Slipping Knives in the Dark
The desert night over Bialya came fast and silent.
Floodlights dimmed around the Light's hidden base as armored transports rolled into position. Heat shimmered off the sand, masking movement—perfect conditions for assassins.
Cheshire stood near the edge of the staging platform, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. To anyone watching, she looked the same as always: relaxed, dangerous, bored.
Inside, her mind was sharp and alert.
This is it, she thought. First real test.
She could feel it now—the difference. The world seemed smoother somehow, resistance less absolute. Even standing still, the air slid past her skin like silk.
Black Spider checked his gear beside her.
"Desert ops," he muttered. "Hate sand. Gets everywhere."
Cheshire smirked faintly. "Then don't fall."
He snorted. "You League types always say that."
Across the platform, Black Manta finished issuing orders, his voice cold and mechanical.
"We move in convoy. No hero interference, no unnecessary kills. This shipment reaches the U.S. base intact. Savage is waiting."
Sportsmaster cracked his knuckles, grinning.
"Anyone gets jumpy, I'll keep them in line."
Cheshire didn't look at him.
She didn't need to.
Simon's POV (Prism)
Simon watched them through refracted light, his power subtly bending the air around his eyes.
Interesting, he thought.
Black Spider was exactly what Lex's files said he'd be—augmented, disciplined, guarded. Simon could skim surface thoughts from him, faint impressions bouncing off the neural implant in his neck.
Nothing useful. Just mission parameters and mild irritation.
But Cheshire?
Nothing.
No surface thoughts. No emotional residue. No mental "echo" at all.
It was like trying to read a mirror.
Simon frowned. That's not normal.
He pushed a little harder—just a whisper of psychic pressure.
Pain flared behind his eyes.
He recoiled instantly, heart pounding.
What the hell was that?
It wasn't a shield. Shields resisted.
This was… absence. As if the moment his mind reached for hers, it slid away. No grip. No purchase.
Like trying to grab oil with bare hands.
Simon swallowed and masked his reaction.
Lex is going to want to know about this.
The Convoy Moves
Night fully claimed the desert as the vehicles rolled out.
Cheshire rode on the exterior of the lead transport, crouched low, one hand resting casually on the hull. Wind tore past her—but instead of resisting, her body gave in to it.
She adjusted without thinking.
Her boots slid along the metal surface—not slipping, not falling—gliding.
Her eyes widened slightly.
So that's how it works.
No friction. No drag.
Movement felt effortless.
She pushed off gently—and shot forward along the convoy like a shadow skimming water, landing silently atop the next vehicle.
Black Spider blinked. "…Did you just—?"
She was already back beside him.
"Pay attention," she said lightly.
Inside, her pulse quickened—not from fear, but exhilaration.
Damian was right.
Ambush
The attack came without warning.
Energy fire streaked out of the dunes—rogue mercenaries, not heroes. Poorly timed. Poorly planned.
"Defensive formation!" Black Manta barked.
Cheshire moved before anyone finished speaking.
She leapt.
Normally, the drop would have slowed her—air resistance, gravity fighting control.
Instead, she cut through the air, landing far beyond expectation, blades flashing.
Bullets struck her—
—and slid off.
Not deflected. Not stopped.
They simply failed to connect, skidding along her skin as if reality itself refused to let them bite.
The mercenaries froze.
"WHAT—"
Cheshire was among them.
She didn't fight harder.
She fought cleaner.
Every motion flowed. Every strike carried her forward, momentum preserved instead of lost. Sand sprayed uselessly beneath her feet as she skimmed across it like ice.
Within seconds, the ambush was over.
Black Spider stared.
"…Since when do you move like that?"
Cheshire wiped her blade, calm as ever.
"Training."
That was all she said.
Aftermath
As the convoy resumed, Simon watched her with new eyes.
Not tech, he realized.
Not magic either.
Something else.
Something that didn't want to be copied.
So this is what the League's been hiding, he thought grimly.
Far away, unseen and untracked, Ra's al Ghul's encrypted network pulsed softly—data flowing faster than any satellite, unseen by any spy.
And somewhere in Gotham, Damian Wayne continued his work, unaware that his first move had already sent ripples through the Light.
The world was getting smoother.
And far more dangerous.