The first thing Adrian Cross felt was cold.
Not the numbing cold of a winter morning or the sharp bite of ice against skin. This was the cold of absence—the void where warmth should exist but doesn't. Where life should pulse but finds only stillness.
The second thing he felt was pain.
It started as a whisper in his chest, a faint murmur of something trying to remember how to beat. Then it turned into a symphony of agony as every nerve in his body ignited simultaneously. His back arched off the ground—when had there been ground?—and a scream tore from his throat.
Silver light exploded behind his eyes.
You are chosen.
The voice wasn't a voice. It was a concept, an understanding that bypassed his ears and carved itself directly into his consciousness. Adrian's mind recoiled, trying to reject the intrusion, but the presence was absolute.
You stand at the threshold. Cross it, or fade into nothing.
"I—" Adrian gasped, his lungs burning as they remembered their purpose. "I don't—"
CHOOSE.
The silver light intensified until it was all he could see, all he could feel, all he could be. And in that moment of absolute clarity, Adrian Cross made his choice.
He chose to live.
The light shattered like glass, and Adrian's eyes snapped open.
Rain hammered against his face. He was lying in an alley, surrounded by overflowing dumpsters and the acrid smell of Gotham's particular brand of decay. His clothes were shredded, revealing skin that should have been torn and bloody but was instead whole. Unmarked. Perfect.
Adrian pushed himself to his knees, his hands sinking into a puddle that reflected the neon signs of the city above. He stared at his reflection—dark hair now streaked with white at the temples, and his eyes... his eyes were silver. Not gray, not blue. Silver, like liquid mercury caught mid-flow.
"What the hell?" His voice was hoarse, raw from screaming.
Memories flooded back in fragments. The mission in Kaznia. The facility hidden beneath the mountains. His team—God, his team—torn apart by something that moved faster than their eyes could track. Adrian diving between his squad leader and certain death. The impact. The darkness.
The nothing.
He should be dead.
You were dead, that presence whispered in the back of his mind, no longer overwhelming but still there. A passenger in his own consciousness. The Source Wall found you at the moment of transition. It offered power. You accepted.
"Source Wall?" Adrian whispered, pushing himself to his feet. His legs felt strange—stronger, more stable. Like they'd been rebuilt by someone who understood the blueprint but improved upon the design. "What is—"
A scream cut through the rain.
Adrian's head snapped toward the mouth of the alley. Every instinct from his military training kicked in, but something else came with it now. A knowing. He could feel the shape of the threat before seeing it—three assailants, one victim, weapons drawn. The information simply appeared in his mind, like his brain had suddenly gained the ability to process data it shouldn't have access to.
He ran.
His body moved differently now. Faster. More efficient. Each step covered ground that should have required three. He burst from the alley onto the rain-slicked street and took in the scene instantly.
A woman backed against a storefront, her purse clutched to her chest. Three men in tactical gear—too organized to be simple muggers—advancing with weapons drawn. Not guns. Stun batons. They wanted her alive.
"Leave her alone!" The words left Adrian's mouth before he could think about the tactical stupidity of announcing his presence.
All four heads turned toward him. The woman's eyes widened with hope. The three men's expressions shifted from focused determination to annoyed calculation.
"Walk away," the leader said, his voice distorted by a voice modulator in his mask. "This doesn't concern you."
Adrian's military mind cataloged details automatically. Court of Owls equipment—he recognized it from classified briefings. Which meant this woman was a target, not a random victim. Which meant walking away wasn't an option.
"Make me," Adrian said, falling into a fighting stance that felt both familiar and strangely new.
The leader sighed. "Your funeral."
They moved as a unit, trained and coordinated. The first attacker came in low, baton sweeping for Adrian's legs. The second went high, aiming for his head. The third circled wide, trying to flank.
Adrian's body reacted.
He didn't think about blocking the low strike—his leg simply snapped up, boot connecting with the attacker's wrist with enough force to send the baton skittering across wet pavement. He didn't plan the duck that avoided the high strike—his spine simply curved at the precise angle needed. And he definitely didn't consciously calculate the exact point to strike the flanking attacker's solar plexus—his fist just knew.
Three moves. Three seconds. Three unconscious bodies.
Adrian stared at his hands, breathing heavily. Not from exertion—he wasn't even winded—but from shock. He'd been good before. Special Forces good. But this? This was something else entirely.
Adaptive evolution, that presence whispered. You analyzed their movements. Your body optimized the response. This is what you are now.
"What I am," Adrian repeated numbly, looking up at the woman he'd saved. She was maybe thirty, professional clothes soaked through, makeup running in the rain. But her eyes were sharp, assessing. "Are you okay?"
"I—yes. Thank you." She straightened, some of her composure returning. "You just took down three Court of Owls Talons like they were nothing. Who are you?"
"I'm..." Adrian paused. Who was he? Adrian Cross had died in Kaznia. But this person standing here, with silver eyes and impossible abilities? "Just someone who was in the right place at the right time."
"The Court doesn't give up," the woman warned. "If they want me, they'll send more. You should—"
The crack of a sniper rifle echoed through the street.
Adrian's mind processed the threat before the sound fully registered. Sniper. Rooftop. Three hundred meters. Targeting the woman.
Time seemed to slow.
He could see the bullet's trajectory, a red line drawn across his vision by instincts that shouldn't exist. Could calculate the exact angle needed to intercept. Could feel his body preparing to move faster than it ever had before.
Adrian lunged, wrapping his arms around the woman and twisting. The bullet meant for her heart struck his shoulder instead, and—
—and stopped.
Not in his flesh. Not buried in bone. It stopped, caught in skin that had suddenly become harder than Kevlar. Adrian felt his shoulder adapt, tissue restructuring in microseconds to create a layer of organic armor that could withstand high-velocity rounds.
The bullet fell to the ground with a metallic clink.
"Okay," Adrian said, still holding the stunned woman. "That's new."
"You're a metahuman," she breathed. "That's why you could fight them. That's why—"
"I have no idea what I am," Adrian admitted, releasing her and checking his shoulder. The skin was unmarked, though his shredded shirt revealed where the bullet had struck. "But we need to move. That sniper—"
A shadow dropped from above, landing between them and the rooftop where the sniper had positioned. A cape billowed in the rain, and Adrian's enhanced senses immediately cataloged the new arrival.
Six-foot-two. Heavily armored. Peak human physical condition. Armed with numerous gadgets. Threat level: extreme.
But Adrian recognized the symbol on his chest.
"Batman," he whispered.
The Dark Knight's white eyes fixed on Adrian, unreadable behind his cowl. "You fought three Talons and survived a headshot. That makes you either very lucky or very dangerous." His voice was a gravelly rasp that demanded answers. "Which is it?"
Adrian glanced at the woman, then at the three unconscious Talons, then down at his own impossible hands. Twenty minutes ago, he'd been dead. Now he was standing in a Gotham alley being interrogated by a legend.
"Honestly?" Adrian met Batman's gaze. "I'm not sure yet."
Batman's eyes narrowed. Then, after a moment that felt like an eternity, he reached up and touched his cowl. "Oracle. I need a pickup at my location. Two civilians. And run a facial recognition scan on—" He paused, studying Adrian. "What's your name?"
"Adrian Cross. Former Army Special Forces. Serial number—"
"Former?" Batman's tone sharpened.
"I died three weeks ago in Kaznia." Adrian held up his hands, showing the silver glow that was beginning to fade from his eyes. "I got better."
For a long moment, Batman said nothing. Then: "We need to talk. Both of you, come with me. The Court won't stop with three Talons."
As if to punctuate his words, more shadows began moving on the surrounding rooftops. Adrian's enhanced senses picked up at least six more hostiles converging on their position.
"Can you fight?" Batman asked, drawing something from his belt.
Adrian thought about the ease with which he'd dispatched the first three attackers. About the bullet that had failed to pierce his adapted skin. About the power humming beneath his flesh, eager to be tested further.
"Yeah," he said, falling into a fighting stance beside the Dark Knight. "I can fight."
Batman's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Good. Try to keep up."
Then the Talons descended, and Adrian Cross discovered exactly what his resurrection had made him.
The rain continued to fall over Gotham, washing away the old world and baptizing the new. Somewhere in that storm, a man who had been dead learned what it meant to live again.
And in the shadows of Wayne Tower, watching through a dozen camera feeds, Barbara Gordon's fingers flew across her keyboard as she began compiling a file on the most interesting person to appear in Gotham in years.
Adrian Cross. Deceased three weeks ago. Currently very much alive. Metahuman abilities: unknown. Threat assessment: pending.
She smiled, adjusting her glasses. "Well, this should be interesting."