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Emerging from the police station's basement, Michael replenished his ammunition from the fallen, black-clad assailants. Not every problem could be solved with a sword or staff.
He returned to the main hall, where Cindy stood near the entrance, gazing absently into the stormy night. Rain poured down, drenching her armor and creating small streams that flowed into the building.
"Thinking about the end of the world?" Michael asked, stepping beside her. Together, they stared into the darkness, where thick storm clouds hid any sign of stars or moonlight. The only illumination was the faint glow of the Bat-Signal cutting through the gloom.
Cindy's gaze lingered on the signal, the red lens of her helmet reflecting the iconic bat emblem.
"Yeah. Why does our world have to be like this?" she murmured.
"I don't know. I don't want to die, but strangely, I feel no fear—just a sense of calm," Michael replied.
Cindy shook her head, then nodded slowly, lost in thought. She walked to the edge of the doorway, extending her hand to catch the falling rain, watching the droplets slip through her fingers.
"After the military experiments, we lost our sense of fear, along with any reverence for life. Weapons are designed that way, aren't they?" she said quietly.
Michael, though not personally subjected to the same experiments, understood the burden they shared. Deathstroke's greatest curse was an enhanced mind—thinking nine times faster than an ordinary person, with logic often overriding emotion.
"You're right. But we aren't perfect weapons because they left us with emotions," he replied.
"Heh, true. That's why they lost control over us."
Cindy chuckled softly, a hint of bitterness in her tone. Even though she had broken free from their grasp, some things would never change. She was accustomed to being a weapon; it was how she defined herself.
Just then, Barbara appeared at the top of the station's steps, struggling with her wheelchair. She saw the two standing nearby but hesitated to ask for help.
Without a word, Cindy walked over and effortlessly lifted Barbara and her wheelchair, carrying them down the stairs.
Barbara was bundled up in a raincoat, clutching her laptop tightly. Anxiety etched her features—worry for her father, Commissioner Gordon, and uncertainty about the intentions of these two mercenaries who both bore the name Deathstroke.
Despite her unease, the atmosphere remained oddly calm, as long as she avoided looking at the grim scene around them. She kept her gaze lowered, focusing on the ground.
Michael had assumed finding a vehicle would be simple, but as they made their way through the rain-soaked parking lot, they discovered that not only were the vans used by the attackers destroyed, but all the police cruisers were wrecked as well. What remained were charred metal shells, the rain hissing as it struck the smoldering ruins.
He glanced at Cindy, who offered a nonchalant shrug.
"Did you do this?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Had to eliminate the signal jammers somehow," she replied unapologetically. "Didn't have time to be precise."
Realizing that she had blown up the vehicles to disable the jamming devices, Michael sighed. "Well, that complicates things."
He approached one of the least damaged cruisers, but as he tried the door handle, the tires deflated, and smoke billowed from under the hood.
"There's not a single usable car here," he said, frustration creeping into his voice. Turning to Barbara, he asked, "Does the station have another garage?"
"There's an underground garage, but the entrance is sealed. We'd need to override the security or force it open," Barbara answered, raising her voice over the pounding rain.
Just as they were contemplating their next move, headlights pierced through the downpour. A muddy news van screeched to a halt in front of the station.
The van was emblazoned with the logo of GCTV—Gotham City Television. A small satellite dish on the roof wobbled slightly in the wind.
Michael exchanged a glance with Cindy. An idea was forming.
Minutes earlier, inside the van, an ambitious reporter was attempting to fix her disheveled red hair. Holding a compact mirror, she tried to reapply her lipstick despite the bumpy ride.
"Ease up, Pete! I'd rather not end up in a ditch tonight—I have an exclusive to cover!" she shouted to the driver.
From behind the wheel, a man's exasperated voice replied, "You're the one who insisted we rush over here, Vicki! Now you're worried about your makeup? I'm a cameraman, not your chauffeur!"
"Details, details," Vicki Vale dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Are we close?"
"Couple more blocks. This storm's a nightmare," Pete grumbled, squinting through the rain-soaked windshield.
Vicki leaned forward. "Don't let a little weather stop us. This could be the story of the year!"
Pete sighed. "You and your anonymous sources. Are you sure about this? Last time we followed a tip from that guy, we ended up chasing shadows."
Vicki's eyes sparkled with determination. "Trust me. My informant said there were sounds of gunfire at the GCPD tonight. Something big is happening."
Reluctantly, Pete nodded. Vicki had a knack for uncovering major stories, even if her methods were unorthodox.
As they pulled up to the police headquarters, the scene that unfolded before them was shocking. Destroyed vehicles littered the lot, and the building showed signs of an intense battle.
Vicki's instincts kicked in. "Grab the gear! We're going live!"
They hurriedly set up, braving the relentless rain. Vicki stood before the camera, her professional demeanor masking the excitement bubbling beneath the surface.
"Good evening, Gotham. This is Vicki Vale reporting live from Gotham City Police Headquarters, where an apparent attack has taken place. Behind me, evidence of a fierce confrontation—destroyed patrol cars and damage to the building itself."
Pete panned the camera, capturing the devastation.
"Details are scarce at this moment, but we're bringing you the first look at what appears to be a major incident. Stay tuned for updates."
As they ventured cautiously toward the entrance, Vicki continued her narration, her voice steady despite the unsettling surroundings.
Suddenly, Pete's face went pale, his eyes widening in fear.
"Cut! What's gotten into you?" Vicki snapped, momentarily breaking her composure.
But Pete wasn't acting. His gaze was fixed beyond Vicki, where two figures emerged from the shadows—both clad in the unmistakable armor of Deathstroke.
Vicki turned slowly, her breath catching as she recognized the infamous mercenary—or rather, two of them.
"Well, well, if it isn't Gotham's star reporter," Cindy said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
Michael stepped forward. "We're going to need your van."
Vicki swallowed hard, weighing her options. "And if we refuse?"
Cindy smirked beneath her mask. "Let's just say it's in your best interest to cooperate."
Pete raised his hands defensively. "Hey, take it easy! We're just journalists."
Barbara wheeled forward, pulling back her hood. "Please, we don't want any trouble. We just need to find my father."
Vicki's eyes softened slightly at the sight of Barbara. "Commissioner Gordon's daughter? What's going on here?"
Michael glanced at Cindy, then back at Vicki. "It's a long story, and time is short. If you help us, you'll get the exclusive of a lifetime."
Vicki considered this, her reporter's curiosity piqued. "Alright. But we're coming with you."
"Fine by me," Michael agreed. "But no live broadcasts. This stays off the record—for now."
Vicki nodded. "Deal."
They all piled into the van, with Pete nervously adjusting the equipment in the back. As they sped off into the night, the storm showed no signs of letting up.
Inside the van, tensions were high. Vicki couldn't help but ask, "So, two Deathstrokes? Care to explain?"
"Not particularly," Cindy replied curtly.
Michael sighed. "Let's focus on finding Commissioner Gordon. We'll answer questions when this is over."
Barbara gave Vicki a reassuring look. "Thank you for helping us."
Vicki managed a small smile. "Just doing my job."
As the van disappeared into the Gotham streets, the Bat-Signal flickered overhead, casting its watchful eye over a city teetering on the brink.