D'khara and Oliver stared each other down in the back of the Battle Wagon, gazes snapping sparks. Tensions were high.

"That is purest nonsense!" Oliver roared. "It's not only unlikely but entirely improbable!"

"I'm telling you," D'khara said, slapping the back of his hand into his open palm, "Batman could absolutely beat Aquaman. He just hasn't needed to."

"But Aquaman has the entire ocean at his disposal. In a worst case scenario, he could retreat to the safety of the Marianas trench where Batman can't even get to him."

The crew were crowded in the Battle Wagon, on the third floor of a parking garage across the street from the Hayworth building. Mrs. Meade had driven around for ten solid minutes looking for a parking spot closer to ground level, but this was as close as she could get.

They had to stay in the Battle Wagon. A dwarf, an orc, and a dipso in the Corporate District would draw a whole lot of attention, to say nothing of Little Timmy, who would draw attention anywhere.

Oliver and D'khara were arguing while Roger and Little Timmy played cards. It was neither clear nor particularly relevant what the exact card game was, since it was mostly Roger hissing at his cards, and Little Timmy patting one of his guns when he got a bad hand.

"Okay, first off," D'khara spat, "even Aquaman couldn't deal with the pressure in the Marianas Trench, and second of all, Batman would still find him."

"But how? He's got 335 million square kilometers of open ocean to search, and that doesn't account for depth and caves and so forth. How's he going to find Aquaman in all that?"

"Tracker. He already knows where Aquaman hangs out. He's been tracking him since day one. All of the Justice League. He knows that with that much power, someday he might have to step in and stop them."

Oliver scoffed.

"Ridiculous! How would he even-- hey, how long has that light been blinking?"

All eyes swiveled to the dash, where a red light was blinking rapidly. They all stared at it for a moment.

"What is it?" D'khara asked.

"It's the panic button. David must have pressed it."

They stared at it as it winked in the dimness of the Battle Wagon.

"Is Fleer in trouble then?"

Oliver looked worried.

"I don't know. Maybe he pressed it by accident? He hasn't been in there that long."

"What's the plan?" D'khara asked.

"Plan? I-- we, uh, didn't discuss it that far."

"Didn't discuss--! Well how do we get him out? Where is he?"

"Um, eighteenth floor, I think? I assume he's still in or around Adler's office. I didn't think of planting a tracker on him." Oliver was starting to panic. "But what if he's moved elsewhere? What if he hit it by accident? I don't want to mess up his negotiations! Perhaps we should wait a few minutes, I have the blueprints here somewhere..."

D'khara snorted, racking a fresh drum mag into his shotgun.

"All I know is that he hit the button. I'll mess up his negotiations. You can come if you want."

So saying, he threw open the back doors of the Battle Wagon.

"Keep it running, Mrs. Meade," he called. "We might need to bail out in a hurry."

"Be careful now, boys," she replied, waving distractedly in the general direction of the departing dwarf.

"I knew it," Oliver moaned. "I knew this would be a disaster!"

Oliver, Little Timmy and Roger scrambled into their gear and out of the Battle Wagon. They clattered down the concrete stairs of the parking garage after D'khara, who moved with relentless determination now that he had something to do.

D'khara's hobnail boots threw sparks as he jumped the last few steps and hit the ground floor. The four of them made an eye-catching crew.

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Oliver peered at the silvered glass of the majestic building across the street.

"Okay," Oliver explained quickly, "there are two main stairwells, and two elevators, both accessible from the atrium. Elevators will be the fastest way up; stairs will be the safest way down."

D'khara nodded shortly.

"Fine. Oliver, you and I can take the elevators up to eighteen, and work our way down. Roger and Little Timmy, you guys secure the stairwells, keep our exit clear. Rescue the boss if you see him first."

"Yeah," Little Timmy said. "Let's teach these guys! Like, their mistakes. Of messing with Riotfish, is what I mean."

They approached the front doors of the building, watching their reflections marching toward them. The Hayworth building boasted two massive powered rotating doors, flanked by smaller, more traditional doors, all in the same silvered glass, making the building both beautiful and hard to see into.

The Riotfish spread out as they approached, striding firmly, guns in hand. This was no social call.

"Fleer didn't think they'd have much in the way of security," Oliver said, "so we may not even need to, um, um, oh."

As they entered the shadow of the building, mere yards from the door, they faltered. The powered doors were not rotating. The swinging doors were not propped open. The atrium was not empty.

Once they were in shadow, they were finally able to see clearly through the glass of the front wall. They were able to admire the marble and brass interior, the abundance of art, the delicate fountain, and the array of gunmen.

A line of black-suited guards stood behind the glass, their pistols trained on the approaching Riotfish.

The Riotfish slowed and stopped, D'khara and Oliver in the center, flanked by Roger and Little Timmy.

"That's what I get for thinking my bad luck had abandoned me for one stinking minute," D'khara growled.

"Do you think they'd let us just walk on back to the Battle Wagon?" Oliver asked.

D'khara glared at him.

"Fleer's in there, and this reception tells me that he needs us."

Oliver frowned.

"Right. Right. That's absolutely right. Let's go get him."

Oliver had grabbed his weapon kit, which was effectively a backpack made of cargo netting. It was a jumble of weapons and crates. He unslung the kit and drew out his Zentech cannon.

The Zentech cannon had been built in an era when the synthetic look was in. The whole exterior was wrapped in ruggedized fiberglass of a bland putty color with a pebbled texture. The barrel was thick, four inches in diameter but with a one-inch bore, three feet long, and fluted, with a tapering tip. The breech terminated in a thick block of machinery that housed the action. A crude carrying handle protruded from the top of the action, and a hand-carved wooden grip jutted from the rear, with the trigger.

It had originally been mounted on a tank, and it fired thumb-thick rounds with plastic explosive shaped-charge warheads, designed to knock holes in other tanks.

Oliver swung it around with ease. The gunmen inside quickly calculated the firepower disparity and, to a man, scrambled for cover.

"Knock knock," Oliver whispered, and started pulling the trigger.

The first two explosions took out the rotating doors in a grand splash of twisted brass and a million shards of gleaming glass. The next two shattered the glass walls and the supports between them. The remaining rounds in the magazine impacted random places in the atrium, blowing apart statuary, the fountain, the entry desk, and no small number of gunmen. After all, this was a rescue, not a reception for the Ammunition Conservationist of the Year award.

The popping of the guard's pistols as they returned fire sounded like popcorn after the throaty roar of Oliver's Zentech cannon.

Oliver, having spent his ammo, stepped back. Roger skittered in through the ragged opening in the building and began flinging grenades with unrestrained glee. He had an unnatural ability to keep up with which grenades had been thrown where, and how much time each fuse had left to burn. He whirled through the giant room, hurling explosives, giggling and dancing amid the chaos.

"We need cover!" yelled one gunman.

"Where?" yelled another. "Whatever that thing is, it's all over the place!"

The guards tried to defend themselves, but there was no predicting where Roger would go. He cackled and flapped his arms and sometimes a grenade would fly out. There was no safe place.

One unfortunate guard caught a heavy grenade to the temple and dropped unconscious. It was perhaps a blessing that he wasn't aware when the grenade went off.

A few guards tried to shoot at Roger, but it was hopeless-- he whirled, skittered and spun, an untouchable kaleidoscope of explosives and insanity.

With a wicked giggle, Roger winged one final grenade with shocking accuracy into a narrow gap between the reception desk and the wall, briefly surprising the three guards who had hunkered down there.

With his ordnance spent, Roger drew back, doing a surprisingly competent pirouette along the way. D'khara and Little Timmy swept in, cleaning up what forces remained, D'khara on the right laying out paths of destruction with short, controlled bursts, and Little Timmy on the left, shrieking and spraying bullets from both fists. It was hard to tell whether the guns or Little Timmy's screeching was louder.

Bodies tumbled and tossed like rag dolls. Guards tried to displace, fall back, develop some sort of coherent defense, but the Riotfish left no room for tactics, only reaction.

D'khara and Little Timmy made their way through what remained of the security forces. The black-suited guards briefly rallied, firing at the fast-moving Riotfish. They tried to hold their position, to no avail. All they had were slim handguns which were simply overwhelmed by the power and range of D'khara's shotgun, and which were not nearly as terrifying as whatever it was Little Timmy was doing.

The few remaining guards broke and ran.

D'khara and Little Timmy shared a high five, which connected after only three tries.

"I'm not sure I quite believe that we did that," Oliver said breathlessly. "Did we just do that?"

The atrium was a ragged mess. Several of the heavy planters had been exploded, splashing their topsoil across the rich marble floors. An information kiosk was tumbled over, shredded nearly beyond recognition by a grenade. Few of the statues had remained in one piece, and all of them were pock-marked with bullet strikes. Bodies lay strewn about, leaking unpleasantly.

The ruined atrium didn't offer Oliver any cogent counter-arguments.