Chinatown. San Fransisco. London. New York: present day. All have the same appeal of brightly lit lights and exotic merchant shops punctuated by narrow alleys. In this humid June night, the streets are alive with excited tourists taking a bite out of the Big Apple. They haven't been here long enough to taste the rancid fruit. More astute pavement pounders might notice the youths leaning in the doorways, some dressed in sharp leather jackets, others wearing a bright bit of cloth. Gangs are not new to the city that never sleeps. In an alley between two identical five story buildings, seperated by perhaps ten feet and running fifty in length with a brick wall as a dead end...an entirely different drama plays out. A feminine cry is drowned out by firecrackers on the main drag, the staccato punctuation of a bullwhip masked as well. Also masked by the gunfire-like noise of the tiny explosives is the whistling of a handful of bat-shaped shuriken as they slice through the air. One splits a baseball bat. A second slices a belt causing the attached pants to fall around the owbers ankles, spilling a pair on nunchaku to the ground. The thirs sinks into the sneaker of the whipmaster, pinning his foot to the ground. The assorted youths in the alley look up from their activity to see a red-green-yellow-black splash of fury on the firescape above. "If you're about finished," it says in a cold voice, "we've got next." The figure standing next to the speaker, arms crossed and back straight, looks down his nose at the gathered thugs. He doesn't say anything - but blurs, disappearing from sight. Oddly, the men in the alley feel an unwelcome lightness about the pockets, then suddenly Robin's red and white comrade is standing up there again, clearly visible - and holding a handful of billfolds. "Kevin Wong," he says, holding one open to display a driver's license. Then another. "Joe Marcelleti. Dat Tran. And more! Haven't you guys got anything better to do?" he asks, hand dropping. "Fall back!" A sharp, oddly accented voice commands. The targeted thugs, those that are still even able to stand, obey with dim comprehension. An incredibly bright halogen beam shines on the two figures as the New York sun sinks behind the horizon as if skulking out of site. "Greetings Baito! You are most expert. I recognize you as Robin. Your friend is too young to be the Flash--therefore he is Impulse, if my information is not wrong." She pauses and holds up a hand. "Before you act, I have another hero to introduce you to. One who must satisfy my debt of honor." The brilliant beam of white light swings to the brick wall, where Black Canary is suspended fifteen feet up, a bullwhip wrapped tightly about her throat as she struggles to hook her fingers beneath the cord. The rope travels in a sharp steeple...to an invisible destination. At the base of her 'perch' are four 'ninjas', weilding sharp swords aimed at her belly. Should she kick out at her unseen assailant, she will be surely eviscerated. Robin's eyeslits almost imperceptibly round at the sight of Black Canary's peril. He slowly puts one fott down on the floor of the fire escape basket, and then the other. Flipping his cape back over his right shoulder he reveals the loaded sling in his right hand. Loaded, but at the moment hangig unscretched toard his feet. He puts his left hand on the railing. "Personal vendetta or no, I can't just walk away now. I could easily have Impulse disram your - ninja - before anyonce could blink. But out of respect for your honor, I suppose I'll hear you out. Who are you, and what's your problem with the Canary?" The word 'ninja' is filled with both distaste and disrespect. Robin smirks dismissively at the black suited warriors. His left finger taps silently in Morse code on the railing 'Bart get ready' And this is all taking place in a -very- short span of time, yeah, or screw the best laid plans - Impulse would live up to his name. As it is, he grips the railing so hard his knuckles are white underneath his gloves; he's staring at Dinah. Lucky Robin made him learn Morse over the winter. Even still, he runs through a myriad of methods to free the blonde vigilante as Robin speaks, this close to bolting and acting if her air situation looks too dire. The exquisite Japanese woman in the pale pink bodysuit swings the halogen back up to cast her features in stark light and shadow, the beam below her pointed jaw. "You know nothing of my culture, or of the pains I took to ensure that my nation's automobile industry would not be some cheap imitation of your lack-luster American factories. SHE..." the beam swings again...to a pale Dinah, her feet losing strength as they clamour against brick for leverage. For now it is enough to hook her thumbs beneath the whip and gasp what air she can. Hodo continues, "SHE foiled me. SHE took my honor. SHE paved the way for your corprate AmericA." With a precious bit of strength, Canary yanks on the whip with the hook of her thumbs and gasps like a fish on dry land. Har gaze slants down as she defiantly smiles. "Gee Hodo, aren't you taking it all a bit peronally?" The invisible force that holds the whip jerks it back fiercely, nearly giving the heroine whiplash. She dangles as her head slumps to the side.