Star City, California.
Oliver Queen.
Spectator.
The phone rings twice before someone picks up: some distinguished voice with an English accent—none of that Cockney stuff—and plays the nice angle with me.
"Wayne Manor, how may I help you?"
"Yeah, is, uh Bruce there?"
"Who may I ask is calling?" Who does this guy think he is, Higgins trying to keep me from seeing Magnum? Just put me through already.
"It's Oliver Queen sir, and—"
"Certainly, Mr. Queen. I shall fetch him for you. Please be so kind as to hold the line for a moment."
God, these Brits. If ever I needed proof of my exceedingly low brow, they're always there to serve it up. In the time it takes for Bruce's butler to 'fetch him,' I make it through the morning paper to the editorial page. I pour a cup of coffee for myself, cradling the phone between my shoulder and head, and go back to the paper. Connor walks in, half asleep and even less aware that I'm here and brews his own.
"Hey dad," he says through a yawn. He noticed me after all.
"Connor," I say flatly, holding the phone down beneath my chin. "How was your night?"
"Fine, yours?"
"Wouldn't know."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Roy decided to show up around eleven. Took patrol for me."
"So you caught up with Trump's show?"
"Yeah, he fired the hippie," I snicker. Bruce's butler comes back on.
"Master Wayne will be with you shortly, Mr. Queen."
"Fine, thank you," I say, pulling the receiver away so I can hear what Connor's saying.
"Who's on the phone?"
"Uh, Bruce," I say, sipping the coffee.
"I didn't know you and he were on…speaking terms."
"Try not to think about it." I crack a smile and Bruce comes on. At last.
"What is it, Oliver?"
"Good morning to you, too."
"No time for the usual pleasantries. You have something for me? Another conspiracy theory maybe?"
I scoff. "No, Bruce, believe it or not, I'm not Sage. But I did get an interesting letter from Catman yesterday."
Silence.
"Bruce?"
"Catman?"
"Yeah."
"You're joking," Bruce challenges lightly. He honestly believes it. And…some part of me does too.
"Not today."
"Alright," Bruce says. I can hear the exhaustion in his voice. A full night's worth of work seems to be catching up to him. I almost feel bad for the guy; the way he stays out all night every night. It can't be healthy. "What was in this letter?"
"You're not asking about Blake? I mean, he was one of your guys."
"I'm not asking because I don't care, Ollie. Now, what was in this letter?"
I scratch my head, and think for a nanosecond before I respond. "Something about Luthor and a Society and some Secret Six deal. Sounds like some casino, doesn't it?"
More silence. This is Bruce thinking. Nuts to whoever he's talking to, he's always on the job. Always mindful of that 'mission' Grayson tells me about.
"Alright," Bruce finally says with a sigh. "I'll call J'onn. He'll get you to the Watchtower."
"Fine," I say. By the time I hang up, Bruce is probably already in battle mode. I turn around in my chair towards Connor.
"Hey."
"What?" He asks groggily. The walking dead in my kitchen.
"I'm about to go to the moon. Care to tag along?"
"Sure," he says. "I do need to get out more."
Gotham City. The Davenport Towers.
The Secret Six.
Assets.
"Where the hell are we going, peaches?"
"Call me peaches again, Floyd, and I'll feed you your ear." Scandal's not joking. This is her trying to scare me, and it doesn't work. Even so, I kinda like the ear joke. It shows she's at least got a sense of humor, morbid though it is. Behind me, Parademon and the Ragdoll snicker.
"Heh." Ragdoll shields his mouth with a curved, deformed hand and turns to Parademon. "She makes a compelling argument, yes?"
"Quiet," Scandal enunciates. "We're here."
"Where?" Cheshire interjects. She steps in front of me and points one of those claws in Scandal's direction.
"Our mission objective, Jade."
Catman's standing behind me. Calmly he says: "Tell me something, Scandal. This your idea of a joke?"
"It's no joke Mr. Blake." Scandal leads us down an eerily well-lit hallway; one of the service halls in the basement. One of those 'employees only' deals. A big gray corrugated Utility Door is at the far end of the hall and its getting closer. Mockingbird's latest suicide mission is probably for us to burst in there, guns blazing, and catch Cobblepot or some noble moron with his pants down, dealing drugs to Sionisor some other nutball. Sorry, Oswald, bad draw. Yeah…right. I've got better ways to spend rounds than shooting them up Cobblepot's ass.
Scandal stops a few feet in front of the door, turns to us and clasps her hands in front of her stomach.
"Gentlemen," she says. After a pause she turns to Cheshire and gives a more reserved "Lady."
Ragdoll taps me on the shoulder and whispers in my ear. "Very theatric, yes?"
I nod slowly. What's this lady trying to prove?
Scandal pulls a small remote out of her pocket, presses a single red button on its face. The utility door groans and squeaks; the pulleys that power it probably haven't been used in ages. After a few seconds of good-trying, the door shudders a bit and lifts slowly. The six of us watch the door lift into its hiding place in the ceiling, and then our heads drop back to normal. Looking straight forward.
"This is our mission," Scandal says, staring ahead.
A darkened room, and a single white light somewhere in the ceiling shining down on a black-colored Admiral's Chair. And a man slouched lazily inside it, with his fingers steepled and the light reflecting off his bald head.
Luthor.
"Mockingbird."
Continued...
