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23 January 2007 @ 08:11 am
Flash By Northwest (9/14)  
Flash By Northwest (9/14)
a Justice League story
by dotfic and mtgat
Copyright 2007
TV-14 (DSLV)

Disclaimer: DC Comics and Warner Brothers own the characters and situations. No infringement on their property is intended or should be inferred.

Continuity/Spoilers: Takes place after JLU "Destroyer" and the events of the flashback in "Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker"

Thanks to amilyn for her beta on this work. Special thanks also to xffan_2000 and billa1 for editing above and beyond the call of duty on the final draft. All mistakes that may still be found herein are ours alone.

Pairings: Lots. If it was canon, if it was implied in canon --- heck, if we just thought it was amusing at the time --- it's in there.

Summary: The Big Seven (plus one) are trapped inside a fantasy world created by a magical artifact. As the body count rises, familiar faces hide deadly secrets and it's up to Flash to save them.

Chapter Nine

A sign proudly proclaimed "Hot Dogs - 10 cents" in front of several small carts nestled under umbrellas advertising soda. Wally had managed to talk Shayera out of driving this time, and eased her car to a stop at the curb.

As they got out of the car, they spied Clark seated at the picnic table behind the carts, a half-eaten hotdog dripping with relish in one hand while he scribbled in a notebook with the other. He seemed to fit perfectly. Somehow the fedora looked okay on him, better than on himself or Bruce or even J'onn, who'd looked all right. John looked plain ridiculous in one, not that Wally would ever point that out.

They walked over to Clark without ordering anything and sat down at the table. Clark stopped writing. He put his half-eaten hotdog down as if he weren't that hungry.

Wally sniffed at the spices carried on the wind and his stomach growled pointedly. Lunch had been hours ago, and supper was rapidly looming on the horizon. He might not need the constant calories without his speed, but man, they sounded good anyway.

"Help yourself," said Clark at the noise, and Wally wolfed down the remaining half. Even if he didn't have his speed powers here, it would seem he still had almost the same appetite.

"What happened?" Shayera said.

"The mansion was Roy Harper's, a gift from his father. Roy is --- was --- heir to the Queen fortune and crime syndicate, Oliver's golden right-hand boy. No one knows who the mother is or where she is now. Or if Roy is even Oliver Queen's biological son." Clark glanced down at his notes. "Roy often had guests staying there. Dick Grayson had his own room--seems he stayed there often. He had his own apartment, a loft, across town. I called the landlord. He wasn't home much."

"And Barbara?" Wally said, putting a hand on his stomach to still the growling. Maybe it was just a stress reaction. This hardly seemed the time to get up and get another hot dog.

"I don't know yet. I thought you three could go and interview the house staff. All we know is she was there last night, in Grayson's room, and was shot. She usually stayed at Wayne Manor." Clark fisted his hand over his mouth and coughed. "Police are pinpointing the time of Grayson's death at two-fifteen. Roy's was two-twenty."

The warm breeze fluttered the edges of the dark canvas umbrella over their heads. Unlike Diana, Shayera wore her hair loose today; she impatiently pushed back the strands that blew across her face. Clark put his hand on the top of his hat to keep it from blowing off. A napkin floated away towards the white picket fence beneath a billboard advertising women's face cream.

"As if he was shot as the killer tried to leave?" Shayera leaned her elbows on the table.

"You mean maybe Roy heard something, came out of his room to investigate, and the murderer had to shoot him to escape?" Diana said.

"Or Roy was one of the targets all along." Shayera nodded. "It could have been a gangland killing. Someone with a vendetta against Queen, and Barbara Gordon was the one in the way, the incidental victim, not Roy Harper."

"The murderer must have used a silencer," said Wally. "We'll talk to the household staff. Anything else, Clark?"

"That's all."

Wally stood up. "All right, we'll go check it out."

Clark slapped his hand down on the papers to keep them from blowing away. "Perry's expecting a sensationalistic write-up on the triple murder." He grimaced. "You know, this is the first time I've ever hated being a reporter."

Diana touched his shoulder, letting her fingers linger there. "It's not your usual way."

"We'll all be home soon," Wally said, wondering if that came out as loud and desperate as it sounded. His stomach growled again. "I'm sorry, damn, I need another hotdog. They're really good."


The papers told him stories, and John tried to piece together what each one said about the story as a whole. Clark's notes on the more recent papers weren't especially helpful, but he added to them what he could.

On March 14th, Mari received an Oscar for her performance in NEVER DIE AGAIN, edging out the favorite, a Mary Dahl, for her role in THE LONELY. The article mentioned a "feud" between Bruce's company and Curry Films, which had produced the latter movie. John wrote it all down.

On January 1, the New Year's celebration at Bruce's place had turned nasty, with an old girlfriend of his attacking another guest with a knife. The attacker, Talia al Ghul, was arrested, and John had seen some talk of a trial in later issues but couldn't recall having read anything about a verdict. The victim, a Miss Beaumont, had not been mentioned in any other articles he remembered.

There was much more, usually dressed up in innuendo. Sex, drugs, guns, Clark had written about them all with lurid detail: "The victim's blood dripped onto the floor while the guests screamed in horror," and "She testified the defendant placed his hand on her knee and then slowly brought it up to the top of her thigh," being only the beginning. John read long, angst-ridden quotes from new widows, saw just-barely-legal photographs of cadavers. Violence and sex sold, and Clark's paper marketed them to the public.

When he'd made it back to the papers from early 1946, he read the tale, backwards, of Shayera's trial-by-public-opinion. His name was linked with hers, which wasn't a surprise, claiming he'd been her contact with the Allies during the war. "Double agent," they called her, or at least he had in a public statement, but the headline read "Traitor and Spy" and headlines were what sold.

He sneezed.

As a rule, John didn't worry much about allergies. When he'd been a kid, every day the pollen count had gone above a negative number, his nose had been stopped up with sneezes, but like the glasses, the allergies had left him in his adolescence, and good riddance to both. The last thing he needed while he was on an assignment, whether he was in Kasnia or on Kharana Nine, was to start the eye-watering sneezefest he remembered as going hand in hand with the first warm days of spring.

Here in the archives, the air was dry like the crackling pages he turned one at a time, and dust covered the shelves. The curator, a pruny codger named Fisher (who'd taught him Geometry), went around with a feather duster after John had settled in, managing to stir up far more dust than he was ever going to remove.

He wondered if the Kleenex company existed in this pretend place, as he sneezed and sniffled into a handkerchief while he continued to read.

On December 9th, he'd married Mari in an elaborate wedding. She was a rising star in Hollywood, he was a war hero with a Silver Star on his uniform. More pictures, but he recognized these from his earlier searches.

On December 2nd, an article on page twenty mentioned that a Victor Sage had gone missing after making wild claims about a government conspiracy. Sage was a nobody, though, and didn't rate the flourished pen, just a quick description and a quote from the Commissioner about how cement overshoes came in "one size fits all."

John wrote it down.


"Her?" The maid wrinkled her nose as she looked at the photograph of Barbara Gordon that Diana held out to her. "Yes, she's been here."

"Last night?" Wally said.

"Sure. Last night, last Wednesday, the week before that. And the week before that. She arrives late, past midnight, wearing a scarf to cover that red hair, and sunglasses." The maid snorted. "Like she was kidding anybody. We were paid not to say anything but since Mr. Grayson's dead, and Mr. Harper's dead, I guess it's all right for me to tell you now." The girl tucked her short blonde hair behind her ear and glanced at the butler, who stood stiffly by the sink. The other maid, tall and buxom, stood beside the butler, biting her lower lip. Her resemblance to Beatriz made Wally's chest ache and wish he would stop seeing his ex-girlfriends everywhere.

"Who was in the house last night?" Shayera walked the perimeter of the large kitchen and peered out through the door into the dining room.

"Mr. Harper. Mr. Grayson. Miss Gordon. Her. And him." The blonde pointed to her companions.

"You hear or see anything?" Wally asked the Beatriz lookalike.

"Just them, as I was passing Mr. Grayson's door. Doing what they ... always do."

"About what time was that?" Shayera said.

"One-thirty maybe?"

The butler wasn't someone Wally recognized, but he had a familiar line to his jaw; he could have been anyone of the heroes he passed in the lunchline in the Watchtower mess, or maybe it was the guy at the deli who gave him his bagel and cream cheese on Saturday mornings.

The man cleared his throat. "I believe we've told you everything we know."

"None of you heard anything else? A gunshot?"

"No, sir."

"The house was locked up?" Shayera touched the lock on the kitchen door that led out onto a small patio.

"Tight as a drum. Every door and window locked on the first floor."

"So someone would have either had to climb in through a window upstairs, or..." Diana tapped her finger on the table. "Who has a set of keys to the place?"

"Myself. The two maids. Mr. Grayson. Mr. Harper. Miss Gordon. Oh, and the construction company."

"Construction company?" Wally, Diana, and Shayera chorused.

"G&K Carpentry, I believe the name was. They recently completed some renovation on the house. Minor work--new shelves, closets, repairs. The foreman had a set of keys. I don't know if they were returned."

Shayera looked at Wally. "Could be a lead."

"But what would a construction company have to do with Roy Harper and Dick Grayson getting killed?" Diana said.

"Maybe they aren't really a construction company," said the blonde, and winked.

"Maybe you should try detective work instead of being a maid," said Wally. She was cute.

The blonde smiled. "I'm taking a night class."


They borrowed a phone book and called G&K Carpentry but no one answered. The three of them headed back into the city.

"Guess they close early," said Wally.

The sun was going down over the hills that ringed the city when they stopped outside Diana's apartment building.

"I'll pick you up at nine," Shayera said as Diana got out of the car. "And swing by to collect Wally at nine fifteen." Shayera slid her hands back and forth on the steering wheel, fidgeting. "If it's okay with both of you that I stay on this team?"

Diana stood on the grass between the curb and the sidewalk as if her heels hurt her beyond imagining. "Yes. It's all right with me."

"Goes without saying for me," said Wally.

"Good," Shayera said softly.


Bruce showed his ID to the guard standing outside the hospital room door and knocked lightly.

He didn't hear a reply, but that wasn't why he hesitated before entering. It didn't matter how much he reminded himself the body at the morgue wasn't really him, and this woman wasn't actually her.

This was still something he never wanted to face, although it sometimes haunted his nightmares: the possibilities, the things that could happen in his real life to the people he knew.

Bruce opened the door.

The window was open a crack, the simple white curtains blowing a little in the early evening breeze. The day was sunny, which made it all so much worse.

Barbara was lying in the hospital bed, her red hair spilling behind her on the pillow. Her face was turned towards the window and the sun hit her face starkly, showing how pale she was.

She turned her head at the sound of his footstep, and the resulting shadows were kinder than the direct sun had been.

"Hello, Babs."

"What do you want," she said, not angry, just tired.

There were two answers to that, actually more than two answers but he couldn't tell her any of them except one.

"I need to talk to you. About what happened."

"I already gave my statement to the police."

"I know. But I need you to tell me. There's a murderer still out there. He might kill others. He might come back for you once he figures out he failed."

"Since when do you care? Why aren't you holed up in your ivory tower while your butler brings you brandy and you keep the doors and windows locked, don't answer the phone, hide from the reporters? Hell, if the police hadn't told you not to, you'd probably be on a plane to a tropical island already."

Sometimes he forgot he wasn't himself, or rather, that they didn't know who he really was. Yet this was a role he'd played often enough. It should be easy to play along.

"I'm one of the suspects and I'm too pretty for prison. So the sooner the killer is found, the easier I'll sleep. Not to mention, he might try to kill me."

She snorted. "That's more like it." Her hand fiddled with the hem of the hospital sheet, her eyes looking down at her hand, studying it. Her fingers stilled. "The doctors said I'm not going to walk again."

Bruce grabbed the metal rungs of the small chair, which concealed the way his hands were shaking. He pulled the chair closer to the bed, and the legs scraped across the linoleum. As he sat down she turned away.

"No." He took her hand, which was too cool and felt too light. "Look at me."

Slowly, she turned back. "All right."

"Tell me what happened."

"We were..." she pulled her hand out of his and rubbed the bridge of her nose with two fingers. Keeping her eyes shut for a moment, she continued. "We were together."

"What time?"

"Around two in the morning."

"What happened right before the shooting?"

"He got up to get a drink, the closet door opened, there was a flash and a bang. I saw him fall. Then there was another flash and a bang. I woke up here." She removed her hand from her face and waved it at the hospital room.

"You didn't see who was hiding in the closet?"

Barbara gave him the glare of someone who has had enough of idiots for several lifetimes. "No. Like I said. Flash. Flash. Bang. Bang." She mimicked a gun with her thumb and forefinger, pretended to pull an invisible trigger twice, then whispered, "You're dead."

It wasn't really her, and he wasn't really him, and that body in the morgue wasn't really Dick, but Bruce got up from the chair, leaned over, and kissed her gently on the forehead. "I'm sorry," he said.

As he left the room he heard the soft sound break from her behind him, and his steps faltered.

It took everything he had not to return to her.


Bruce drove back to the house that wasn't his, then fumbled for the right key to open the front door. Alfred opened the door just as he found the right one. "Sir! What on Earth are you doing on the front stoop?"

"I was at the hospital." Alfred's look of polite confusion burned him, and he walked past the man who wasn't his oldest friend and sat heavily on the bench in the front hall, his hands on his face. "I had to see Barbara. She was with Dick," he glanced at Alfred to make sure his meaning came across, read the slight distaste on Alfred's pinched face, "when he was killed. The killer almost got her too. Spinal injury. She won't walk again."

"Could she identify the blackguard who shot her?"

"No." Alfred's head dropped, his face reflecting the same pain Bruce felt. "I couldn't stay there with her. God knows I wanted to. She's surrounded by police, though, all of them hand-picked by her father. No one will let the killer back to finish the job."

"Jolly good."

"The police think it was the same person who killed Queen. Dick and Roy were next on the list, and Barbara was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"That would make sense, wouldn't it, sir?"

"Nothing makes sense, Alfred. Dick is dead, Barbara's been paralyzed, and I'm not sure that I'm not just sitting somewhere in my own home, cracked up in guilt from what happened to Tim."

"Did something happen to young Timothy the Shoeshine Lad?" Alfred's voice was strained.

"Tim's fine. Here. He's fine here."

"Indeed," said Alfred as he stood. "I think, sir, that you could do with a strong cup of tea, and I think I will join you in one if I might be so forward."

Bruce's mouth curved into a grateful smile. "That sounds wonderful, Alfred. Thank you." He would drink his tea, and he would take a long, hot shower, and he would go see Tim. Just to be sure he was safe.


In the mirror, he was Matches Malone. Inside the fortress of his thoughts, he was grieving Dick almost as keenly as he would had this all been real.

Though the body was safely secured in the city morgue, Dick's open, staring eyes haunted him, glowering at Bruce from just behind his shoulder. Tim looked at him with those same accusing eyes on the rare times his sanity sparked through the mess that Joker had left.

"You could have done something. You should have done something."

Now Dick's voice whispered that same refrain in his mind.

"You should have protected me."

Bruce turned away from his mirror. He had to meet up with Tim, give him a job, give Bruce himself a second chance.

When he arrived at the pancake house, Tim wasn't there. Bruce ordered a coffee, and then another. After an hour, he knew Tim wasn't coming. Anxiety gnawed at him, but Dick and Roy had been the only ones killed, Babs the only one otherwise injured. Tim couldn't have been there when things had gone down.

Unless he wasn't important enough to mention at the hospital or the morgue.

Unless he hadn't been killed by the murderer, but taken away and held against his will, and was even now suffering the tender ministrations of a madman.

Bruce stood up, knocking his coffee cup off the table accidentally. It shattered and splashed. "Sorry." He dropped a few dollars on the table for the mess and the breakage, and strode from the café before the voices in his head drove him mad.

Outside, the moon was starting to rise between the tall city buildings, and a cold evening breeze chilled him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked against the wind towards his car, a spare older Ford that looked like it might belong to a lowlife like Matches.

He was being followed. The senses that kept him alive on pitch-black Gotham nights were tasting the air, the change in light, and told him at least two people were shadowing him. He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets, grasping a lead weight in each hand. Without his training, the body he was in was good-looking, mildly athletic, and almost certainly dead in any street battle. The weights gave him back some measure of advantage, however small.

As he reached the car, he saw all four tires had been slashed. The parking lot was empty, and while he did see people on the street, all of them hurried by, their faces turned away from something they had no intention of seeing.

Bruce turned around. There were three of them.

"You're late," he said to Tim. "Can't you tell time?"

"Don't even start with me, you bastard," Tim said, growling. "I shoulda been wise to you, all that cash you was flashing, all that talk about my ma." In his hand was a white polishing cloth, a peculiar item to bring to a fight, until Bruce caught the flash of what it was hiding. "You set me up."

"It wasn't a setup. I still got the cash if you want the job, kid."

"You LIAR!" The words echoed in the parking lot. "I was s'posed to be with Mr. Grayson last night. He wanted me to hang out at his place, keep an eye on things while he showed his kitten a good time. Mr. Harper was gonna be in charge of everything, make Mr. Grayson his number one guy. I'da been right in there. But no, you get all talky on me, and I end up goin' home last night and so I ain't there when Mr. Grayson gets plugged." He pulled out his pistol from under the cloth. "How's that sound?"

"Sounds like you got a big imagination, kid."

"Who do ya work for? You one of Sal Valestra's boys? Or Bertinelli's gang? You the one what plugged Mr. Queen?" The gun was pointed at him, wavering. "Maybe Chuckie Sol sent ya."

To either side of him, his friends sneered. Tim had a little gang, then, boys mimicking the gangs that ran Los Diablos like other kids would play cowboys. That these boys looked just like Virgil Hawkins and Richie Foley only twisted his heart a little more. Virgil held a length of chain in both hands, Richie a battered baseball bat. The three had bunched together closely against the wind.

Mistake, thought Bruce.

"I'm a free agent, kid," he said, in one last attempt at reason. "Your attitude is gratin' on my nerves. Maybe one of your pals here wants a piece of the action, instead."

Virgil said, "We don't want nothin' you got." More young foot soldiers in Queen's little army, loyal and stupid. "Timmy the Shoeshine Boy told us everythin' we need to know about you."

"Yeah," said Richie.

Bruce gave up. "So you gonna pump some lead into me, boys? Only it's gettin' cold out, and if Timmy don't get home soon, he'll miss his ma before she goes cattin' tonight."

"Shut up about my ma." The gun wiggled more. Bruce was going to hate himself later for this.

"You know about yer ma. You keep whorin' her out, but you buy that cock and bull story about yer dad? What kind've sap are ya? One of her johns knocked her up and got you, ain't that right?"


The other two closed in just a touch more, and it was enough. Bruce yanked his hands from his pockets and punched Virgil with one hand and Richie with the other, pounding them both straight into Tim. In one motion, he wrested the gun from Tim's hands and kicked out, sending the boys to a heap in front of him.

Amateurs. If they'd been pros, they would've come at him from three sides and not given him such an easy opening.

As they scrambled to their feet, tangled in Virgil's chain, Bruce pocketed the gun and fled on foot.

Three blocks away, he hid inside a cigar shop, watching from the back of the store while the boys ran by without even slowing.

Damn damn damn.

When they were gone, he sauntered out of the shop and doubled back to look for a payphone so Alfred could come pick him up. As he passed a sewer grating, he dropped the pistol and heard it land with a deep splash.


Wally woke up with a jolt, staring at the ceiling fan in his bedroom as it rotated slowly. Light from the street shone dimly through the slats of the Venetian blinds.

Maybe it was a dream that woke him, but he couldn't remember what he was dreaming about. Maybe a sound woke him, but he couldn't remember hearing one.

Whichever, he was awake, his skin prickling. His heart was a little too fast, still much lower than his normal heartrate at home, but being in this ordinary body without superspeed had made him very aware of things like that.

Fumbling for the pull-chain of the lamp on the bedside table, Wally sat up, blinking in the sudden light that threw a distinct shadow up against the wall. Wally shouted, startled. His feet got tangled in the sheets as he tried to scramble out of bed, and fell.

"Getting sloppy, West? I haven't been gone that long and your reflexes are already shot?"

The voice was soft, sardonic, and familiar.

"Ques-- Vic?" Wally said from where he sat on the floor.

"Hello, Wally."

The shadow moved, and Vic moved into the light. He had a fedora pulled low over his face, concealing it, and wore a raincoat over dark slacks and a dark shirt, but it was unmistakeably the Question. He reached down and helped Wally to his feet.

"What are you doing here?" Wally rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his head and his vision.

"Oh, you know, I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop by." Vic tossed aside a few pieces of dirty laundry and sat down in the armchair.

"Sure." Wally sat on the bed. "You just wanted to chat?"

"Something like that. Grapevine says you're investigating Macabe's murder, and now Queen's as well."

"Among others," Wally said.

"Los Diablos is getting more hazardous to your health."

"The air quality sucks."

Vic tilted his head to one side. "Sucks?"

"As in sucks eggs," said Wally. "Pollution. Smog."

"I wasn't talking about the smog."

"Somehow I'm not surprised."

"Aren't you going to ask me?"

"Ask you what?"

"Why I'm sitting in your room at two o'clock in the morning? Don't you think I have better things to be doing?"

"Besides sleeping?"

"You and I were never much for sleep."

"True," Wally said, playing along.

"The smog is all a cover-up anyway," Vic added, resting his palm on the arm of the chair.

"For what?"

"Sometime you should ask yourself what's going on up in the hills. You think they put those giant letters up there because they're decorative?"

"They aren't...decorative?"

"They're distracting for a reason."

Same old Vic.

"All right," said Wally. "I'm asking. What are you doing in my room at two o'clock in the morning?"

"Warning you."

"About the big letters on the hill?"

"About the murder of Oliver Queen." Vic leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees.

"What about the murder?" Wally prompted, gently. For once, Vic seemed reluctant to share his theories.

"It's not connected to the Vixen's death. You think it is, but it's not."

"You know who did it."

"Yes. God help me. Helena Bertinelli."

"She ordered the hit," Wally said. "Why?"

Vic stood up, pulling the fedora down farther over his face. "You know who had her family killed. Blood for blood. That's how the game is played. Only I thought she'd given up the game for me." The hint of a wince showed not on his face, which was near-invisible, but in the twitch of his shoulders. "Because I am, at heart, a sentimentalist. I gave that necklace to her, you know. I've always tried to protect her. We had something like a life together. But she's gone too far this time."

"But you're turning her in?"

"She's a danger to herself. To our son."

Wally paused to turn over that last bit of information.

When he looked up again, Vic was gone with a completeness that would have impressed Bruce.

Eyes burning from all the lack of sleep that seemed to be a new habit, Wally got dressed. There was no point in trying to go back to bed after that.

Instead he went over to the office using the same cab company again. Apparently Wally's car had indeed been repossessed, just like the guy in SUNSET BOULEVARD. Diana had found the records in the files.

He just hoped he didn't end up face down in a swimming pool.

He turned on the light and dug out his files. Huntress hadn't been on his list of suspects for Vixen's murder, and he wasn't sure if she belonged there even now. She had a very specific motive for killing Oliver Queen. Wally chewed on the end of his pencil. If Vic was right, Ollie's murder wasn't connected to Mari's murder after all, though God alone knew how often the Question had been wrong about things in the real world.

Wally scratched out a line of notes and scribbled something else beneath.


To Be Continued ...
crhblackcrhblack on January 23rd, 2007 04:52 pm (UTC)
This story simply keeps my rapt attention. I think what intrigues me most pertains to how the heroes must rely on 'normal' powers to solve this case. Moreover, the fact that their personas are viewed from without as the negative reflections of themselves adds to the psychological battle raging within themselves. A truly fresh take on them.
Merlin Missy: Big Scary Freakmtgat on January 23rd, 2007 05:11 pm (UTC)
*grin* Glad you're enjoying! Right now, you're a half step ahead of the characters in figuring this out.
getting the chocolate in the peanut butterdotfic on January 23rd, 2007 09:43 pm (UTC)
Thanks for the thoughtful comment! (we put all that in on purpose, yes we did, uh-huh *g*)

A lot of their fumbling is because they're solving this as their personas in Los Diablos, not as superheroes. They have the same mental strengths that they have at home, and some are discovering new skills.
crhblackcrhblack on January 23rd, 2007 10:21 pm (UTC)
I must say that 'threesome' of Wally, Shayera, and Diana peaks my interest most. Trying to mesh 3 unique and unwieldy personalities is a task in and of itself, but trying to do it while others see them from the reverse image is remarkable!
Matt Zimmermattzimmer on January 23rd, 2007 06:00 pm (UTC)
Yay! Question and Static! More please!
Merlin Missy: Big Scary Freakmtgat on January 23rd, 2007 06:01 pm (UTC)
More shall be had! Tomorrow. :)
getting the chocolate in the peanut butterdotfic on January 23rd, 2007 09:43 pm (UTC)
Chris90scartoonman on January 23rd, 2007 07:21 pm (UTC)
Question and Huntress are great additions to the story. I also like seeing Diana and Shayera working together with Wally between them. And the fact that there are just some things Shayera can't escape.
getting the chocolate in the peanut butterdotfic on January 23rd, 2007 09:45 pm (UTC)
Question is just so. Much. Fun.

Ah, workplace tensions. Some things stay the same no matter what.
Merlin Missy: Hawkgirl Girly-Girlmtgat on January 24th, 2007 03:30 am (UTC)
It's hard to run away from some things. :)
Kiraava_cabot on January 23rd, 2007 07:47 pm (UTC)
Huntress and Question with a son? O.o That part really jumped out at me. =)
getting the chocolate in the peanut butterdotfic on January 23rd, 2007 09:46 pm (UTC)
Heh. Boggles the mind, doesn't it?
Merlin Missy: Big Scary Freakmtgat on January 24th, 2007 03:31 am (UTC)
It seemed like a good idea at the time. :D
allaine77: pic#49107002allaine77 on January 23rd, 2007 08:21 pm (UTC)
I had a feeling we'd be seeing Bea and Tora eventually.

Curry Films? A reference perhaps to the man-who-was-almost-Joker-but-wasn't? And Baby Doll *chuckles*

I think it's somehow appropriate that Selina, however nonexistent their relationship is now, has a son by Bruce, while Talia and Andrea are just a couple exes who had a tussle. These little asides which are probably irrelevant to the story, but provide an opportunity to throw more names and faces in.

I never got much into the H/Q pairing since I stopped watching as the show wore on, but I liked Question very much ever since he emerged in Fearful Symmetry (always thought he and Matt Bluestone could have been bowling buddies), and it's good to see him here. And hear those theories we know and love.

Sincerely, Allaine
getting the chocolate in the peanut butter: Flash: hero in progressdotfic on January 23rd, 2007 09:50 pm (UTC)
We really liked having the Baby Doll reference in there.

Selina+Bruce=inevitable. *g*


Merlin Missy: Coffee (Selina)mtgat on January 24th, 2007 03:33 am (UTC)
H/Q are the cutest, quirkiest couple the producers ever wrote. :) "Orange socks" remains one of the best punchlines I've heard. *wrote a story for Dot once where Vic and Matt were brothers* Good times.

*loves on her Catlady*
Lady Lark: Labyrinth: Walls have Eyesleilia on January 23rd, 2007 10:43 pm (UTC)
Oooohhh, the Question makes his appearance. Gotta love him. And the whole parallel with Oracle is excellent.

This story keeps me hooked and wanting more.
Merlin Missy: Timmymtgat on January 24th, 2007 03:34 am (UTC)
Poor Babs can't escape things from world to world either. :/
getting the chocolate in the peanut butterdotfic on January 25th, 2007 03:28 am (UTC)
We love The Question. :)

Thank you!
sunless_deathsunless_death on January 24th, 2007 01:42 am (UTC)
Vic and Helena. Virgil and Richie
Why are you so awesome?
Also: Nobody else died today!
Merlin Missy: Big Scary Freakmtgat on January 24th, 2007 03:35 am (UTC)
Really? Damn. We'll have to kill off extra people tomorrow just to catch up, huh? :D

*needs a good Virgil icon*
getting the chocolate in the peanut butter: Flash: hero in progressdotfic on January 25th, 2007 03:31 am (UTC)
The cameos just go on and on...*g*

Well, thank you very much!

*feels awesome* :D
The owner of a grey cat: focused raphjennielf on January 24th, 2007 04:40 am (UTC)
Yeah...that special hell? Yup. You're goin'. :)
Damn, way to include Virgil and Richie.... Poor kids.
Again, with the do you hate Bruce??? I mean seriously...
I never saw JLU but I agree with the poster above, from what i know of him and from this short scene, I can totally see he and Bluestone being buddies...

Speaking of...Well I thought I saw Elisa in there somewhere in past couple of chapters but I guess I was wrong...

Enjoying immensely! I dont want this to end, but I think i feel a breakthrough coming soon...
Merlin Missy: Timmymtgat on January 25th, 2007 02:14 am (UTC)
We don't hate Bruce. We always torture the ones we love. :D
getting the chocolate in the peanut butterdotfic on January 25th, 2007 03:33 am (UTC)
Oh, don't worry none, I've been headed for the special hell for a while now...hee!

We don't hate him, he love him. And that is why we torment him so. Also, he's so fascinating to torment.