Frictionless Lies
Night fell over the Bialyan desert like a drawn blade.
The convoy moved in silence—three armored transports, matte-black and warded against satellite detection, crawling through the sand on grav-stabilized treads. Above them, heat signatures were masked, engines dampened. LexCorp engineering at its finest.
Black Manta stood at the front transport, arms crossed, glowing optics scanning the horizon. He trusted preparation, redundancy, and overwhelming force.
What he did not trust was coincidence.
Behind him, Cheshire leaned against the interior wall of the vehicle, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed. Too relaxed. Black Spider sat across from her, checking his gear for the fourth time in five minutes.
Sportsmaster watched his daughter.
Not openly. Not obviously.
But he watched.
She looked different.
Not just cleaner. Not just sharper.
Her movements had changed—too smooth, too efficient. When she shifted her weight, there was no friction, no wasted motion. Years of combat had taught him how killers carried themselves, and Cheshire was moving like someone who had rewritten the rules of her own body.
Interesting, he thought. And suspicious as hell.
"Convoy will reach waypoint Delta in three minutes," Black Manta said. "Stay alert. This region is—"
The world exploded.
The lead transport vanished in a blossom of sand and fire as a seismic charge detonated beneath it. The shockwave rippled outward, flipping the second vehicle onto its side. Alarms screamed. Sandstorm protocols failed instantly.
"AMBUSH!" Black Manta roared.
Figures emerged from the dunes—metahumans and mercenaries, armed with heavy plasma weapons and stolen alien tech. Not amateurs. This was a precision strike.
Prism fired first, splitting into a spectrum of light that lanced through the attackers. Killer Frost followed, flash-freezing the sand into jagged ice spears.
Sportsmaster was already moving.
And Cheshire—
She was gone.
One moment she stood beside the transport.
The next, she slid.
Not ran. Not jumped.
She glided across the battlefield, feet barely touching the sand, moving faster than physics should allow. Bullets curved toward her—and slid harmlessly off her skin, veering aside as if repelled by an invisible force.
Sportsmaster's eyes widened.
What the—
Cheshire struck like a whisper. A blade flickered, then another. An attacker swung a reinforced baton at her head—she leaned into it instead of away.
The weapon slid off her shoulder like it had struck polished glass.
She smiled.
Then she dropped him.
Black Spider stared. "Since when do you move like that?"
Cheshire didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
The ambush collapsed in under ninety seconds. Survivors fled into the dunes. Black Manta secured the remaining transport while Prism scanned for stragglers.
Silence returned.
Sportsmaster approached Cheshire slowly, eyes sharp.
"You didn't get hit," he said.
Cheshire wiped blood—not hers—from her cheek. "Guess they were sloppy."
"Bullets don't miss like that," he replied. "And people don't slide across sand like ice unless something's changed."
Their eyes locked.
For a fraction of a second, something dangerous flickered behind hers.
"Careful, Dad," she said lightly. "You're starting to sound paranoid."
He grunted, unconvinced.
You're hiding something, he thought. And it's big.
Elsewhere, unseen—
Simon frowned.
He had tried again during the chaos. Pushed harder. Reached deeper.
Nothing.
Cheshire's mind was a void.
Not shielded.
Refusing him.
That scared him more than any defense.
This isn't tech, he realized. This is something else.
Far away, deep within the League of Assassins' sanctum, a secure signal pulsed once—then vanished into dead-spectrum silence.
Ra's al Ghul received the report.
A single line of text appeared on the living display.
ASSET CONFIRMED.
DEVIL FRUIT SUCCESSFUL.
Ra's allowed himself a rare smile.
The Light believed they controlled the board.
They did not yet realize—
The League had changed the game.