"Alright."
Nolan stood before the large whiteboard mounted against the wall of his penthouse office, a black marker twirling lazily between his fingers. The room had become something of a ritual space whenever they reached a crossroads. Whether they were planning heists, debating expansions, or dissecting failures, everything eventually found its way onto a whiteboard.
There was something comforting about seeing chaos transformed into ink.
With a deliberate motion, Nolan uncapped the marker and wrote a single word across the top of the board in large, bold letters.
METROPOLIS.
He stepped back for a moment, studying it as though expecting the city itself to reveal its secrets.
Around him, the others gathered.
Vey stood with his arms folded tightly across his chest, posture rigid and expression unreadable as his sharp eyes swept over the board. Quentin lounged nearby with far less concern for appearances, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other absentmindedly rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers. Kieran wandered lazily around the room, occasionally leaning forward to inspect the map pinned beside the board before rocking back onto his heels again.
It had become a tradition.
Whenever a major decision needed to be made, all four of them came here.
The whiteboard had settled more arguments than any of them cared to admit.
Nolan tapped the marker against the board.
"So…"
"What makes Metropolis different?"
His eyes drifted across the word he had just written before answering his own question.
"Superman."
The room fell quiet.
"Everything begins with Superman."
He underlined the name once.
"With his abilities, it's almost impossible to build the sort of criminal infrastructure we've relied upon in Gotham or Star City. Hidden warehouses become visible from miles away. Secret meetings can be overheard. Convoys can be intercepted before they even leave the loading dock."
Nolan frowned thoughtfully.
"If we build here the same way we built everywhere else…"
"…we lose."
Quentin nodded slowly, "So we stop thinking forwards."
The others looked toward him.
"We work backwards."
A grin spread across Kieran's face almost immediately.
"I like where this is going."
He stepped toward the board, plucking the marker from Nolan's hand without so much as asking before sketching several circles across the map.
"Gotham started with the Underpass."
He drew an arrow.
"Then the businesses."
Another arrow.
"Then the hotels."
He stepped back, admiring the progression.
"Star City followed a similar philosophy, only faster because we already possessed experience, capital, and people."
The marker tapped thoughtfully against his chin.
"But Metropolis…" He smiled "Metropolis should be the opposite."
He crossed out the first arrow entirely.
"We begin with legitimate businesses."
"Storefronts."
"Property."
"Investments."
"Everything clean."
His grin widened, "The final stage of Gotham becomes the opening move here."
Quentin's eyebrows lifted, "Build the respectable face first."
"Exactly." Kieran nodded enthusiastically, " I like it."
"We become known as investors before anyone has a reason to suspect anything else. Restaurants, apartments, repair companies, laundromats… businesses that naturally become part of the neighborhood."
He laughed quietly.
"People trust the man who fixes their plumbing far more than the man who promises to change their lives."
Vey had remained silent throughout the discussion.
Now he finally spoke, "It isn't a bad strategy." Everyone turned toward him, "But it has one glaring problem."
He pointed toward the board.
"Money."
The room quieted again.
"We're profitable."
His expression remained as stoic as ever.
"Comfortably profitable."
"But opening Star City has tied up enormous amounts of capital."
His finger shifted across the map toward Metropolis.
"And this location isn't finished either."
Another tap.
"We can absolutely begin buying businesses."
He looked directly at Nolan, "We simply can't buy too many too quickly."
"If we overextend ourselves now, one unexpected problem could force us into debt."
Silence settled over the room once more.
Then…Nolan smiled.
Not a large smile.
Just enough to reveal he'd been waiting for someone to voice exactly that concern.
"Precisely."
He accepted the marker back from Kieran before turning toward the map pinned beside the whiteboard.
One location had already been marked with a small red circle.
Without hesitation, Nolan drew another larger circle around it before tapping the center with the marker.
"Which is exactly why…"
"…we begin here."
The others leaned forward.
Written beside the red circle were two simple words.
Suicide Slum.
Kieran's playful expression faded into curiosity. Quentin's cigar stopped turning between his fingers.
Even Vey narrowed his eyes.
Nolan looked at each of them in turn before speaking.
"Every city has somewhere everyone else has abandoned."
He rested the marker against the board.
"Gotham had the Narrows."
"Star City had the Glades."
His finger settled firmly against the map of Metropolis.
"And Metropolis…"
"…has Suicide Slum."
A thoughtful silence followed.
Then Quentin smiled.
Slowly.
"I suppose broken places…"
"…have always been our specialty."
***
More of Star City's homeless population had begun joining the Underpass despite the recent ambush that had left fifteen of their people dead. To anyone looking from the outside, it probably wouldn't have made much sense. An organization suffers one of its bloodiest setbacks since arriving in a new city, and instead of watching recruits disappear, more people stepped forward asking to become part of it.
Dre understood why.
He had lived that life.
When all you had was an empty stomach and another miserable day waiting for you beneath a bridge, fear eventually stopped being enough to keep you where you were. Every week another familiar face would disappear from the streets, and then a few days later they'd wander back through the same neighborhoods wearing clean clothes, carrying a little extra weight, and walking with something most of the Glades had long since forgotten.
Hope.
They still looked homeless to everyone else. They still knew where to sleep when they wanted to disappear, still wandered the alleys and soup kitchens, still blended into the forgotten corners of Star City without attracting attention. The only real difference was invisible to everyone but themselves. They had steady money tucked into their pockets, food waiting whenever they wanted it, and people who actually knew their names. They belonged somewhere.
It was almost magical.
Dre still couldn't wrap his head around how Nolan had managed to dream up something so absurdly effective. Somehow, somewhere along the way, the man had created an organization that paid the homeless well enough to rebuild their lives while simultaneously making it worthwhile for them to continue pretending they hadn't. The city kept ignoring them because they still looked exactly the same, while beneath the surface they became couriers, lookouts, messengers, mechanics, laborers, and information brokers. Every forgotten man and woman became another pair of eyes for the Underpass.
If Dre was being completely honest, he suspected half of them secretly imagined they were spies.
The thought drew a quiet chuckle from him as he leaned back in his chair.
He couldn't blame them.
Running messages through abandoned subway tunnels, watching street corners while pretending to nap on a park bench, memorizing license plates from beneath filthy blankets—it all sounded ridiculous until someone explained there was a purpose behind it. After that, it became exciting. Hell, sometimes Dre caught himself feeling like some secret agent too.
The smile lingered for only a moment before reality settled back over him.
Danny Brickwell.
The name seemed to echo through his office every time the room fell quiet. Since the ambush, Marcy had called twice offering intelligence, Naima had volunteered several of her people if he needed extra hands, and Terrell had gone so far as to offer coming out to Star City himself. Dre had turned each of them down without hesitation. Their faith meant more to him than they probably realized, but this was his responsibility now. Nolan had trusted him with an entire city, and if he couldn't solve the first real crisis on his own, then maybe he wasn't ready for the position after all.
No.
He pushed the thought aside almost immediately.
He was ready.
He had to be.
A knock sounded against the office door before Elijah stepped inside carrying another thick folder beneath one arm. Unlike Dre, Elijah had spent most of his life keeping his emotions tucked away behind a permanently serious expression, but even he couldn't completely hide the excitement in his eyes.
"We found more of Brick's operations," he reported, laying the folder across the desk. "Three stash houses we didn't know about, another gambling spot, and we're pretty sure we've located one of the warehouses they use for moving product."
Dre opened the folder slowly, taking his time with each page. Photographs, addresses, surveillance notes, estimated manpower, supply routes—it was good work. Better than good, actually. Every passing day their understanding of Brick's organization became a little clearer, another thread added to a web that had once looked impossible to untangle.
His eyes drifted from one location to another before finally settling on the map clipped to the back of the report.
Then…
He smiled.
Not because he had found Brick.
Because he had found a pattern.
"Good," Dre murmured, his finger tracing several locations across the map. "Real good."
Elijah shifted his weight. "You seeing something?"
"I think so."
Dre stood from his chair and crossed the room toward the large map of Star City hanging on the wall. Pulling a marker from the tray beneath it, he began circling several of Brick's businesses. None of them looked particularly important by themselves, but once the circles connected, they painted a picture far more interesting than any single warehouse or gambling den ever could.
For a long moment neither man spoke.
Finally, Dre let out a quiet laugh.
"You know," he said, capping the marker, "I've been thinking about Gotham."
Elijah folded his arms, watching him carefully.
"The gang war?"
Dre nodded.
"The gang war."
He turned around, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed.
"You were there, weren't you, Elijah? You saw how Boss dismantled all those crews."
"I did."
"What do you remember?"
Elijah frowned thoughtfully before answering. "He never rushed. Everyone expected him to hit the biggest gangs first, but he didn't. He picked them apart from the edges. Money disappeared. Safehouses got abandoned. Trusted men started questioning each other. By the time the bosses realized what was happening, they'd already lost control."
A grin spread slowly across Dre's face.
"Exactly."
He pointed toward the map once more.
"Everyone thinks we're going to declare war because that's what gangs do. They get hit, then they hit back harder. Brick's waiting for us to charge through his front door looking for revenge."
Dre shook his head.
"We're not a gang."
His finger tapped one of the smaller circles.
"We're going to remind him of that."
Elijah's brow lifted.
"So…"
"No shootouts."
"No revenge."
"No messages written in blood."
Dre's grin widened into something almost mischievous.
"We're going to do exactly what Boss taught us."
He looked back toward the map, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"We're going to make Danny Brickwell spend every morning wondering why another piece of his empire disappeared while he was asleep."
"And I think we should start tonight with something straight out of Boss's playbook."
***
Night settled over the Glades like a heavy blanket, swallowing alleyways and abandoned storefronts beneath long stretches of darkness. The streets never truly slept, but they became quieter, the city's heartbeat slowing to a cautious rhythm broken only by distant traffic and the occasional bark of a stray dog.
Outside one of Danny Brickwell's gambling operations, several homeless figures huddled beneath stained blankets and battered shopping carts.
No one looked at them twice.
A man slept with his back against a brick wall, his hat pulled low over his face.
Another rummaged lazily through a dented grocery cart filled with scraps of metal and empty bottles.
Two others sat beside a rusted shopping cart, quietly passing around a paper bag as though sharing the last of a cheap bottle.
They were exactly the sort of people the city had taught itself not to see.
One by one, they moved.
The man beside the wall stretched as though trying to ease a sore back before casually disappearing into a narrow service alley. Another wandered toward the rear entrance carrying what appeared to be an old milk crate. The pair beside the shopping cart slowly drifted apart, each taking a different route around the building without the slightest hint of urgency.
Hidden inside battered backpacks and beneath filthy blankets sat sealed cans of gasoline.
Carefully.
Methodically.
They poured thin trails beneath windows, around loading doors, and along the base of the exterior walls where shadows concealed every movement.
No one inside noticed.
The music from the gambling hall continued uninterrupted.
Laughter spilled through the walls. Cards slapped against tables.
Money changed hands. Outside, the invisible workers continued.
Once the gasoline had been laid, another man knelt beside an overflowing dumpster as though searching for discarded food. Instead, he withdrew several small fireworks from beneath his coat.
The kind that cracked like rifle fire.
He wedged them beneath pallets stacked against the wall and tucked others beneath discarded crates near the entrance, hiding them carefully among the debris before attaching quick-burning fuses.
Another member checked his watch.
They exchanged a single nod.
For a brief second its tiny orange glow illuminated weathered fingers and worn sleeves before he crouched beside the gasoline trail.
The flame touched the liquid.
Fire raced silently across the pavement.
The man dropped the burning match, turned, and simply walked away.
Within moments every one of them had vanished back into the sleeping city.
The alley stood empty.
Then—
WHOOMPH!
Flames erupted up the side of the building in a roaring wave of orange, shattering windows as black smoke billowed toward the night sky.
A heartbeat later—
CRACK!
CRACK! CRACK!
The hidden fireworks exploded one after another, each report echoing through the narrow streets like rapid gunfire.
Inside the operation, chaos erupted.
"They're shooting!"
"Get your guns!"
"We're under attack!"
Chairs overturned.
Cards scattered across the floor.
Men reached beneath tables and behind counters, dragging out rifles and pistols before charging toward the exits in a frenzy.
The front doors burst open.
Brickwell's men poured into the street with weapons raised, searching desperately for enemies hidden within the darkness.
They found one.
A single arrow whistled through the night.
Thunk.
It buried itself into the shoulder of the lead gunman, spinning him violently to the pavement before anyone understood what had happened.
Another arrow followed.
Then another.
From the rooftops, a hooded figure stepped into the moonlight, emerald hood fluttering in the wind as another shaft was already nocked against the string.
Green Arrow.
From the opposite rooftop, a black silhouette vaulted over the alley with effortless grace.
Black Canary.
A red blur crashed through a side entrance as red arrow rolled behind an abandoned car, loosing arrows almost before his feet touched the pavement.
"This is a low level gambling den!" Red arrow called out in frustration, "The police chatter we picked up was wrong."
Black Canary took down another man, "Calm down at least we are cleaning up the trash."
—
A/N: starting to worry not a lot of action is going on I'll try to make it more interesting! The whole red arrow speedy and arsenal thing for some reason is confusing me at this point I think it's red arrow?