Lyla had no energy left for Thea's half-joking tone. Even though her vision doubled and the walls swayed in her sight, she forced herself upright, one trembling hand on the peeling plaster, scanning the room with a soldier's habit.
It was just a common suburban house — dusty furniture, cracked floorboards, clutter scattered everywhere. Whoever lived here had clearly left in a hurry. The more she looked, the more certain she became: this wasn't a prison.
The window confirmed it — beyond was the open night sky, not a barred cell. Her tension eased a little.
"If you can still walk, come with me," Thea said, her own voice rough and thin. "They're still unconscious, and I can't do this alone."
Even speaking that much left her winded. She'd been through the gas twice now, both times fighting through close-quarters combat and hard flying — her exposure was far worse than anyone else's. The fact that she was even standing came down to sheer willpower.
Her pale face and sweat-soaked hair didn't escape Lyla's notice. The ex-soldier clenched her jaw; she wasn't about to let a sixteen-year-old outlast her. Not after all those years living on caffeine and tranquilizers.
She only nodded, though, and followed — step by step, gripping the wall for balance.
They crossed into the next room. The layout was the same but slightly larger.
A woman lay on the bed, flushed and sweating. Lyla recognized her after a moment — Felicity Smoak, from the intel file attached to Thea's dossier. Without her glasses she looked softer, almost unrecognizable.
Then Lyla's gaze shifted to the two figures on the floor.
The sight made her wince.
Gordon and his daughter looked like they'd gone ten rounds with a freight train. Clothes torn, faces bruised, dried blood streaking their foreheads. Lyla instinctively touched her own face, checking for swelling. None. She exhaled in relief before crouching closer to inspect them.
The older man was easy to identify — that outdated beige trench coat and square glasses could only belong to Commissioner Gordon. Even in this century, nobody else in Gotham dressed like a noir detective who'd missed the memo about color TV.
The woman beside him, bright red hair tangled and messy, had to be his daughter.
Lyla's thoughts flickered wryly. Hopefully not some lover's-tryst-gone-wrong.
"You have any way to wake them up?" Thea asked, anxious now.
Lyla sighed, sliding down the wall to sit. "If I did, I'd have used it on myself ten minutes ago."
She was an agent, not a medic. And right now, her head felt stuffed with cotton — awareness coming and going in waves.
Then, suddenly remembering, she frowned. "Wait—weren't you the one who woke me up?"
Thea blinked. "No. You came around on your own."
The girl waved a hand weakly. "Trust me, if I'd done something miraculous, I'd take the credit. I've got no idea why you woke first."
Lyla wasn't convinced. "Then how did you wake up?"
Thea hesitated. The truth was, she didn't really know — probably some mix of Shiva's breathing discipline, sheer stubbornness, and the enhanced stamina she'd built over months of brutal training. But explaining all that would sound like nonsense, so she only shrugged. "Luck, maybe."
Their exchange yielded no solutions. The others still lay motionless, breaths shallow but steady. The air felt heavy with failure.
Thea's shoulders drooped. "If we can't fix this ourselves, we'll need outside help. Can you call in your people?"
That, at least, got a reaction. Lyla straightened slightly. She did have people — and rank high enough to demand immediate response. If A.R.G.U.S. couldn't extract one of their own at this level, they might as well dissolve.
Without hesitation, she pulled a secure phone from her pocket. "Give me a minute."
Thea stepped back to the window, giving her privacy. She had no interest in overhearing government passcodes. Cool night air rushed in, sweeping through the stale room. Five bodies breathing in one confined space — plus sweat, blood, and the faint tang of gas still clinging to their clothes — made for a nauseating stench.
Lyla's voice, low but firm, carried through anyway:
"Director Waller, this is Michaels. Situation compromised. I'm injured and immobile. Triangulate my signal and send extraction immediately."
Thea's brows rose. Amanda Waller herself?
That explained a lot — only someone with serious clout called the director directly. Hopefully the rescue team would be just as efficient.
Minutes later, Lyla ended the call, exhaling shakily. "They're coming. Won't be long."
She looked a little steadier now, her soldier's poise returning. "Just hold out a bit longer."
It wasn't clear whether she was encouraging Thea or convincing herself.
The wait wasn't long.
Engines purred outside, followed by the crisp rhythm of synchronized footsteps. Within minutes, four men in black suits and mirrored sunglasses entered the doorway. Professional, silent, efficient — unmistakably A.R.G.U.S.
The leader stepped forward, flashed credentials, and handed them to Lyla for verification. She scanned them, nodded once, and issued quick orders:
"Take these three first. I can walk."
"Yes, ma'am."
The men moved instantly. Felicity was the easiest — limp as a rag doll, wrapped quickly in a sheet and hoisted up like cargo. One of the agents muttered, "Dead weight," before catching himself and adding, "—Ma'am."
Thea almost laughed despite herself. If only you knew.
The rescue had begun — at last, they were getting out.