The abandoned warehouse on Gotham's industrial outskirts still exuded the residue of a recent catastrophe, as if the charred walls whispered secrets of fire and pain. Smoke hung low, mingling with the damp morning mist, carrying a lingering smell of molten metal, incinerated plastic, and something more primal, like flesh burning on a profane altar. Sirens echoed in the distance, drawing closer like predators drawn by the scent of blood. Two Gotham City Police Department patrol cars braked sharply at the main entrance, tires screeching against the uneven asphalt covered in debris. Four officers emerged quickly, hands on holsters, flashlights cutting through the darkness ahead. The sergeant in the lead, a robust man with a gray mustache and eyes weary from endless nights in Gotham, raised his hand to signal caution.
"Crime scene confirmed. Emergency call reported explosion and fire. Possible victim or multiple victims. Proceed with caution."
They advanced in formation, heavy boots echoing on the concrete. The twisted metal gate was ajar, as if someone had forced their way out in a hurry. The sergeant nodded to his partner on the left.
"You and I in front. You two, flank from the sides. No heroics. If there's anyone alive inside, we'll contain them."
Before they could take another step, headlights cut through the dim light. A matte black SUV, with no visible license plates, stopped right in the doorway of the warehouse, partially blocking the vehicles' access. The engines purred for a second before shutting off. The doors opened simultaneously.
Three figures descended.
Rick Flag Jr. came out first, tall, broad-shouldered, in a black tactical uniform with no visible insignia. Behind him came the Peacemaker — Christopher Smith —, his white helmet gleaming under the lights of the patrol cars, his chest shield reflecting the red and blue of the sirens. Last, the Bloodthirsty — Robert DuBois —, with his rifle slung over his shoulder and a neutral expression, as if this were just another day at work.
The police officers froze. The sergeant stepped forward, hand on his holster.
"Stop! This is a crime scene. No one enters without authorization."
Rick Flag calmly raised his right hand, his left hand already displaying a golden badge that gleamed under the light of the lanterns.
"It's a crime scene, yes. But now it's federal jurisdiction."
The sergeant carefully picked up the badge, examining it closely. The metal was heavy, the relief crisp: United States Government Special Operations Bureau — ARGUS. Flag's photo was recent, the name printed in black letters: Richard Flag Jr., Special Agent.
The police officer returned the badge slowly, frowning.
"ARGUS... This is Gotham, not Washington. I need to confirm with my lieutenant."
Flag gave a thin, humorless smile.
"You can confirm. In the meantime, stay here protecting the perimeter. No one enters, no one leaves. Understood?"
The sergeant hesitated, but reluctantly nodded.
"I'll have to talk to my boss."
"Speak," Flag replied, already turning toward the shed. "But keep your distance."
He looked at the Peacemaker, who was still standing beside the open door of the SUV.
"Pac, stay here. Nobody comes in. Not the police, not curious onlookers, not even Batman if he shows up."
The Peacemaker tilted his head slightly, his helmet reflecting the red and blue lights.
"Understood, boss."
Flag and Bloodthirsty entered the warehouse without another word.
The interior was a charred nightmare. The floor was covered in ash and molten metal plates. Exposed beams hung crookedly, dripping drops of water mixed with soot. The smell was unbearable—a suffocating mixture of chemical fuel, burnt flesh, and ozone. The two men's tactical flashlights scanned the space, revealing wreckage: incinerated crates, melted chains, marks of controlled explosions on the walls.
As they walked slowly toward the center, the Bloodthirsty One broke the silence.
"After months of searching for him, do you believe he'll be here?"
Flag didn't stop walking, but his voice came out low, almost thoughtful.
"That's what our intelligence managed to gather. Apparently, he accepted a job with Black Mask to hunt down a group of two rookie vigilantes who showed up."
The Bloodthirsty One adjusted the rifle on his shoulder.
"Then those two rookies must already be dead."
Flag shook his head slightly.
"I find it difficult. During these five days, we tried to document that several groups of mercenaries were maimed. None have been registered as dead yet, but many are in a coma. Varying degrees of mutilation."
The Bloodthirsty One let out a short laugh.
"Ah, I came to talk about that. So I was expecting it to be those two newcomers."
Flag replied curtly.
"So you can see."
They kept advancing. The warehouse was unrecognizable. Entire walls had melted in layers, exposing twisted structural beams. Multiple ignition points indicated that the fire had not been accidental—it was deliberate, controlled. The Bloodthirsty crouched near a circular mark on the floor, where the concrete had turned to black glass.
"This level of destruction. Someone must have put in some kind of geofuel to cause this level of destruction."
Flag nodded, his eyes fixed on the center of the shed.
They arrived at the epicenter.
There lay the body, a reflection of his worst horrors. A head completely devoid of ears, melted, nose, lips, eyes—completely lacking eyes. A true vision from hell.
The Bloodthirsty One stopped, his voice low and incredulous.
"It's impossible to have left him like this. Impossible."
Flag crouched down slowly, examining his chest. He saw the subtle movement. Rising. Falling. Weak, irregular, but undeniable.
"You were seeing it with your own eyes. Apparently, Deathstroke, Slade Wilson, has just been defeated."
They knew it was Slade Wilson. He was the only one who could survive this kind of destruction, the only one who could manage to survive.
Flag stood up, scanning the room with his flashlight.
"There's no way to define exactly what happened here. Everything was burned. Evidence, fingerprints, chemical traces—they're gone. Whoever did this planned every detail."
Before Bloodthirsty could answer, heavy footsteps echoed from the entrance. Peacemaker appeared in the doorway.
"The team is already here."
Behind him entered four men in black tactical uniforms, with no visible insignia. Weapons hung from their sides, carrying a stretcher reinforced with restraint straps. They approached in military silence, positioned the stretcher beside Slade's body, and with precise, unhesitating movements, lifted what remained of the Terminator. Straps were tightened around his charred limbs. A black body bag was opened and placed over him, obscuring the grotesque sight before anyone outside could see it.
Peacemaker observed the operation, then looked at Flag.
"So? Will this be useful for us?"
Flag shrugged, his voice neutral.
"We'll see."
They walked out in formation. Peacemaker in front, clearing the way. Flag and Bloodsport flanking the stretcher. The four porters in the center.
Outside, the commotion had already erupted. More police cars had arrived. Red and blue lights swirled in hypnotic patterns. The press had appeared—reporters with cameras, microphones extended, trying to break through the makeshift cordon the police had set up. In the middle of the crowd, a tall, gray-haired figure: Commissioner James Gordon, unlit cigar in his mouth, a stern expression.
Upon seeing the stretcher being carried to the black van with no license plates, he moved forward.
"That's our jurisdiction, Flag."
Rick Flag stopped at the van door and turned slowly.
"Not at this time, Commissioner. This is a federal matter. Orders from above. You have to obey."
Gordon held the gaze for several long seconds.
"Orders from above? This is Gotham. We deal with our own problems."
Flag maintained his composure, but in his mind he was calculating: I can't let the police get involved. If Gordon goes in, Batman will follow. And Waller wants this out of the Gotham spotlight. No evidence, no trail—it's easier to hide everything.
"Orders are orders, Commissioner. Stay out of it."
Gordon hesitated, but gestured for his men to step away.
The stretcher was placed inside the van. The doors slammed shut with a dull thud. The engine started. The black van glided away, swallowed by the Gotham night, leaving behind only dissipating smoke and the echo of a terror that no one there would ever forget.
The police officers exchanged glances. The reporters shouted questions that no one answered. Gordon stood there, staring at the spot where the van had disappeared.
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