The abandoned warehouse, once a thriving brewery on Gotham's industrial outskirts, stood like a forgotten relic of the past, its weathered brick walls covered in layers of dust, rust, and faded graffiti that told tales of urban decay. The massive three-story building had been built in the 1940s, when the city was still teeming with beverage production to supply the bars and speakeasies of the late Prohibition era. Now abandoned for over two decades due to the scandalous bankruptcy of the owning family—involved in money laundering schemes for the Falcones mafia—the place was a labyrinth of shadows and echoes. The giant, rusty, empty fermentation tanks stood like silent sentinels on the main floor, their metal surfaces marked by years of corrosion and graffiti ranging from teenage tags to symbols of rival gangs. The air there was damp and oppressive, heavy with the lingering smell of sour malt mixed with mold and spilled oil from long-decommissioned machinery. The cracked concrete floor was dotted with puddles of water that had seeped through the damaged ceiling, and the night wind howled through the broken windows, creating a ghostly sound that echoed through the empty corridors.
Slade Wilson, the Terminator, had infiltrated the warehouse hours earlier, moving like a shadow among the abandoned structures. He had chosen the second floor for his observation post—a forgotten mezzanine, accessible by a rusty staircase that creaked like a metallic lament under his weight. There, among piles of old crates and heaps of empty barrels covered by torn tarps, he had perfectly camouflaged himself. The location was strategic: high enough to offer a panoramic view of the main floor, but hidden enough that no one would locate him without a thorough search. He had arrived equipped for war—not an ordinary war, but one against targets that defied human logic. In his tactical bag, he carried a compact bazooka, disassembled into parts for easy transport, with high-caliber ammunition designed to penetrate reinforced defenses. The projectiles were special: depleted uranium warheads, capable of piercing Kevlar and titanium plates as if they were paper. Furthermore, there were sniper rifles with built-in silencers, ceramic knives that didn't trigger metal detectors, and fragmentation grenades for mass chaos. He didn't underestimate his targets—the Forge, with his impenetrable defense, and the archer, with her lethal precision. He had studied the reports: the bullet-reflecting shield, the suit that absorbed impossible impacts. That's why he had brought the heavy arsenal. "If the shield holds up, let's see if it can withstand a bazooka to the chest," he thought, adjusting his position among the crates, his slow, controlled breathing inaudible in the silence of the warehouse.
From his hiding place, Slade observed the group of mercenaries occupying the main floor. They were Vietnamese—lean men hardened by life on the streets of Hanoi and Saigon, with tattoos of dragons and black ink characters snaking across their arms and necks. They wore ordinary clothes: worn leather jackets, cargo pants full of pockets, and battered military boots. Armed with old pistols and curved knives, they moved with the efficiency of those who survived in war zones, but without the refinement of elite professionals. The leader, a middle-aged man with a scar that cut across his left cheek like an irregular line of poorly sewn stitching, was the most striking. Slade recognized him immediately: Tran Van Minh, a former Vietnamese army officer who had deserted during the Vietnam War and become an international mercenary. He was wanted by Interpol for arms trafficking and mass murder in three Southeast Asian countries. A dangerous man, no doubt—capable of torturing a prisoner for days without blinking—but Slade knew, with the certainty of a veteran, that Tran was no match for the two guards they were hunting. "He's good at intimidating peasants," Slade thought, adjusting the focus of his cybernetic eye, which zoomed in on the conversation of the group below. "But against these two? He doesn't stand a chance."
The mercenaries were gathered around a makeshift table—an overturned wooden crate covered with a crumpled map of Gotham, marked with red pen scribbles. Eight of them, including the leader, leaned over the paper, arguing in rapid, guttural Vietnamese, with touches of English mixed in to emphasize points. The air around them was tense, heavy with the smell of cheap cigarettes and sweat accumulated after hours of waiting. Some already seemed restless, their eyes darting into the shadows of the warehouse as if expecting ghosts to emerge from the darkness.
One of the men, a thin fellow with a snake tattoo on his forearm, was the first to break the silence with a trembling voice. "Leader, this isn't right. These two vigilantes... they're monsters. I heard the last group that tried to catch them ended up with bones broken like twigs. One guy lost his arm! I didn't come here to die for foreigners' money. Let's give up while we still can."
The leader, Tran, looked up from the map, his face contorting in a grimace of contempt. He slammed his fist on the table, making the map tremble. "Shut up, Hieu! Do you think I'm an idiot? I know the risks. But ten million per head? Twenty in total? That buys a new life for each of us. A house in Hanoi, women, respect. Do you want to go back to the streets like a rat? I don't. And if you talk about giving up again, I'll kill you myself right here."
Another mercenary, older, with a scar that crossed his forehead like an irregular line, intervened, his voice hoarse from years of smoking. "He's right, Tran. Those two aren't normal. The girl with the bow? She can hit a fly a hundred meters away in the dark. And the other one, the one with the gray shield? He deflects bullets like magic. I saw the video Mask sent—he broke Deadlock like he was a twig. Deadlock! The guy who never misses a shot. This isn't work for people like us. Let's give up. The money isn't worth the grave."
Tran stood up suddenly, knocking his chair back with a thud that echoed through the empty shed. His eyes, black and cold as bottomless pits, swept over the group with an intensity that made the men instinctively recoil. "Give up? You're cowards! I brought you here because I thought you were real men, not rats trembling in the dark. I know these two are dangerous—I got chills when I saw the reports. But look at this!" He pointed to the map, his thick finger tracing red lines connecting patrol points. "They follow a pattern. Attacks concentrated in the east, then in the south. They're clearing the outskirts before going to the center. Risky? Yes. But predictable. And predictable is weak. We catch them on the counter-attack, use the terrain to our advantage. Geocode the points, use the shadows of the old tanks here in the shed. If they come, they'll fall into the trap."
The men hesitated, but obeyed. Tran called all eight closer, leaning over the crumpled map. The paper, illuminated by a makeshift flashlight attached to the ceiling, showed Gotham divided into sectors: the east marked with red Xs for recent attacks, the south circled in blue for possible next targets. "Look here," Tran said, pointing to a spot in the center. "They're moving toward the heart of the city. The next one is that warehouse near the Trigate Bridge. We'll set up an ambush there tomorrow. Geocode the access points, position snipers on the rooftops. Use the old tanks as cover—they reflect sound, confuse echoes. If they come, they'll fall like flies."
One of the men, the oldest with the scar on his forehead, murmured reluctantly, "What if they don't come? We didn't expect them to be so fast. They decimated Deadlock's group in minutes."
Tran snorted. "We didn't expect this, but now we know. Adjust the plan. More explosives at the entrances, proximity mines in the corridors. We're going to turn this place into hell. We leave early tomorrow, we'll position everything. Understood?"
The men nodded, murmuring forced agreements. "Yes, leader." "Let's get them." But the air was thick with doubt—exchanged glances, hands trembling slightly as they handled their weapons.
Slade, hidden in the mezzanine among the stacked crates, watched everything with disdain. He thought, "These idiots don't stand a chance. Tran is good for street fights, but against these two? They'll be massacred." He adjusted his position, feeling the weight of the disassembled bazooka in his bag. His heightened senses—enhanced by the Mirakuru serum coursing through his veins—picked up every detail: the sweat on the men's faces, the smell of fear mixed with the oil from the weapons, the subtle echo of voices reverberating from the empty tanks. He waited, patient as a coiled snake.
Night wore on, and the mercenaries began to prepare for rest. Around half past midnight, the leader ordered a pause. "Rest, but stay alert. Tomorrow is the day." They spread out across the main warehouse: some leaning against the cold walls, others lying on old, dusty sacks, weapons within easy reach. The air grew quieter, broken only by sporadic snores and the distant dripping of a leak in the ceiling. Tran sat on a crate, wiping his pistol with a dirty rag, his eyes scanning the darkness as if expecting betrayal from his own shadows.
Suddenly, the lights in the shed—makeshift lanterns connected to a portable generator—went out with a dry click, plunging everything into absolute darkness. The silence was broken by exclamations: "What the hell is this?" "They're here!" The mercenaries jumped to their feet, gripping their weapons with trembling hands, pocket lanterns flickering erratically, creating beams of light that danced like ghosts on the walls.
Tran shouted, his voice echoing like a military command: "They're here! Form positions!"
Slade, on the mezzanine, smiled in the dark. He knew: the guards had arrived. His heightened senses—hearing enhanced by the serum, capable of picking up the whisper of a falling leaf fifty meters away—detected the subtle movement. A sound of breaking glass came from the other side of the warehouse, from above: the guard with the shield, Forge, descending through a broken window, his body falling with a precision that suggested military training. At the same time, Slade spotted the archer—a blonde girl, positioned atop one of the old beer tanks, using a rappelling rope to secure herself like a spider in its web.
The fight erupted like a volcano.
Forge landed in the middle of the mercenaries, a grey and black figure that moved like a force of nature. His first strike was a straight punch to a man's face—the impact echoed like a gunshot, the nose smashing into a mass of blood and broken cartilage, teeth flying like red confetti. The man fell backward, screaming, but Forge was already on to the next: a roundhouse kick to another's ribs, bones cracking like dry twigs under his reinforced boot, the impact throwing the body against the wall with a dull thud. He didn't stop—aggressive, relentless. A third mercenary tried to shoot; Forge deflected the arm with his shield, breaking the wrist with an angular twist, the bone splitting like a rotten branch. The man roared, and Forge finished with a knee to the stomach, ribs giving way like wet paper, blood gushing from the mouth.
Artemis, high in the tank, fired like a goddess of vengeance. Her arrows cut through the air with a sharp hiss: one struck a man's shoulder, the tip of freezing gel expanding and immobilizing his arm in a block of cracked ice, the bone shattering under the pressure. Another arrow—a low-lethality explosive—detonated on the ground near a group, the shockwave hurling bodies like rag dolls, bones cracking on impact against the concrete. A third shot was a sedative dart in another's neck, the poison acting in seconds, the body convulsing before falling inert.
The fight ended with breakneck speed—less than two minutes. The mercenaries, caught off guard, were decimated. One had his arm broken like a twig, the exposed bone gleaming white in the dim light; another took a punch to the chin that shattered his jaw, teeth scattering across the floor like bloody pearls; a third was struck by an arrow that broke his leg at the knee, the ligament tearing with a wet sound. They all fell, mutilated and screaming, their bones cracking like fireworks at a macabre party.
The lights came back on—probably activated by a remote switch Forge had hacked. One of the mercenaries, with a broken arm and cracked jaw, missing teeth and blood trickling down his chin, crawled in front of Forge, his eyes glazed with terror. "Please... mercy..."
Forge, impassive beneath his gray helmet, stared. down at him. "Run. If I see you here again, you will die."
The mercenary nodded frantically, struggling to his feet, his bones creaking like rusty gears. The other survivors—all mutilated but with their legs intact—followed, dragging themselves out of the shed, leaving trails of blood and groans echoing off the empty walls.
As the two guards prepared to leave, Slade Wilson—hidden in the mezzanine among the crates—acted. He raised the bazooka, disassembled in his bag and reassembled in seconds with the precise movements of a master. The weapon was heavy, but balanced: high caliber, designed to pierce impossible armor. He aimed at Erick—the Forge—thinking, "You're all that?" And fired.
The projectile cut through the air with a deep hiss, a trail of smoke trailing behind it. Erick, with supernatural movement—reflexes enhanced by elemental magic and training with Sensei—positioned himself in front of Artemis, shield in front. The shield emitted a glow—the angular repulsion field activated, arcane runes pulsing with ethereal energy. The explosion came: a ball of fire and shrapnel that hurled them against the opposite wall, the impact echoing like thunder in the empty shed. They crashed hard—Artemis feeling a rib crack, the air escaping her lungs; Erick absorbing the bulk of the impact with his shield, but feeling his arm tremble as if struck by a hammer.
Slade, still hidden, watched in amazement. "Impressive," he murmured to himself, his voice low and hoarse. "I like you guys. Let's see if you can kill my prey tonight." He raised his high-caliber weapon—a Barrett M82 anti-materiel rifle, .50 BMG caliber, with tungsten-armor-piercing bullets—and began to monologue as he aimed, his voice echoing through the shed like a final judgment.
"You think you're heroes? Two brats playing vigilantes in a city that eats the weak for breakfast? You messed with the wrong people—Black Mask isn't just a name, it's an empire. And me? I'm Deathstroke. I've killed presidents, toppled governments, and you... you're just two more on the list. Today is the last day you play hero. I'm going to destroy you—piece by piece, bone by bone. You'll be begging for death before the end."
Meanwhile, Erick stood up, shield still in hand, and turned to Artemis. "Are you alright?"
She nodded, but with her head down, feeling the pain in her rib. Slade noticed—she was injured, perhaps with a cracked rib, which would make her slower.
Erick stared at the mezzanine, his eyes fixed on the shadow where Slade hid. He took a few steps forward, shield in front, ready for the confrontation. The air was thick, the tension palpable like a wire stretched to its limit.
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