The address led me to a neighborhood park in the heart of a quiet district. A short girl with pink hair waited for me by the walkway. She was plain-looking beneath far too much makeup, and the bushes around us concealed five armed men with their guns trained on me. Another perched on a distant rooftop.
I sighed. "An ambush. Really? I'd rather not leave a mess."
She didn't look surprised. Instead, she asked a question that caught me off guard. "How many?"
"Six." I pointed out their positions casually.
"Could you dodge a bullet if one of them shot at you?" she asked.
"You would be dead before they pulled the trigger," I replied plainly.
"Humor me?" she pressed.
"Why?" I asked, though I already suspected her angle.
"I've found the identity for you. Adan Conway. Twenty-four. Vanished a year ago in Metropolis. Police never found him. Standard waiting time for our services is seventy-two hours. I can knock it down to one if you take care of a little problem for me."
"I thought I made myself very clear," I said, letting my voice drop lower.
"You did," she admitted, "but then I did my research—the explosion on Luthor's land across the border. You're involved somehow. My contacts on the Dark Web are calling it Cadmus 2.0. They say it's where Luthor grows his meta-humans."
I didn't respond.
"Whether you're a meta-human or something else, it doesn't matter," she went on. "All I know is you're strong, and you need to disappear before Luthor finds you. I can help you do that, but only if you help me solve a meta problem of my own."
I waited for her to continue.
"Deathstroke. An old rival paid him a tidy sum to bring him my head. I want you to take care of him in exchange for the identity. You'll get a passport, social security details, a credit history, even a driver's license. No payment required."
She finished with a searching look. I took my time.
"Two hundred thousand," I said. "Half now, half when I'm done. And I will not lift a finger to protect you until I have my identity card in my hand. That part is non-negotiable."
Her lips pressed into a hard line. "Money isn't on the table."
"Then put it on the table," I said dismissively. "I don't need research to know you're desperate. Your timeline alone says plenty. Those mercenaries you brought with you—they're supposed to protect you, but you know they won't be enough. Will they? Deathstroke doesn't fail. I'll find a way out of this even if you sell my identity to Luthor. But you? You will die tonight."
Silence settled between us for a moment.
"Seventy-five thousand to an untraceable crypto account," she pushed back. "That's the best I can do."
I gave her a once-over. "I'll waive the fee entirely if we enter a contract."
She blinked. "What kind of contract?"
I created my first barrier—transparent—and shaped a binding vow into it. In exchange for the other benefits a regular Curtain provided, I wanted absolute silence in the barrier. No words went in or out, not over radio or any other form of telecommunications.
Barriers has reached lv 3.
"A magical one," I said.
She went pale—paler than she already was.
"Who exactly are you?" she whispered. Her mercenaries were all radioing her, confused that their signals weren't going through. She stepped back until her back hit the barrier. Her eyes met mine.
"A friend," I said. "And potentially an ally. I want to suggest a pact of mutual benefit. We agree to work together and swear never to betray each other through words, actions, or omissions."
"And if I break the contract?" she asked.
"Death. The soul-crushing kind," I said, recalling Black Mask's end. "Literally."
"And if I don't agree?" she challenged.
"Then you would have proven me right—you intend to use me and sell me out."
She set her jaw. "Fine. How do we do this?"
"Swear it, and it's done."
She hesitated, but repeated the words I provided. She agreed not to betray me through words, actions, or omissions. A metaphysical chain wrapped around us both, binding the vow.
I dropped the barrier. "Now," I said, "tell me everything."
—
My new ally's name was Alex, and as it turned out, she was one of the few people in the world who could rival Shelim. They had been taking potshots at each other for years, but things escalated forty-eight hours ago.
Alex had finally managed to crack Shelim's system and caught a glimpse of his operation. It was a global network of kidnappers, killers, war criminals, and corrupt officials. She'd only downloaded a few megabytes before Shelim kicked her out, but it was enough.
And now he wanted her dead for it. She'd fled her headquarters in Singapore and made her way to Detroit, relying on an old crime-lord friend. Just before I called, she learned he'd betrayed her—crooked police and hired thugs were out hunting her now.
"That's likely Shelim's doing," I said casually as I walked into her bathroom and shut the door behind me. With a flex of Cursed Inventory, I vanished my clothes, leaving me in the tub in just my briefs. "He can do some of what I can."
"My network has Slade an hour out," she called through the door. "He stowed away on a private plane passing over the area. I expect he'll parachute down."
"Probably," I replied, "but I wouldn't count on it. Not that it'll matter. I'm more concerned with the content of that drive. Think you can make me a copy?"
"Why?"
A bone pushed through my hand at an angle, lengthening until it reached the size of a longsword. I snapped it off and began shaping it—adding a crossguard, flattening and sharpening the blade, forming a pommel hardened for impact.
"You're not the only one with history with that rat bastard Shelim," I said.
"You want him dead."
"Why don't you?" I asked, growing another spike and flattening it into a dagger.
"Because he's more useful alive," she said. "Don't get me wrong, I hate him. But think of the connections, the contacts, the jobs—"
"All of which you can get from his hard drives, his servers, and his cold corpse," I said. "He entered a vow like you did, with someone far more powerful. And you know the penalty for breaking that vow."
"Still," she said, pushing the door open, "that doesn't mean we shouldn't tr—What the fuck!" She screamed, startling her security. They stormed into the bathroom, only to find me standing in the tub in my underwear, holding a European-style bone sword and parrying dagger, covered in blood. It pooled around my toes.
Fighting Deathstroke head-on was unnecessary—vain, even—but I owed him for Gotham. And I was going to enjoy carving him into pieces.
"All that is your blood?" Alex asked, voice trembling.
"Pretty much," I said, raising the blades. "Just prepping for the fight."
Her mouth fell open.
"So you're saying we should hold onto him…"
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