home had always been the most modern that money could buy, not labouring under some outdated tradition imported from England along with the first colonial settlers. He'd made it his mission every time he encountered Alfred to try and grind away at the veneer of propriety that Alfred was coated in, and make the man speak to him like a normal human being.
Now, that quest seemed more important than ever. Though Alfred would never admit it, Bruce Wayne had to all intents and purposes been his son. That wasn't the kind of loss you could just soldier on through, no matter how much resolve and determination you had.
The clunk of Alfred's door and the click of his seatbelt heralded the beginning of a long, awkward silence, one that lasted as the butler manoeuvred the car away from the runway, between the terminals and hangers, and out onto the open road beyond Gotham City Airport. It lasted all the way into the downtown afternoon traffic; to Oliver's surprise, it was Alfred who broke it.
"I've made arrangements for you to use the penthouse of the Wayne Foundation Building," he explained, the skyscraper in question looming a few blocks ahead. "I presumed you would prefer not to stay at the mansion."
"Why am I here, Alfred?" Oliver blurted out, not the response the butler was looking for nor the one that Oliver had expected to give, but rather the only sentence that really mattered.
A slow sigh escaped from Alfred as his shoulders sagged, and for the first time he looked more man than Superman, the lines and creases etched into his features seeming deeper than ever. "I am worried about them," he said finally. "About all of them, but -"
He trailed off. "Bruce was a father to all of his wards. He may not always have acted like it overtly, but they all loved and respected him. He was their compass; it was his approval they craved." His brow tugged into the slightest of frowns. "He always complained about being in Bruce's shadow, but I think deep down he needed it. He may have skirted the edge of that shadow too many times, but as long as he never stepped beyond it he never went too far. But with that shadow gone, there is no telling how far he will go."
Oliver's frown was deeper, and more puzzled. There were many "he's" in the Batman family, but for the most part Dick and Tim were remarkably well adjusted young men, given the circumstances. "Damian?" he guessed; the al-Ghul boy trained as an assassin since birth and the only one to be the biological son of Bruce Wayne seemed like a good guess.
Alfred's answer was only one word. "Jason."
An invisible hand tightened around Oliver's chest. Every family had it's black sheep, but the Wayne Family's was blacker than most. Jason Todd had never been the most law abiding or well-adjusted of sidekick candidates, but after his brutal murder at the hands of the Joker, and after being brought back through the twisted magic of the Lazarus Pits by Talia al-Ghul, Jason's train had begun to run seriously off the rails. He had no qualms about killing when he felt it was necessary, and the only thing that kept him from putting bullets in the heads of every villain in Gotham was the fear of what Batman would do to him if he did. With Batman gone -
No wonder Alfred is worried.
It explained why Alfred had contacted him of all people, too. Oliver's hands weren't blood-free either: he'd walked the vengeance path more than once, but he'd found a way to turn back. Doing so didn't vindicate his actions, but he was on a road to redemption and fully intended to keep walking down it for the rest of his life, until fate decided his time was up. Again.
"I'll talk to him," Oliver promised. He peered out of the window at Gotham's grubby streets, before glancing back to the butler. "Assuming I can find him, of course."
"Jason never really grasped the detective skills that Master Bruce tried to teach him," Alfred mused. "I imagine if you look for the most obvious place to find criminals, that is where he will be."
* * *
You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.
Jason Todd knew that for a fact: he'd trawled the underbelly of Gotham City looking for every mob bar, every illegal casino, every known venue that Gotham's worst was known to frequent. He'd scoped out the Monarch Theatre. He'd even snuck into the Iceberg Lounge, and shoved a .44 in the Penguin's face to see if he couldn't shake a few leads loose. It was surprising how eagerly the fat little bird could sing if you shattered a few bones for motivation.
It all led here: the Lonely Hearts Club, some swanky new joint on the edge of one of the scummy neighbourhoods that the city was trying to keep up. Some out of towner looking to take advantage of the generous subsidies and tax incentives Gotham was offering to those who helped gentrify the neighbourhood.
Though he didn't like the we can fix everything if we throw enough money at it attitude - it reminded him too much of Bruce - he did like the alleyway that ran alongside the club's kitchens and staff exits. It was dark, the shadows were deep; and as he was currently demonstrating with the squirming ex-con employee that Jason was holding shoved against the greasy brick walls by the scruff of his shirt, it was the perfect venue for a little motivational speaking.
"I told you, man!" the ex-con protested. His heart rate, breathing, and the pitch of his voice all spiked as Jason's free hand cocked the hammer on his Desert Eagle. "I don't know nothing, I swear!"
"You know something," Jason scowled and growled, the ex-con's poor grammar not withstanding. He brought the pistol to bear square between his victim's eyes. His voice dropped to a deep snarl. "Where is he? Where is the Joker?"
Jason heard the sound, but didn't have time to react to whistling hiss of an arrow shooting through the air, slamming full force into his gun and wrenching the pistol from his grip. His scowl aimed anew, settling on the the Emerald Archer silhouetted on the rooftop opposite, another arrow already nocked and ready to fire.
"Put him down, Jason." Green Arrow's voice didn't falter in the slightest. "You don't know where he's been."
The leather of Jason's gloves creaked as his knuckles clenched into fists. "Are you lost, Robin Hood?" Despite his obvious anger, he still managed to inject an arrogant swagger into his words. "Last time I checked, the forest you and your men in tights are supposed to protecting was on the West Coast."
"Men in tights?" Oliver echoed, with something that was almost a chuckle. "This, coming from the kid who thought lime green hot pants and a yellow cape was a good idea?"
There was a groan of tension from the bowstring as Oliver drew it back further, and suddenly all the mirth from his voice was gone. "I won't tell you again, kid. Put him down."
"Or what? You'll -"
Jason never finished the sentence, his words exploding into a grunt of pain as Oliver's arrow slammed mercilessly into his hand, wrenching it open and depositing the ex-con in an unceremonious heap. In an instant Green Arrow had abandoned his perch, kicking off the wall as he descended to propel him into the perfect position to line up another shot: this time aimed squarely at Jason's head.
"The first two arrows were blunted," Oliver explained from beneath his hood. The dim night light glinted off the sharpened sheen on the arrowhead's edge. "This one isn't."
He could see the muscles tensing across Jason's shoulders; could see the silent calculations behind his eyes. No one in their right mind would try to attack the world's finest bowman at this range; but then, Jason Todd was hardly in his right mind. A stern look shone from Oliver's eyes like omega beams, imploring Jason to back down.
Jason's shoulder's slumped; Oliver felt an internal sigh of relief wash over him as he loosened the draw on his arrow. He spared a quick thought for the ex-con, though didn't take his eyes off his main target. "Are you just going to lie there," he grunted, "Or are you going to run away before I change my mind and let Anger Management here shoot you after all?"
The ex-con probably tried to make words, but they were swallowed by the sound of him shuffling away. Oliver paid attention long enough for his escape to succeed; the fire escape slammed closed with a resonating thud. Half a second later, Oliver's fist - bow still in hand - connected with Jason's face.
From the alley floor, Jason looked up with more surprise and confusion than anger. He faintly pressed the back of his hand against his nose; sniffed against the small trickle of blood that had begun to leak into the sweaty stubble of his upper lip. His mouth turned into a faint grin. "That's how you want to play, huh?"
"Play?" Oliver echoed harshly, not just a note but an entire overture of disapproval in his tone. "Do you think this is some kind of game?"
"I don't have time for lectures," Jason grunted, clambering back to his feet.
"No," Oliver agreed. "You don't time for questions either. Or for thinking from the looks of things." His expression twisted into a frown of disbelief. "What exactly is your plan here? Keep roughing people up until they point you in the right direction, then kick the doors down and go in guns blazing?"
Jason's jaw clenched. "Something like that."
"And what about the innocent bystanders?" Oliver pressed. "Are all the minimum wage kitchen workers part of this gang you're chasing? All the customers and patrons too? Or is it just a matter of wrong place, wrong time, tough luck?"
"Everyone is guilty of something."
Oliver's disbelief peaked at an almost laugh. "And it's your job to bring them to Todd brand justice for their sins?"
Jason shrugged. "Doesn't really seem like anyone else is gonna bother any time soon."
A grunt of disgust escaped from the archer. "I had a friend who thought like once. Name of Hal Jordan. Of course, he was possessed by the Angel of Vengeance at the time, which is pretty solid as far as excuses go. So what's yours? Resurrection mess you up in the head? Daddy issues because Bruce didn't kill the mean nasty clown that beat you up?"
Jason's anger flared. "I died -"
"Nearly died," Oliver interrupted. "And then Damian's mom dumped you in a Lazarus Pit, which is why you've got those fancy highlights in your hair and a head full of emotional scars. I actually died, was magically resurrected without my soul for a while, and I'm still less screwed up than you are. You wave your damage around like it's a shield to protect you from reprisals and responsibilities, but in truth it's just a lens magnifying how pitiful you've become."
He shook his head. "It's a good job Bruce never threw everything away to avenge you. The man you've become would not have been worth it."
Jason's fist clenched so tightly that his arm practically shook; but something in him stepped forward, and cracked his anger just enough for a little restraint to shimmer through. "You would have done it. If you were in his place... you would have killed the Joker. I know you would have."
"Damn right I would have." The muscles in Oliver's jaw bunched. "When Prometheus broke into the Watchtower; when he took Roy's arm, killed my granddaughter, I hunted that son of a bitch down and I put an arrow between his eyes. And as I watched the blood pooling out from the hole I'd made in his skull, it felt right."
He hesitated for a moment. "But it wasn't enough. Killing him didn't bring Lian back. It didn't take the pain away. And so I started targeting the people who'd helped him. And Mia? Speedy? She... I was supposed to be her example of what was right, and so she followed me down that path, nearly killed someone herself just because I'd shown her it was the right thing to do."
"A hell of a lot more people look up to Batman than look up to me." Oliver's eyes locked squarely on Jason's. "And when people start walking that path the way that you and I have, it takes a hell of a lot for them to stop; and they lose everything. We lose our families. We lose everyone's respect. We stop being heroes, and we become hypocrites: just as bad as the people we're trying to stop."
Oliver shrugged. "You've got a simple choice to make: either you stop, or you don't. But if you don't, you might as well swap out those guns and that mask for a crowbar and clown make-up, because by the time you're done no one will be able to tell the difference between you and the rest of the villains out there."
Jason stared and glared into the eyes that peered out from beneath Green Arrow's hood, no clearer on what he was going to do next than Oliver was. Finally, he mustered a few words. "You talk too much," he grunted.
Oliver managed a laugh. "Yeah, I get told that a lot."
The archer shifted awkwardly. "So, are you gonna do some more shoot first and ask questions later, or are we going to find this Royal Flush Gang of yours the proper way." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I passed a strip club a few blocks back there, so I'm fine either way."
Jason arched an eyebrow. "And what is the proper way? We get our information with hugs and kittens?"
"No," Oliver countered firmly. "We do it the right way. We do it Bruce's way."
* * *
Jason peered out from beneath the windshield, the stark brutalist box of Ace Chemical looming ahead of them on the water front. The sight of the building, and the implications that it's history presented filled him with a profound sense of unease; Jason's mind reacted to that weakness of emotion with a wave of anger, coursing through his body like white blood cells hunting a disease.
"This is stupid," he grunted, eyes narrowing to a scowl behind his domino mask.
"It's the only place that makes sense," Oliver replied, verbally shrugging off Jason's comment. "They hit the clinic at 10 Park Row. A warehouse at the old Navy Yards. The Queen Consolidated offices downtown. The Arthurian Theatre."
He turned, eyeing Jason intently. "Ten, Jack, Queen, King. Ace is the only target that fits the pattern."
Jason's jaw clenched. "You're assuming these thugs are smart enough to know that 'Knave' is another name for the Jack card," he countered, admittedly a little embarrassed that he hadn't known that himself, but not about to admit it. "But even if your stab-in-the-dark is right: these guys aren't the Riddler or Cluemaster. If they're leaving a trail for us to follow, it's probably so they can lead us into a trap."
"Of course it's a trap," Oliver muttered, shoving the driver-side door open and climbing to his feet. He hesitated, peering back into the car's interior. "You coming?"
As they worked their way through the shadows of the parking lot and loading bays, Jason found himself with a profound understanding of how Mutley must have felt, frustrated and griping to himself about the stupidity of Dick Dastardly's plans. Admittedly, Oliver wasn't still sporting the stupid trimmed facial hair any more, but what he lacked in visual similarity to Dastardly, he certainly made up for by being an oversized Dick.
Jason's hands flexed impatiently on his pistol grips, tech enhancements in his helmet trying to filter through the ambient steam and noise for heat signatures; movement spikes; anything.
A hand shot forward, the cold steel of a Desert Eagle tapping against Oliver's bare forearm. "Two o'clock high," Jason growled softly, eyes focused on the faint silhouette that he'd spotted in infra red.
Oliver nodded. "In the shadows to the left," he added, not making any visible indication. "Ducked behind the middle steam valve."
He'd caught a glimpse of the figure darting from cover to cover out of his peripheral vision; one of the only sensory perks that Jason's full-facial helmet didn't grant him. Practice and experience at spotting those sorts of things gave him a vague guess at who the blur had belonged to: female probably, judging from the height; and a pretty quick and nimble woman at that. He rolled his shoulders, preparing for the inevitable fist fight that was bound to occur.
Oliver pressed forward, weaving through the deepest shadows that the tanks and pipes and scattered crates could offer; but the chemical maze came to an abrupt end, an open clearing that Oliver couldn't help feeling that they'd been driven towards.
A figure appeared, a calm swagger turning his otherwise smart brown pinstripe suit strangely casual. "Welcome, Mister Queen," he called, a deeply unsettling grin forming on his features. "You're right on time."
Clock King. Or at least, one of them. This wasn't William Tockman, who'd turned to crime to pay his sister's medical bills, and blamed Green Arrow for her death because Oliver had helped send him to jail. That Clock King were dead and gone, killed on an errand for the Suicide Squad. But this heir? Of him Oliver new practically nothing, aside from the fact that he had a slightly less niche perspective on fashion.
"Well," Oliver uttered quietly, stepping into view, no point in hiding any longer. "That certainly explains why the Flush Gang's heists were so meticulously planned."
Clock King flashed a smile. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my emerald friend." He cocked his head to the side in thought for a moment. "Not that you were ever going to make it out of here alive."
"And who is going to stop us?" Jason cut in, snarling like an angry pitbull on a leash. "You and what army?"
Oliver's eyes snapped to Jason, shooting him an emphatic Really? glare.
"We don't need an army," a voice interrupted: feminine, sultry, and predatory. From another shadowed corner stepped Veronica Sinclair. Even without her signature revealing red dress, her hips still swayed like a viper; the ruthlessness of a woman who kidnapped metahumans and forced them to fight each other for sport shone bright in her eyes. "There's only five of us, and we still have you completely surrounded."
On clue, the figure that Oliver must have spotted earlier stepped into view, her petite form an odd mismatch to the oversized sledgehammer propped casually over her shoulder. Her look had changed, boots, corsets, and two-tone pigtails of red and blue replacing the gymnast jester ensemble she'd always worn before, but her identity was unmistakable.
"Roulette, and Harley Quinn," Oliver acknowledged, partly to warn his companion, and partly to vent his surprise: these three were B-List, a much higher calibre of villain than the Royal Flush Gang would usually boast. Still, only three of it's supposed members were in sight; and Oliver knew he'd feel a lot better about being surrounded if he knew exactly who or what was surrounding him.
"So -" he stared, taking a single step into the chemical colosseum they'd been herded into. "- he's the King, Roulette's the Queen, and Harley is the Ace? Whose missing?"
"Harley is a Ten," an eerily mirthful voice echoed from the shadows, followed by the faint hint of a chuckle at the pun. The voice was instantly recognisable, and yet something was different: an undercurrent of ruthless intent that sounded far too rational for the typically psychotic and deranged Joker.
"I'm the Ace."
Jason's heart rate quickened. he could hear the blood pounding in his ears, louder and louder with every word the clown uttered. His fists clenched tighter; his mind reminded him of every agonising sound and sensation of the crowbar smashing into his flesh, shattering his bones and his mind alike.
His resolve snapped, and both pistols levelled themselves at the shaded outline of the Joker. "Enough talk," he snarled. "It's time someone wiped that smug smile off your -"
A faint whistle was the only warning Jason recieved before the arrow errupted through his chest, razor-sharp tip breathing through his ribs and his kevlar vest with ease. His eyes turned to Oliver in disbelief, but the archer's attention was elsewhere, bow aimed somewhere above and behind them. Jason tried to turn and look, but his legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled to the floor before he had a chance.
"Oh, and that's Jack," Joker added, sounding a little too pleased with himself.
Bow drawn, Oliver trained his sights on the shooter: an archery villain if the top-of-the-line custom crossbow was anything to go by, but no one that Oliver was specifically familiar with. Then again, with a featureless black mask that completely covered his face from the eyebrows down, and shoulder length raven black hair that obscured the rest, there wasn't really all that much to recognise.
He calculated his chances; it'd take two or three shots to incapacitate the other archer, and by that time he'd have the others to worry about. Clock King would have everything planned and predicted so that he didn't have to lift a finger; Harley was pretty brutal and unpredictable with that hammer of hers, and Roulette was no slouch when it came to hand to hand, either. Without Jason keeping everyone off-balance by indiscriminately firing bullets everywhere -
"Here's the thing, Ollie," the Joker cut in, interrupting his thoughts and apparently taking a great amount of pleasure in using Green Arrow's real name. "I don't want to kill you. I don't even want to kill the alias-stealing knock-off here either."
He unleashed a theatrical sigh. "Batman is dead, god bless his grief-blackened soul. He's gone. The bad guys won. This city belongs to us, fair and square."
His chlorine-bleached brow furrowed. "If I kill you, that will just pave the way for new heroes to stroll in and try to take back my city: and you heroes breed like rabbits. I'll hve to call in an exterminator, and then the Justice League will shove their lycra-clad noses into my business..." Another sigh, as if it was all some tirelessly trivial ordeal that he didn't deserve to deal with it. "I'll never see the end of it."
"So here's the deal, green bean. You have two options: you chase us, I let Harley and Jack wail on you until your insides are your outsides, both of you die, and we get away -"
With a grunt, the Joker hefted a small duffel bag, and tossed it unceremoniously at Ollie's feet. "- or, you take the medical supplies we boosted from the clinic in the Narrows, we walk out of here without you even trying to stop us, and maybe, just maybe, the Bat family wont have another funeral to plan."
He cracked a broad grin, rotten yellowed teeth all on display. "Whadayasay, Greenie?"
There was no choice; no decision. He knew what Batman would have done; he knew what Jason would have wanted. Hell, he knew what probably most people in their right mind would have wanted him to do, for the greater good. But Oliver just didn't give a damn; there were some morals that you just didn't shrug off.
His arms fell to his sides; his bow clattered as it landed on the factory's concrete floor. "This isn't over," he warned, his voice strangely quiet. "We'll find you. We'll catch you. And when we do, the box we throw you in won't be a padded cell in Arkham."
Between the shadows and the grin, the Joker looked practically demonic. "Good. Because without the Bat, I was worried things around here would get boring."
With a cackling laugh that echoed everywhere, the Joker and his entourage disappeared back into the shadows from whence they came. A wheezing cough escaped from beneath Jason's mask; "I told you it was a trap," he muttered faintly.
Oliver crouched beside him. "I know you did," he replied, fumbling with the latches necessary to remove the mask. Beneath, Jason's face had already turned pale from shock, a trickle of blood from his punctured lung collecting at the corner of his mouth. Grim guilt wrapped around Oliver's internals; he placed a hand on Jason's shoulder, and looked him straight in the glazed over eyes.
"Just do me a favour and don't die, okay?"
* * *