One palm to Deadshot's elbow—numbness shot down his arm.
A precise heel kick to Bloodsport's knee joint—armor shrieked as the servo locked.
A rotating elbow that dented reinforced plating.
Bloodsport roared, armor unfolding in response. Shoulder cannons deployed—
—and a blur of sand-colored fur launched from the darkness.
"What the—"
Claws screeched across Bloodsport's helmet visor. The impact knocked his aim wide; the cannon discharged into a tree, vaporizing it.
The cat landed lightly on his shoulder and raked again.
"Get it off!" Bloodsport snarled, slamming backward into a chimney.
Deadshot recovered faster.
He twisted, drawing a secondary pistol with his off-hand—
The butler was already inside his guard.
A finger strike to a nerve cluster at the collarbone.
A sweeping leg hook.
A downward strike to the sternum.
Deadshot hit the rooftop hard, air exploding from his lungs.
The android didn't waste movement. Every strike was minimal. Perfect. No excess force.
Bloodsport finally managed to grab the feral cat mid-lunge—
Big mistake.
The creature twisted unnaturally in his grip, hind claws shredding through armored gloves as if they were paper. Its eyes glowed faintly red.
Then Sebas appeared behind him and delivered a precise chop to the base of his neck. Armor flickered. Systems stuttered.
Deadshot tried to line up one final shot from the ground—
The butler stepped into the barrel's line and tapped the side of the weapon.
The bullet misfired.
A final, clinical strike to the jaw.
Darkness.
Bloodsport collapsed moments later.
Silence returned to the rooftop.
Below, children continued laughing, unaware.
Klarion leapt down beside the unconscious assassins, tail flicking.
He padded over to Bloodsport and with delicate precision, he placed one paw between Bloodsport's legs.
His claws began to extend when Sebas' hand intercepted him mid-motion.
The android shook his head once.
"No."
Klarion's ears flattened.
"Meow—" Klarion said as if to protest.
"No."
The cat's tail lashed in irritation as if saying 'You are profoundly unfun.'
Sebas simply adjusted his gloves and began binding the assassins with reinforced cable ties.
**
| Mount Justice - October 31
Roy Harper lounged on one of the worn leather couches in the Cave, staring at the ceiling in boredom.
Conner, M'gann, Wally, and Artemis—dressed as a mummy, zombie bride, werewolf, and vampire—had gone to the Happy Harbor Halloween Dance.
Zatanna, dressed as a witch, had dragged along the reclusive Rachel—who'd gone as a raven—and a visibly depressed Robin in an acrobat costume. Two days ago, he'd gotten his ass handed to him by Two-Face on live television.
Match was still at S.T.A.R. Labs trying to halt his cellular degeneration.
Kaldur had returned to Atlantis—homesick. Or seasick. Hard to tell.
Kori was attending some elite charity gala with Joe.
Billy Batson had tried to tag along to the dance, only to be turned away for being too young. He'd left disappointed.
Which left Roy.
Alone.
Sure, he could've gone to the dance.
But Roy had spent three years on ice while a clone lived his life.
After something like that, high school parties felt… hollow.
To him, a Halloween dance in Happy Harbor was just playing house while real threats—like the Light—were still out there reshaping the world.
Roy was also a pragmatist.
On Halloween, emergency services were stretched thin. Streets were packed. Masks were everywhere.
Perfect conditions for crime.
So instead of a costume party—
He chose patrol.
**
| Manhattan - October 31
Years ago, Harm's parents died.
Their deaths taught him one thing: life was fleeting.
So he sought purity.
Not purity of goodness.
Purity of purpose.
To claim the Sword of Beowulf, one had to be pure of heart—untainted by internal conflict.
Harm interpreted that differently.
He murdered his younger sister—the only person he had ever loved.
The act left him singular. Empty. Focused.
Pure evil.
He broke into the Museum of Natural History and stole the Sword of Beowulf.
At first, it wouldn't respond to him.
So he hid within the museum, waiting.
When the curator unknowingly spoke the activation incantation during a lecture, the sword awakened.
Power flooded him.
The blade granted him supernatural strength, speed, and reflexes. It could project deadly energy beams.
The weapon itself was elegant: a broad, leaf-shaped, double-edged blade. A round cross-guard etched with a groove. A spherical pommel of dark gray metal.
Its scabbard resembled a gray humanoid arm that clasped the guard until the spell was spoken. Near the tip, it transitioned into a conventional sheath.
With his new power, Harm killed the curator.
Police arrived to investigate the break-in.
Harm left the museum smiling.
He needed more practice.
Perched atop a gargoyle overlooking the city, binoculars raised, he searched for prey.
Then he saw him.
A red-and-black-clad vigilante with a cybernetic arm, efficiently dismantling a robbery.
A grin spread across Harm's face.
He had never murdered a sidekick before.
This would be good preparation for when he faced Green Arrow.
**
After stopping a robbery, Arsenal headed toward his parked bike.
It exploded.
The blast threw him backward across the pavement.
His combat instincts kicked in instantly.
Through smoke and flame, a teenager in a gray trench coat stepped forward, sword resting casually on his shoulder.
Oh.
It was on.
Arsenal's cybernetic arm reconfigured, launching a rapid volley of micro-rockets.
The teen walked forward calmly, slicing each rocket in half midair.
Explosions bloomed around him and the teen didn't flinch.
Arsenal knew when he was outgunned.
"You blew up my bike. I shot rockets at you," Roy called out. "Let's call it even. No harm done, right?"
The boy tilted his head.
"No. Harm is not done. Much Harm remains to be done. It cannot escape Harm."
Roy blinked.
A psycho. With a magic sword. Who referred to himself in third person and others as objects.
Great.
'This is the part where I strategically retreat.'
He scanned for exits.
Then he saw her.
A white-cloaked figure stood on a nearby rooftop, beckoning urgently.
Roy fired a smoke bolt from the crossbow slung across his back while his cybernetic arm shifted into grappling mode.
He shot at Harm—not to hit, but to distract.
Harm caught the bolt midair.
"Its arrows do not impress."
Then smoke engulfed him.
Roy's grappling line yanked him skyward onto the rooftop.
He rolled over the ledge just as Harm sliced through the smoke below.
The white-cloaked girl was already running.
Roy followed her across rooftops until they reached an abandoned house.
They stopped.
Roy caught his breath.
"Thanks for the assist. But who are you?"
The girl turned.
She had pale skin, blond hair, and wore a completely white hooded cloak over a black sweater. White shin-high boots covered slate-blue stockings. A silver pendant rested at her throat.
"Secret," she said softly.
"That's not helpful," Roy replied. "Do you know Harm? Does he have weaknesses?"
"Secret."
Roy stared at her.
'Don't tell me she's like Match. But instead of not being able to talk she can only say one word.'
He sighed.
"Fine. Secret it is. Why'd you bring me here?"
"Secret."
And then she phased through the floor.
Roy stared at the empty spot where she'd stood.
"…Okay. Guess that's my cue."
He stepped forward to follow her inside.
**
Secret hadn't reappeared inside the abandoned house Arsenal had broken into—but he'd learned more than enough.
Harm's real name was Billy Hayes.
And Secret's real name—
"Greta Hayes. Beloved sister," Arsenal read aloud from the weathered wooden planks nailed over a grave in the backyard.
He stared at it for a moment.
She was Harm's sister.
And now she was a ghost.
Behind him, a voice cut through the night.
"How did it find Harm's house? It defiles Harm's holy place."
Arsenal spun as Harm stepped into the yard, sword resting against his shoulder.
Roy's cybernetic arm shifted, plates sliding and locking into a laser cannon configuration. A red beam lanced out—
Harm sliced it cleanly in half.
The divided beam scorched harmlessly into the dirt on either side of him.
"It refuses to answer?" Harm's voice rose with irritation. "Then Harm will beat the answers out of it."
He drove his sword into the ground. With deliberate calm, he removed his trench coat, letting it fall aside and revealing his bare torso.
Roy flexed his mechanical fingers as the cannon reconfigured into an arm. Then he sent a quick text with a phone in his pocket.
"Oh yeah?" he said, squaring his stance. "Bring it on."