The roar of Erick's electric motor echoed like a nocturnal predator, cutting through the winding roads that led to the dark heart of Gotham. The car—still without an official name, but a precision machine forged in alchemy and engineering—devoured miles at breakneck speed, its aerodynamic design cleaving through the humid night air like an invisible blade. Inside the isolated cabin, the holographic glow of the dashboard projected maps and alerts in shades of blue and red, illuminating the focused faces of Erick and Artemis. He, in the driver's seat, kept his hands firmly on the tactile steering wheel, his blue eyes fixed on the road projected onto the HUD windshield. Artemis, beside him, adjusted the retractable glider on her back, the muscles in her legs tensing beneath her green and black suit, ready for the jump.
A red light flashed on the central panel, accompanied by a soft, insistent beep. Erick glanced at the integrated map, confirming the coordinates. "Artemis, it's time. Your insertion point is next. East End, high rooftops—perfect for your style."
She nodded, a sharp smile on her lips, her green eyes sparkling with the adrenaline of the impending hunt. "I'm ready. We're going to show these idiots that messing with us is costly."
Erick touched a holographic control on the dashboard, and the car's roof opened with a hydraulic hum, revealing a wide vent that allowed for ejection. The cold night air invaded the interior, heavy with the smell of wet asphalt and distant smoke from industrial chimneys. Without hesitation, Artemis positioned herself, her feet planted firmly on the seat. "Good luck out there, Forge. Let me know if you need an arrow in someone's back."
"Same here," he retorted, activating the ejector launcher. With a powerful pneumatic thrust, Artemis was catapulted outward, hurled about 20 meters into the Gotham night air. The wind howled around her as she spun in the air, stabilizing her body with trained grace. At the apex of the jump, she activated the glider—retractable wings of lightweight fabric with arcane lightness runes, courtesy of Erick—which opened like the wings of a falcon. The air supported her, allowing her to glide in a controlled trajectory toward the location marked on her integrated aviator goggles: a simple HUD projecting red arrows guiding her to the East End, where her targets awaited.
Erick looked up through the open roof, seeing her silhouette against the cloudy sky, gliding with feline precision. "Good hunt," he murmured to himself, tapping the control to close the hatch with a sealed click. The car continued accelerating, now alone with him, the engine humming in harmony with the pulse of the fire elemental in his veins. His destination was different: a direct confrontation with one of the most dangerous assassins on the initial list. Deadlock.
Deadlock — or as Erick had analyzed him in the files hacked by Natasha — was an elite mercenary, a long-range marksman with a reputation that echoed in the darkest corners of Gotham's underworld. Born Darius Kane into a family of bankrupt ex-military men, he had served in the army before deserting and becoming a freelance assassin. His signature? A "death lock" — an infallible sight enhanced by cybernetic implants in his eyes, allowing him to lock onto targets at impossible distances with bullets that pierced armor like paper. Erick had chosen Deadlock as his first major target for strategic reasons: the guy wasn't just a sniper; he was a pack leader, frequently hiring henchmen to cover his weaknesses in close combat. Taking him down would send a clear message to other bounty hunters — the ten million wasn't worth the risk. Furthermore, Deadlock had connections to Black Mask, having worked on previous jobs for Sionis. Neutralizing him would cut a supply line for the contract, and perhaps yield valuable intel on the Terminator or the Gunslinger. For Erick, it was a perfect test: facing a sniper in an enclosed environment would force Deadlock to fight up close, where Erick's technical superiority would shine through.
The car's system alerted: "Target three kilometers ahead. Reducing speed for discreet insertion." Erick slowed to 150 km/h, maneuvering through side streets littered with trash and shadows. A kilometer from the marked building—an abandoned skeleton in the heart of the Bowery, once a luxury hotel in the 1920s, now a nest of rats and criminals—he activated the personal ejector. The roof opened again, and Erick was launched upwards, the glider wings opening with a snap. He glided silently, his matte black suit camouflaging him against the night sky, until he landed on the building's cracked roof. The air smelled of mold and old urine, the wind howling through broken windows.
Erick activated the helmet's HUD, which descended over his eyes with a soft click. Integrated sensors scanned the interior: thermal vision highlighting numerous vital signs—rapid heartbeats, labored breathing. It wasn't just Deadlock; the sniper had hired reinforcements, probably a dozen henchmen to serve as cannon fodder. Erick smiled behind his visor: predictable. From the rooftop, he spotted black vans parked on the street below—armored vehicles with fake plates, full of surveillance equipment. The assassins were planning, discussing strategies to hunt down Forge and Artemis. Perfect for an ambush.
Without wasting any time, Erick pulled a small drone from his utility belt—about the size of a mouse, compact and metallic gray, with four pairs of retractable propellers that deployed with a low hum. He mentally activated it via a brain implant, synchronizing it with his helmet for first-person view through the built-in camera. The drone took off, hovering silently before descending the side of the building, entering through a broken window on the third floor. Erick controlled every movement: the drone navigated dark corridors, avoiding piles of rubble and exposed wires, descending creaking stairs to the ground floor.
The building was a relic of the past: faded wallpaper with 1930s floral patterns, rusty chandeliers hanging like skeletons, and a main hall that had once been a grand ballroom. Now, it was a makeshift lair. The drone hovered at the edge of the hall, camera capturing the scene: old tables overturned like barricades, portable flashlights illuminating the space in faint yellow beams. In the center, Deadlock—a tall, thin man in his forties, with jagged scars crisscrossing his face like a map of lost battles. His cybernetic eyes glowed with a subtle red tint, his short, gray hair shaved at the sides, wearing a tactical vest loaded with ammunition and a sniper rifle leaning against the table. Around him, ten henchmen—low-level assassins armed with AK-47s and high-caliber pistols, wearing tattered leather jackets and makeshift masks.
They were arguing in low but agitated tones. "We can't go after the archer girl," grumbled a bald henchman with tattoos on his neck, cleaning a knife. "I heard some big shot already got the contract. Like, monopolized it. Sportsmaster or something. He said only he can hunt the girl."
Another, a stocky fellow with a scar on his lip, snorted. "Screw him. Let's hunt anyway. We need her to find the other one—this Forge guy. Ten million a head? Worth the risk. If the big guy wants to fight, we'll shoot first."
The argument heated up, voices overlapping in a chaotic mix of insults and veiled threats. "Are you crazy? Sportsmaster crushes people like us for breakfast!" "Fuck it, the money's too good to ignore!" They were on the verge of a physical fight, fists clenched and guns clinking.
Deadlock, sitting calmly, raised his hand, his hoarse, authoritative voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "Shut up, all of you. You're too stupid to survive on your own." He stood, his cybernetic eyes sweeping the group with disdain. "To summon a hero like Forge, it's simple: cause a lot of chaos. Attack civilian targets, blow up something flashy, spread mischief. He'll show up to 'save the day.' If that doesn't work, we'll try other methods—bait, traps. But stop fighting like children. We're professionals."
The group fell silent, nodding reluctantly. "It's... a good plan, boss." "Yes, chaos always works."
Erick, watching everything through the drone's camera, found the scene hilarious—a bunch of rats debating how to hunt a lion. He maneuvered the drone to the ceiling of the hall, hovering above them like an invisible shadow. With a mental command, he activated the internal detonator: the drone exploded in a pressurized cloud of gas, a modified variant of the Scarecrow's fear toxin that Erick had synthesized in the laboratory. Short duration—only minutes of intense panic—but enough to destabilize. The gas expanded rapidly, the visible part as a white mist, but the colorless part spreading invisibly, infiltrating nostrils and lungs without fanfare.
The connection to the drone was lost the instant of the explosion, but Erick knew: the plan was in motion. On the roof, he located the hatch of an old elevator, rusty but functional. He opened it with a pull reinforced by enhanced strength, revealing a dark abyss—the elevator shaft, dropping straight to the ground floor. Without hesitation, he jumped, using the glider wings to control his descent, landing with a cushioned thud in the damp basement.
Upstairs in the hall, the assassins reacted to the gas: initial coughs, nervous glances. Deadlock sniffed the air, his cybernetic eyes flashing alertly. "Someone's here. One of those damned capes must be lurking around. Stay alert!"
A henchman was sweating profusely, the effects of the gas beginning to distort his perception—shadows seemed to move on the walls. "Boss, should we split up to hunt him down? I'm... I'm feeling something strange."
Deadlock gritted his teeth, feeling a tingling in his chest, but resisting better thanks to the cybernetic filters. "Don't be stupid. Separating us will only leave us vulnerable. Stick together—use the numbers against him." They grouped together, back to back, weapons pointed into the darkness. Portable flashlights illuminated the hall in trembling beams, but the building had been without power for years, the darkness swallowing the edges.
Erick, now on the ground floor, activated the helmet's sensors: an echolocation mode inspired by bats, emitting inaudible sonic pulses that mapped the environment in 3D. He "saw" the villains as vibrant echoes, their movements, their breaths. Climbing a side staircase, he accessed the abandoned kitchen—rusty pots, dust-covered countertops. From there, a ventilation hatch led to the main hall. He opened it silently, crawling through the narrow duct to a grate that offered a view of the assassins.
Through the heart sensor—an enhanced thermal scan that detected heartbeats like red pulses—Erick saw their inner chaos: hearts racing like war drums, adrenaline surged by the gas. Even Deadlock, with his cybernetics, showed spikes—sweat beading on his forehead, irregular breathing. Erick smiled, the fire elemental warming his blood with excitement. The plan was a success: fear made them predictable, fragile.
To distract them, he planted a discreet explosive charge in the kitchen—a low-charge remote detonator, just for noise. He activated it: an explosion echoed, flames licked the door, sending shrapnel flying. The villains turned, weapons pointed in that direction. "There! Fire!"
Taking advantage of the chaos, Erick jumped from the hatch grate, rolling under an old table covered with moldy tablecloths. He moved like a shadow, positioning himself. Next step: total darkness. He aimed an EMP grenade at the portable generator powering the flashlights—a buzzing cube in the center of the hall. He threw: the grenade rolled, exploding in an electrical pulse that fried the circuits. Lights went out, plunging everything into absolute blackness.
A distorted voice—modulated by the helmet to echo like an omnipresent whisper—filled the hall: "So you came to hunt me. Ironic... now you're going to know a world of pain."
Deadlock gripped his rifle, his cybernetic eyes adjusting for partial night vision, but the gas distorted the shadows on the monsters. "You're outnumbered! What can you do against all of us?"
Forge's laughter echoed, deep and menacing. "I am not alone. The shadows are with me... and you are surrounded."
A hook fired from Erick's grappling hook caught the shoulder of a peripheral henchman, tearing flesh and tendons with a wet sound. The man screamed as he was pulled into the darkness, disappearing behind a broken pillar. The others turned, weapons trembling, but heard only: bones cracking like dry twigs, a guttural roar of agony, flesh ripping. Seconds later, something heavy was hurled back—the henchman's body, arms twisted at impossible angles, leg bent backward, nose crushed in a bloody mass, one eye pierced by an improvised blade, groin lacerated in deep wounds gushing dark blood. He was still breathing, weakly groaning, but the state was worse than death—a message of terror.
The group froze. Deadlock intercepted the body, feeling the inert weight, the bones loose beneath the skin. "Fuck... this isn't a hero. This is a monster." Even he, a veteran of dirty wars, felt a chill—this surpassed the most brutal nights against Batman. The Dark Knight broke bones, but this? It was calculated gore, designed to break minds before bodies.
The process repeated itself: another hook, another tug, more screams echoing—ribs cracking, knees twisting, fingers crushed. Five henchmen fell like that, mutilated and hurled back like broken trophies: one with his arm ripped off at the joint, another with his jaw hanging by threads of skin, blood splattering on the floor like red ink. Five henchmen plus Deadlock remained, the group huddled in a tight circle, panting breaths mingling with the metallic smell of blood and the urine of fear.
Deadlock, the least affected by the gas thanks to his cybernetic filters, spotted the next hook—a thin line cutting through the air. He grabbed it, pulling with brute force, dragging Forge from the darkness. "Come here, you son of a bitch!"
Erick emerged, rolling forward, dodging a downward punch from Deadlock. He slid beneath the villain's legs, rolling directly into the center of the circle of assassins. Without losing momentum, he pulled a flashbang grenade from his belt, removing the pin and raising it above his head like an inverted headlight. The sealed suit filtered light and sound, immunizing him. The grenade exploded in his hands: a blinding light like a miniature sun, a deafening roar that reverberated like thunder.
The thugs screamed, eyes burning, ears ringing. Erick attacked like a fury: the first thug took a kick to the spine, vertebrae cracking like bubbles, paralyzing him from the waist down. The second: a punch to the knee, ligaments tearing, leg bending backward at a grotesque angle. The third tried to shoot blindly; Erick twisted the arm, breaking the elbow with a wet snap, then stomped on the groin, crushing testicles into bloody pulp. The fourth: an elbow to the trachea, cartilage crushing, choking him in hoarse gulps. The fifth: Erick lifted him by the collar, slamming his head on the table—skull cracking, brain exposed in a grey and red mass. Gore splattered: blood gushing from open wounds, bones protruding, agonizing groans filling the air.
Deadlock, leaping behind a table to avoid the flashbang, emerged trembling—not from fear, but from rage. He kicked a table high into the air, gripping the metal base like a makeshift bat, and charged at Forge. "You bastard! I'll tear you to shreds!"
Forge raised the repulsor shield. "Finally, a challenge." He hurled the shield like a disc, the magnetic field spinning it like a boomerang. It struck the base of the table, shattering it into metallic shards, and returned to Erick's hand with a buzzing sound.
Deadlock didn't stop: he discarded the remains of the table and charged with a cross punch, his reinforced cybernetic fist aimed at Erick's chin. Erick dodged by millimeters, feeling the displaced air, and countered with an uppercut to the stomach—the impact echoed like a hammer on flesh, forcing Deadlock to recoil, air escaping from his lungs. The villain countered with a roundhouse kick, his reinforced boot striking Erick's ribs. The armor absorbed 99% of the impact, the alchemical kevlar distributing the force like water, leaving only a slight bruise that the elemental healed in seconds—ordinary bullets and blades couldn't penetrate; only superhumans could scratch that transmuted barrier.
Erick spun, using the momentum for a low hook to Deadlock's thighs—muscles tearing slightly, blood oozing. Deadlock grunted, his cybernetic eyes adjusting to movement patterns, and launched a sequence: left jab, right straight, rising knee. The jab landed on Erick's shoulder, his armor creaking; he blocked the straight with his forearm, bones vibrating; the knee caught in his abdomen, but the crack resisted, the elemental dissipating the pain like vapor. Erick retaliated: a front kick to Deadlock's chest, ribs cracking, followed by an elbow strike to the face—nose shattering in a burst of blood, old scars reopening.
They circled now, bodies colliding in a deadly dance. Deadlock, despite the pain, was resilient—implants injecting synthetic adrenaline, keeping him on his feet. He feinted high, forcing Erick to raise his guard, and swept low with his leg—Erick jumped, counter-attacking with a roundhouse kick that landed on the villain's shoulder, dislocating the joint with an audible pop. Deadlock roared, spinning for a backfist—a fist striking the helmet visor, slightly cracking the reinforced glass. Erick felt the impact on his jaw, but countered with a Muay Thai sequence: elbow, knee, cross punch. The elbow opened a gash on Deadlock's forehead, blood trickling into his cybernetic eyes; the knee to the stomach doubled him over; the punch threw him back, teeth flying.
Deadlock recovered, grabbing a broken chair as an improvised weapon, swinging it like a club. Erick deflected the first blow, the metal creaking against the floor; he blocked the second with his shield, the repulsor sending vibrations back that numbed the villain's arm. He counterattacked: a punch to the kidney, the kidney bleeding internally, followed by a grapple—Erick twisted Deadlock's cybernetic arm, the metal creaking and bending under the enhanced force, implants crackling like overloaded circuits, bone and metal shattering in a hybrid crack of bone and electronics. The villain screamed, but kicked Erick's knee, forcing him to recoil—the impact barely registered by the impenetrable armor.
The fight intensified: Deadlock, now limping, attempted a headbutt—Erick ducked, raising his knee to Erick's chin, jaw snapping. He followed with a suplex, throwing Deadlock onto a table, wood splintering, vertebrae creaking. Deadlock rolled, grabbing a knife from his belt, slicing the air in rapid arcs. A cut grazed Erick's arm, but the blade slid across the alchemical kevlar as if it were diamond—no damage, just sparks. Erick disarmed him with a slap to the wrist, breaking the bones in his fingers, and finished with a kick to the chest: Deadlock flew backward, hitting the wall, broken ribs piercing his lungs, but not lethal—just incapacitating.
Gasping for breath, Deadlock spat blood, his cybernetic arm hanging inert, sparks flying from the ruptured implants, his body a jumble of broken bones and lacerated muscles. He could barely move, groaning on the floor, crippled forever—spine damaged, legs inert, cybernetic arm shattered into a mass of twisted metal and exposed wires. "You... are not human."
Forge approached, shield at the ready. "I am what this world made me. And you? It's over." He delivered a final, non-lethal blow: a controlled punch to the sternum, crushing ribs without stopping the heart, leaving Deadlock unconscious and severely crippled, breathing weakly, but alive—a living lesson for the others.
Erick wiped the blood from his hands, the elemental healing superficial cuts. The hunt had started well—but the Exterminator was yet to come.
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