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Vicki Vale gave a nod, figuring that a male anchor screaming in fear was just part of the dramatic act. She hadn't expected Peter, who usually came across as tough and gruff, to shriek like any other frightened man. It seemed, even a man of his size could break down under the right circumstances.
"Alright, that was decent," Vicki critiqued Peter's 'performance,' pointing out where she thought his scream was too prolonged and over-the-top. "Tone it down a bit next time. You don't want to blow out the speakers of any viewers who have their volume cranked up. When you scream, make it sharp, but keep the volume in check."
Peter stood frozen, his face a mask of terror, not moving an inch.
"Come on, stop messing around," Vicki nudged him, still unaware of the situation. "We need to head back to the van and edit this footage. I'll teach you more about toning your expression. Right now, you look like you've seen a ghost."
She chuckled at her own joke, brushing it off. Ghosts weren't real, after all, and while the station was full of corpses, the notion of anything supernatural seemed absurd.
But before Vicki could turn back, she heard a voice—too close for comfort, almost as if it was breathing in her ear.
"He's not acting like he's seen a ghost. He's seen me."
"!!"
Vicki froze, her body rigid with fear. She had been so focused on the devastation of the police station that she hadn't realized someone had silently approached from the shadows. The chilling proximity of the voice suggested something far worse than gang warfare. Was the killer still here? Was this all some horrific setup, just to lure her in?
Her mind raced as she tried to process the situation. The voice continued, low and deliberate, circling around her as though its owner was toying with her.
"Vicki Vale... I'm a big fan of your work."
The voice floated around her, never staying in one spot long enough to pinpoint. Vicki swallowed hard, her hands trembling. A dark thought crept into her mind—what if one of her fans had orchestrated all of this just to get to her? What if this was the work of a crazed admirer, or worse, a psychotic killer?
The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Desperately, she tried to maintain her composure. "H-hehe, well... thank you! Everyone loves my show, right? No need to hurt me."
But inside, she was screaming. She had always feared the day her reckless pursuit of stories would get her into serious trouble. Now, it seemed, that day had arrived. This was no ordinary situation—this was a nightmare.
"Turn around, slowly. I have something special planned for the broadcast."
Swallowing her fear, Vicki followed the voice's instructions. Slowly, she turned around, and what she saw caused her face to mirror the same horrified expression as Peter's.
It wasn't a gang, nor was it a small army of gunmen waiting to ambush her. It was worse. It was one man. One man that could easily be more terrifying than an entire army.
Deathstroke.
Michael stood with his arms crossed, watching the two of them intently. He had initially planned to hijack the van and drive away, but when he recognized Vicki's name during her introduction, he realized he could make much better use of her—and her reputation.
Cindy had already taken Barbara and gone to wait in the van, leaving him to deal with the reporters. Michael saw an opportunity here, not just for transportation, but for something much more impactful. He would borrow Vicki's fame to send a message.
"Are you live?" Michael asked, his voice cutting through the rain.
"N-no, we're recording. We haven't broadcasted anything yet," Vicki stammered.
Michael tilted his head thoughtfully. "I want it live."
He pulled out his gun and pointed it at Peter, though it was clear the threat was aimed at Vicki. Peter had no control over the broadcast.
"We don't decide that," Vicki hurriedly explained, hands raised as if to calm him. "It's up to the station."
"Let's head back to the van. Someone's waiting," Michael instructed, gesturing toward the vehicle with his gun.
Inside the van, Cindy and Barbara looked on, confused as Michael brought the two reporters in at gunpoint. Neither of them could fathom what he was planning.
Even Cindy found herself puzzled. Her otherworldly counterpart seemed to have many different ideas, some of which didn't align with her own methods.
Back in the van, Vicki quickly grasped the situation, though she still couldn't make sense of the fact that there were two Deathstrokes. But the mountain of corpses outside silenced any further questions. They got to work editing their footage and sent it back to the station as quickly as they could.
At the Gotham City TV station, most of the employees were either gone for the night or idly waiting for their shifts to end. The midnight programming was automated, consisting mostly of old movies or late-night infomercials.
In the newsroom, however, a few staff members remained, and they were surprised to see a breaking story come in from Vicki. The director, who had already been upset about Vicki and Peter stealing the news van, was forced to watch as the footage revealed the truth—a massive story about a deadly attack at the GCPD.
Biting her lip in frustration, the director grudgingly ordered the footage to be prepared for broadcast.
In the meantime, Vicki sent in a request to go live.
"She wants to go live," one of the technicians called out, adjusting his headset.
The director, still seething at the thought of Vicki getting the upper hand, glanced at the rapidly spiking viewership numbers. Every indicator showed that this was a major event. She cursed under her breath but finally relented.
"Give her the go-ahead."
In the studio, the midnight anchor was preparing to go live once again, sipping water and reading over the latest updates. Midnight news was typically a dull affair, but this? This was something else.
When the red light flickered on, he put on his best professional smile and began the broadcast.
"Good evening, Gotham. We have breaking news from Gotham City Police Department. A deadly assault took place earlier tonight. Both officers and suspects have been confirmed dead. We now go live to our reporter, Vicki Vale, who is on the scene."
The video feed cut to Vicki's footage, showing the carnage outside the GCPD. As the gruesome scene played out, viewers across the city were glued to their screens, witnessing the aftermath of a brutal attack. The visuals alone were enough to raise alarms. Corpses strewn everywhere, the police station in ruins—it was a nightmare.
"Director, Vicki's live now," a technician informed.
The anchor nodded, prepared to go back on the air once the live feed was ready. But when the camera switched over, instead of Vicki's familiar face, something else filled the screen.
A black and yellow mask.
"Good evening, Gotham."
The anchor jumped out of his chair, horrified by what he saw.
"My God… it's Deathstroke!"
Deathstroke gave a casual wave, then turned to the camera with a dark smile behind his mask.
"Tonight, Gotham's police department has fallen. But, unfortunately, I didn't find what I was looking for. However… I have someone you might recognize."
The camera panned out to reveal Barbara Gordon, trembling in her wheelchair, with Deathstroke holding a gun to her head.
"This is Barbara Gordon, daughter of the commissioner. I'm sure some of you know her."
Viewers across the city were struck with horror. The tension in the broadcast room reached unbearable levels as the masked mercenary made his demands.
"I'm looking for Commissioner Gordon," Michael continued, his voice sharp and menacing. "Some others have taken him before I could. But listen carefully. Hand him over to me, alive, or I'll find each and every one of you, no matter where you hide, and make you suffer."
With a flourish, Michael fired his gun. Barbara slumped out of her wheelchair, lying motionless on the ground. The sight of her collapse sent shockwaves through Gotham's already terrified citizens.
"Anyone with information about the black-suited group or the whereabouts of Gordon, contact the station. If your information leads me to him, I'll grant you a wish. If there's someone you want dead, I'll make it happen. Consider it a $2 million favor."
He leaned into the camera, his masked face filling the screen.
"And one more thing—TV stations across Gotham, replay this broadcast 24/7. If you fail, the fate of your station will be the same as the police department behind me."
The camera zoomed out, showing the destroyed GCPD once again, the grisly aftermath vividly displayed for all to see. The broadcast ended abruptly as the signal cut off.
In the news station, the anchor let out a terrified scream, running frantically around the studio like a man possessed.
"He's going to kill us all! I'm going home!"
His hysteria echoed across the city as countless viewers sat frozen in front of their screens, the fear of Deathstroke sinking into their hearts like never before.
The message had been delivered, and Gotham trembled.