"You could at least attempt politeness. Or is all that socializing with Gotham's rich and powerful made you better then us poor little supervillians you left behind?" he asked cooly, pushing off the wall.
And just as he had said in his post, his voice had changed from the clipped, no where at all accent he ran around Gotham with, to a rich, rolling Georgian drawl, almost as sweet as honey and as thick as molasses in the summer.
"Look, Ms. Kyle, I don't want problems here. I just want to survive. So truce, please? I don't harm you and yours and the favor is returned...unless they turn into zombies."