Descending the stairs, the two identically armored figures casually wandered through the offices of Wayne Enterprises—Batwoman's own company—blatantly ignoring the surveillance cameras along the way. Michael, having arrived on the rooftop without context, was uncertain about the situation. But seeing Cindy's nonchalant attitude, he guessed she might be intentionally trying to draw out Batwoman.
When they reached Bryce Wayne's office, Cindy helped herself to two bottles of fine liquor from a shattered cabinet, completely disregarding the blaring alarms.
She uncorked one bottle, took a swig, smacked her lips, and nodded approvingly.
Tossing the other bottle to Michael, they both calmly stepped into the elevator, heading straight down.
Under normal circumstances, Deathstroke wouldn't use an elevator; if someone cut the power, they'd be trapped or sent plummeting. But seeing Cindy enter so naturally, seemingly unconcerned, he decided to follow without comment.
Her confidence suggested she'd already taken care of any security guards downstairs.
His enhanced mind quickly deduced this—far sharper than his pre-transformation brain. If he'd had this intellect before, perhaps he could have earned scholarships to any school.
"Ding!"
The elevator reached the ground floor. As they stepped out, the lobby was in disarray. Over a dozen security guards lay sprawled on the floor, their condition unknown. Furniture and decor were smashed and scattered—clearly Cindy's handiwork.
Michael glanced around. Some of the guards were strikingly attractive women. No surprise from Wayne Enterprises—even their security personnel were impeccably styled.
He still wasn't fully accustomed to this world where women held dominant roles. Seeing a woman, he couldn't help but notice if she was beautiful.
"Let's go. They're all alive," Cindy prompted, seeing Michael pause amid the chaos. She'd intentionally spared the guards so they could report the incident to Bryce.
Though the chances of Batwoman appearing because of this were slim, it was worth a shot. Dealing with the guards hadn't cost her much effort anyway.
"Did you drive here? Any idea where Harley is?" Michael asked.
"Of course. As for Harley, she's probably still hanging around with the Jester's gang."
They walked through the shattered glass doors into the dark, rainy night. A few suspicious-looking women peeked around street corners, but upon seeing Deathstroke emerge from the building, they scattered like startled birds.
They'd hoped to loot something from Wayne Enterprises during the security lapse, but if Deathstroke was involved, it was best to steer clear.
Cindy's vehicle was parked across the street—a standard American Jeep. The interior was a mess, not from trash, but from an overabundance of weapons of various sizes. The back seat was piled with rocket launchers and two large ammunition crates.
Even in the passenger seat, Michael found himself sitting on a grenade. He pulled it out from under him and handed it to Cindy.
"Your grenade."
"No, that's your grenade," she replied, glancing at him and emitting a muffled chuckle from under her mask. She turned the key to start the engine. "Trying to flirt won't work—I only do business for money."
Michael's eyes widened beneath his mask. Flirt? Seriously? He was just returning the grenade he'd sat on.
"Right, in this world, things are reversed. Here, men are the disadvantaged ones. Usually, women pursue men, giving them flowers and gifts, and men 'marry' them," he thought, shuddering at the cultural shift. Realizing that his earlier gesture might have been misconstrued, he felt awkward.
In his original world, if a woman pulled a cylindrical object from under herself and handed it to him, he'd certainly get the wrong idea.
"No, that's not what I meant. It's just... I'm not used to this world yet."
"Uh-huh," Cindy replied half-heartedly, revving the engine.
The vehicle broke through the curtain of rain, speeding down the streets. Streetlights cast intermittent glows inside the car. She seemed familiar with the roads, while Michael busied himself checking his weapons.
Yes, weapons.
If they were going to find Harley Quinn to confirm whether the world was indeed facing imminent destruction, they'd have to venture into Joker Gang territory.
Those deranged followers, blindly devoted to the Jester, were utterly irrational. If not incapacitated quickly, they'd gladly drag you into a deadly game of self-destruction.
Moreover, the Jester had previously used a toxin that made people laugh themselves to death—Laughing Gas—which her minions might still possess.
Michael decided against using the pistols strapped to his thighs; he wasn't ready to kill. Disabling them would suffice, and the electric shock function of his staff would do the job.
"Maybe because security guards carry batons, I ended up merging with Deathstroke," he mused.
But preparing the staff didn't take much time, and soon the two fell into silence.
"I don't like Gotham. This city is just too... insane," Michael said, perhaps out of nervousness or a need to break the quiet.
"Why?" Cindy glanced at him curiously. "I find myself quite popular here."
"Oh, of course. I mean, I am too... But don't you feel that our straightforward style doesn't quite fit this city's... unique mindset?"
Michael paused, unsure if she'd catch his meaning. He just felt the air was a bit awkward and wanted to fill the silence.
Cindy drove through a red light, splashing a passerby with gutter water. When the drenched woman pulled out a weapon and fired at them, Cindy teasingly flashed her taillights, emitting an amused chuckle.
"Ha, true enough. Everyone here is a lunatic. If it weren't for all the work, I'd prefer to live in Star City."
Star City—the home of Green Arrow—where the villains were more straightforward than Gotham's crazed denizens.
If it was confirmed that Atlantis planned to flood the world, Michael knew he'd have to take action for his own survival, no matter the danger.
The problem was, he didn't feel ready. While survival might push him to fight others, he wasn't yet capable of casually taking lives like the original Deathstroke.
It wasn't about being a saint; it was just that he came from a stable society. Suddenly being expected to kill—it wasn't that simple.
He knew that even without a war against Atlantis, surviving in the DC Universe would eventually force him into situations where he'd have to kill. It was only a matter of time.
As he pondered this, a rocket trailing white smoke streaked toward them from a roadside building.
Thanks to his enhanced physique and dynamic vision, he could even see the exaggerated smiley face painted on the warhead in red and white. Raindrops shattered against it like crystalline shards, refracting the streetlights.
"Jump!" Cindy shouted, pushing open her door and leaping out.
Without needing her special attention, his heightened reflexes made Michael mimic her action instinctively.
However, while Cindy landed gracefully, Michael, realizing mid-air that he didn't know how to roll properly, ended up crashing into a pile of garbage on the roadside.
Their vehicle took the hit and exploded into fragments. Amid the fiery blast, time seemed to slow. He noticed Cindy glance his way, and for some reason, he sensed that beneath her black and orange mask, she was amused.
The next instant, a torrent of bullets rained down on them, accompanied by gunfire and maniacal laughter that drowned out even the storm. The barrage was so intense that muzzle flashes lit up the street.
Ordinary bullets couldn't penetrate Deathstroke's heavy armor. Though the nth metal's shock absorption was mediocre and the impacts stung, it wasn't even superficial damage.
They each found cover—Cindy behind a building corner to the left, already wielding her automatic pistols and returning fire intermittently.
Michael hid behind a dumpster, somehow finding his own guns in hand. Before he realized it, he'd already taken down several women with garishly painted faces.
Their bodies tumbled from the buildings on either side like sacks of potatoes, landing in puddles or among the flaming wreckage of their vehicle.
Some twitched and gasped before going still; others lay lifeless, like fallen logs.
"What the hell? Here I was, agonizing over the morality of taking a life, building up all this mental preparation, and my body reacts on autopilot—so fast that all my worrying was pointless," he thought.
This body treated killing as instinct, with no discomfort afterward. In fact, this level of combat felt... exhilarating.
He didn't experience any of the nausea or guilt often described in books or movies after a first kill.
"Fine, since I've already started, no point in pretending. Might as well keep going!"
Gritting his teeth, he leaned out from behind the dumpster and resumed firing.
Call it following instinct or accepting his fate, Deathstroke had honed shooting and combat into muscle memory. What else could Michael do but embrace it? Give up these skills and be at others' mercy?
This was Gotham—a place where normal life was impossible.
If it was a matter of who was crazier or tougher, he wasn't about to back down.
With two Deathstrokes working together, this small gang of Joker henchmen posed little challenge. Soon, the street was quiet again, rain washing away all traces.
Of course, no police would come to investigate; deaths in this area were commonplace.
If the victims were lucky, their bodies might end up in a pauper's grave or crematorium. If not...
Well, Gotham had plenty of individuals engaging in unsavory activities—cannibalistic preachers with a grudge against society, anatomy professors low on funds, deranged lunatics needing bodies for their twisted projects.
"That's why I love Gotham—such a welcoming, hospitable place. You can enjoy real gunfights anytime—a perfect vacation spot," Cindy remarked, replacing her pistol magazines and holstering her weapons as she approached him.
"Whew, I thought Gotham's most enthusiastic residents were all in the Arkham district. Didn't expect the folks from the Joker's playground to be this fired up," Michael replied, brushing off his shoulder and flicking away a rotten lettuce leaf. Thankfully, the heavier rain was washing away the grime, so he didn't look too disheveled.
Cindy glanced around, seeming to get her bearings before choosing a direction. "Let's go find Harley and see what's wrong with these people."
"Even without a medical degree, I can tell you they're crazy," Michael quipped, exhaling deeply as he followed her.
Indeed, the original Deathstroke was known for his dark humor. After blowing off a target's head or snapping someone's neck, he'd often mutter a sardonic remark.
The surrounding buildings were silent, looming in the rain like lurking monsters. Their dark windows and doors resembled hollow eyes and gaping mouths, their vacant expressions capable of swallowing one's hope, driving people to despair and madness.
The street was flanked by abandoned residential buildings, now serving as hideouts for the Joker Gang. High up on the outer walls were large murals of the Joker's grinning face, playing cards, and other circus motifs. In the rain, some of the paint was peeling—these must have been freshly painted in the past couple of days.
The buildings were dark, except for one not far ahead that had electricity. Colorful lights spilled from its windows—that must be where Harley was.
It was obvious that with the Jester incarcerated, Harley would either be plotting a rescue or wallowing in her own misery.
Michael doubted she hadn't heard their intense firefight earlier, yet there'd been no reaction from her.
As they approached the illuminated building, they could hear music beneath the rain—the pounding beats of rock music and raw vocals emanating from an upstairs room.
"Well, seems our little Harley isn't as heartbroken as we thought. She's working out," Cindy noted, tilting her head to listen. Amid the music, she could hear the thud of boots on wooden floors.
In the main universe, Harley Quinn was originally a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. Studying the Joker, she became fascinated by his chaotic mind, falling madly in love and helping him escape. She then assisted in his various criminal endeavors. Unfortunately, the Joker saw her as a nuisance, often using her as bait or a distraction to escape Batman.
But the DC continuity was always fluid. Michael couldn't be sure how the Harley Quinn of Earth -11 related to the Jester.
On Earth-37, another gender-swapped universe set in the 1960s, Harley and the Joker were in a romantic relationship.
In the New 52 universe, Harley broke ties with the Joker, redeemed herself by joining the Birds of Prey, and even had a flirtatious relationship with Batman.
Regardless of the parallel universe, Harley's abilities were consistent—a genius-level intellect and exceptional gymnastics skills.
She enjoyed music and reading, and when she had free time, she liked to dance. She was wild and unpredictable, but she knew deep down she was a good girl.