The car rolled smoothly through the streets of Metropolis. Traffic had yet to fully consume the city, allowing the convoy to move at a comfortable pace. Nolan sat in the rear passenger seat, one arm resting against the door while a sturdy case occupied the seat beside him.
His attention drifted over the skyline as the previous evening replayed itself within his thoughts.
"His emotional control is beyond impressive," Nolan remarked quietly. "I've only ever seen that level of control from Batman."
The observation lingered for a moment before Kieran surfaced within the shared landscape of his mind.
"It makes sense," Kieran replied thoughtfully. "Ra's is old. Older than almost anyone we regularly interact with. Experience alone can accomplish remarkable things. Honestly, I'm more curious whether he noticed us examining him."
Nolan considered that.
Throughout the evening they had watched Ra's carefully. Not probing, not manipulating, merely observing. Measuring reactions. Looking for cracks. Looking for tells. Trying to see if anything spiked his mirage of colors.
They hadn't found many.
"Unlikely," Vey answered. "We weren't trying to influence him. We were simply watching."
His tone hardened slightly.
"What concerns me more are the guests he's been placing in our hotels."
That earned a small nod from Nolan.
Ra's' people had never exactly hidden themselves. They followed the rules, paid on time, caused little trouble, and came and went with professional efficiency. In many ways they were ideal guests.
That alone made them dangerous.
"Bah." Quentin's voice cut through the discussion with characteristic amusement, "Nothing to worry about."
Nolan could practically feel him lounging somewhere in the back of their shared consciousness.
"He was obvious about it. Too obvious. Men like Ra's don't accidentally leave footprints. If he wanted us to notice, then we were supposed to notice."
Quentin chuckled.
"Personally, I think he was testing the waters."
"You think he wants a partnership."
"I think he's interested."
That quieted the conversation briefly.
Outside, Metropolis continued sliding past the windows.
Eventually Nolan spoke again.
"Which is exactly what worries me."
His fingers tapped absently against the armrest.
"If I remember correctly, Ra's is involved with the Light. I'd rather avoid becoming entangled with that particular group."
The statement earned immediate agreement. The Light had influence. Power. Reach.
Organizations like that rarely approached others without purpose.
"And that brings us to our next concern," Vey said.
"Lex Luthor."
The name alone carried enough weight to shift everyone's attention.
Nolan couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips.
"The man is almost comically evil whenever Superman is involved."
Kieran laughed.
"Almost?"
"Fair point."
Nolan shook his head.
"Regardless, we need to be careful here. Ra's is dangerous because he's patient. Lex is dangerous because he's smart."
"And rich," Quentin added.
"And rich."
Vey's agreement was immediate.
"Metropolis needs to be played slowly. No rushing. No shortcuts. No unnecessary attention."
Nolan watched another LexCorp tower pass outside the window.
For perhaps the first time since arriving, he found himself completely agreeing with Vey.
"Slow and steady," he murmured.
"At least until we understand the landscape."
****
The following morning arrived with gentle sunlight spilling across the city.
Metropolis seemed almost designed to look beautiful at sunrise. Golden rays reflected off thousands of glass windows while low clouds drifted lazily between distant skyscrapers. From the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse suite, Nolan had an excellent view of the city waking around him.
Fortunately, the cloud cover softened what would otherwise have been a blinding amount of light.
After completing his morning routine, Nolan poured himself a glass of orange juice and settled into a chair near his desk.
The reinforced case from the auction sat exactly where he had left it.
Waiting.
His eyes drifted toward it several times before he finally sighed.
"Fine."
The smile already beginning to form betrayed just how little resistance he had intended to put up.
Setting down his drink, Nolan reached forward and released the brass clasps.
The lid opened smoothly.
Inside rested the cane.
Even now it looked magnificent.
Time had worn portions of the wood smooth while leaving other sections untouched. Delicate carvings spiraled along the shaft, their craftsmanship far beyond anything modern artisans typically produced. The polished handle caught the morning light beautifully, revealing details he hadn't fully appreciated during the auction.
Carefully, Nolan lifted it from the case.
The cane felt surprisingly balanced.
Solid.
Comfortable.
Purposeful.
Not merely decorative. It was magnificent!
"Well…"
A grin spread slowly across his face.
"It really is beautiful."
Kieran hummed in agreement.
"You bought it because it looked interesting."
"I bought it because I liked it."
"You spent a small fortune because you liked it."
Nolan grinned at him, "Technically Ra's bought it."
He turned the cane over in his hands while recalling the stories attached to its previous owner.
Fantastico.
A stage magician whose performances had once captivated entire theaters.
At the time, most audiences had believed him to be nothing more than a particularly talented illusionist.
History had eventually revealed something different.
Fantastico had been a genuine magician.
A real one.
According to the stories, he could transform his cane into a sword before an audience's eyes. Some accounts claimed he could make it disappear entirely. Others insisted he once swallowed it whole during a performance before producing it moments later from thin air.
And those were considered his simpler tricks.
Nolan's grin widened.
The restoration alone would be enjoyable. Researching its history would be even better.
But discovering whether any of those stories were true?
Now that was a challenge.
He carefully ran his fingers along one of the carved grooves near the handle.
There was something deeply satisfying about bringing old things back to life.
A project.
A mystery.
A puzzle.
The smile splitting his face became positively outrageous.
"Yes," he said softly.
"I think you're going to keep me occupied for quite a while."
****
Ra's eyed the person before him critically, his eyes never blinking and mouth never forming into anything but a thin judging line.
"I want you to look into his business in metropolis." Ra's ordered
"Of course, anything specific?"
"Everything is important. The reports were right he is something to watch for. I want a meeting with him before he leaves and I want everything he has done since arriving before the meeting is scheduled."
"Do you think he can be an ally?"
"Perhaps, I met with just one of his faces. His ideology agrees with mine to a degree." Ra's hummed, "Yes, perhaps he can be one. His hotels are certainly helpful."
***
Night had settled comfortably over Star City, washing the streets in pools of amber streetlights and long shadows. Across one of the industrial districts, a pair of unmarked cargo vans rolled through an aging warehouse complex before slowing beside an abandoned loading dock. Their headlights blinked twice in succession before cutting out entirely.
The rear doors swung open.
Crates were unloaded with practiced efficiency, each one disappearing into the warehouse while men exchanged quiet words and checked manifests beneath dim work lights. It was routine work now. Fast. Organized. The kind of operation Dre had spent weeks building from the ground up.
Inside the warehouse, one of the men sealed another crate with a satisfying snap before nodding toward the loading crew.
"That's the last of—"
The sentence never finished.
The sharp crack of a rifle shattered the quiet.
For the briefest instant, nobody moved.
Then the man's chest exploded outward in a spray of crimson as the round punched clean through him. His body slammed backward into the stack of crates, sending wood splintering across the concrete floor before he collapsed in a lifeless heap.
"CONTACT!"
The roar echoed through the warehouse just as a second volley erupted.
Gunfire exploded from the rooftops surrounding the loading yard.
Windows burst inward.
Concrete chipped apart in violent sprays.
Bullets tore through the loading dock with terrifying precision, punching fist-sized holes through crates as splinters and packaging filled the air like deadly confetti.
"DOWN!"
Men dove behind forklifts, stacks of cargo, and concrete pillars as automatic fire ripped across the open bay. Sparks erupted wherever rounds struck steel, ricochets screaming through the warehouse while shattered glass rained from the upper offices.
One of Dre's men lunged for cover only for three rounds to catch him across the back.
He folded instantly.
Another tried dragging him to safety.
A sniper's round caught him through the shoulder, spinning him violently before he crashed behind an overturned pallet, screaming through gritted teeth.
The warehouse transformed into chaos.
Muzzle flashes strobed from neighboring rooftops.
Engines roared as one of the vans attempted to reverse out of the kill zone, only for its windshield to erupt into thousands of glittering fragments. The driver slumped forward over the wheel, horn blaring continuously as the vehicle drifted sideways into a concrete barrier.
"RETURN FIRE!"
The command finally cut through the panic.
Rifles answered.
Orange muzzle flashes lit the darkness from inside the warehouse as Dre's people began firing back in disciplined bursts rather than blind panic. Several attackers ducked behind rooftop ventilation units while another disappeared entirely after a round shattered the ledge inches from his face.
The gunfight intensified.
The deafening rhythm of rifle fire echoed between brick buildings, each explosion blending into the next until it became one endless roar. Empty brass casings bounced across concrete while smoke slowly filled the loading bay.
Bodies continued to fall. One of the attackers attempted to reposition across a rooftop.
Three rifles tracked him simultaneously.
He disappeared over the edge.
A rough, gravelly voice suddenly thundered across the alley.
"Quit bunchin' up, you dumb bastards!"
The speaker leaned around the corner of a rusted shipping container, laying down a stream of suppressive fire from a battered light machine gun. The weapon bucked violently against his shoulder as dozens of rounds hammered into the opposite rooftop, forcing several hidden shooters back behind cover.
"Move!"
"Move, damn it!"
His men didn't hesitate.
Using the torrent of covering fire, survivors dragged the wounded deeper into the warehouse while others shoved crates aside to establish new firing positions. Someone kicked over a steel shelving unit, creating an improvised barricade moments before bullets chewed through where they'd been standing.
The machine gun finally fell silent.
The barrel smoked.
The man cursed under his breath as he ducked behind cover to reload.
"Son of a—"
Another volley smashed into the shipping container, punching fresh holes through the steel and showering him with flakes of rust.
He slammed a fresh ammunition belt into place.
"Keep their heads down!"
The weapon roared back to life.
Minutes later…the shooting finally began to fade.
Not because either side had won. Because whoever had planned the ambush had already accomplished their objective.
As suddenly as they had appeared, the rooftop shooters disappeared into the darkness.
The only sounds left were distant sirens…
The hiss of ruptured radiators…
And the pained groans of wounded men scattered throughout the warehouse.
One of the survivors wiped blood from his forehead with shaking hands before fumbling a burner phone from his pocket.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then Dre answered.
"We got hit, boss…"
The man's breathing was ragged, "Bad."
A cough interrupted him.
"Fuck… we got hit."
Dre's voice immediately hardened.
"What happened?"
The survivor glanced toward the warehouse entrance where bodies still lay motionless beneath the loading lights.
He swallowed.
"Someone doesn't like that we stepped into Star City."
His grip tightened around the phone.
"…Brickwell's men, I figure."