The Question led the cadre of bats across Rome, down into the catacombs that lie beneath the streets. It was an odd choice, going from one necropolis to another, but The Question seemed sure that, where they were going, The Broker would not find them. And so they went further into the depths, into a city of the dead with caskets lining every wall, the underground halls of the catacombs dimly lit by torch fire.
The torchlight indicated that people still came down here, tourists and archaeologists mostly, but eventually, they reached a place where the torchlight ended, and where darkness began. They switched to flashlights in order to see in the darkness and then finally, The Question led them to a dead end.
"So, this is it? Please tell me there's something behind this wall, and that we didn't come here for nothing," Nightwing grumbled. The Question turned toward him and reached behind a casket in the wall beside him, pulling a hidden lever.
"We didn't come here for nothing," he replied. The wall slide aside and revealed a chamber beyond. The Question led them inside, ushered them in, and then closed the wall behind himself. "I may not be as brilliant as a detective as all of you," The Question began, descending the stairs and into the chamber which was like a small apartment of sorts, electricity running off of a silent, portable generator which he then activated "but I like to think I excel at sniffing out secrets. This was an unfinished chamber of the catacombs. It leads down to another level, but this whole section was sealed off and abandoned after several deaths occurred down here while the workers dug them out. It was believed that they angered demons, and so they abandoned the work."
"So, now we have a place to continue our investigation, free from The Broker's prying eyes," Batman replied, pulling off his cowl.
"Precisely," The Question answered, moving over toward a desk on the far side of the chamber. He opened a drawer and pulled out the folders and began passing them out. "As I mentioned, I stole these from the Vatican's secret archives. Hidden in these, I hope to find some answers." The Question took his own stack of folders and headed over toward his desk and began searching through them. "Also, apologies for the lack of accommodations and lights. I don't often entertain guests down here."
"Wait, what do you mean 'often'?" Dick asked, pulling off his mask and arching an eyebrow. The Question merely stared at him for a few moments before turning back to his work. Damian, Tim, Bruce, and Dick hunkered down and began searching through the folders for anything of note to their investigation.
"Wow…this document implies that the Papacy has been in contact with aliens for generations," Tim muttered as he read one of the documents from the folders.
"Indeed. Aliens have been amongst us for much longer than you can imagine. There are those, including the Catholic Church, who would have a vested interest in hiding that fact from society," The Question replied without turning from his work.
"What the-" Dick called out, glaring at the document he was holding.
"What did you find?" Bruce asked, looking up from what he was reading. Dick looked up at him and shook his head.
"Oh, sorry. It's nothing. This document talks about how the Catholic Church helped many of the Nazis to escape after WWII ended by giving them fake passports.
"You didn't think Hitler really killed himself in that bunker, did you?" The Question asked. Dick looked up at him and frowned, not liking the implication. "Though I doubt the church would have helped Adolph Hitler knowingly, I believe he escaped to Argentina, where he lived out the rest of his days in peace, and in secret."
"Tt," came from Damian's direction, followed by "this suggests that at one point, there was a female Pope. She masqueraded as a woman, only to be caught, and ousted, after being caught giving birth to a child."
"Pope Joan. The Catholic Church would have you believe that her existence was a myth. She was a scholar who became the Pope after the death of Pope Leo IV died. After that, they Catholic Church attempted to erase her from history, and crafted a ritual to ensure that only men would be eligible to become Pope," came The Question's reply.
"None of this has anything to do with The Broker," Bruce grumbled.
"Ah, but it does," The Question replied, drawing everyone's attention to himself. He turned in his chair and went on "who else than the Broker would be interested in the archives? The greatest collection of secrets in perhaps the whole world."
"Are you suggesting that The Broker controls the Vatican itself?" Tim asked, arching an eyebrow.
"What do you think?" The Question asked in reply. The chamber went silent at the Question's reply to Tim. Were that true, it would mean the Broker had much, much more power and influence than they could've imagined. Not only would he have his tendrils in every government on the planet, but also in every religion as well. It was almost unimaginable in scope. How could an organization of this size infiltrate…well, everything?
Suddenly, Bruce's communicator was abuzz with life. Bruce grabbed it up; it was Jason.
"Jason, what's going on?" Bruce asked.
"Batman, We've got a problem. Deathstroke has kidnapped Barbara! We need you back here now! Deathstroke is working for The Broker!"
"What?!" Dick shouted. "We've gotta get back to Gotham! Barbara is in trouble!"
"Agreed," Bruce said evenly, pulling his cowl back on. Tim, Damian, and Dick followed suit, while The Question remained unperturbed as he continued his work.
"Arsenal and I pursued him, but we were blocked by The Broker's soldiers. I managed to plant a tracker on Barbara before they got away though and they're heading north. We've slipped past The Broker's mercs and we're following after Deathstroke. Hurry up!" Red Hood snapped, followed by an explosion; the link went dead.
"We're on our way! Red Hood! Hood!" Batman shouted into the comm link.
"What's going on?!" Tim asked worriedly.
"The link went dead. We have to go, now. Barbara is in danger. Question," Batman called, turning to The Question. The Question waved his hand dismissively.
"Go. Save Oracle. I will continue my search. Someone must," The Question replied. Batman gave a nod in replied, and led the others out of the catacombs. He typed some commands into his gauntlet and minutes later, the Batwing appeared, over head. The four of them made their way up into the jet and Batman turned it toward the United States, punching it at maximum speed.
Deathstroke strode through the lower deck of the ship with an unconscious Barbara over his shoulder. He kicked open a door to an empty room and set in her a chair, trying her up. The job, from the Broker again, was to kidnap Barbara Gordon, a.k.a "Oracle", and use her to lure Batman and his allies into a trap. There was no way they'd allow the Broker to get away with kidnapping one of their own, after all.
It was unusual though, for him to receive so many kidnapping jobs. Typically, they were assassinations. Deathstroke had rarely ever missed a mark, having a job completion record of 98%. The other 2% was when Batman and his allies had gotten themselves involved. They had a nasty habit of showing up at inopportune times.
"Nothing personal, but a job's a job," Deathstroke said to the unconscious Barbara Gordon. Truth be told, however, he was pretty wary of his employer. He only knew the man, or woman, whoever, as "The Broker". He had never been contacted directly, and instead had his jobs and orders given to him through intermediaries. The closest thing he had to direct contact with The Broker, was a screen with a black silhouette of a person on it. Even the Broker's voice had been disguised, distorted. Someone like this obviously had a lot of secrets to hide. However, The Broker more than came through with his obligations. On just the few jobs he'd done for the man, Slade had made tens of millions of dollars. In addition, he'd been given access to top of the line equipment and the best trained mercenaries he'd ever seen. They weren't at his level, but they were definitely far above average.
All of this in conjunction with the mystery of The Broker him(or her)self, put him on edge. He kept his guard up, and was suspicious and wary of these mercenaries. He wasn't stupid by any means; he didn't trust this Broker. But like he'd said himself; a job's a job.
Deathstroke strode out of the room, sealing the door behind himself and locking it shut. The security on this boat was insane, especially for what appeared to be a simple cargo ship. The lock on the door was of alien origin, more high tech than any lock of human make. He could feel eyes on him at all times, with cameras lining the hallways and mercenaries patrolling the halls. None of them spoke, but just acknowledged Deathstroke's presence with simple nods and hand gestures.
As he made his way to the Combat Information Center of the ship, he silently noted every detail of every hallway. To anyone else, it would seem like he was paranoid, but he felt a shift in the air, in the way the mercenaries were addressing and dealing with him. He wasn't sure precisely what it was, but something told him, in the back of his mind, to expect a betrayal.
Slade stopped before the door that led to the CIC; it stood in stark contrast to the rest of the ship, with a high-tech looking set of sliding doors and a console beside it, with cameras just above the door.
"It's Deathstroke. The job's done. The girl, Barbara Gordon, is in her cell. Check your cameras if you don't believe me." There was a silence as Deathstroke waited to be admitted to the CIC. Then, over the intercom, came a man's voice.
"Remove the mask, Deathstroke. We require confirmation."
"Paranoid bunch, aren't you?" he asked, with a chuckle of amusement.
"The Broker does not lax when it comes to security. Now remove the mask and confirm your identity." Deathstroke sighed and removed his mask, running a hand through snow white hair. He scratched his chin a bit, covered in a short, white beard, and looked up to the cameras with his one good eye.
"So, you happy now?"
"Hold still for identity scans."
Another pause. A blue light shone on Slade's face, scanning his facial features and likely running other tests. It took all of three seconds before the confirmation came.
"Identity confirmed. Slade Joseph Wilson. Alias; Deathstroke. Access granted," came a robotic voice. The doors slid open and Deathstroke made his way inside. There were large computer screens hanging all over the room, with a massive table in the center, with a hologram projector in the center of the room. At the table, sat over a dozen unmasked mercenaries with their leader at the head; the man had short black hair, with piercing, cold blue eyes. He was garbed in the same mercenary gear as the rest of the men and women in the room, save that his had a more elegant adornments on it, setting him apart from the rest, standing out as their leader.
Slade looked around the room, a certain curiosity in him as he looked at some of the screens. Information streamed on each of the screens, the room filled with the noise of the stream of almost constant updates of operatives from across the globe. Some of the screens were lit up with news reports, others reported on the trends of the global markets; the information streaming through this one room alone was impressive in scope. It made him silently question the kind of operation this Broker must've had running in his own base of operations.
"We've confirmed the capture of Barbara Gordon, also known as Oracle. Your mission is complete and the fund, $25,000,000, will be transferred to your bank account immediately," the man said to him, waving his hand over a holographic projection that appeared before him. He turned his attention entirely onto Slade then, folding his hands behind his back. He strode carefully toward the man, the other mercenaries either chatting amongst themselves or watching events unfold from their seats around the table.
"I must say, personally, I am highly impressed by your work, Mister Wilson," the man said smoothly, coming to a stop before Deathstroke. "The Broker, as well as myself, have been following your career for many years. I must admit, it was an honor to work with you, and to witness your skill first hand."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," Slade replied in an even tone. The man smirked at him, glancing back toward his men before turning back to Slade.
"And that's what I admire most about you, Mister Wilson. All business," he said. He held out his hand and added "our business is concluded. We will contact you, on behalf of the Broker, should your services be needed again." Slade remained impassive as he stared at the younger man before him. He stared down at the hand offered him, then simply turned to leave.
The doors to the CIC closed behind him. Once again, he could feel the eyes on him. As he strode through the hallways once more, he felt another shift in the atmosphere. Where before, he'd heard the quiet sounds of conversation between mercenaries and crew mates, there was now nothing but complete silence. That did not bode well. He kept his guard up, prepared for a betrayal. As he climbed the stairs up through each deck to reach topside, he was greeted by cold, frigid air. He stared around, out at the endless Atlantic Ocean, the cool air brushing across his face. The first thing he noted, was that the boat he'd come to this ship on, was missing.
He spun around and drew his swords to find the mercenaries surrounding him on the main deck. Here it was; the betrayal. The man who he'd met in the CIC, these mercenaries' commander, strode onto the top deck.
"Unfortunately Mister Wilson, the Broker has deemed you an unnecessary risk. While we are pleased with your work, The Broker has decided that you must be…disposed of. You know too much now," the man said smoothly, hands behind his back and face a blank.
"That so? And you kids think you can take me on? Deathstroke? The Terminator? I've tangled with worse than you; I've fought Superman." The man chuckled in amusement, finally showing an expression as he clapped his hands.
"Yes, we are all well aware of your feats. We also know that despite our superior skill in comparison to your typical mercenaries, that we still do not possess the ability to take you down, as you say," the man replied. Slade glared at the man, swords at the ready and watching each and every one of the mercenaries for any sign of attack.
"So then…you let me be on my way, and I'll forget this happened. You get to breath for a few more days," Slade replied. Another silence permeated the atmosphere, save for the hum of the ship's engine, and the sound of the waves gently slapping against the side of the ship.
"I'm afraid not. The Broker is well aware of what you are capable of, and has taken…precautions. Execute Order 916." The man spoke into his gauntlet. Electrical charges suddenly went off around Slade; they seemed to originate from his own armor, somehow. Slade howled in pain as electricity wracked his body; his blades clattered to the floor and he dropped to his knees.
"W-what the f-"
"The scans we've been doing to ensure your identity from the moment we first hired you? They also implanted nano-bots into your armor. A fail-safe, should you ever turn against us," the man said haughtily, as he paced around Slade. "Or in the event that we needed to dispose of you. When their self-destruction sequence is activated, it released a powerful electric charge that renders the victim incapacitated. Now, with your healing factor, it'd take quite a lot more than that, but we'll settle for "stunned"," the man explained. He gestured toward his men who grabbed Slade and dragged him toward the edge of the boat.
"You better kill me right now, because if I survive, I'm going to slaughter each and every one of you," Slade growled, glaring at each of them.
"You're going to either drown, or freeze to death in this water, Mister Wilson. Save the idle threats and know when you've been outplayed," the man replied with a slight smirk. He gave a wave of his hand and his men threw Slade overboard…