::Afghanistan Plot - Parallel Action, Night One
::Setting: Gotham City, Uptown
::Players: Lois Lane, Dinah Lance, Oracle, Huntress,
	Officer Montoya, and Sandy Hawkins emitting.
::Date: Monday, July 31, 2000

Lush and ostentatious, the penthouse apartment in the top of one of the
newest high-rises in uptown Gotham City is everything expected of a
stylish young millionaire. Its spacious, expansive layout is tastefully
multilayered, the hardwood floors accented by expensive oriental
throw-rugs and seemingly randomly-placed stands with various works of art
and antique china. A large mirror hangs in the main room, causing the
illusion that the sunken lounge area is even larger than its actual size.
Small tables are located tastefully throughout, holding ludicrously rich
hors d'oeuvres; behind the well-stocked wet bar and its formally-attired
tender is curtained archway leading outside to a balcony overlooking the
harbor. The night breeze gently stirs the curtains, dispelling the stuffy
splendor of the living space and its quietly murmuring occupants: party
time at Seth Shaw's place. A string quartet plays just above
conversational level, off to the side; between songs they mingle with the
debutantes and social climbers.

Lois enters the front door, escorted by the butler, who takes her
lightweight wrap. Studying the room from the vantage point of the
entryway, she looks like nothing more than yet another lovely woman in a
black cocktail dress. She wears a deceptively simple style, cut
assymetrically so that one shoulder is left bare while the other is
covered by almost a tanktop strap, very slender. The gown hints at more
than it actually reveals, molding flatteringly to Lois Lane's slim,
curvaceous form all the way to her ankles. A slit up the dress to a modest
mid-thigh level eases her movements. With her dark hair upswept into a
stylish chignon, she looks like she belongs here. Carrying a small black
clutch purse, she walks down the stairs into the main room.

As she enters, the famous (infamous?) journalist can feel eyes on her,
sizing her up - possibly mentally undressing her. For all the room's swank
stylishness, its inhabitants can be dangerously base beneath their classy
exteriors. The music continues, however, and Lois is almost immediately
offered a cocktail by a dark, quiet waitron. Snippets of conversation can
be overheard, interspersed with the occasional polite chuckle. Ice
friendly, this party is. "...and she told me, 'You can't foreclose!
They're withholding my husband's life insurance..!' As if that were *my*
problem. I told her I run a business, and making exceptions wasn't the way
I -kept- it running." "Can you believe the gall of some of these
lowlifes?"
        Far in the back, the curtain is pulled aside, and a polished man
with an almost regal bearing holds it open, manner genteel, for a young
blond woman. In one hand he holds a tumbler containing a white beverage,
and he smiles at the woman, asking her something. She laughs, hands
fluttering slightly, and nods; he hands the drink to her, which she sips
gingerly, then nods again.

Lois takes a glass of white wine from the tray and holds it, making her
way quietly through the crowd. She nods and politely smiles to any in her
path as she takes stock of the room. The conversations always intrigue
her.

The man who'd held open the curtain enters the main room completely now,
smiling and holding up a hand to the blonde, obviously indicating she
should keep the beverage. On his way back into the crowd, he stops at the
bar and orders himself another; as he waits, he leans against the counter
and surveys the party, his startlingly blue eyes roving from person to
person, then finally alighting on Lois. His smile reappearing, he picks up
his drink and makes his way over. "...to see you here, Miss Lane!" his
voice comes into hearing range, rich in timbre and accented both British
and upper-class Afghani. "May I extend my congratulations to you and
your...absent...fiance? I was under the impression that he, too, would be
attending..." His expression is innocent but puzzled.

Lois turns and smiles at the host. She holds her hand out to be shaken (or
whatever), "It's a pleasure to be here, Mr. Shaw. Our thanks for the
invitation. Unfortunately, Mr. Kent couldn't attend this evening. Pressing
business out of town. I hope you're not terribly disappointed with just
me."

"Never, my dear! Your radiant presence illuminates the entire function,"
Seth replies graciously, gently taking her hand and briefly, lightly
pressing his warm, dry lips to her knuckles. He straightens, letting go
her hand almost immediately. His eyes flicker to the drink in her hand,
and he nods nigh-imperceptibly. "I see the staff have attended to you
before I; it *is* their job, but before you leave, allow me to mix you one
of these - I only just discovered them, and they're marvelous." He holds
up his White Russian with an impish smile. Continuing before she has a
chance to reply, "But, business before pleasure. Would you like to adjourn
to the balcony for the interview?"

Lois raises a brow at that drink and smiles. "Perhaps I will... though I
confess to not being fond of anything with milk and alcohol mixed." She
nods, and turns toward the balcony. "By all means. You throw a wonderful
party, but it does make discussion difficult."

Looking vaguely disappointed at her lack of enthusiasm, but cheering up
almost immediately, Seth Shaw leads the way through the crowd - which part
for him like the Red Sea - to the archway in the back, and holds the
curtain aside for Lois. "Ladies first."

Lois ducks her head slightly to avoid catching her hair on the curtain and
moves to step through the arched doorway. "So tell me... how are you
enjoying Gotham City? I understand that it's quite an ... interesting...
place to live. If the legends and rumors are to be believed anyway. A
caped vigilante on the loose?" She smiles easily. "I bet you don't have
such problems at home."

Seth Shaw laughs lightly, crossing the balcony and leaning against the
railing. "A caped vigilante, indeed! Many say that this 'Batman' of yours
is nothing but an urban legend. But if he *does* exist, more power to him
- the more criminals that disappear from the public due to
his...vigilance, the easier it is for an honest businessman to operate."
He takes a sip of his drink, then lowers his glass and shakes it around
slightly, looking into it. Looking up again, he smiles. "But no, there are
no masked men in my home country." . o O (Only masked females.)

Lois leans on the balcony railing and nods thoughtfully. "I've been doing
quite a lot of research on your country, Mr. Shaw. You've come to America
and made quite a success of yourself. Do you find the business practices
nearly the same, in spite of the different views of the two governments?"

"Business is business the world over, Miss Lane," replies Shaw seriously.
"No matter what laws change and what customs differ, there are some things
that will always remain the same." He pauses for a moment, taking another
contemplative sip of his drink, then glances over the balcony before
returning his gaze to Lois and laughing, "Take, for instance, high import
taxes."

Lois chuckles softly and sips from her white wine. "You've come up through
the ranks of the socialites very quickly. Will you share a bit of your
philosophy of business? The dedication it takes to make a name for
yourself so young is incredible."

Waving a hand vaguely back in the direction of the room, Shaw shakes his
head and sort of shrugs. "I didn't start from nothing...I began merely
continuing to expand my father's business after his passing, but decided
that America was a far more lucrative arena than Afghanistan.
Your...social elite...no, call them your business society. They are
extremely accomodating to anyone who will, ah, 'buy them a drink', if you
will. If you have money to begin with, it isn't difficult to acquire
more." A beat, another sip. "There really isn't anything special about my
methods."

Lois smiles, "Tell me about your first American business. What made you
choose to enter that particular field? Your father's businesses? And do
you continue to enjoy it?"

Not obviously to the casual listener, but glaringly to a journalist such
as Lois, Seth Shaw once more answers vaguely enough to appear to satisfy
but to actually reveal nothing. "Yes, it -was- my father's business; it
wasn't really any choice of my own. Imports and exports." He smiles, "But
as long as I can enjoy the fruits of my labor, the labor itself doesn't
really matter, does it?"

Lois mms softly and sips from her glass. "I think that the readers like to
know what interests those more upwardly mobile than they. What products
are the most common for your imports and exports?"

After a slight pause, mostly caused by the polishing off of his drink,
Shaw inclines his head. "Native gemstones, primarily, and hand-woven
woolen rugs and tapestries. We're slowly phasing out trade in soybeans;
except in California, they're not quite as widely-used as they were in the
earlier part of the decade." Again he smiles, face easy and open, demeanor
that of someone used to public speaking. "Nothing particularly shocking,
I'm afraid."

Lois smiles, enjoying the night air. Her gaze is drawn skyward by a full
moon, which is hovering over the Gotham skyline. "The rumor mills have you
paired with about 12 different actresses and models in the past year and a
half. Is your social life truly as busy as the scandal sheets would make
out?" She looks at you. "I'd think you would be tired."

Seth Shaw can't suppress a smirk. "Twelve? Goodness, no - it can't be more
than nine." He laughs and taps the bottom of his glass against his palm a
couple of times, then shifts his position. "Honestly, though, things are
never quite as hectic or shocking as the entertainment industry would have
the great unwashed believe. My life is active, certainly, but I appear to
be getting enough sleep."

Lois chuckles softly, "The masses love to believe that someone is living
out a much more glamorous life than they are. Even with me... they think
being a reporter is easy and all glamourous... but they don't see the
times that we're spit at in the streets." She shrugs casually. "Do you
mind if I ask your opinion on what's happening in Afghanistan these days?
I think many of our readers have heard the rumors, and would like to see a
statement from such a prominent man as yourself on these volatile issues.
It is, after all, the place where your family still resides, correct? At
least, some of it."

"The heart of my business still lies there, but I have no living family,"
responds the businessman, straightening, dark features serious. "I don't
believe I can comment on the politics of my country without offending at
least three different activist groups in this one; all I can tell you is
that the people of this nation must understand that traditions in
Afghanistan are different from those in the West. Their difference does
not make them wrong - though your 'moralists' would have the populace
believe that." He stops, then smiles a trifle coldly. "I shouldn't say
anything more."

Lois looks thoughtful and nods. "My question was not meant to offend, Mr.
Shaw. Politics, unfortunately, is a fact of life for everyone. Many
Americans have never had the opportunity to experience other cultures
firsthand, therefore can only judge by their own experience and
background. Perhaps, if you care to, you could talk to me some about the
traditions." Regardless of her personal feelings, Lois is first and
foremost a journalist... and you don't deliberately tick off the
interviewee until you're done with him.

Lush and ostentatious, the penthouse apartment in the top of one of the
newest high-rises in uptown Gotham City is everything expected of a
stylish young millionaire. Its spacious, expansive layout is tastefully
multilayered, the hardwood floors accented by expensive oriental
throw-rugs and seemingly randomly-placed stands with various works of art
and antique china. A large mirror hangs in the main room, causing the
illusion that the sunken lounge area is even larger than its actual size.
Small tables are located tastefully throughout, holding ludicrously rich
hors d'oeuvres; behind the well-stocked wet bar and its formally-attired
tender is curtained archway leading outside to a balcony overlooking the
harbor. The night breeze gently stirs the curtains, dispelling the stuffy
splendor of the living space and its quietly murmuring occupants: party
time at Seth Shaw's place. A string quartet plays just above
conversational level, off to the side; between songs they mingle with the
debutantes and social climbers. Well-dressed yet subtly dangerous men have
appeared around the edges of the room since Lois first arrived, and the
reporter and her interviewee are out on the balcony, talking.

There's a laugh at the door, as Dinah Lance arrives and hands her stole to
the man at the door. She tips her head and speaks casually. "Good evening,
Fayin. A pleasure to see you again." He gives a courtly bow and gestures
across the room. Canary steps forward, muttering under her breath "Good
thing I'm not wearing a camera. I think my bra slipped."

-Dinah-
        The arresting woman standing before you appears to be in her early
thirties. While petite in stature, her build is sleekly muscular with
feminine curves in proportion to her 5'4" height. Her body is sheathed in
a strapless navy velvet dress which reveals the honeyed tan of her
shoulders and thighs.
        A mane of golden hair tumbles in styled curls down to the mid of
her bare back, threaded with streaks of platinum. A few slight curls whisp
in front to frame timelessly classic features: high delicate cheeckbones,
a slim slightly upturned nose and full red lips with only the sheerest
hint of gloss. It is her eyes, however, which captivate. Framed by dark
slanting brows and a fringe of dark lashes, their cerulean blue seems to
invite attention while the expression within is decidedly challenging to
the brink of coldness.
        Her movements are slow and deliberate. Methodical. When she
speaks, her voice is like silk soaked in a smooth whiskey: low, inviting
and tough as nails. She has been called many things. A blonde bombshell. A
lovely ladybird. A broad. A dame. A bitch. Her demanour is such that she
could suit any title at any time and still have it on her own terms.

-Lois-
        You see before you a slightly taller than average woman, about
5'7" tall, with raven-black hair whose silky strands just brush lightly
around her face and to the nape of her neck in the back. Deep blue eyes
are set evenly in her oval face, expressive and intelligent, watching the
world with a mixture of amusement and cynicism. A determined jawline gives
indications of JUST how stubborn this woman can be, but yet her smile is
quick and ready for those she considers friends. She has a firm,
well-built body, muscular without being bulky and strong without
sacrificing the softness of her femininity. Though she exhibits a
determined and savvy journalist to the world, she can also be quite
charming and witty, easily shifting from one persona to another.
        She wears a beautiful black cocktail gown. Asymmetrically cut, it
bares one shoulder, leaving the other covered by a black strap. The sleek
black material hints at more than it shows, skimming down her slim,
curvaceous figure and flattering her height. Her left shoulder and arm are
about all the skin exposed by the modest neckline. For movement, a slit is
cut to mid-thigh on her right leg, exposing lithe legs and feet encased in
black satin pumps. Her dark hair is piled high in a classic chignon, and
her jewelry is minimal - as if she expects the sheer force of her
personality and the starkness of her dress to draw enough attention on its
own.

About to answer Lois, Seth pauses, his eyes hardening. "A thousand
pardons, Miss Lane - my...what's your expression? Girlfriend - has just
arrived." He nods politely and formally to the journalist, then steps back
through the arch and sets his empty glass on the bar. "Dinah, dearest!" he
calls across the room, immediately drawing everyone's attention to the
bombshell.

In Dinah's ear comes a very low and odd sound, not quite right to be
static, more like someone trying not to choke. Across town in her darkened
computer filled den, Dinah's unseen partner Oracle tries vailently not to
snort soda all over her new three thousand dollar monitor. Coughing, she
adjusts the mic, "Well, I think it's highly unfair of you. How else am I
supose to live vicariously through your adventures if I can't see them?"
she asks. "And Di, that was way too much information, thank you very
much."

Lois raises a brow and follows Seth in, curious. His girlfriend?
Interesting.... Only by a slight widening of her eyes does she indicate
that she's surprised. She idly sips from her glass of white wine, and
scans the room thoughtfully. What on earth would bring the Black Canary
into a place like this, except trouble? The kind of trouble Lois has been
sniffing out? She takes note of the additional men, moving through the
crush with deceptive calmness. Now she _knows_ she's onto something.

The assortment of partygoers quiet down slightly, idly watching the new
blonde; a few of the women eye her jealously - she, after all, has won the
explicit attention of their host, one of the jet set's most eligible
bachelors.

And while the guests arrive and seem to enjoy the festivities and the
atmosphere, there is a dark shadow that looms near, if not inside. First,
the figure was across the way, simply standing, watching, and not at all
pleased by any standard. Then, it moved closer, literally on top of the
situation. Thankfully, people rarely think to look up, and even if they
did, they'd be hardpressed to notice the lone figure of the Huntress as
dark eyes stare dispassionately at the scene before her, the noises and
conversations of the party floating up to her ears through the glass panes
of the skylight.

The conversations are generally of the run of the mill 'bastard socialite'
and 'ruthless businessman' and 'airheaded debutante' sort. "These Afghan
men - they all go for blondes. Do you think I should dye my hair again,
Johnny?" "N-no, Debbie, *I* like your hair the way it is..."

Montoya flicks her hair back as she enters. Her eyes drift over the crowd
with some curiousity but she soon returns her attention to the elder
gentleman next to her. She smiles slowly and places her arm on his though
she takes care to avoid the oxygen tank he has with him.

-Montoya-
        Montoya stands rather short, only about 5'4. However her height as
been substantially added to thanks to the coppery stilletto heels she
wears. She carries herself as someone used to authority. Hispanic
definitly, her skin a light tawny and almond shaped eyes that are sharp
with her intelligence. Her hair is noticibly ebon in color, it falls pasts
her shoulders loose and as straight as a waterfall. Her mouth is rather
full, seemingly set into a smirk. She's attractive, but not in a
particularly striking way.
        She is dressed to the nines at the moment, its rather short for a
formal occasion, but not indecent.  A simple sheathe-like gown wraps about
her lovingly. Its made up out of thin copper beads. Every movement she
makes glints with light and metal. Ocassional glances of flesh colored
fabric can be spotted. Its held up with spagetti straps. Her back would be
left almost bare but for the silken shawl of that same coppery color as
the gown. Her legs are bare except for a simple gold chain about one
ankle.

Dinah Lance wears the blanket of attention casually with no apparent
shyness. Cool eyes survey the scene and pause on Lois Lane only
briefly--long enough to ascertain the level-headed journalist will not
blow her cover. Dark lashes sweep down demurely, then flutter up to meet
Seth's gaze as she slinks towards him in a slow sexy meander, ignoring the
stares of curiousity. Her lips curl in a practiced sinful smile. "Why
Seth, I thought you'd forgotten all about me." She reaches out to take his
hand while studying his expression, head tilted.

"Forget you, Dinah?" asks Seth, taking the one hand gently, then slipping
his other hand around her waist gracefully and posessively. "How could I
possibly forget someone as stunning and delicious as you?" His hand
trailing down her back, almost but not quite approaching impropriety, he
cuts off any reply with a kiss. Pulling back after a moment, he keeps his
hand on her back and turns slightly, gesturing to Lois. "Miss Lane, this
is my pretty bird, my pride and joy. Dinah, I'm sure you know Miss Lois
Lane of the Daily Planet."

Dinah Lance stiffens almost imperceptively at the endearing moniker, and
turns her wide eyed attention to Lois. "Perhaps. I've read a bit of the
Daily Planet."

Unseen by anyone but her own reflection, Barbara's right eyebrow twitches
slightly. "Lordy, Dinah." She says into the mic at her throat. "You never
said he was that much of a smooth operator..." Shaking her head, the
Oracle leans forward and types something in, then sighs, "I wish they
hadn't disababled the cameras on that floor. Presidental priv my tush.
That floor should be loaded with them." Clearly she's not happy at being
'blind' in this caper. "Don't forget to give Miss Lane congrats on the
impending wedding."

One of the well-dressed yet burly men ringing the room exchanges a glance
with another, who nods. The first one disappears into a back room
somewhere.

Lois definitely has no intention blowing Dinah's cover and indicates it
when the blonde catches her gaze with a barely perceptible nod of
acknowledgement. Things are going to get _real_ interesting, she bets. She
pauses near a group who is sniping about Dinah's blonde hair, claiming it
came from the bottle, and with a smile, "Perhaps you should tell her who
does yours, dear." And she continues to move. Mentally, she takes a head
count of the rather dangerous looking guys, and wonders what they're doing
here while she approaches Seth's "girlfriend." She holds out her hand to
Dinah, "It's a pleasure, Dinah. You're quite the lucky girl, to catch the
eye of this one. It roves quite a lot, if his publicist is to be
believed." Her smile is conspirational, just among us girls. "I'd love to
hear how the two of you met sometime."

Huntress just arches an eyebrow as she watches Dinah's display, shaking
her head just a little. But, there is one small detail that gives away the
woman's amusement dispite herself...the barest hint of a smile upturns the
corners of her lips, but is closest to a smirk. There is just another
shaking of her head at Seth's showing. Good thing she had a light dinner.
Then her eyes glance over to a new arrival and that eyebrow manages to
climb higher. "Hmmm...." Is all that is commented as the blinding metal
ensemble arrives. But her eyes spare just a moment as she follows the
movements of the burly men.

The woman Lois addressed scowls, muttering something rude about 'the lower
classes', and turns back to her fiance of the week.

"Do...do they have any creamed corn, baby?" asks the old man Montoya's
hung off the arm of, in a low, rather grating voice. He blinks a couple of
times, squinting at the tables with food on them.

Montoya tries not to look repulsed. She turns to the table and tilts her
head and that oh so blond way, "Oh no sweetie... I don't see any... maybe
they have pudding.. I like pudding..." The hispanic woman mentally wonders
what she'ss going to say in confession as she turns to gaze adoringly up
at the aged and the perverted.

Dinah Lance can almost relax in Seth's proximity, as she beams widely to
Lois. "On the contrary, I hear *you're* the lucky girl. Congratulations on
your engagement. It's the talk of both towns." The genuine smile in her
eyes wanes as the petite blonde continues, "As for Seth and I..." She
slants a look up at her handsome escort. "I know enough of his past
history to realize the dangers of losing my head. Fortunately I don't mind
a little danger, especially when it comes in such a tall, dark and
handsome package." Her grin, like her words, smack of sincerity.

Looking a little annoyed but shaking his head, the old man mumbles
something about pudding not being chunky enough. He waggles his eyebrows
at Montoya, "...but maybe you can make me some nice, chunky tapioca later,
eh?" Nudge nudge, wink wink.

"Danger? Ah, but women shouldn't seek danger out, my pet." Seth's eyes
flash with something undefinable as he looks down at Dinah. "These brash
adventuresses of your country, they would never be able to operate as such
where I come from. It's surprising more of them *don't* lose their heads."
With a polite smile to Lois, and a pointed glance at another one of the
bodyguards, the businessman continues. "But not you, you would never do
something so bold, -would- you, Dinah? You're just my pretty songbird, my
dear. You know better."

Lois acknowledges Dinah's congratulations with a smile, "Thank you. I
presume that's because this is what... the third time in 4 years we've
announced it?" She shrugs slightly, appearing amused. "I imagine there's a
betting pool somewhere. We'll see if we can make it to the altar this
time. Third time's the charm, right?" She makes an assumption that Dinah's
noted the bodyguards as well, and sidles just slightly sideways, making it
look quite casual, so she can see whether the one nodded at is near her.
"I love your dress, by the way." She sips from her glass and says idly to
Shaw, "And yet, you granted an interview to a woman... I admit to being
somewhat surprised, Mr. Shaw. I expected you to cancel when my fiance
couldn't make it."

"Bad press is never good business, and this *is* a country with different
traditions," points out Shaw quickly, harking back to their earlier
conversation.

Huntress is paying less and less attention to the majority of the party
and is becoming more and more focused on the bodyguards and their
interactions. Particularly, the few subtle looks given from Seth in their
direction. She shifts slightly, tilting her head as her eyes narrow. She
knows something is about to go down. The trap...perhaps is about to be
sprung.

A slim young waiter approaches the small group, offering them cocktails
again.

Montoya tries not to shudder. She tries to keep her supper down. To her
credit she does manage to keep things together. The brunette curses Harvey
Bullock for dropping this little duty in her lap. She beams a wide toothy
smile at the old man, "Oh you know it.." Her eyes glance back towards the
grouping, momentarily resting on Dinah before she returns to murmuring
sweet flattery to her geriatric companion.

The old man starts shuffling over to the wet bar, Montoya in tow. As he
walks, he lets a kind of juicy one rip. "Damn squeaky floorboards..."

"What, this old thing?" As she says it, Dinah makes a gesture at her
dress, and deliberately steps backward, gasping as a jarred drink from the
man she deliberately bumped spills on the navy fabric. "Oh no! It's
velvet! Why, the whole thing will be ruined! I'd better go to the bathroom
and see if I can clean up this mess." She looks up with a breezy smile at
Seth. "Don't pine for me too long, dear." She starts to pivot on one heel,
making a fussy girl noise and whisking a hand against her skirt...

"I'll try not to, little dove, little canary," calls Seth to his departing
date, then inclines his head at the guard nearest the bathroom. The guard
blinks slowly, and waits until Dinah's been gone about five seconds before
he heads down the hallway as well. Shaw, on the other hand, smiles
ingratiatingly at Lois; gesturing at the drink tray, he lowers his head
slightly again. "Please, excuse me for a moment - help yourself. I appear
to have gotten a little of the drink on my suit, as well." This said, he
nods formally once more and heads out of the room.

Almost unnoticeably - in fact, totally unnoticed by everyone but those
specifically watching for it - the guards start vacating the room. The
balcony doors close silently.

Lois keeps her expression neutral. "Of course, Mr. Shaw." She watches
thoughtfully as the guards begin vacating the room, torn between following
Dinah into the ladies room (girls always go gang-toidy) and watching this
unfold. CLearly, something's about to happen in here. She sidles casually
toward one of the doorways, setting her glass on one tray and taking a
second as she appears to study a painting on the wall. Her curiousity is
piqued now. She'll stay put.

Montoya is more than effectively distracted by Mr. Handsy and well gassy,
to miss the departure in the room. Maybe she should have asked the mass
murderer at Arkham. They tend to at least not realese noxious gases from
their bodies... they just make them in a lab. She idly takes up a near by
glass of wine so as not to do something awful to her company.

Once inside the hallway, Canary turns and advances back, pressing to a
wall. She mutters, "He knows. I don't know how, but he knows...and he's
pi---" theres a short hissing sound as Dinah intakes her breath, then
looks for an avenue of escape in the hallway. Finding none, she will do
what she does best: fight. "I have maybe five seconds if he's feeling
lazy."

"How the..." Barbara sits upright and pulls her chair closer to the desk.
No more goofing off now, "I can't believe this. I thought we'd covered
every angle..." Sighing, Barbara brings up the plans of the building,
"Where are you now? If you can get to the servants area, there is the
elevator right to the basement.. or out the balcony and the roof?"

Lois has no clue that there are others out there watching this, but she's
heard through Certain People's Grapevines that the Black Canary doesn't
work completely alone. Lois hopes that Dinah's backup is on the ball...
it's too much coincidence that Seth likened her to a bird several times.
When all the guards are pretty much out of sight, she starts toward the
balcony again. The shadows is a better place to watch from and she may be
overlooked. This room is crammed with socialites.

Shaw himself might be feeling lazy - or maybe just classy. Fashionably
late, indeed - as long as one provides an advance 'party scout', so to
speak. The guard rounds the corner, coming from the main room, and
approaches Canary. "You shouldn't speak of your betters like that, woman,
and Mr. Shah is most certainly your better." His speech is heavily
accented, his words slow. He doesn't stop coming, and he reaches to his
side, presumably for a pistol.

Meanwhile, back in the main room, the air's stopped moving. And -- it's
somehow getting -- heavier? The people inside will be feeling like they
need to sit down. Then as thought it would be a good idea to lie down.
What's going on, you ask? It should be fairly obvious to people who deal
with psychopaths and superheroes at this point that the room is filling
with gas.

Silently, Shaw makes his way through back hallways, and stops behind a
door several feet down the hall from Dinah - he waits until he's fairly
certain her attention is occupied by the guard to step out. Still, he says
nothing.

If Lois makes it to the balcony doors, she'll find that they're locked
securely.

Doddering and confused, Montoya's ancient 'date' glances around at all the
people - who seem to be dropping like flies. "What's goin' on, sweet
cheeks?"

Montoya leans her hip against the table as she takes in what air she can.
Her wine glass is clutched tightly in her hand though she has yet to take
a sip, she looks to the people and she glances to her companion. Her eyes
for a moment rest on that oxygen tank almost longingly but there is a
tensing of the shoulders as she speaks, "Think its gas.." No ditz tone to
her voice. She closes her eyes tightly as she sags a bit. "An' don't call
me sweetcheekth.." She drops the glass as she tries to stand up again.

Seth is indeed correct: Canary's attention focuses on the guard, as she
rasps "Too late! I just have to fight and hope for the best." There's a
ripping sound of her dress as her leg flashes out, adding a new slit in
the velvet as the limb arcs pointedly towards the guard's hand. The Bird
of Prey angles her body in order to maintain balance while building
momentum in her attack. She catches the door closing from the corner of
her eye and mutters something distinctly unladylike, gritting out at her
target, "He may have gotten the best of me tonoght, but he's a heck of a
long way from being my better!"

Huntress frowns deeply as she notices what's going on, cursing silently
beneath her breath. She looks around, scanning the rooftop itself as if it
would provide some other avenue in...but still, she drives down the
instinct and just frowns. She knows she can't go in there. She knows she
shouldn't, even with that nifty gas mask Nightwing gave to her after the
warehouse incident. Things have to proceed. Or all else may be for naught.

The guard bravely takes the kick, counting on Canary being offbalance for
Shaw -- who pulls a knife from his belt, steps up and swiftly, harshly,
boxes the crimefighter in the side of the head with his free hand. In the
same motion, he steps around her and pulls the staggering guard to
himself, ending with the knife against the other man's throat. "I *am*
your better, Canary. Never forget that. And don't move, or I will kill him
- and I know you 'heroes'," he practically spits the word out, "try to
prevent loss of life at all costs. I don't even want to know what it is
you think you are doing; you will proceed silently down this hall ahead of
me, and do as I say."

Once the occupants of the main room are all out, sprawled entertainingly
over each other on the floor -- except for our kinky old man -- the guards
enter once more, this time wearing military-issue rebreathers. They begin
to pick up the wealthy socialites, but just the women. THe men, they
leave; the women, they take through the doors ringing the room. Mr.
Creamed Corn just watches, agape...but it doesn't take *much* longer for
him to succumb to the gas, as well. After all, his oxygen is merely a
supplement.

Long tense moments pass, as Canary slowly straightens, staing at Shaw as
one would eye a cobra. Finally she raises both hands and takes a step in
defeat. "You may have won the battle, but you'll lose the war, Sayed." Her
eyes flash in a show of her true feelings for this man. "I know the
practices of your country, and after witnessing this cowardice
firsthand...well, I'll argue who'se better when this is over." Dark brows
frown in a scowl. "Lead the way."

"The war has been raging far longer than you or I have been alive, slut,
and it is not your place to make assumptions where you do not understand.
You will walk ahead." He's not stupid - and the hall, around the next
corner, is fairly straight, leading to an open door at the end. His voice
darkly entertained, he finishes sarcastically, "Ladies first."