Chapter 89: The Witch
"Monday, what's the status?" George asked softly, glancing at the tablet resting on the table.
"Master, Professor June Moone's whereabouts have been located on surveillance footage from Belle Reve Penitentiary in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana," the mechanical voice replied. "This prison is known among certain circles as the Arkham Asylum or the Swamp in the Underworld. According to official records, it houses many terrorists and other high-profile inmates."
"Arkham Asylum, huh? I've heard about it," George murmured, nodding thoughtfully. "And the data download?"
"Complete," Monday confirmed.
"Excellent. Switch to standby mode," George said, slipping the tablet back into his magic bag.
It wasn't about playing hero. This world had plenty of those. What George wanted was rarer—knowledge, ancient and unfiltered. And tonight, he intended to collect it.
Having seen the Suicide Squad movie in his previous life, George had a rough understanding of what was about to unfold. June Moone's presence at Arkham Asylum indicated that Amanda Waller was selecting her squad members—the team that would later include Deadshot, Harley Quinn, El Diablo, and Killer Croc.
Yet George's interest wasn't in helping the Suicide Squad or stopping the Witch and her brother from unleashing destruction. Even if they rampaged through the city, what could they really do? This world was vast and complex, and George had no intention of stepping into someone else's plot. His path was different.
Slipping into the Mirror Dimension, George became a silent shadow. Unseen. Untouchable. Even the cameras wouldn't notice. From there, he moved unseen through the Black Prison, observing as Amanda made her selections.
Harley Quinn, unpredictable and unstable. Killer Croc, pure brute force. El Diablo, controlled fire incarnate. Deadshot, cold and surgical with every bullet. George watched quietly, bemused. Harley's inclusion baffled him, but that wasn't his business.
That night, George followed Amanda and Professor June Moone to the Pittsfield Hotel, which served as a temporary base for the task force.
Amanda had been pacing for nearly an hour—calls, notes, pacing again. George waited patiently on the edge of her reflection. When she finally slumped into her chair, exhausted, he made his move. One subtle Sleeping Charm, and she slumped forward, unconscious. The briefcase hit the floor with a dull thud.
George stepped out of the Mirror Dimension and moved silently. He picked up the black briefcase, murmuring "Alohomora," breaking the seal with practiced ease.
Inside, a withered heart floated, pulsing with an eerie rhythm. Beside it sat a compact but clearly lethal explosive charge.
George didn't flinch. This was Amanda Waller's leash, the one thing keeping the Witch in check.
Next to Amanda's desk sat what looked like a carved relic—a grotesque, weathered statue. Most would've thought it a decorative piece. George knew better. This was the Witch's brother, locked away centuries ago in stone.
Without hesitation, George slipped both the statue and the heart into his bag. He crossed the room and sat in Amanda's chair, folding his hands and waiting.
At precisely ten o'clock, the temperature dropped. A subtle ripple passed through the air. Then, without warning, she was there—like she'd been part of the darkness all along.
The Witch stood at the edge of the room, her cold eyes landing first on Amanda's sleeping body, then the black briefcase.
A faint smirk crossed her face. She stepped forward, one foot, then another. But something in her mind held her back. She froze.
She remembered the curse. The enchantment that would destroy her heart if she tried to take it uninvited.
The briefcase remained silent. No hum. No warning.
She stepped in closer.
Her fingers reached out, then flipped open the case.
Empty.
Her breath caught. Her eyes widened. For the first time in centuries, she looked truly afraid.
"Looking for this?" came a voice from the shadows.
She spun around. The empty briefcase was already fading—an illusion. Clever.
From across the room, George appeared, the real case in his hand, calm as ever.
As the Witch lunged, a sharp beep rang out, warning her of the heart's sensitivity.
She halted, eyes narrowing. She saw him clearly now. A tall, confident man, neither soldier nor sorcerer, but something in between.
"Who are you? Why do you possess that box?" she demanded.
George smiled coldly.
"Heh, Miss Witch, instead of worrying about my identity, you should focus on what I want. Or rather, what I intend to do."
He raised the briefcase slightly.
"What is it you want?"
"Your magic knowledge," George said plainly.
The Witch sneered.
"Heh heh, another fool craving power. I won't make a deal with the likes of you."
Her voice dripped with centuries of bitterness. Her stare alone could twist weaker minds. She didn't just speak—she radiated pressure. Ancient, raw, hungry.
A sudden mental wave surged forward—a brutal psychic intrusion. George stood still, unfazed. Her attempt to break into his mind shattered instantly.
"You think your petty mental energy can overwhelm me? Forget it. By the way, don't you want your brother's stone statue back?"
Her smile faded.
George could feel her tension rising. He saw her hesitation. She was calculating, watching him, trying to spot a mistake, a crack in the calm.
"What exactly do you want?" the Witch hissed.
George chuckled softly.
"I told you—I want to trade. Why so distrustful?"
She paced slowly, watching him with a predator's eyes.
"Our magic is passed down through bloodlines. You can't learn it," she snapped.
"Then there's nothing to discuss," George replied, turning toward the bag.
"Wait!" the Witch cried.
George paused but didn't turn around.
"There are some ancient secrets we gathered in this world thousands of years ago. Those I can trade," she said quickly, voice lower now, cautious.
George turned back, just slightly. His fingers hovered near the bag's clasp.
"Oh? And what might those be?" he asked.
The Witch didn't answer right away. Her expression shifted—less defiance, more calculation. She was starting to realize something.
This man… wasn't here for a fight. But he wasn't here to play games either.
He had her heart. He had her brother.
And worst of all, he had patience.
She took a slow breath and lowered her stance.
"If we're to talk, wizard," she said, "then let's talk properly."