"Alan, this mission is of the utmost importance. This is the funding the organization has allocated for you."
Ra's al Ghul slid a small stack of US dollars across the table. He separated three hundred-dollar bills, then pushed two more forward. "The extra two hundred is a personal sponsorship from me. I hope you won't be too frugal on your journey."
"Don't you worry, Boss," Alan promised solemnly, repeatedly counting the five hundred-dollar bills in his hand. "I once fought my way from the shores of Themyscira to the gates of Asgard, and my eyes never once went dry."
Ra's al Ghul nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. As long as he maintains this level of insanity, he thought, there's no doubt the other three powers will be hunting him down in no time.
After the briefing, the trio was immediately escorted to a helicopter, which would take them to the nearest international flight to America.
The moment the helicopter—the proverbial disaster star—was out of sight, a celebratory banquet was held at the base. For the first time in weeks, everyone ate with gusto, savoring the taste of normal, unadulterated food.
Pfft…
Pfft-pfft…
Pfffffffffft…
"What's happening?"
Ra's al Ghul felt a sudden, sharp cramp in his stomach and realized with dawning horror that there must have been something wrong with the food. But Alan was already gone, and the chefs had prepared the meal themselves. How could anything have gone wrong?
Chelsea was the first to rush into the kitchen. He began sniffing the various containers of seasonings and herbs, his years of experience allowing him to identify ingredients by scent alone. He quickly locked onto a bag of yellowish-brown powder.
Croton powder.
Tucked inside the bag was a small, folded piece of paper.
'No one has triggered the traps in the latrine recently. Everyone must be constipated. This truly worries me. Your friend, Alan.'
"Everyone, stay away from the toilets!" Chelsea bellowed.
Unfortunately, it was far too late.
On this day, the fortress was filled with continuous, agonized wailing, a sound that mingled unpleasantly with the fragrant aroma that now filled the entire base.
***
Meanwhile, on a long-distance flight, Alan sat in the middle of a three-seat row, his eyes darting mischievously between his two companions.
"Bat, Green Arrow, it's a pleasure to meet you."
Alan crossed his arms in front of his chest, gesturing for them to shake his hands in a bizarre, crisscross fashion.
This man is seriously ill, Bruce and Oliver thought in unison. Can't he just extend his hands normally? Why this convoluted maneuver?
"Bruce Wayne."
"Oliver Queen."
The two were too tired to argue about the nicknames. It was clear Alan was no ordinary person. Engaging with his eccentricities would only ensure a journey devoid of peace.
Out of a sense of decency, Bruce decided to offer a warning. "Alan, once we're in America, you should leave. Ra's al Ghul wants to use this mission to get rid of you."
Bruce had joined the League of Assassins to learn its skills, not to subscribe to its warped version of justice. You have to join the darkness to understand it, to become it, if you hope to defeat it.
Oliver, too, was unwilling to see an innocent man—albeit an incredibly annoying one—sent to his death. From what they had gathered at the base, Alan's transgressions were limited to elaborate pranks. Besides, a man with a clear mental disorder deserved a degree of understanding.
The two young heirs already knew each other. The Wayne and Queen corporations were titans of industry, and their paths had crossed in business circles. Their shared background and training in the League had forged a bond of trust between them.
"How could the boss possibly stab me in the back?" Alan retorted. "If anyone's doing any betraying, it'll be me betraying him." He then looked at Bruce, a look of sudden, profound understanding on his face. "Ah, I see what this is. You're jealous of the boss's trust in me, so you want to drive a wedge between us and get a promotion. You're a real schemer, Bat."
"Green Arrow, am I right?" Alan asked, turning to Oliver.
Oliver simply closed his eyes, offering no reply. You can't reason with a man determined to walk off a cliff.
Bruce felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He had tried. From now on, Alan could fend for himself.
Soon, a flight attendant came by with a drink cart. "Sir, what would you like to drink?" she asked with a professional smile.
"One Coke, please," Alan said. "With ice. And hold the Coke."
"…"
***
The taxi pulled up to an old storefront in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The sign read: Chen Kee Sichuan Restaurant. The three men got out and stared at the building in a moment of suspicious silence.
"Are we sure this is the right place? Even negotiations between street gangs have more class than this," Alan couldn't help but complain.
"Pay up, bitch," the taxi driver shouted impatiently, his hand already reaching into his glove compartment. He wasn't about to let these three ride for free and didn't mind introducing them to his little friend, "Equalizer."
"Keep the change," Alan said magnanimously, handing over a bill.
The driver's eyes went wide. He snatched the bill, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and peeled away.
"How much did you give him?" Bruce asked.
Alan looked at the remaining four hundred dollars in his hand. "One hundred," he replied.
"The fare was twenty-three dollars," Oliver added.
Suddenly, Alan's brain, which was notoriously poor at math, went into overdrive. He came to the conclusion that he had been swindled. He immediately dropped his suitcase and took off sprinting after the taxi.
"Come back here with my money!"
A few minutes later, Alan returned, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
"How'd it go?" Bruce asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. They were beginning to understand the frustrations of the other assassins. There were moments when they desperately wanted to strangle him. But seeing him humbled like this was undeniably satisfying.
"I caught up to him," Alan said with a sad look. "Then I realized I was chasing the wrong car."
"…"
Inside the restaurant, the three sat at a table, waiting for the waiter to approach so they could give the secret signal. This was a known front for The Hand, a contact point for the four major powers.
Alan put on a pair of sunglasses, lowered his voice, and whispered, "Alright, you two. On my signal."
Look at your signal? they both thought. Can you please, for once, just be normal?
"Gentlemen, what can I get for you?" a waiter asked, arriving with menus. It was clear to his trained eye that these were not ordinary customers. Their posture was steady, their breathing even—they carried the unmistakable air of warriors. Of course, Alan was the exception. He looked abnormal inside and out.
"The silver moon weeps for the fallen king," Alan intoned, looking expectantly at the waiter.
"Excuse me, sir? What would you like to order?" the waiter asked again, completely baffled.
Alan scratched his head in distress. "The code is correct. You're supposed to say, 'But the dragon sleeps beneath the silent stone.'"
The waiter, realizing the codes didn't match, prepared to treat them as normal customers and recommend the daily special.
"Shadow Dawn," Bruce said quietly, giving the correct password. He leaned toward Oliver. "He's quoting from a pulpy fantasy novel," he whispered. "He's mixed up the secret societies."
The waiter's demeanor changed instantly. "Gentlemen, please follow me to the private room on the second floor."
Shadow Dawn was the exclusive code for the League of Assassins. Among the four powers, the League was ranked first, and its representatives commanded respect. However, this particular trio was obviously led by a lunatic. The waiter couldn't begin to fathom what Ra's al Ghul's intentions were.
As he led them into a secret meeting room, he excused himself to notify the representatives of the other three organizations.
Left alone, Bruce and Oliver finally allowed themselves to become serious. The people they were about to meet, the ones who could cooperate on equal footing with the League of Assassins, were not to be taken lightly.
***********
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