Subtraction Time (Chapter One)

INTRO AND CHAPTER LIST

This chapter is kind of an info-dump, but I hope it's entertaining enough. There's a lot of exposition and summing up to get out of the way before the action starts. I hope it helps that the flashbacks have a little action going on. 

Flashbacks to Chloe's side of Lazarus and Shield 

Chapter One 

November 2011 

Chloe rubbed at her eyes, trying to put together what quotes she had about mutant rights in Gotham into something cohesive. It wasn't exactly what her editor wanted, but she'd made it clear she was freelance and they could take or leave her content. Usually, they took it. She knew what Grell wanted, though -- exactly what The Gotham Gazette was reporting on. But she wasn't about to give it. It would smack of ingratitude if he saw it. And he saw most things. She sighed and continued typing... 

And yet too many mutants are put into facilities no better than prisons, carrying out sentences beyond what their supposedly normal counterparts serve, with a focus on experimentation over counseling. There is barely an attempt to start a healing and rehabilitation process and many pay no attention at all to their husbands... 

She groaned and turned to Oliver. "Would you stop?" 

Oliver leaned over her shoulder. "What? I'm helping. Make sure you point out the horrors of spousal neglect in all it's..." 

"You'll help me right out of a job," she said, deleting the last few words, something she'd had to do quite a few times tonight. 

He leaned against the suite's bistro table, which they had yet to use for eating with Chloe claiming the area as her desk, musing. "Is spousal neglect a crime? It should be. It would serve you right if Spousal Protective Services came and took me out of your custody." 

"They'd have a hell of a time finding anywhere else to put you." He just chuckled and pulled down the strap of her tank. She pulled it back up. "Oliver, I need to get this sent before midnight." 

He grunted and moved to the window. "I guess it's just as well we're stuck in here. I'm not too into the sights of beautiful downtown Gotham. Oh, look! A man peeing in a gutter. Gotta love this dank, depressing, horribly corrupt stinkhole of a city." 

"I hear things are getting better," she said, smiling just a little. She also knew why. 

"Stop changing the subject." 

"I've kind of lost the subject," she said absently, along with all concentration on this article. She turned in her chair. "If you're so bored, why don't you take in the sights? Rappel off some roofs, do extraneous and unnecessary aerial flips..." 

"Hey, they are not unnecessary. I do have a certain standard of style to uphold. Image and all," he muttered. 

"How can I forget?" she mumbled, turning back to her laptop. 

He moved to kneel behind her chair, pressing a kiss against her shoulder. "Chloe, things are settling down. Paparazzi haven't even found me here yet." 

"I don't know. I get why you did it, Oliver. I just think it makes it harder, with the press having even more reason to focus on you." 

"In some ways, it makes it easier. My secret's out. They don't feel as moved to dig when it's all out in the open. But they don't know everything. They haven't found out about the League as a whole... or about us," he added, sounding just a little put-out. 

That was her idea, keeping their marriage under wraps for now. It wasn't so much that she didn't want to shout from the rooftops that she was married to a beautiful billionaire superhero. But Oliver's giant leap from the vigilante closet this time last year had complicated things. The heat on Oliver Queen and Green Arrow combined might bring attention to the rest of the gang. Her editor would salivate if she made use of the hyphen/Queen now tacked on to her name, probably demand some kind of inside scoop. 

"Anyhow, back to the real issue there, Wifey. Is the thrill gone? Is that it?" He nuzzled at her neck. "I've heard of the seven year itch, but seven months..." 

"Oh, stop exaggerating," she said, sighing and baring her neck a bit more. She had a feeling the thrill would never be gone. "I'm just writing one teensy article, then I'm all yours." 

He groaned and nibbled at her shoulder. "Okay. I guess I'll just go into the bedroom, all by myself, stare at the walls..." 

"I think you could find more than that to do, after you insisted on the biggest suite they had with the premium games package..." 

"Oh, yeah. The games. Almost forgot about that. Think they have Dead Island?" He seemed to perk up a little at that. "I should call Bart. He could be here in..." 

"No way," Chloe had to cut in. "I'll never get any peace with him buzzing around." 

"Fine," he sighed. "I'll fight zombies all by my lonesome, wishing someone cared about me." 

She chuckled. "Try that on someone who didn't trade her life for yours." 

"You gonna keep pulling that out to win every argument?" 

She shrugged. "As long as I can. Yeah." She turned and met his lips. "Just give me a half-hour." 

He tipped her chair back, kissing her with gusto before setting it right again. "Just letting you know what you're missing," he said as he backed into the bedroom. 

She smiled as she turned back to her work. She knew very well. She'd like nothing more to be finished and rolling around with him on sheets with that probably boasted a thread count in the seven hundreds. She smiled a little wider as she realized she was whining about having to write. Maybe she really was getting back into the swing of it, after years of being almost afraid to. It wasn't just the wound she'd been nursing since the day Luthor fired her -- or hell, since he bought The Planet -- it was the balance of having a secret life while exposing the truth. But it could be done. And she felt she'd proved that since her time at The Register. She knew what truths to expose and which to hide and her time away had made her more well-rounded, living on every side of the issue. In her time, she'd been a mutant, protected mutants, been protected by them as well as by superheroes of the non metahuman persuasion, one of whom was loudly killing virtual zombies right now. 

As much as she teased him about having to have the premium package and the luxury suite, she was glad he could now. It was nice to see him with the confidence and consequence he was probably born with again. It wouldn't matter to her if he was still destitute. But it mattered to him that his family's company had been yanked out from under him. Queen Industries had been restored to its rightful CEO, also restoring all the jobs Lionel -- or that other Lionel -- had taken away from the people of Star City when he sucked everything into the Luthorcorp empire. It took some effort and team after team of lawyers to untangle Queen Industries' interests from Luthorcorp. It had been one thing to be tied to Tess Mercer, but Oliver refused to have his family's company linked to the mysteriously returned Lex Luthor. 

That was something that still bothered all of them, Clark most of all. They had huddled together, worried and whispering frantically when the man himself showed up at Tess Mercer's funeral. The loss of her was hard enough without having to deal with the shadow and threat of a resurrected Lex Luthor. And the circumstances surrounding it suspicious. They knew what Tess had done. She'd texted to Watchtower sometime in all the confusion. Had she paid for it with her life? 

Whether Lex had done it or not seemed dwarfed by the fact that he didn't know a single one of them except Oliver, those earlier memories being more intact than what came after. They'd all decided to move on, while still keeping a wary eye on Lex, to pick up the pieces of their team and build it all anew. She supposed they were all just used to shadows and threats hanging over them. 

Still, they were all coping well. Clark's more open identity as Superman made his life less complicated. Lois was thriving since Oliver's machinations had helped relinquish Luthorcorp's hold on The Daily Planet. Courtney was handling Watchtower very well, which had become more a place than a person in this last year. Victor thought, and Chloe agreed, that Watchtower's location in Metropolis rather limited its scope. Not that it couldn't be a satellite base. But they needed something more. Superman might still be the big news, but there were more heroes out there in the wide world, something she truly learned on her travels. That was why she and Oliver were traveling now. They were meeting Victor in Rhode Island tomorrow. He was convinced he had the perfect location for a main base. 

Things had settled in Metropolis, at least enough so she and Oliver could get away. Not so much for a vacation. Gotham was hardly a picturesque place for that. Oliver had that right. They were only here for Rachel. Rachel Roth, code name Raven, was finally getting what she wanted: belonging. Zatanna still had reservations, but Chloe believed in her - would do anything for her, really, without even blinking. 

August 2010 

Chloe barely blinked as the hood was removed, staring squarely ahead at the rough-looking man sitting across from her in the van. She didn't know who he was, but she saw what he did to Oliver. Still, there was no reason to be afraid of him. Hadn't she seen enough in those minutes or possibly hours in Fate's helmet? This wasn't where it ended. She hadn't seen her own fate, but she had a feeling that her work wouldn't be done even after she "died." Hell, she wasn't even dead yet. Not until Tess did what she'd told her to and not until she could get her hand in her pocket. 

"Mind uncuffing me?" she asked, not moving a muscle. 

"Not just yet," he said, sitting back, a gun propped lazily on his knee. 

"If you've done your homework on me, then you know that hand-to-hand isn't exactly in my skill-set." 

There was a snort beside her. "She's right about that. The only thing she's even good at is getting rescued." 

She stiffened, keeping an eye on the gun before she turned her head slowly to the side. "Bette," she breathed. 

"Yeah. Hi. Not in jail." Bette Sans Souci sat back, examining her nails. "Some people actually think I'm better than a criminal." 

"Why don't you pipe down before I assign you to Egypt?" 

"Like I even care, Flag," she muttered, slouching further into her seat. 

The man, Flag apparently, turned back to Chloe. "So why'd you make this trade?" 

"Why did you take it?" 

He shifted his knee and her attention was drawn to that gun again. "You first." 

"Maybe so you'd stop trying to kill my friends." 

"We weren't even going to kill anyone!" Bette exploded. "God!" 

"Bette..." 

"Well, it's really annoying how she and her friends act like they're the good guys. For your information..." 

"I don't think Watchtower needs any more information, so shut it." 

Bette huffed and knocked on the window. "Stop the car." She gave Chloe an annoyed glance. "I'm sitting up front. I already had enough of her. Sanctimonious, stupid..." Her mutters faded as she got out and slammed the door. 

So this Suicide Squad had recruited Bette. She knew the girl well enough not to trust her. She didn't have to know the man before her to despise him with what he'd done to Oliver, what he might do to her. It was a good thing Bette was gone, that she wouldn't see... She shifted, pasting on a grimace as if her handcuffs were too much, but inwardly rejoicing -- or as much as a girl could in this situation. She felt the pill between her fingers. "I guess I'm more dangerous than I thought," she said, hoping to goad him into taking off the cuffs. As soon as he did, this could be over. "Look, I promised I'd come without a struggle and I'll keep that promise. I'm just wondering if you'll keep yours." 

He stared at her for a long time before he grabbed her by the arm, twisting her to the side and working at the cuffs. "As far as I know, your boyfriend should be home safe in the next few minutes," he said, shifting back to his seat. 

She kept her hand fisted around the pill as she rubbed at her wrist, not ready quite yet. "I traded myself for more than that and you know it. I want you to stop trying to kill my friends." 

"I can promise you right now that we have no intention of killing your friends. Checkmate and all operations relating to it have only ever tried to keep things in order." 

"Your warped idea of order," she sneered. "I suppose you're all too smug to think you might have it wrong." 

"Well, why don't you educate us, then? Why don't you tell us why a goddamned armada of flying creatures have just disappeared after defacing the world with symbols that look suspiciously like The Blur's? I mean, you're the one to ask, aren't you?" he asked softly, but with more than a hint of menace. "One of them destroyed Checkmate's headquarters, but not the entire database. It seems you're the hub, the eyes and ears of the entire vigilante club." 

"Oh, and what are you guys? A Tuesday night poker club?" 

"You're going to tell me about The Blur and his relation to all this." 

Oh, no she wasn't. Oliver wasn't the only reason she was here, though he might have been her primary motivation. Whatever they knew about her team, they wouldn't get any more. She massaged her hand and surreptitiously slipped the pill higher. "Or what? You'll torture me like you did him?" 

"How do you know that?" 

"Wouldn't you like to know." 

"I would." He gave her a rather cold smile. "And I will. But don't worry. I don't think we'll need to resort to physical torture. Where we're going, there's technology even you might appreciate. You'll tell me everything i need to know." 

But they wouldn't get there. At least she wouldn't. She supposed the Suicide Squad, much like Checkmate, had something up their collective sleeves, something to delve into her mind. She wouldn't let that happen. She might be searched if they got to their base. It had to be now. She just hoped Rachel would find... 

"I've got you," she heard. 

She stiffened at the voice, nowhere around her, but echoing in her mind. 

"I'll be wherever they take you, Chloe." 

Rachel. She nearly smiled, even though she felt mildly invaded, at the idea of putting her life in the hands of a kid. 

"I'm almost seventeen." 

She laughed just a little and Flag looked at her strangely. "Guess I'm okay, then," she said dully, quickly shoving the pill in her mouth and biting down. 

She heard Flag curse. She felt the van jerk to a stop as her body began convulsing, a noxious taste filling her mouth and dripping down her throat. She heard more voices shouting and felt hands grabbing her roughly until she felt... nothing. 

The next thing she registered were hands on her, but gentler ones this time. On her forehead, then her neck. Where was she? 

"You're in my room," she heard a familiar voice say softly. "I didn't have anywhere else to take you. But be quiet. My mom's still sleeping. She doesn't know." 

Rachel. She struggled to open her eyes, though her head was pounding. 

"I was thinking of taking you to hospital if you didn't wake up soon. I still can if you..." 

"No hospital," she heard herself croaking around a mouth as dry as sandpaper. She opened her eyes fully, though it was a struggle against the bright sunlight. 

"Don't talk if it hurts," Rachel said, leaning over her and holding out a glass of water. "I can hear you without it." 

"No offense," Chloe rasped, sitting taking the glass, "but I'd kind of rather not have an extra person in my head. It's hard enough to think." It wasn't every day a girl died and came back to life. In fact, she'd only done it twice before. She took a long gulp, washing away the sickening taste of the cyanide. 

"How did you die before?" 

She choked slightly and sat up straighter, staring at Rachel. "I wish you'd stop that. It's a little invasive." 

"Sorry," Rachel said in her soft monotone, her eyes losing that white glow and returning to normal -- or what passed for normal as they were still a rather startling deep indigo. "I guess I got used to it while I was waiting to hear your thoughts again. I didn't like when they were quiet," she finished on a mutter. 

"Where are we?" Chloe whispered after a longer drink. 

"My apartment... or my mom's. In Gotham City." 

Right. Gotham. Rachel lived in Gotham. Chloe supposed she lived in Gotham, too, now, having nowhere else. "What time is it?" 

"Just after six." Rachel glanced at the door. "My mom will probably come in to wake me up soon. I have a little money. I'm thinking maybe I could take you to a motel or..." 

"Don't worry. I have some money," Chloe broke in. It had been another thing hastily-taken care of yesterday. Everything she had in her bank account had been shoved in her back pocket with the cyanide pill, though it was little more than a thousand. It wouldn't go far, but she'd worry about that later. "What happened? How did you get me here?" 

Rachel shrugged. "I just did. It's what I do." 

Teleporting. She wasn't sure if she was fascinated or horrified, but she rather wanted to be awake when it happened again. 

"I just stayed on you even when your mind went away. I waited until they went outside the van to argue and just got you here." 

She wondered what Flag and friends made of her death and disappearance. She hoped, if they had a higher up with Waller gone, they were in deep ****. 

"Do you have a cell phone?" 

"Who doesn't?" Rachel said dully, moving to her desk and coming back with an android phone. Teenagers. She decided not to even ask if it had internet. Kids today usually had it all, she reflected, feeling old. Or maybe that was just the effects of the cyanide still in her. Every movement felt like it should come with a loud creak. 

She pulled her legs to the side of the bed and tossed off the covers, sitting up fully as she took the phone. She needed to know that Tess had done it. She tried her remote access code. Nothing. Good. She tried her email. Nothing there, either. She tried her voicemail. But she supposed Tess hadn't got to that yet. She heard Clark's voice. 

"Chloe, where are you? I've left four messages. Jor-El warned me some dark forces were coming. I need your help." Her fingers itched to punch in and check the rest, but she couldn't. She hung up resolutely. She wished she could help, but she had to keep her distance. That was the only thing she knew for sure. Getting involved, having contact, leaving more of the cryptic goodbyes she already had... That she couldn't do. As for what she could do, what she would do now, she had no idea. 

"Me neither," she heard Rachel say. "Maybe you could get a job at the..." 

"Stop that," Chloe hissed. 

November, 2011 

Chloe stopped typing at the rather loud hail of gunfire from the bedroom. Oliver must have got his hands on a virtual machine gun. She stood and moved to close the door as it would take her another damned hour to finish with that noise. 

She smiled as she picked up The Gazette from the windowsill, looked again at the blurry picture of a caped man in mid-jump off the top of Killinger's department store. "The Batman: Friend or Foe?" Kind of trite. He really deserved better press. But she was fairly sure The Batman didn't care what they said, would rather they said nothing. She tossed it aside to focus on her own piece, which would not be mentioning The Batman, though it was hard to avoid. It wasn't as if she was against giving heroes good press and the most benevolent image possible. Really, she was all for it. But to report on this... It would feel like a betrayal. She knew well enough how he felt about it even if she didn't agree. And, really, she doubted he wanted to come off as anything near benevolent. 

She chuckled as she passed by the suite's long window, reflecting that Oliver was right about Gotham. It wasn't the prettiest town, always cloudy and damp and rather dark even in the middle of the day. But it had grown on her. Still, it was nicer to be staying in the safer, more upscale part. She didn't have that luxury when she first arrived. 

August, 2010 

Chloe plowed through, keeping her head down, her purse close, and her steps quick. In just a week here, she'd learned that was the only way to travel in The Bowery. She'd gone to Gotham Heights today with some idea of looking for work. She was undocumented at the moment, but she felt sure she could fix that given the right resources. She'd put up notices at the grocery stores as a computer tutor and consultant. She'd actually put in an application for the Geek Squad with some mild embarrassment as it was one area where she hoped her skills would trump her lack of identity at least until she figured something out. She'd used the name Marion Briggs, she'd conveniently forgot her social security number, and she hadn't even gotten an interview. 

Even worse, her cab would only take her as far as Fourteenth. When she first rented the monthly motel room that had the nerve to call itself an efficiency in Crown Point, she didn't know it was smack in the middle of the worst neighborhood in Gotham. It was cheap. That was all she'd cared about at the time. Just somewhere to stay while she figured things out. But after a week of flinching at every noise, she was thinking of looking for slightly safer digs and eating the money she'd paid for the next three weeks, even with her dwindling funds. At the moment, she was also thinking of allowing Rachel to keep mental tabs on her, invasive and annoying as it had been... if a little sweet. 

For her first few days, every time she had felt anything approaching fear or panic, even if it was the kind that came with no immediate danger, Rachel seemed to appear, making sure she was okay -- even in the middle of a school day sometimes! She finally had to tell Rachel to tune out. She didn't want a teenager to drop everything and be her watchdog... or puppy. There was something almost puppyish under Rachel's characteristic mask of apathy. She supposed this was the first time Rachel had someone to be open with -- or as open as Rachel could be. She still refused to talk about how she came about such power and insisted she wasn't adopted. 

She sped up, her breaths coming faster at the sound of footsteps behind her, wishing she had a phone to call Rachel, after all. She'd refused to get one, too afraid of the temptation to call any one of those numbers she knew better than her own... when she had one. She'd considered it detox. No Oliver. No Clark. No Lois. No contact. She didn't even let herself look for news of them as hungry as she was for it. She had to resist as long as she could. Keep all possible distance between her life now and then. It was the only thing she'd felt sure of. She didn't even feel sure she would make it home as the set of footsteps behind her was joined by another. 

And maybe it just happened to be someone going the same way, but she felt every muscle clench. She'd never felt this way in Metropolis. She'd never felt vulnerable. Even in the worst sort of danger, there was always someone to swoop in, even at the last possible second. It gave a girl a certain assurance. Wherever she was, whatever was happening, someone was coming. Somehow, she thought it would always happen. But that assurance was gone now. She was somewhere else now, somewhere unfamiliar and unsafe, and she was alone. 

Or maybe she just wished she was. The footsteps behind her were gaining, voices muttering, even laughing. Why had she stayed in Gotham? Why not some small, farming town? Two more blocks. Just two more blocks. Then again, did she want these people to know where she lived? 

It didn't matter in a moment as one of them caught up and stepped in her path, making her do something she usually avoided around here - make eye contact. He was tall, scruffy and skinny and, worst of all, smiling. 

"What's the rush, Sweetheart?" 

His smaller, stockier friend joined him, chortling around the cigarette dangling from his lips. "Yeah. It's a nice night." 

"Yeah. For a stroll and shit." 

She felt frozen and more than a little pissed off. Beside the requisite "why mes," there was also annoyance. Why did she have to get this type? The laughing idiot brand of thug who liked to make out like they were just making conversation? They'd get a lot more done if they just brandished a weapon and demanded the goods. Not that she'd give it, even though she knew that was the quickest end this. She had to find another way. 

"I've had kind of a bad day, Guys," she said, trying to keep her voice light, though it came out sort of thin and reedy. "Just want to get home," she added with a shaky smile, really hoping they might see her as a human being instead of a purse.

"Oh, you live here?" The tall one looked at his friend. "Must be new. Didn't pay the toll." He nudged his friend. 

"Yeah. New girls gotta pay the toll." He moved to her side as the other came forward, as if herding her into the alleyway. 

You give them the money. You always just give them the money and run. But she had little enough. What the hell would she live on after that? 

"I had no idea there was..." She ran for it mid-sentence, hoping to surprise them. 

She saw a shop she'd passed before, the door slightly open. "Please someone..." 

It shut and she heard the click of the lock as she barreled past. A woman stepped out onto her stoop, then just as quickly shut herself in. She had nowhere to go, no one to help. And they weren't far behind. 

She passed several alleyways, but she'd watched enough horror movies to know not to duck into one of those. But the choice was taken from her before she reached the relative safety of crowded Fourteenth Street. She felt one hand on her jacket, jerking her backward. Her head snapped forward with the impact and she felt one of her shoes slip off as her heel scraped against the pavement. 

"Toll's just gone up," the tall one panted in her ear. 

"Yeah. Inflation," she heard the other one snicker around heavy breaths before he stepped in front of her, gripped her by the arm and shoved her into the alleyway. She barely had time to stumble in before the tall one pushed her into a wall that stank of urine. She was quick enough to turn her head, but a flash of white hot pain burst on her cheek. 

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Please... Just take my bag," she choked out thickly, a wave of nausea roiling in her stomach. "I don't want any trouble," she finished, swallowing it down and dazedly wondering why, out of all the things she could have said, she picked the one sentence almost always heard before a gunshot in any given movie. But she didn't hear a gunshot. She heard something worse - the dull snap of a knife just before she was roughly turned around. The back of her head hit the wall as her purse dropped to the ground. 

"Then you shouldn't have run, Cutie." She didn't have to open her eyes to know it was the tall one. The stench of his breath hit her forehead. "You think she's a cutie?" 

"I think she could use some work," the other one said. 

She refused to open her eyes. She was not going to let this be the last thing she saw. She tried to picture Oliver, swooping in with the rasp of a zipline, tried to picture Clark, scooping her up before the world dissolved into a blur around them. But she had left. No one was coming to save her now. 

She felt the cold metal just under her eye. "I'm kind of an artist," the tall man whispered. 

"I've seen your work," a hoarse voice said. It didn't sound like one of theirs. "I'm not impressed." 

Her eyes snapped open, but the man was gone... or not gone, but on the ground and the other was up against the opposite wall receiving a loud pummeling from a man in a long black coat. For a dazed second, she thought it was Clark, that he'd somehow heard her. But the man wasn't broad enough, the voice wasn't clear enough. Not to mention that Clark wasn't one to talk while making a save. She nearly wanted to let out a delirious laugh. Was she just a magnet for this? Maybe Bette was right. Maybe her most useful skill was getting saved. 

The man at her feet stirred and she gave him a kick with the foot that still had a shoe before she fell forward, a wave of dizziness passing through her. But she was caught before she hit the ground. She struggled before she realized it was the man in the coat. She stared at his chest, unable to lift her pounding head. She barely registered it was some sort of body armor before he set her away. "Call the police before they wake up," she heard him rasp as she blearily watched him move into the growing shadows. 

She swayed on her feet. "I can't. No police." 

He stilled, but didn't turn to her. "Then call a damned ambulance." 

"I can't do that, either," she choked out. Everything hurt and she wanted nothing more than to run back to Metropolis, back to Oliver, cry into his chest and never leave again. But she could no more do that than she could turn up in a hospital. "See, I don't exist," she said dully. She was rather horrified to find herself crying. 

She'd be even more horrified to find to herself fainting, except she was too unconscious to care. 

CHAPTER TWO