Just as he moved toward the stairwell leading down, the door burst open with a bang. A formidable figure stepped onto the rooftop.
His first reaction was that whoever Deathstroke had arranged to meet had arrived.
But a gust of wind twisted the sheets of rain aside, and the neon glow from Wayne Tower illuminated them both.
Something was off.
Standing before him was someone wearing the exact same armor, equipped with identical weapons. The only difference was that the other person was slightly shorter—around five foot seven.
The atmosphere instantly grew tense.
Almost instinctively, relying on muscle memory, he reached behind him and grabbed his staff. With a twist and a press, the retractable weapon extended from both ends, firmly gripped in his hand as he assumed a combat stance.
This was Deathstroke's favored weapon—a staff equipped with high-voltage shocks and tranquilizer darts at each end. Often, clients preferred their targets alive, to bring them back for their own purposes.
The figure opposite him mirrored his every move!
If he hadn't seen the person emerge from the doorway, he might have thought he was looking into a mirror. Their synchronization was uncanny—the speed of assembling the staff, the combat posture—identical.
"Who are you?" they both asked simultaneously, their voices muffled into a gravelly whisper by their helmets.
"I'm Deathstroke," they said in unison once more. The tension between them thickened as they circled each other, weapons at the ready.
Rain poured down, neither speaking further. Both maintained distance and silence, each observing the other—a habit ingrained in any master fighter before a battle.
He didn't know what the other was thinking, but he was certain his own mind was racing.
"What is going on? Another me? Did a bunch of people get transported here, all becoming Deathstroke? Or is this the real Deathstroke, and I'm just a cosplay enthusiast? But my physical abilities and mental speed are undeniably superhuman..."
Of course, in the DC Universe, many individuals possessed such skills and combat prowess. Some were even better in close combat than Deathstroke. But they all had their own identities; none needed to impersonate Deathstroke by wearing his black and orange armor.
Thanks to his enhanced cognitive speed—supposedly nine times that of a normal person—he considered various possibilities within fractions of a second, dismissing each one.
The standoff continued. Retreating could throw him off balance, making him vulnerable to attack. Turning his back was even riskier; exposing your back in Gotham never ended well.
"Do I have to fight? Defeat them and then make my escape!"
No words were necessary; the thought occurred to both of them simultaneously, quickly accepted, leading them to act at the exact same moment.
"Clang!"
Their metal staffs collided mid-air. Their strength was evenly matched, causing both to take a step back, water splashing underfoot. They moved quickly, pointing the ends of their staffs at each other, prepared for any follow-up attack.
He exhaled quietly in relief. Fortunately, he had also inherited Deathstroke's combat experience. It was as if his body moved on instinct, fully capable of unleashing its fighting potential. With these skills and techniques, at least his life was somewhat secured.
The other seemed to be contemplating as well, not pressing the attack—probably strategizing, just like him.
"If the opponent is fully sighted but wearing Deathstroke's helmet, adapting to the limited right-side vision would be difficult. My attack should focus on their right side, exploiting the blind spot caused by the mask. Because of the nose's obstruction, targeting their right leg is optimal!"
He quickly formulated a tactic, twirling his staff before striking toward the opponent's right leg.
"Whoosh!"
"Whoosh!"
Both staffs sliced through the rain, cold metal cutting through the downpour, shattering raindrops mid-air. Two shadows, tinged with neon hues, traced arcs as they swung, each aiming for the other.
"Clack!"
Their staffs collided again. Clearly, both had chosen to attack the other's right leg while defending their own. Another stalemate.
Given the force behind their swings, they both spun in the opposite direction to dissipate the impact, ending up crouched low to the ground. One hand touched the wet rooftop surface while the other held the staff behind them, like a scorpion's poised tail—ready to deploy the tranquilizer darts hidden within.
But as muddy water splashed around them and they saw each other in identical stances, they realized their plan to catch the other off guard had failed.
"Damn it, I've just arrived in the DC Universe, and I'm already caught up in this bizarre situation. Clearly, we're both Deathstroke—even our memories and habits are the same. Maybe we can talk this out? We're both enhanced combat masters. If we fight, it could go on for days without a clear winner, and we'd attract a lot of unwanted attention," he thought. Deciding that fighting his way out wasn't feasible, he considered setting aside their differences.
"Wait!" they both exclaimed simultaneously.
He rolled his eyes under his mask. It seemed the other had similar concerns and didn't want a prolonged conflict. Besides, without a client paying to take down such a formidable foe, a mercenary wouldn't engage in a losing proposition. Grudges and emotions were nothing compared to cold, hard cash.
"Let's put down our weapons and talk!" they both suggested.
"You first!" they both insisted.
"On three!" they both agreed.
He felt exasperated. Everything they did was in sync—it was eerily unsettling.
"Clearly, I'm just an ordinary guy from another world, not the real Deathstroke. What's with this mysterious connection? How much has Deathstroke's persona influenced me? Have even my thought patterns become the same?" he pondered.
"No, that's not it. I've never been in life-or-death combat before. My past scuffles were nothing compared to real darkness. I'm relying on Deathstroke's experience, adopting his mindset and methods. But I'm still myself—at least I'm self-aware and objective about who I am," he reassured himself.
While he contemplated, they both lowered their weapons.
"Clank!"
Two staffs were tossed aside into the rain, landing in the rooftop's puddles. They stood facing each other, rain cascading off their masks like miniature waterfalls.
"Speak!" they both said.
Realizing they had once again spoken in unison, he quickly tried to break the pattern. Raising a hand, he pressed his other palm against it.
"Stop, stop. Let's not play this synchronized game anymore. This is the creepiest thing I've ever experienced. I'll go first, okay?"
"Fine by me," the other replied, sounding visibly relieved. At least they could finally communicate.
"I'm a mercenary, code-named Deathstroke. Real name Slade. But you can call me... Michael," he said, simplifying his background. Without knowing which parallel universe this was, he couldn't provide more details.
"Interesting. I'm also a mercenary, also code-named Deathstroke. My real name is Cindy," the other said, seeming a bit uncomfortable as she touched the side of her helmet.
Unlike other masked figures, Deathstroke's black and orange armor was more than a disguise; it was a symbol, like a bee's warning colors. His identity wasn't a secret—everyone knew Slade was Deathstroke, a legend in the mercenary world.
After all, staying anonymous wouldn't help business. Clients with deep pockets needed to know how to find him.
"What's going on here? Did the military clone me using my DNA?" he wondered aloud, recalling Deathstroke's past with the military. Genetic modifications came from them, and in the DC Universe, clones were a dime a dozen. Many factions had cloning technology.
"No, I don't think we're clones. The people who bio-engineered me are long dead, and there was only ever one dose of the enhancement serum."
The Deathstroke who called herself Cindy fiddled with the lower right edge of her helmet, lifting it off.
He was taken aback. Cindy was a woman.
She had short blonde hair and a face that was both cold and beautiful—a classic American beauty. The only flaw was her right eye, covered by a black eyepatch—apparently blind.
What puzzled him even more was that she appeared to be in her twenties, not middle-aged.
"If she's the female version of me, shouldn't she also be in her fifties?" he thought.
Thinking this, he felt around under his own mask. Sure enough, there was a subtle latch. Pressing and sliding it aside, he removed his helmet.
Cindy looked equally surprised; clearly, there were things she didn't understand either.
He glanced down into a puddle. Despite the distorted reflection from the raindrops, he could tell he was quite young—short blonde hair, a handsome yet roguish face, with a light stubble. A black leather eyepatch covered his right eye. Touching it, he confirmed there was no eyeball underneath. Without a doubt, he had inherited a younger Deathstroke's body.
But that raised questions. In the old stories, Deathstroke lost his right eye when his wife shot him. In the New 52 universe, it was poked out by Batman's son, Damian. Either way, Deathstroke in his twenties should have still been a soldier in the military, probably single.
"What kind of timeline is this? How did I lose my eye?" he wondered.
"A man? You're a man?" Cindy's expression remained stoic, but her tone was incredulous.
He was just as baffled. "Is it that strange for me to be a man?"
"A man as strong as you is rare. Among metahumans, the only one I know of is Wonder Man," she replied.
Cindy walked over to the giant 'W' logo of Wayne Enterprises, pulling out a cigar. She lit it and took a deep drag. She seemed to need the nicotine to process this situation.
He joined her. Realizing they wouldn't be fighting, their individual questions had merged into a shared confusion. From the same pocket where Cindy had retrieved her cigar, he found a small cigar case on his own suit. He took one out, and they stood together in silence, smoke mingling with the rain.
When she mentioned Wonder Man, he pieced together which universe he was in.
Earth-11—a parallel world in the DC Multiverse ruled by the Amazons. Here, almost all superheroes and supervillains were gender-swapped.
Batman was Batwoman. Superman was Superwoman. Aquaman was Aquawoman. The Flash was a woman. Cyborg was female—Cyborgirl.
Villains were gender-swapped too. The Joker was the Jester. The Penguin became Lady Penguin. Two-Face was now a woman. Even the League of Shadows became the League of Assassins, led by Talia al Ghul.
Notably, characters who were originally female remained female—Harley Quinn was still Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy remained the same, and Black Canary didn't change. But their relationships with the now-female heroes and villains shifted from romantic partners or sidekicks to close friends.
This bizarre world was a product of DC's boundless creativity.
In this universe, men had historically held a lower social status. Only in recent times had gender equality become a topic, but even then, it was common for women to be the breadwinners while men managed the household. The world was governed by Amazons—all female—so government officials were women too. They held more power and strength than men.
The only exception was Wonder Man—the male counterpart to Wonder Woman and the only male superhero widely recognized.
But to him, a man raised by Amazons seemed odd. He couldn't imagine a muscular guy wearing Wonder Woman's outfit.
He cringed at the thought. Talking to someone dressed like that would be awkward, to say the least.
"So, Cindy here must be this world's true Deathstroke. I probably brought over Deathstroke's body from another parallel universe. And due to crossing dimensions, temporal fluctuations made me younger," he theorized.
He quickly formulated this hypothesis, which seemed highly plausible under the circumstances.
End of Chapter