When the agents moved to load the Gordons for transport, they hit an unexpected snag.
The criminals, apparently aware of the father-daughter pair's importance, had tied them up extremely well — then Thea, in her panic, had re-tied the pair crosswise with her own chain for "extra security."
After the violent flight through the air, the overlapping chains had twisted together into a steel knot so dense it looked like modern art.
The A.R.G.U.S. team stared in silence. They didn't understand why the kidnappers would bind their captives in such… avant-garde fashion.
Thankfully, they weren't the talkative kind. No one asked questions — and Thea wasn't about to volunteer an explanation.
She'd already decided that, should anyone ask, this was exactly how the enemy had done it.
(And may the gods strike me down if I'm lying, she thought grimly.)
Even so, letting the men simply lift the Gordons like sacks of potatoes would look bad — especially with Lyla, a high-ranking officer, watching.
A rescue was one thing; reputation was another. If they didn't look competent now, when would they?
The lead agent gave a subtle hand signal.
Two men trotted out and returned moments later with a full arsenal of tools — saws, cutters, even a small welding torch.
For the next thirty minutes, the house echoed with the grinding of steel and the occasional spark.
When the last ring finally snapped apart, Gordon himself stirred.
Years of being kidnapped, drugged, and tied up by Gotham's colorful rogues gallery had apparently built up a mild resistance to just about everything, even tranquilizers.
Still, age had dulled him; it had taken this long for his system to flush out the gas.
When he opened his eyes to see four men in black with power tools hovering over him, he didn't even flinch — just barked hoarsely,
"Don't touch my daughter! Take me instead!"
The agents froze, glancing at one another.
Lyla stepped forward quickly, explaining in calm, clipped tones who they were.
But Gordon's expression remained wary. After all, it would take government-grade resources to deploy a gas that could knock out an entire campus. And who had government-grade resources?
Exactly.
He eyed Lyla with the look of a man who'd seen too much to trust easily.
Lyla could only sigh. So this is karma, she thought, remembering her own suspicion of Thea after waking. Maybe paranoia really is contagious.
Trying to smooth things over, she pulled Thea to her side. "She's the one who got you out. Ask her yourself."
Gordon's gaze softened. "Miss Queen… I don't even know how to thank you. You saved us."
Thea smiled awkwardly, waving off the gratitude. "All in a night's work."
His words, though, hit Lyla harder than expected. Seriously? she thought. I vouch for us, and he looks ready to call me the villain — but she says three sentences and he's all gratitude?
If even Gotham's top cop didn't trust the government anymore, A.R.G.U.S. might as well hang up its badge.
Lyla made a mental note: Recommend to Director Waller — urgent PR overhaul needed.
Two vehicles rolled up outside.
Thea, mostly recovered by now, declined the ride and took to the air on her hoverboard, gliding low behind them.
It was Lyla's first time seeing the board up close. She'd heard of it, of course — the experimental "Queen hover-platform" — but the real thing was dazzling.
It wasn't even the engineering that impressed her; it was the design logic.
Could something like this be mass-produced for field ops?
She doubted it. The cost alone would bankrupt their logistics division. Still… it was tempting.
Half an hour later, the convoy reached a gated cluster of villas on Gotham's outskirts — quiet, heavily guarded, and clearly off-limits to civilians.
"This is our local safe house," Lyla said, regaining her usual composure as they approached. She could walk almost normally again, no longer hugging walls for balance.
Gordon moved slower, leaning on a cane one of the agents had found for him, but insisted on walking under his own power.
Inside, medical staff were already waiting.
They examined the two unconscious women — Felicity and Barbara — and confirmed that their vital signs were stable. "They'll wake soon," the lead medic said carefully, "though we can't estimate exactly when. Without knowing the chemical compound, we can't accelerate recovery safely."
The three conscious members — Thea, Lyla, and Gordon — had blood drawn for analysis as well. Until the lab results came in, no one dared administer anything beyond IV fluids.
Just as they were about to disperse, Thea reached into her pack and produced the two gas masks she'd taken earlier.
"These were on the guards," she said. "Might not be standard issue — I think they were customized for the toxin. You should test them."
Lyla didn't hesitate. "Get those analyzed, now."
The technicians scrambled to obey.
She was still seething inside. This whole mission had turned into a farce — and she still didn't even know what the mission was supposed to be. All she wanted now was to find whoever had unleashed that gas and put two bullets through their kneecaps.
After issuing a few more orders, she excused herself, leaving Thea and Gordon to watch over the sleepers.
Felicity, by all logic, should have woken first — she'd inhaled the least. But when the doctors mentioned that recovery varied with physical condition, Thea nearly snorted. Physical condition? She thinks sitting at a computer 18 hours a day counts as cardio.
Barbara, on the other hand, did train regularly — but she'd breathed in more of the toxin and then taken a bonus concussion from that unfortunate "hang-on-to-the-hoverboard" ride. The swelling on her forehead still looked spectacular.
The medics had eyed the bruise oddly, whispering among themselves before deciding it must've been inflicted by the kidnappers' "brutality."
Thea hadn't bothered correcting them.
Just as she was about to suggest a betting pool on which of the two would wake first, movement on the cot made her sit upright.
Felicity groaned softly, lashes fluttering.
"Ha," Thea muttered under her breath. "Knew it. Star City stock never lets you down."