Another busy, exhausting week. You don't really realize just how work you do until you go away and you come back and wonder why you're so damn incapable of keeping your eyes open at night. So we were able to recreate the chapter, thank God, plus an extra scene to even things out. Is it as good? Dunno, but I hope so. You're not going to see that much of the family this chapter, fair warning, because we have a perfect storm on the horizon. Keep that in mind as you read this one. Yep, we're up to something. ;)

Enjoy!

"And why are we working Blüdhaven again?" Jason asked. So far Tim had refused to answer, but persistence tended to pay off.

It turned out that the fifth time might be the charm, in this case. Jason could feel the irritated glare from behind the lenses of Tim's domino. "He's out of town on personal business. His personal business, none of ours. Got it?"

"Got it," Jason said mildly. "So you don't know either, then."

Tim made an irritable noise in his throat and pulled out his grapnel, not answering. Dick tended to leap and then shoot, but Tim preferred to have his line attached before he stepped off the edge. It was common sense, from his point of view. Besides, Dick the born aerialist was perfectly comfortable flipping around in midair at ridiculous heights, so it didn't matter so much to him whether he attached his grappling line before he jumped, or after his second somersault.

Jason knew how to use a grapnel, but he didn't usually carry one. He covered the same distance with a single bound and landed sure-footedly beside Tim. When he'd started training, a landing point as narrow as the parapet he'd touched down on would've made him nervous, possibly enough to make him lose his balance, but a summer of Bat-tutelage and three years of running with them had given him more confidence. Besides, Jason knew for a fact that if he fell from this height, only the sidewalk below would get hurt.

Tim referenced his scanner; they were following the frequency of an unobtrusive tracking tag attached to a target's coat. Dick had placed it—at the target's dry cleaner, after hours—and then there'd been an unexpected wait for the target to pick up his clothing. But now they had a reliable locator on one of Two-Face's top lieutenants.

This particular man had begun to operate within Gotham's neighboring city, Blüdhaven, more than in his boss' usual turf, and Dick had wanted to monitor him in case he represented a possible expansion attempt. Jason didn't know that much about their target, really. Tim had the specs, Jason was just providing the invulnerable muscle and the x-ray vision on this trip in case something went wrong.

Not that Tim hadn't brought his own ways of seeing more than the human eye. When they came to a stop, careful to conceal themselves, he adjusted his lenses for infrared, scanning the dark street for body heat. "Target plus two more," he murmured.

Jason quickly found the same men. The two their target was meeting were tall and broad-shouldered, looking like thugs hired for their intimidation factor. Tim aimed a small directional microphone at them and listened intently. Jason's hearing was good enough to pick up a few words, but he was paying more attention to body language anyway. So far this looked like a cordial meeting; no one seemed especially tense.

And then their guy got into an SUV with the two men he'd met. Time for more leaping and grappling—they likely weren't going far. The initial meeting had probably been in the open to insure that both sides didn't bring any extras, and now the real business would be conducted somewhere more private.

"Who do the other two guys belong to?" Jason murmured when they paused again, the SUV below them waiting for a traffic light.

Tim shrugged one shoulder. "No leads. Could be anyone. One of the local families here, or one of Gotham's rogues trying to do business without the rest knowing. My money's on the latter, but it's just a hunch."

"It could even be someone from outside the area looking to make contacts," Jason said, half to himself, and Tim turned his head sharply, scowling. The thought made the hair on the nape of Jason's neck stand up. "We keep hearing about this Injustice Society, after all."

"The last thing we need is for the villains to get organized," Tim growled. Below them, the light turned, and they leaped in unison to the next rooftop.

"Maybe they're just trying to get group health insurance," the Super joked, but his best friend glared at him. Jason sighed. "Seriously, Tim. The League and the Titans hold together in spite of all the drama because we trust each other; because at the end of the day we share the same goals. You really think these guys can pull off the same thing? Maybe in the short-term, yeah, but they'll be stabbing each other in the back inside of a month."

"Some of them are charismatic enough to make it work, for a while," Tim said curtly.

Eventually they ended up at a small bistro, and Tim dropped a couple of listening devices into the airshafts to record the muted conversation of the three men. Unfortunately no one mentioned their bosses; this seemed like an initial meeting, and anything important would be decided later based on impressions made here. Tim was decidedly displeased with the lack of solid intel.

"We found one of their regular meeting places, though," Jason told him, not liking the set of his friend's jaw. "And we still have the tracker on our target."

"True," Tim said, with a hint of lightness in his voice. Jason decided to take that as a good sign.

…

Dick Grayson had called ahead to let her know he was coming over, but when he got to Donna Troy's apartment, she didn't answer the doorbell. He knew there were a dozen likely explanations, but he couldn't help the way his heart dropped into his stomach. Not Donna, please. She's had enough already. Not Donna, not again.

Luckily he had a key, and let himself in, well-trained gaze scanning for anything out of the ordinary. Everything seemed in its place … then his eyes lit on a mug on the coffee table. Dick picked it up; about a sip's worth of tea in the bottom, and almost room temperature. It had been sitting for a while, then.

The natural inclination was to call out, but Titans didn't necessarily operate under ordinary rules, and Bats, never. Hyper-aware, Dick moved through the apartment, alert for any intruder or any signs of Donna herself. In the back of his mind ran a little pleading mantra to match the sick churning of his stomach.

Only one door in the whole place was closed: the spare bedroom. Suddenly Dick knew exactly where Donna was, and his heart gave a funny little skip at the realization.

Dick sidled up to the closed door, listening. From within came the muted sounds of soft jazz, something low and relaxing. He could picture the little alarm clock radio Donna had; it was a goofy gift he'd given her years ago, a bright blue fuzzy cube with an adjustable-brightness display. That had been the chief quality he'd sought, that and the red glow of the numerals.

Another sound came to his ears then, very faintly: dripping liquid.

…

Elise had no idea how much time had passed. There were no clocks, her watch was gone, and there was no exterior light in the room. Hours, at least, alone in the close darkness. Long enough for her throat to feel dry and raw from screaming for help. Long enough to wonder if her captor was ever going to return. Long enough to realize that probably no one had any idea where she was, and that she might not even be missed for several days, until her next date with Corrin. Long enough to try and remember how many days it took for a person to starve to death, and then to realize she'd die of dehydration long before then.

Long enough for her to come to the extremely uncomfortable realization that she really, really needed to pee. Amazing how such trivial discomforts could overwhelm everything else.

When the door behind her creaked open again, Elise let out a tiny little shriek even though she wanted her captor to return. Anything was better than the endless waiting and the torture of not knowing what was coming next. And yet, she didn't want to sound too eager. So Elise called out in the most caustic voice she could manage, "Hey, just so you know, I drank a quart of water on the way back to my room. So it might be a good idea to let me out of this chair and tell me where the ladies' room is."

"That sounds like a personal problem," the distorted voice replied, seeming faintly amused. The mechanical whirring moved around the room until Elise was sure her captor was right in front of her. She heard a faint tapping sound.

Light burst into being, Elise squeezing her eyes closed with a pained yelp. After so long in the dark, that single bulb above her head hit her retinas like a runaway pulp truck. Muttering curses under her breath, she was eventually able to slit her eyes open … only to see the vaguest silhouette in the shadows before her. "What's wrong with you that you won't show yourself?" Elise challenged. "What, are you uglier than Two-Face or something?"

Low laughter greeted that, the voice digitizer rendering it inhuman. "You've got spirit. I admire that. But I think we've established that insulting me only earns you unpleasant consequences. If a time-out isn't effective, I may have to resort to stronger measures. Do you understand?"

Fear coiled low in Elise's gut, but she couldn't let it show. She had to keep up a tough façade, keep this bastard guessing, and above all not give in, long enough for someone to find her. So she shot back sarcastically, "Yeah, yeah, I've seen enough slasher flicks to get it. Tell me, do creeps like you—oops, sorry, guys like you, I wouldn't want to wound your delicate ego—do guys like you really do the thing where you show your helpless victim a tray of torture implements to intimidate them? I always wanted to know if the movies got that right."

The answer was perfectly level and calm. "No. People like me don't do that sort of thing. We just figure out the best place to apply leverage, and then do so, until we get the results we want." Somehow that cold answer was spookier than some greasy leather-face killer crooning over a table full of saws and scalpels.

Elise swallowed, her dry throat making an audible click. "Right. Okay. I understand."

The digitized voice seemed to have expected that. "Good. Look to your left."

Another light came on, revealing a series of car batteries wired together … with more cables snaking around toward the back of Elise's chair. All of a sudden she realized the cuffs holding her were smooth and cold. Metal? Like an electric chair? "Oh shit," Elise whispered, struggling all the harder to get loose.

"Don't do that. You'll only hurt yourself. Trust me, you're very securely bound." Again that mechanical whir, and the voice added, "If you cooperate, I won't have to shock you."

How much voltage was in those batteries? More importantly, how much amperage? And how much was fatal? This wasn't fair! She'd been having a normal day at college, headed back to her room to study, and then suddenly this. "What do you want?!" Elise shouted, hating the rising shriek of panic in her voice.

"Something simple. Superman's name."

Oh, shit, Elise thought despairingly.

…

Roman Sionis—better known as Black Mask—surveyed his legal team. "Whaddya mean, eight to ten? I'm not rotting in Blackgate for a damn decade!"

"Mr. Sionis, let me appraise you of the situation," the first attorney began. "First of all, it's an election year, and everyone in the justice system from the judges down to the assistant D.A. is keen to show their best face to the public. It's going to be extremely difficult for us to have the charges reduced and the sentence lowered to the level I mentioned. Now, with good behavior you might…."

"No, let me appraise you of your situation," Mask snarled. "I am paying you to get these charges dropped. I don't care how you do it. I don't care whose arm you have to twist. But I guarantee you, pal, if I hafta do ten years because your fat ass spent more time knocking back martinis than blowing holes in the prosecution's case, I'll be damn sure to figure out a way to get you locked up with me. Understand?"

The man, new to the team, blanched at the threat. The rest of the lawyers didn't. They were well aware of the sort of man they worked for, and threats didn't move them. They knew Mask was neither stupid nor shortsighted, though he did have a nasty temper.

Some of these men had worked with him for years, and knew that the street-rough language concealed his origins. Sionis was as blue-blooded as that featherhead Wayne, if a good deal smarter. It just pleased him to sound like a gangster. He felt it was a truer measure of his nature than the polished mask he'd been reared to present.

While the attorneys talked amongst themselves and batted terms like 'plea bargain' and 'reasonable doubt' his way, Mask contemplated his legal team. Gotham's gangsters had their own elite legal teams; Dent's were the best, of course, but the Falcones had one hell of a consigliere who'd been a D.A. in some other city, plus a team to back him. Mask's legal boys weren't quite up to that par. Until recently, he hadn't needed them. If that goddamned Red Hood hadn't screwed him over….

Oh, that cheeky little bastard. Black Mask still wanted to get a hold of that arrogant smart-mouthed boy with all his tricks and his rockets and beat some sense into him. Or just beat him bloody, if it came to that. Either way would make him feel better. He'd had to throw away a small fortune on bail just to maintain his present freedom. He'd be damned if he let them lock him up. And to do it without tasting Red Hood's blood? Hell, that was cruel and unusual.

He chuckled to himself at the thought of making that argument in court, but the humor quickly turned bitter. Hood had fucking used him—the biggest gang boss in Gotham, the undisputed master of the street, and Hood had made him a pawn. All to get Batman where he wanted him. The kid's brilliance and audacity had won him some grudging admiration, but Mask couldn't get around being all-out furious with the young maniac. Dammit, this wasn't a game, this was real life, and Hood had set him back five years in his own plans. More, if his hotshot legal team couldn't get him off the hook. Hell, the damn kid might even sink him for good if he had to do time over this.

Mask could feel his blood pressure red-lining, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to take a knife to these suit-wearing chumps who were nattering on about his case like it was some interesting academic challenge. "Boys," he snapped, and they all turned to him—the newest one wide-eyed, the rest calm. "We all know I'm not gonna take the stand. My lovely mug isn't gonna win over any jurors. So you might as well go somewhere else to debate. I've got calls to make."

With the flock of lawyers scattered, Sionis ground his teeth thoughtfully. Maybe if he gutted one of his own defense attorneys, they'd send him to Arkham instead of Blackgate. It was a fallback plan, anyway. In the meantime, he had an idea.

Picking up his office phone and dialing, Mask waited until it was answered and then said in what passed for his most polite voice, "Let me talk to Cobblepot."

The usual runaround for a few minutes, and then that arrogant little tit's voice came on the line. "Roman. Such terrible news. I trust you're dealing with it as best you can? Chin up, and all that?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm handling it," Mask said. God, how he hated the bird-boy and his affected manners. Oswald Cobblepot should've stuck with his nickname. Penguin was a goddamn freak like all the rest of them. The difference was, he tried to deny it, cigars and monocle and fine champagne. He should've just choked down a live goddamn herring in front of a camera, show the world what he really was. The fucking bird puns were enough evidence of a deranged mind. "What would really help me, in my hour of need, y'know, time of trouble and all that, is a little peace of mind."

Penguin chuckled richly. "Whose mind, and how large of a piece?"

"I was being figurative," Sionis ground out. "Listen, Oswald, they say you know everything and can get anything, for the right price. I wanna give you a chance to prove that's true."

The answer came back oozing with oily cheer. "I'd be delighted. What are you seeking, Roman? Perhaps … a certain red helmet, very limited edition? Because that would be very expensive indeed."

"Oh, no," Mask laughed. "If I add that to my collection, I wanna pick it up myself. No, all I want is information. This Red Hood character. Who is he, where'd he come from, how'd he get so good that the goddamn Bat can't catch him?"

"Ah, now that is a challenge," Cobblepot said with what sounded like pleasure. Twisted little freak. "I'll see what I can find for you, Roman. And I hope you remain free to take advantage of my research."

"I hope so too," Mask replied, and then hung up after the expected pleasantries. He stretched his neck, hearing a dry pop somewhere. Tension headache coming on. Dealing with the crooks who thought they were upper-crust always managed to piss him off.

Sighing, he rose from his chair. It was time to go see about his operation—what was left of it. Red Hood again. It wasn't enough to steal the merchandise and interrupt the schedule and take over the turf, no, he'd had to kill some of the best operators Mask had. Vicious little bastard.

Only imagining that stupid helmet with a bleeding stump hanging out of it could soothe Sionis' rage.

…

Dick knocked gently at the door. "Hey, Donna?" he called.

From inside the spare room came a startled little yelp. "Dick! You scared me! And you're early—no, wait, you're not." She sounded chagrined at that, but Dick didn't mind at all. Donna continued, "Sorry, I got distracted. I'll open up as soon as I get this in the washer."

"Sure thing," he said, enormously relieved. That Donna was okay was one thing, but that she was doing what she was doing was completely another and deeper sense of relief. When she opened the door a moment later, the chemical smell that seeped out with her would've made him wrinkle his nose, but right now it smelled like normality. Like life finally getting back on track. Donna in the darkroom processing photos was the most reassuring thing he'd run across all week.

The former Wonder Girl had her black hair tied back in a hasty ponytail, and her eyes were still shadowed, but she looked more like herself than she had in months. "Sorry," she said again, smiling apologetically.

Dick swept her into an impulsive hug, and actually startled a laugh out of her. "Best friends are worth waiting on," he told her.

Donna's only reply was a squeeze that spoke volumes. They had known each other from adolescence, when the Teen Titans were still just teens, and they'd been through so much together that Dick at least thought of them as soldiers who'd survived the same war. It was apt.

"What've you been working on?" he asked when they both stepped back after a long moment. "Do I get to see, or do I have to use Bat-powers of espionage?"

She hesitated, and he worried a little at that. "Yeah, you can see. But you won't like it. I've done two series this week. The first one's in the binder on the bookcase. This one … you should go look at the first ones first. Let me get this last one washed and hung before you come in, okay?"

That sounded … un-good. "Okay, I'll go look," he told her.

Donna pecked his cheek with what felt like relief. "I'll only be about ten minutes. Feel free to feed yourself while you're looking through them. You know where everything is." On that note she disappeared back into the darkroom.

When he'd last been here the spare bedroom had still been sitting unused with unopened boxes from the move stacked along the walls. It was good to see Donna putting it in order, and even better to know she'd unpacked her photographic equipment. To the best of his knowledge, she hadn't raised a camera in over a year. Not since the accident.

He'd asked her once, a couple years ago, why she didn't go digital. DSLR cameras took incredible pictures, and computers allowed an effortless range of manipulation. Donna had shaken her head slowly, explaining her preference for black and white. Digital felt almost too easy to her. She loved the process, the manipulation of light and chemicals, the ritual of developer, stop bath, and fixer followed by washing and hanging the prints.

What she didn't say, but he knew anyway, was that she loved the range of control she had over the final product. Donna was always experimenting with techniques and processes, exposure times and filters, to manipulate the result. Dick had laughed to see her cutting up a pair of pantyhose to stretch over a small hoop, but the soft-focus effect created by moving that hoop back and forth in the beam of the projected light while exposing the photo paper was magical. To think something like that was created with a stocking and a coat-hanger was amazing.

Eventually Donna might buy herself a DSLR and the software for a digital darkroom, but she would always prefer the old-fashioned way, and Dick understood that and loved her all the more for it. She was, after all, his very best friend; sometimes it had felt like they were the only two on the Titans who had ever really gotten each other. He had even been the one to give her away at her wedding….

That thought was ashes on his tongue, and Dick went into the living room in a more somber mood. He saw the binder Donna meant immediately, a large three-ring job with archival-quality plastic sleeves inside. Each sleeve held a single photo, printed on eight-and-a-half by eleven inch paper, with just a sliver of white border around the edge. Very stark, in the black-and-white medium she preferred, almost hyper-real.

Dick saw autumn leaves first, and half-denuded branches clawing a graying sky. The backgrounds were all out of focus, unreal, while the foreground images were so crisp they seemed to leap off the page. He paged slowly through the latest collection, wondering. More images: lichens on dark stone, birds silhouetted against storm-tossed clouds, black tree trunks buried ankle-deep in fallen leaves, a white feather caught in long brittle stems of grass.

All in all, a melancholy collection. Almost … funereal. Although that was to be expected, under the circumstances. Dick sighed, letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Maybe, just maybe, as sorrowful as all this seemed, it was a step in the right direction.

And then he got to the end of the album. Everything up front had been natural images. The last few had manmade objects. A barb-wire fence with twists of horsehair caught in the barbs. A softball with worn laces sitting in a drift of leaves. And a child's tricycle lying on its side, the canted handlebars seeming to reach pleadingly up to an uncaring sky.

Dick closed the binder and closed his eyes, struck to the heart by that last poignant image. He was still standing there when Donna said softly behind him, "Didn't I tell you to feed yourself?" Her voice was small and uncertain the way it had so often been this last year, and the sound of it hurt him.

Turning to her, Dick held his arms out, and Donna came to him mutely, resting her head on his shoulder. Safe in the circle of his arms, the tension bled out of her body, and Dick found himself rocking her gently back and forth. "You're all right, palone, you're gonna be all right. I promise."

Donna sighed, her breath warm on his neck, and then she murmured softly, "If those worry you, I'd better not even show you the second series."

…

"I don't know Superman's name," Elise pleaded, twisting her hands within the cuffs. Those car batteries … how much juice was that? How likely was it that her captor knew the amount that could hurt versus the amount that could kill?

"We have reliable information that you do," the distorted voice purred.

"Well, your information's wrong," Elise shot back. She couldn't keep her voice from quavering, but hoped she sounded more angry than scared.

"You don't want to lie to me, Ms. Thorne. Give me Superman's name."

It would be so easy, just two syllables, but Elise couldn't, wouldn't, do it. Not now. Not ever. Not even if she never saw Jason again. She couldn't hand Mr. Kent and his family—because it would surely come to that—over to this sicko. "Listen to me very carefully," she said, forcing her tone level. "I. Don't. Know."

A disappointed sigh. "I did warn you not to lie to me." And then Elise finally saw the figure in the shadows, just a faint outline of an arm holding something with a tiny light on it. Like a remote of some kind…

…there was a louder humming, and Elise caught a whiff of a scent she knew well. Her father liked to build electric model trains, and the transformers had a certain oddly burnt, almost furry smell when they got warmed up. Elise smelled that now, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. "No, wait, hey, don't—!" she babbled, trying desperately to jerk free of her bonds.

A sudden loud crackle, and Elise screamed. Her wrists felt like they were being stabbed with fiery needles—but it wasn't lethal, thank God not lethal, just enough of a shock to make her shriek with surprise and pain. "Holy shit don't do that!"

"Don't force me to," came the calm reply, as the hum quieted and the burnt smell faded. "Now, one more time. All I need from you is one thing, Ms. Thorne. One small thing. Superman's name. Then you can go. I promise you, he's a big boy. He can take care of himself. You don't owe him your death."

Elise started to cry. She couldn't help it. All she really wanted to do was get away from this, but she couldn't see a way out other than to do what her faceless tormentor demanded. And she couldn't do that. Mr. Kent was one of the nicest people she'd ever met, she'd known that even before she found out the family secret. She couldn't give him up. If she did, she'd drag the whole family into it, too. Mrs. Lane-Kent, what a firecracker, how could she sell her out? Not to mention Jason and Kala. Her ex and one of her closest friends.

The voice of self-interest in the back of her brain spoke up. So you're gonna die for them? Is that the plan? Real noble and all, but you're gonna die. As in dead. As in worm food. As in body dumped in a landfill somewhere, or of the coast with a cement block chained to your ankle. And your parents will probably never know what happened to you. Don't they deserve not to spend years wondering if some serial killer got their daughter?

No. She couldn't sell someone else out to save her own life. Elise just wasn't wired that way. Still crying, Elise managed to say, "No! Even if I knew I wouldn't tell you! Forget it!"

"Then there's only one thing left to do with you," the distorted voice said, and Elise saw the remote move again. She braced herself against the pain, hoping it would be quick, please God let it be over quick…

…the cuffs around her wrists clicked open, and a similar set at her ankles did too. Other bands around her chest and waist also sprung open, and the lights came up. Elise looked around wildly, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

The first thing she saw was that the cable from the car batteries went nowhere. They ended just outside the circle of light. She'd never been shocked and couldn't have been shocked, not by the amount of voltage that had been threatened anyway. The intimidating dark chamber was some kind of storage room, with boxes labeled in code pushed out of the way to make room for her chair.

She then whipped her head around to stare at her tormentor, and to her immense shock saw a pretty redhead in green-tinted glasses. The surprise wasn't over, though. Her captor was sitting in a wheelchair—the source of the creepy motorized hum. "I'm sorry about all this," the young woman said, her voice quite pleasant without the digitizer. "We had to know if you could be trusted, first. I'll explain everything, but for right now I suppose you'd better take a moment to regroup. Oh, and by the way, the bathroom is the second door to your right in the hallway behind you."

Elise knew her jaw was hanging open. She couldn't quite process the situation. Her body chose that moment to remind her that she'd needed to use the facilities before being threatened and shocked and scared, so she got up shakily and headed out into the hall, expecting every moment for someone to leap out of a corner and grab her. Nothing seemed real just then, and she sort of expected to wake up from this insane dream.

While she was taking care of business, she heard voices in the hall; the redhead and another woman. It sounded like a perfectly ordinary conversation, not chitchat between psycho killers. Elise splashed water over her face to erase the tear-tracks and take the puffiness from her eyes, then stepped back into the hall warily. She still didn't know quite what to think, but an emotion was beginning to eclipse the numb shock, and the feeling was outrage.

The second woman was a tall blonde in a black coat, giving her a somewhat pained smile. The redhead in the wheelchair looked over at her quite calmly. "Come into the other room, we have a lot to talk about."

Elise blinked. That sounded like such a reasonable request, and yet she couldn't let herself forget the whole strapped-into-a-chair-and-threatened-with-electrocution thing. "What the hell is going on here?" she demanded.

Before the redhead could speak, the blonde answered, sounding chagrined. "Elise, I'm sorry. It had to be this way. We needed to know if you would keep a secret that big, even under threat."

"You can't make me believe Superman put you up to this," Elise snarled, started to shake. Partly out of reaction to the adrenaline that had been coursing through her body moments ago, and partly out of sheer rage.

"No, he didn't," the blonde said. "As a matter of fact, I had to warn him ahead of time not to come to your rescue, and he would only let us go through with this if we promised you'd get nothing worse than a static electric shock."

"Bullshit, that was way more than static electricity!"

"No, it wasn't," the redhead cut in. "You thought it was because I set the stage that way. You received an extremely low-current shock, on the order of five thousand volts but only a billionth of an amp. Thanks to the sound effects and the burning smell, though, you thought you were getting a much stronger shock."

"But why?!" Elise demanded. "And while we're at it, who the hell are you?"

The blonde sighed. Before she could answer, the redhead said, "I'm Oracle. She's Black Canary. As for why, we might have a job for you. Now, are you coming?"