"Same to you, DickStroke123. Heh heh."
My grin widened, the exhilaration of confronting a true peer washing away the disgust of the earlier encounters. Slade Wilson didn't react to the slight. His single visible eye narrowed, recognizing the primal challenge in my stance.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Deathstroke didn't bother with a formal draw. He emptied the remaining rounds from his sidearm in a rapid burst aimed at my center mass. These were not standard munitions; the rounds were armor-piercing, designed to stop a meta-human.
[Blink]
I vanished from the doorway just as the first round tore through the air where my chest had been. I reappeared instantly behind Dr. Roquette's desk, placing the terrified scientist between myself and the gunfire.
The four rounds slammed into the drywall I had just vacated, carving deep, smoking gouges. Slade Wilson, however, was already adjusting his aim. He hadn't been fooled for a second.
Before he could pull the trigger on a fresh clip. My two Doubleganger clones finally return. One bursting from his immediate left and the other from his immediate right, trapping him in a three-sided engagement.
Deathstroke's reaction was legendary. The moment his enhanced vision registered the simultaneous threats, his hands flew to his back. With a smooth, practiced motion, he drew two long, razor-sharp blades from the scabbards mounted on his tactical harness.
He didn't panic. He crossed the blades defensively, using the one on his left to parry the clone flanking his left, and the blade on his right to meet the clone flanking his right. The air was instantly filled with the harsh CLANG-CLANG of steel against blades as my two doubles engaged him in a whirlwind of synchronized, lethal strikes.
Slade was a machine, his skill allowing him to deflect two attacks coming from his blind spots while keeping his head swiveling for the original threat—me. He was relying on his combat experience to defeat my clones, waiting for the momentary lapse in their artificial coordination.
I, however, had already disengaged. I casually pulled an unused plastic chair away from the desk where Dr. Roquette was still huddled. I turned it around, straddled it, and settled in with a relaxed sigh, setting my still-bloody primary blade across the backrest. I was catching my breath, resting while my two clones occupied the world's greatest assassin.
"The Fog," I said, my voice low and completely calm as I watched the fierce, metallic dance unfolding a few feet away. My clones were pressing him hard, forcing him to give ground. "I need its final, actual location. You're done with the upload, so where is the main control unit?"
Dr. Roquette, her hands still trembling, peeked up from under the desk, her eyes enormous. She saw me seated there, completely relaxed, watching a furious blade fight between two shimmering copies of myself and the terrifying mercenary who had just shot at her.
"The—the main unit," she stammered, pointing a shaking finger at the green-glowing screen. "I got its location near Wayne Tech Philadelphia."
"Wayne Tech Philadelphia," I confirmed, nodding slowly. "Good. That confirms my trajectory."
A sudden, sharp CRACK echoed in the hall as Deathstroke's immense strength finally connected with the jaw of my left Doppelgänger. The shimmering clone briefly distorted before dissolving into a dissipating haze of dark energy.
Slade, breathing heavily but regaining the advantage, pivoted instantly, driving his blade toward the remaining clone's center mass killing it.
"Show's over, DickStroke123," I announced, rising from the chair, the brief rest over. "Time for the finale."
I didn't wait for his reply. The moment the last Doppelgänger dissolved, freeing Deathstroke from his immediate threat, I struck.
[Blink]
I vanished, using the power not to create distance, but to eliminate it. I materialized directly in front of Deathstroke, inside his personal space, before his superior reflexes could even process the removal of the clone threat.
Deathstroke, veteran assassin that he was, reacted on pure muscle memory, pivoting to bring his dual blades in a sweeping, defensive X-block aimed at my core.
[Bend Time]
The world locked into a frozen canvas of Achromatic and silence. Deathstroke was motionless, his blades stopped inches from where my chest would have been had I not teleported closer. Time was mine.
I didn't draw my blades. Knives were too quick, too clean. This dismantling required overwhelming, intimate brutality. I needed to ensure there was no opening for escape, for recovery, or for future combat.
I unleashed a barrage of physical violence, powered by the Mark of the Outsider.
First, the upper body. My fists—hardened, augmented blocks of kinetic force—became pistons. I delivered a brutal, blurring sequence of punches to his torso, targeting the armored plates covering his non-augmented sides. The sound, muffled by the time distortion, was a rapid thud-thud-thud, like a hammer hitting dense meat. I broke his ribs through the armor, causing internal damage and guaranteeing his complete physical submission.
Then, the joints. I dropped low and drove a powerful kick directly into the exposed left knee joint from the side. The impact was designed to tear the meniscus and collateral ligaments, violently shearing the joint apart.
CRUNCH!
I followed instantly with a devastating, focused punch to the back of his neck, targeting the base of the skull—non-lethal, but guaranteeing immediate, non-reversible whiplash and neural shock.
SMASH!
Now, the final, permanent severance. I drew my blade and moved with the clinical speed of a machine.
I sliced the right arm just below the elbow, severing the ulna and radius. The cut was so clean, so instantaneous, it created no resistance. Then, the left arm—sliced above the wrist, removing his ability to grip.
I moved to his legs. I performed a high, clean cut directly through his right thigh muscle, just above the knee, slicing through the femur and the crucial arteries. I repeated the action on the left leg, ensuring both main propulsive limbs were detached.
Four limbs were separated from his body in four surgical, high-speed strokes. I retracted the blade, not a drop of the torrent of blood yet spilled due to the temporal distortion.
I stepped back, allowing the final, infinitesimal moment of distorted time to pass, ensuring I was clear of the impending carnage.
Time Resume.
The gunshot clink finished its echo, the mundane sound contrasting violently with the chaos that erupted simultaneously.
Deathstroke's body collapsed, falling apart. His limbs detached with wet, heavy thuds, spraying arterial blood across the floor, walls, and desk. The sheer agony of the broken ribs, the spinal shock, and the instantaneous, total dismemberment hit him all at once.
He didn't scream; he couldn't. His breath was gone from the initial punches, replaced by a ragged, choking gasp as he lay in a pooling mess of his own limbs and blood. His single eye was wide, locked on my mask, a look of pure, agonizing terror replacing the professional focus.
I stood over him, perfectly still, my breathing calm.
"I broke every defense you had. Now all that's left is for you to give me your heart," I said, leaning in and flirting with the broken bastard, my voice dangerously soft.
The great assassin, reduced to a limbless, broken torso, could only manage a choking, bloody cough. He was helpless, but his superhuman healing factor was already starting to kick in, attempting to stabilize the severed arteries.
I would not allow it. I needed to ensure Deathstroke was permanently crippled, unable to return to the game.
[Devouring Swarm]
With a surge of dark energy from the Mark, I summoned the swarm. A pulsing cloud of Bloodflies—black, aggressive, and drawn instantly to the fresh, overwhelming scent of blood—materialized and immediately descended.
The swarm, acting on my malevolent will, ignored his torso and immediately targeted the exposed wounds. They dove into the severed muscles and open arteries of his four detached limbs, beginning to feed and nest. The limbs began to twitch and pulse as the swarm consumed the raw, exposed tissue.
Deathstroke let out a low, inhuman moan—the physical horror of having his own dismembered limbs consumed by the insects was a violation beyond simple pain. The action served two purposes: prevent the reattachment of the limbs and thoroughly contaminate them.
I knelt beside his head, making direct eye contact with his single, functioning eye—the last window to his consciousness.
I didn't use a blade. I didn't need a power. I used my fingers for maximum, horrifying intimacy.
I slowly and deliberately pierced my index finger directly into his remaining eye, driving it through the iris and lens, rupturing the globe and destroying the optic nerve. The blinding was complete, personal, and absolute.
Simultaneously, I brought my hands up and smashed my open palm against his exposed ears, concentrating my augmented force. The shockwave of the blow ruptured his eardrum and drove a catastrophic pressure change into his inner ears, destroying his equilibrium and guaranteeing vertigo, nausea, and permanent partial deafness.
I stood up, leaving the now-blind, deaf, and limbless torso of Deathstroke lying in the growing pool of blood and buzzing flies.
I grab Dr. Roquette from beneath the desk, cradling her under one arm. She was silent, paralyzed by shock.
With one final [Blink].
I was gone from the high school.
My target was now the Wayne Tech in Philadelphia.
"I hope the billionaire Playboy pays me."
A/N
Power Stone please
Also. If you find some flaws in the chapter, please tell me.