#4 - Loss of Equilibrium

#4 - Loss of Equilibrium

Metropolis

The First Metropolitan Bank was bustling with activity on this warmer than average winter day. The sun was high in the sky, slowly melting the remnants of snow from last week's storm. The sidewalks were filled with pedestrians going about their day, oblivious to the man in a dark green trench coat.

He stood across the street from the bank, staring at it. A black hood from the sweatshirt under his coat was covering his head. His coat was buttoned, the belt tied tight around his waist, and his gloved hands were shoved into his pockets.

A break in the traffic allowed the man to finally cross the street. He walked briskly, not unusually fast but still with purpose. As he headed up the stairs toward the bank's entrance, the elderly security guard standing there leaned against the wall, his head down like he was about to vomit.

The bank, the oldest in Metropolis, was large and grand. Each footstep echoed on the stone floor. Hushed voices reverberate all around him. Walking without a care in the world, the man pulled away from the crowd heading to the tellers.

As he moved forward, he began to notice odd looks from employees and customers alike. Hushed, urgent whispers could be heard discussing the dark green mask underneath his hood. He payed them no mind.

"Hold it right there!" a shout rang out behind him. At least one security guard was behind him. Two walked up in front of him. Any masked individual in a bank is a serious event, even more so nowadays.

"Take your hands out of your pockets," one of the guards in front of him said, sidearm pointed directly at the man. "Slowly."

"Of course, gentlemen," the man replied. His voice had a vaguely European accent. Enough to sound un-American, but not with enough distinction to pin down a country. "Is something wrong?"

The man did as he was asked. His black gloved hands in the air, the guards moved in around him. He heard the jingle of handcuffs behind him.

"Silly me," the man said in a booming, theatrical voice. The acoustics of the bank made him sound larger than life. "Allow me to introduce myself. The name is Vertigo."

The moment he said his name, the guards around him started to sway and double over. One of them began to vomit on himself. The effect quickly spread in a wave throughout the bank. Everyone around Vertigo became dizzy, fell to the ground or slumped in their chairs, and cried out in discomfort.

Reaching up, Vertigo pulled back his hood to reveal the dark green mask. It covered his entire head, except for his mouth and eyes. A yellow circle pattern sat in the center of his forehead, and a slight bulge ran under the mask along the top and down the back of his head.

"Don't bother to get up," Vertigo smiled to himself. "I'll show myself in."

After a quick survey of the victims around him, Vertigo found one of the bank managers slumped against the front of the teller counter. He walked over, grabbed the man under his left arm, and helped him over toward a doorway with a keypad.

"Open it, if you please," Vertigo asked sweetly. He let go of the man's arm and he fell down on all fours. Some gurgling and coughing was all he offered in response.

Kneeling down next to the bank manager, Vertigo took a handful of his hair and yanked him back up. Looking into the man's eye, he said, "Fine, just tell me the code then. Or else things will get quite a bit worse."

The manager groaned and began to shake. Vertigo forced the man's face to the side just as he began to vomit. He pushed the man down in disgust and stood up, adding a kick as well.

"The code. Now."

Through retches and coughs, the manager croaked out, "Four...three...eight...nine...five...seven...pound."

Another kick and then Vertigo was through the door. Some of the people in the bank began to slowly rise to their feet, but in less than five minutes Vertigo exited back through the door, and they quickly doubled over in pain again.

"It has been lovely doing business," Vertigo announced. His footsteps echoed as he walked through the crowd, two full bags at his sides. "I'll be sure to recommend you to all my friends."

Sirens rang out as he exited the building. Three police cars screeched to a halt in front of the bank. Vertigo just walked calmly down the steps.

"Stop right...right..."

The officers, who were hunched behind the doors of their cars, all slumped down onto the ground. One manage to squeeze off a shot, but it went wild.

Vertigo continued across the street, cars quickly coming to a stop, skidding off into minor accidents all around him. Soon he was in an alley across from the bank, a wide grin on his face.

"Any trouble, boss?" a large man in the driver's seat of a black BMW asked as Vertigo got in the back seat.

"None whatsoever," Vertigo answered with a laugh.

"Where to next?"

"Another bank," Vertigo said as he pulled a stack of bills out of one of the bags, breathing in the smell of money. "We have more withdrawals to make."



Washington DC

Tires screeched as Roy Harper sped into the parking garage next to the D.E.O. headquarters. The black 2017 Dodge Charger provided by the department handled beautifully. He hugged the corners, beeped his horn as an agent rushed out of the way, then slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop in a parking spot.

"What the hell, Harper?" the agent he almost hit screamed from across the garage. He ran a hand through his short blond hair in frustration.

"Calm down Zolly," Roy laughed as he got out of the car. He took off his D.E.O. regulation sunglasses and put them in the front pocket of his leather jacket. "Just keeping you on your toes. Have to be ever vigilant, even on your own doorstep."

Agent Zolomon was fuming, prepared to start arguing more, then got a call and turned to take it. Roy grabbed a duffel bag out of the back of the car and walked toward the elevator.

"Tell your wife I send my love," Roy shouted louder than necessary as he walked past Zolomon.

When Roy walked into the headquarters proper, the place was bustling with activity. It had been a little over a week since the Bludhaven incident, and the Department was getting even more attention from both the media and other government agencies.

"Welcome back, Roy," an older woman in a lab coat and a very ugly Christmas sweater called from across the hall. Short in stature, her gray hair was held up in a haphazard bun.

"Doc Soares," Roy smiled, walking over and leaning down to kiss her cheek. "Love the sweater."

"Gift from the grandkids," Doctor Soares smiled, shaking her head. "They wanted a picture of me at the office wearing it."

"Wait a minute," Roy said in an exaggerated voice. "How does a woman as young and beautiful as you have grandkids?"

"Oh hush," Doctor Soares blushed slightly, touching Roy's arm for a moment before they continued down the hall. "Your silver tongue is going to get you into trouble some day."

"Only one way to find out," Roy winked at her.

Doctor Soares blushed again. "Well I'd better get back to work. I've got more new recruits to evaluate."

"Recruits?"

A wry smile came to Doctor Soares' lips. "Not one for the news, are you? Well over the past few days there's been some emergency meetings. The increased visibility of the Department and the growing tension amongst the populace with metahumans has turned the D.E.O. into a media darling. Everyone is racing to be the first to say they helped organize the D.E.O. They helped fund the D.E.O. And inevitably it's led to a sudden influx of people looking to sign up."

Roy thought about the sudden news and adjusted his duffel bag to his other arm before he asked, "What does the Director think?"

A warm, grandmotherly giggle came from Doctor Soares. "The Director remains, as ever, unavailable."

Roy frowned at her words. He had thought perhaps he'd get something from her about the ever mysterious Director, considering she was amongst the top medical staff for the department. Even she must know something, right?

"However Deputy-Director Stewart has been running ragged trying to keep up with everything. Speak of the Devil," Doctor Soares nodded ahead of them. Roy looked up to see Deputy-Director Stewart and Agent Diggle walking their way. "I suggest you watch that silver tongue of yours. He's in a worse mood than normal."

"Harper. Doctor Soares," Stewart nodded to each as they met in the center of the hallway. Soares nodded in response and then excused herself. Stewart turned back to Roy. "So how was your Christmas?"

The question threw Roy off a bit. Not just because of the seemingly good mood Stewart was in, but because it showed an interest in Roy's personal life he hadn't showed since he was recruited. Raising an eyebrow, he said, "Good. You?"

"You head back to Bludhaven again?" Diggle asked with a wink.

"Nooo," Roy replied, still off put by the friendliness. "Why...how...?"

"You don't think I saw the way you flirted with that bouncer," Diggle smiled. "Or that I don't keep an eye on you when we're not together?"

"Bouncer?" Stewart asked, raising his own eyebrow.

"She's just a friend," Roy said quickly, to which both other men hummed a sarcastic agreement. "And if you must know, I went back to Star City."

"I see," Stewart said knowingly. "Must have been...complicated."

"You could say," Roy said, his tone still showing his confusion. "Look so, are you guys going to tell me I have days to live or something?"

Diggle rolled his eyes. "It's called normal human interaction. You should try it sometime."

"Have. It's overrated."

"Fine, you want to get down to business?" Stewart said, his tone stern. He turned to walk with them. "You're back and you have a mission. I'm sending you two to Metropolis. There's a new player in town that's been hitting banks. Wears a mask. Goes by the name Vertigo."

"I'm guessing I'm not going to like the powers going by that name," Roy said as he squeezed into the elevator with his colleagues.

"He causes incredible vertigo in everyone around him. Dizziness, nausea, headaches. It's unknown if it's airborne, audio, visual, or some kind of mental ability. Reports indicate he may have some control over it's intensity."

When the elevator doors opened, Stewart's personal assistant was standing there waiting for him. "Excuse me a second," he said into his bluetooth headset, then walked over to Stewart. "Sir, Mrs. Yamashiro is waiting for you in your office." Stewart nodded and continued down the hall.

"Mrs. Yamashiro?" Roy asked in a mischievous tone.

Stewart sighed. "A possible new recruit. Let's get back on topic."

"So no one in Metropolis has taken care of it?" Diggle asked as they entered the Arsenal.

"Not as yet," Stewart said in a hard tone. "And it's not our job to expect anyone to. I'm sending you two in, and I've agreed to work with an F.B.I. agent on this. They believe there's a connection with this Vertigo and a case they're working. Play nice."

There was heavy emphasis on the last two words as he looked at Roy. Roy threw his duffelbag down in his ever expanding section of the Arsenal and said, "Always."



Metropolis

Roy and Diggle walked up the steps to the Metropolis Police Department's Special Crimes Unit precinct. A relatively new building in Midtown, it was built, or rather rebuilt, a couple years back after one of the various disasters to befall the sprawling City of Tomorrow.

"Nice place," Roy whistled as they walked inside. For a police department, it was state of the art and very well funded.

"Yeah well, Metropolis has some big donors to the city." Diggle led them up to the receptionist, a middle aged man who kept nursing a large coffee. "Hi, I'm Agent Diggle, this is Special Agent Harper, from the D.E.O."

"Mmm," the receptionist sounded as he swallowed another sip. "Yes you're expected, hold on one moment."

"You ever been to Metropolis before?" Diggle asked Roy as the receptionist made a call.

"Oh sure," Roy smiled. "Couldn't keep me from the night life here. And when I was younger I made a couple trips here with...Ollie." The smile quickly turned to a frown as Roy stared off for a moment. "You?"

"Just once. On my way back from my last tour in Afghanistan we stopped over at the base outside the city. I had one day of..."

"One day of debauchery I hope?" Roy joked as he turned to see Diggle's mouth hanging open.

He followed his partner's gaze to see a very attractive brunette woman in a black suit coming down the stairs. Her skin was fair and her hair fell down to just above her jaw line, framing a stern yet soft face. She was probably in her mid thirties, signs of a hard life could be seen in the lines on her brow and around her eyes, but they only added to her simple, commanding allure.

"Just had to be..." Diggle mumbled, regaining his composure before she saw him. When she did, she stopped for a moment on the stairs, but recovered faster than Diggle had and continued down to meet them.

"Special Agent Harper," she said as he shook Roy's hand. "Agent Diggle." There was no hand offered. "I'm Agent Michaels, your F.B.I. liaison."

"Nice to meet you," Roy offered. An uncomfortable silence quickly overcame the trio. "So..."

"You're looking well, Lyla," Diggle finally blurted out. There was a slightly accusatory tone to his voice.

"You as well, John," Lyla replied, her voice hard as stone.

"Waaaait a minute!" Roy snapped his finger. "I get the feeling you two know each other!" Diggle rolled his eyes and looked away. "I mean it's subtle buuuut..."

"It was a long time ago," Michaels told Roy, giving him a look that said she wouldn't be going any further than that. "And I think we'd all like to just get on with the case?"

"Absolutely," Diggle agreed. Roy could see the fight his partner was having with his emotions. He was winning, but this was one time Roy would err on the side of discretion.

"Follow me then," Michaels turned and headed back up the stairs. They walked in silence until they came to a conference room that overlooked the main floor of the precinct.

Inside was a large table with ten chairs. A large dry erase board took up most of the far wall, with various notes, pictures, reports, and other pertinent information to the case covering every open space. A blond man with a full beard stood looking at it, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his jacket laid across the back of one of the chairs.

"Gentlemen, this is Detective Reese, the S.C.U. detective assigned to this case." Michael's voice roused Reese from his contemplation and he looked over with a start.

"Oh, sorry. Hi," Reese said, his eyes darting back and forth as he took them all in. Roy could smell the coffee on him.

"So who wants to bring us up to speed," Roy asked after introductions were finished.

"Did you read the report I sent over?" Reese asked.

"I looked it over on the flight," Diggle nodded.

"I slept," Roy smiled, pulling out one of the chairs to sit in and propping his feet up on the table. "But I got the gist. Bad guy who robs banks and makes everyone puke."

Diggle and Michaels shared a look, Michaels offering disbelief and Diggle offering understanding. Reese just looked confused.

"The 'bad guy' goes by the name Vertigo. That's what's brought this to my attention," Michaels explained, handing each of them a copy of a report. "I've been working in Metropolis for almost a year now, trying to take down a relatively new player in the drug trade here. We still don't have much to go on, but there's a new drug being circulated around the city. One of it's street names is Vertigo."

"So you think this Vertigo character is the one who created and is supplying the new drug," Diggle concluded as he scanned the report.

"Or working for him. But if this metahuman is a part of the Vertigo drug trade, they're going to have the funds to start spreading the drug national. Maybe even globally."

"That's all fine and dandy," Roy sighed, tossing the report onto the table. "But drug busting is kinda outside our wheelhouse. We're just here for Vertigo, the man, the myth, the legend."

"Which could be essential for cracking my case," Michaels almost growled at Roy. "Which is why Deputy-Director Stewart agreed we would work this together."

"And we will," Diggle announced, looking down at Roy like one of his old professors.

"Fine, fine," Roy said as he put his feet down to sit up straight. "So where do we find this guy anyway?"



The lab was bustling with activity. Over a dozen cobbled together work stations were occupied by men and women hard at work. Beakers were boiling, centrifuges whirred, bottles were filled. The ramshackle nature of the operation was slowly being remedied by workers in the next room, hastily opening box after box and bringing in new equipment.

"This is definitely going to speed up production, Mr. Zytle," a sweaty, bald headed man said as he walked up to his boss. His body twitched ever so slightly.

"Indeed," Zytle sighed, looking over at the sweaty man next to him in disgust. He reached up to wipe splashed sweat off the sleeve of his dark green trench coat.

"I-I know business is good but," the bald man began. He quickly realized his boss' displeasure and took a couple steps back. "But where'd all this dough come from?"

Zytle ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair, exasperated. "I realize the unlikelihood of you picking up a newspaper, but are you even incapable of watching the news?"

"I...uh..."

"Twitter? Facebook?"

Zytle didn't wait for an answer. Instead he walked over toward the nearest work station and leapt up onto it, his black combat boots knocking over various ingredients.

"May I have your attention?" The room quickly quieted. All that could be heard was the hiss and bubbling of boiling liquids. "As you have no doubt noticed, things are changing. Production is about to increase. I will be hiring new workers. I...am about to move up in this city."

After a moments pause for emphasis, Zytle continued. "That means things are going to start being handled differently." He reached down and picked up one of the full vials of finished products, idly tossing it up and down. "There will be some new rules. The first...NO MORE SAMPLING THE PRODUCT!"

Zytle turned and chucked the vial directly at the sweaty bald man's head. The impact knocked the fragile man onto the floor. Rather than shatter, the vial bounced onto the floor and spun for a moment before coming to a stop.

"This little Mom and Pop business is about to go country wide. And not soon after, global. So if you want to continue in my employ, I expect a certain level of professionalism. This is a dangerous game we're playing now, and I play to win."

Leaping down off the table, Zytle snapped his fingers at two random people and pointed to the bald man on the floor. "Clean that up. Permanently."

As he walked out of the room, no one made a sound except the blubbering of the man Zytle was making an example of. He smiled, certain he'd made the right impression. Now to phase two.

-To Be Continued-