“You picked a bad day to play Indiana Jones, mister.” The beginning of the sentence was causal and cool, the end heaved as she saw the fruits of her labor coming to. The sole of her boots dug into his back, forcing him to lean forward as she finished knotting her lasso in the back to complete what she fancied, eyeing her work with a gleam of satisfaction, to be a very handsome hogtying. Where amazons were born and bred to kill in battle, superheroes frowned on the very same notion. Where her killer instinct used to lie she found the art of subtle humiliation was just as efficient. She gave a slight kick to his back, dug her heel in just enough to remind him who was in charge, as though it were not already obvious, but not enough to really hurt him. That was of course unless his breaths became anything less then shallow she would not hurt him, with white knuckles curled around his new reigns. “I know you aren’t with Ares’ gaggle…” Although a certain degree of certainty was in her words, she gave him a quick once over to confirm her suspicions. He was tacky but he wasn’t spandex tacky. “...and I know you aren’t an amazon so you have no business here that I can permit.”
Although she was riddled with authority at the end of this day this was not truly her errand to run. Her mother had requested it of her and who was she, the least favorite child, to say no? Perhaps if it was her clock she was running on she would have left him there while she continued on, down a weapon but no less capable. But, despite how very authoritative over the situation she was, curiosity got the better of her. It was a mosey, a casual stroll complete with long strides that saw her step out from behind him and back to the front of him slowly squatting down to his level so she might get a better look. She was tempted to lift the mask but she’d been informed by a plethora of peeved heroes that it was rude. “Who are you supposed to be? Red Deathstroke? What do you want?”