As it turned out, Harley Quinn wasn't quite as unhinged as her reputation suggested—at least not today. She looked down at the bomb in her hand, then at Deadshot's sour expression far below, and broke into the widest grin imaginable. She transferred the bomb to her left hand and used her right to wave enthusiastically at her former colleagues on the ground.
"What's the big deal?" Deadshot wasn't happy. A close friend had been pardoned on the flimsiest excuse imaginable, and the injustice sat in his chest like a stone.
It had come up during a mission once—Amanda had let something slip about what was technically a forbidden topic within the Squad. That was when he'd finally gotten the full story. Harley Quinn was a woman. That was it. That was the entire reason. He was still out here risking his life, while she was apparently having the time of her life.
This alien's an idiot, he thought, eyes narrowing. He had sharp eyes—famously so—and he'd clocked the figure riding alongside Harley the moment they'd appeared. The skin tone, the build, the sheer alien wrong-ness of him: not from Earth, no question. That troublemaker is going to get him killed sooner or later.
Two seconds later, he revised the prediction. More likely the other way around.
The alien in question—Lobo—barreled his motorcycle straight into a wall of Black Lanterns without slowing down. He chopped and hacked and screamed, his voice carrying like a loudspeaker.
"HA! You Earthers really know how to throw a party! THE MAIN MAN LOVES IT HERE!"
In the sidecar, Harley was in absolute heaven. This new friend of hers was crazier than she was—and she found that deliriously exciting. She hurled bombs at the Black Lanterns with no particular system or strategy, only enthusiasm.
The Black Lanterns felt no pain. But their pre-death memories were intact, and they'd all been hardened criminals in life—unruly, arrogant ones. None of them had ever seen two people this outrageously reckless. They swung their attention toward the pair in force, determined to bring them down.
Enchantress moved fastest. With a sound like wind through dead wood, she dissolved into black smoke and reappeared directly behind Lobo. Her ten fingers extended like blades.
Before Lobo could react, she'd plunged them into the back of his neck—then sliced laterally. His massive head listed to one side, spine exposed to the open air. It looked horrific.
Enchantress was already turning toward the sidecar, preparing to finish Harley. Deadshot had his rifle up, lining up a rescue shot from a distance.
Both of them stopped.
Lobo's head slowly twisted on the remaining thread of flesh and muscle, using the spine as a pivot, until it was facing backward. He stared at Enchantress from this anatomically inadvisable angle.
The problem was that the thread of tissue couldn't actually support his head. Harley, ever helpful, stepped in to hold it up by the chin. Now he could see her properly.
"HA! The Main Man doesn't flinch at cheap shots!"
He picked his own head up with both hands and pressed it back onto his spine, completely disregarding blood vessels and nerves. Two massive hands clamped down on either side of his own neck, and his regeneration did the rest—muscle fibers knitting and reattaching at visible speed. Within seconds, his head was back where it belonged.
He seemed entirely unbothered by the whole affair. He grabbed a large axe with his left hand and split Enchantress cleanly in two from crown to floor.
Black Lanterns healed fast—black energy threads raced to reconnect the two halves. Enchantress's expression turned feral. She wanted to see whose regeneration was stronger.
Then she noticed something odd. Her body felt strange.
She looked down. A round bomb, a smiley face painted cheerfully on its front, was lodged inside her stomach. A short length of fuse dangled out.
"Down you go, genius."
Lobo's heavy chain cracked across Enchantress's face. The impact launched her off the motorcycle.
The explosion was tremendous. So were the two maniacs' laughter.
With those two serving as the world's most chaotic distraction, John Diggle brought two medevac airships in low. Amanda Waller's team was extracted without incident.
Lyla watched her husband step aboard wearing an eyepatch and tilted her head. He'd been fine at lunch—perfectly fine. When had he gone blind?
"Tech gear," he said, clocking her expression.
It wasn't even a lie. Thea had integrated comms systems, infrared sensors, and GPS tracking directly into the eyepatch before she'd been willing to let him put it on. The truth was, she'd put real thought into making Diggle look the part—the eyepatch, the bearing, the whole effect. Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D. had set a certain standard.
(It was, honestly, a small disappointment. When Thea had handed Felicity the brief for the Avengers liaison setup, she'd imagined something with a little more range. Instead, the former hacker had looked at the command position, looked at her boyfriend, and essentially drawn him taller and more square-jawed. Thea had never quite been able to look at the result without a slight wince—until Diggle had volunteered to command the Flying Fortress, and the casting problem had, mercifully, resolved itself.)
The Flying Fortress broke atmosphere and engaged its stealth systems. The cloaking technology was Daemonite-derived—absolutely unparalleled in the known universe. Even back when Thea herself had worn the Batman cowl, it had gone undetected. The Black Lanterns weren't finding it either.
They made their way across the flight path in stages, doing what they could for civilians. Supergirl and the Martian Manhunter arrived with a full D.E.O. contingent and joined the fight. By the time they reached Washington D.C., the ship was packed well beyond comfortable capacity.
The miniature sun floated in place above the city. Washington's skies remained in human hands. The Flying Fortress entered combat operations, beat back another wave of Black Lanterns, and finally set down its passengers. Diggle took the ship back up to continue evacuations. The assembled heroes followed, fanning out to stabilize the situation.
Amanda Waller issued orders to her people and went straight to the White House. Whatever was happening out there, there had to be a report. She was still planning out what to say when the door took her a full minute to open—because the room beyond was absolutely packed.
Representatives. Governors. Mayors. All of them with the same story: here to protect the President. Anyone who didn't know better would have thought they were paragons of loyalty.
Moira Queen was doing her level best to manage the situation, explaining patiently, repeatedly, that they could be transferred to the new continent—that it was safe there, that without specific methods, Black Lanterns couldn't cross over.
For once in a long while, she was telling the complete truth. And nobody believed her. They couldn't parse the difference between a higher-dimensional space and a parallel universe. They'd made up their minds: the President wasn't leaving, so neither were they. Beat them with a stick, they'd still be standing in the White House, protecting her.
Moira laughed despite herself and kept the conversation moving.
Thea had told her: this one's different from last time. Civilian involvement will be low. Even most heroes won't be central. The outcome turns on a handful of people.
Moira remained calm. She stayed calm even when she caught sight of Black Lantern Robert Queen through the window—her eyes narrowed slightly, nothing more. No signal given, none needed.
Wait for dawn. Ordinary people only needed to wait—that was what Thea had told her. It would be all right by morning.
So Moira waited.