Wonder Woman speaks at a charity event.

The news did not show footage of Black Canary naked. A shame, but expected. They did show a few heavily-pixelated frames from the episode in question, and the anchors talked breathlessly about it and how terrible this dastardly plot was progressing, in between lambasting the Justice League for letting the amulets get out again, effectively blaming Black Canary (among others) for her own situation. Now finally, Brandon’s dalliances were having the effect he thought Luthor wanted. This wasn’t some random civilians who secretly moonlighted as superheroes unbeknown to the general public. This was a definite member of the Justice League, fully in her superhero persona—if not most of her outfit—embarrassed on a worldwide stage. Already, editorials were clamoring for the release of Lex Luthor and an apology from the Justice League, since he most certainly couldn’t be behind this attack on the League from prison. At the very least, public sentiment was tilting toward letting him post bail and acting as free man pending the scheduling of a speedy trial as was his Constitutional right, rather than locking him up indefinitely as the world’s least-likely-to-succeed flight risk on the charge of “was a supervillain once and happened to be nearby”.

But Brandon’s work wasn’t done, not while he had two amulets left. And it probably would have been awfully suspicious if the amulets stopped appearing just as Luthor got out. Brandon didn’t know how that would be suspicious, exactly, but as a criminal who lived in Gotham he had to assume Batwoman was only one clue away from showing up tomorrow night in his linen closet. So a few days later, while reporters camped in front of the Gotham courthouse to get the latest on Luthor’s emergency parole hearing, Brandon set out to cause Wonder Woman’s next fall from grace.

And by the hand of God, she was going to Metropolis, just a quick train ride across the bay. If Brandon had to ride in the hold of the invisible jet again, he probably would have peed himself. It did mean he had to pay his own way, but with a Watchtower wage he could afford a little outlay (though he did save his receipts for Miss Graves).

Thus he reached the lobby of a four-star hotel in the heart of the city, where the Metropolis Women’s Society was holding their annual charity review and back-patting session, complete with a special keynote speaker. Getting into the building was easy; anybody could saunter through the front door. Getting in without being caught on camera was trickier, and the method he chose was donning the amulet, waiting for a female member of the staff to take a smoke break, and following her back through an employee entrance. He had a few close calls with male staff, forcing him into a hallway not far from the women’s bathroom until it was time to make his move, and he resisted the urge to take advantage of the workers who unzipped their skirts as they passed by. As he’d hoped, being in a liminal space like a hall limited the amulet’s impact to only a few seconds, barely enough time for anybody to fall to their knees and finger themselves to oblivion. He only copped a feel or two while waiting, and when he heard the staff return to the kitchen after serving lunch, he snuck into the conference room.

The women in the Society (with a capital S, of course) were decidedly less heterogeneous than the women in the audience of a morning talk show. These were well-to-do ladies of society, of business, of upbringing, wearing power suits and tasteful office-appropriate dresses, with salon-quality hair and roughly seven cosmetic surgeries for every ten people. There were still some beauties among them, definitely worth five minutes and a healthy dose of semen, but not enough to pull Brandon from his intended target. While the woman at the podium droned in a too-chipper soprano, rattling off stories about the poor, disadvantaged citizens of Metropolis who benefited from the gracious attentions of the ladies present, he scanned the room for lingering waiters. Finding only two waitresses near the door, both of whom tugged at their neckties with intention, he strode purposefully toward the long table where his quarry waited.

He’d barely gotten started when the chipper woman finished her speech and sat down to polite applause. Forks and glasses clinked as an older woman took her place and gave the same fake smile he saw on red carpets and in school photos. “Thank you, Brenda. What a lovely update, all due to the generosity of the fine ladies here. And I know we have somebody here today who has some extra-special words of thanks. Please allow me to introduce our guest speaker: Wonder Woman.”