Multiverse: Deathstroke

"It looks like someone else had the same idea as us," Su Ming said while furiously pedaling his unicycle, gripping his twin pistols and flicking off the safety.

Cindy mirrored his actions. In an unpredictable combat range, dual pistols were more reliable than the shotgun slung across her back: 

"At least we can rule out Harley as a suspect. She and Poison Ivy were both drunk like cats; there's no way they got here before us."

"Figuring out who it is doesn't matter much. We'll just go in and take out whoever's poaching our business."

In Gotham, there were plenty of people who enjoyed playing the game of cat and mouse with the Bat. It was anyone's guess who might be moving right now.

After the battle with the Joker's gang, Su Ming had fully accepted that he *was* Deathstroke, and Deathstroke was him. If this body was a house, Slade was just the previous tenant. The house now belonged to Su Ming, and he intended to write a new legend under his own name.

He would use his mind to drive this body, but keeping the name "Deathstroke" was both a habit and a way of remembering his roots back in the East.

Cindy wasn't privy to Su Ming's internal journey, but she could sense the change in him. The man who once seemed disconnected from this world now seemed to have fully integrated. She was curious but didn't ask questions, merely holstered her pistols, thinking she probably wouldn't need them.

They quickly reached the small park where, with Deathstroke's superior vision, Su Ming could clearly see the front entrance of the police station.

It was an old building, likely constructed around the time Gotham was founded. Though it had undergone countless repairs and expansions, it still reflected the original vision of its designers.

The station was built like a fortress, with thick, sturdy walls. Every window was as small as possible, and the roof had wide open spaces with protective barriers, along with independent water systems and air conditioning units. Of course, most notably, the Bat-Signal rested on the rooftop platform.

A large, slightly weathered GCPD sign hung at the front of the building, still intact despite its age.

At the moment, the police station's parking lot was cluttered with black vans, scattered haphazardly like dark boulders along the coastline in the pouring rain. 

A few scattered police bodies lay at the entrance, their blood being washed down the steps by the rain.

By the shattered front doors, several black-suited individuals holding submachine guns were pacing, occasionally glancing inside the station, as if waiting for someone.

"Black suits, black felt hats, white scarves, and classic Chicago-style Tommy guns. Their boss must be a fan of 'The Godfather.'"

The two crouched behind some bushes in the park. The rain obscured their figures, and the disparity in physical abilities allowed Su Ming to see everything while remaining unseen.

Cindy didn't quite understand what Su Ming was talking about. Gotham's gangsters had been dressing like this for decades, so there was no telling who they were based on attire alone.

She glanced at the distance to the station's door and looked up at the sky:

"The weather and time are in our favor. We could either go for a direct assault or sneak in."

"They're likely planning to use Gordon to lure out the Bat. We should launch a direct attack to distract them and prevent them from focusing their full efforts on the station's interior. If they get their hands on Gordon, things could get tricky for us."

After answering Cindy, Su Ming made a swift decision. He raised his guns and charged out of cover, firing as he ran.

His brain granted him an exceptional sense of spatial awareness. Calculating bullet trajectories wasn't just Deadshot's specialty—Deathstroke could do it too. In fact, he could rely entirely on calculations instead of aiming.

The distance—just over a hundred meters—was slightly beyond the effective range of handguns, but Su Ming, now fully embracing his new identity, had no doubts about his abilities. Once his mind and body were in sync, he unlocked the terrifying potential of this body.

In the pitch-black night, under the torrential rain and howling wind, nothing hindered him. Every environmental factor—wind speed, angle, refraction, gravity, energy loss—was instantly calculated in his mind and converted into precise action.

His shots were unerring. The black-suited gunmen positioned on the steps all dropped.

He sprinted forward, water splashing beneath his feet and colliding with the rain falling from above.

By the time the gunmen realized where the attack was coming from, Su Ming had already crossed the street and vaulted over the wall, reaching the police station's parking lot. With a swift pull, he hoisted himself onto one of the black vans.

His speed was far beyond their comprehension. Su Ming could almost see their expressions of disbelief, but he had no intention of savoring the despair he brought.

Standing atop the van, he raised both arms, ignoring the bullets that sparked against his armor. Despite the enemy's return fire, he maintained a deadly accuracy, taking down one opponent after another. In just a few seconds, the area fell silent.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Cindy muttered as she jumped onto the van roof, surveying the bodies littering the ground. "You sure move fast. I hadn't even answered you back there."

"It's nothing. They just seemed eager for a fight, so I gave them one," Su Ming shrugged, agreeing with Cindy's comment.

"You didn't give them a fight; you gave them a massacre. What fight?" Cindy jumped off the van, heading toward the station entrance. "And by the way, there's no reimbursement for this mission. We'll have to pay out of pocket. Couldn't you have used a blade?"

"Do we really need to account for every little detail?" Su Ming jumped down as well, picking up a submachine gun from the ground. He checked the ammo drum. "Look, they're using .45 ACP rounds—one for forty-five bullets. I'd say we came out ahead."

The two bantered casually as if they hadn't just killed a dozen people, as if they were discussing finding good deals at a supermarket sale.

As they continued toward the station, they discovered one of the black-suited individuals wasn't dead. Despite Su Ming's accurate shot to the heart, this one seemed to have her heart on the right side.

Su Ming had heard before that one in a thousand people had their hearts on the right. It looked like he'd run into one of those rare cases.

"Who sent you?" Su Ming kicked away her gun and crouched beside her, his voice low and menacing, the crimson monocular on his mask glowing like a will-o'-the-wisp.

Though the gangster hadn't died instantly, the shot had punctured her left lung, leaving her convulsing in pain.

Despite her suffering, when she heard Su Ming's question, she began laughing, coughing up blood as she spat out, "The boss won't spare you, Deathstroke."

Beneath the mask, Su Ming raised an eyebrow. Clearly, this person was delirious. Everyone here was dead. Who would know he'd been here? This was the perfect assassination.

"It seems you're someone with faith. Then your boss should've taught you one thing." Su Ming swiftly drew his katana and, with a reverse grip, plunged it into the woman's right chest, pinning her to the ground. "Never! Mess! With Deathstroke!"

With that, he yanked the blade free. Blood sprayed from her heart like a fountain, splattering through the chainmail gaps and all over him.

The warmth of the blood briefly dispelled the cold brought by the rain, but it was only for a moment before the feeling vanished. He felt a sudden impulse to bathe in more blood for warmth, but quickly shook his head—his rational side reminding him it wasn't right.

Cindy walked over, smirking. She misunderstood Su Ming's head shake and said, "See? I told you using a blade is better."

Once again, they weren't thinking about the same thing. Su Ming was considering his bloodlust, while Cindy was talking about the reliability of bladed weapons for greater lethality.

"Fine. You handle things inside. Once you're done, I'll critique your approach." Su Ming slid his blade back into its scabbard after the rain had washed away the blood.

Cindy raised her hands in mock surrender, "Nah, I'll pass on dealing with the grunts. Just leave their boss to me."

The woman's dying words had clearly gotten under Cindy's skin. No one dared to threaten the world's deadliest assassin like that.

Without another word, Su Ming entered the police station first. There was no need for a map now. They just had to follow the sound of gunfire.

The station's lobby was a mess, littered with police corpses. There were only a few black-suited bodies, suggesting this had been a surprise attack.

Oddly enough, the gunfire wasn't coming from the third-floor office where the commissioner would usually be, but from the basement.

"What's in the basement?" Su Ming asked.

"If I remember correctly, it's the morgue, the power room, and the communications center," Cindy replied, glancing up the staircase to the second floor. There were no black-suited bodies there, suggesting they hadn't intended to go upstairs at all. Their target seemed to be underground.

"Strange..." Su Ming muttered, though his feet didn't slow as he stepped over bodies and wrecked furniture, heading toward the noise.

The dead in the lobby weren't just cops and gangsters. There were also a few corpses that looked

 like they belonged to other criminals or even homeless people.

No matter what their status had been in life, they were now piled together like sacks of garbage.

Rainwater poured in through the damaged front doors, mixing with the blood and flowing across the wooden floor, staining it a filthy red. From above, it would probably resemble a gruesome scene straight out of a horror film.

Neither Su Ming nor Cindy had any artistic inclinations, but they easily found the entrance to the basement. The smell of gunpowder was strong, like standing next to an active volcano.

Descending the stairs, they reached a magnetic card door that had already been smashed open, leading to a long, dimly lit corridor. Su Ming and Cindy peeked inside, noting the positions of both groups.

Under the pale glow of fluorescent lights, the black-suited gunmen and the police were engaged in a shootout, darting in and out of offices along the hallway like a violent game of whack-a-mole. Every so often, someone would get hit and drop.

The police were clearly outmatched due to their inferior equipment.

"At the end of the hallway is the communications room. The cops are probably defending it because Gordon's in there, calling for help," Cindy tightened her helmet and flexed her wrists, offering a theory.

Su Ming wasn't convinced. He didn't think Gordon was the type to hide in a room and let others take the bullets for him. But Cindy knew Earth -11 better than he did, so it was hard to say.

"I don't think it's Gordon, but whoever's in there must be important. Let's clear this out and check." 

"Kill all the black suits, leave the cops alive?" Cindy pulled out a cigar from the small box at her waist and twirled it in her fingers. "Bet you a cigar it's Gordon in there."

"I'll handle the cops. Deal." Su Ming smiled beneath his mask, pulling out his own cigar and placing it next to hers on the doorframe. "I bet it's not him."

After their brief exchange, Cindy darted into action. Despite both being Deathstroke, as she said, she favored close combat with bladed weapons.

Her katana cut through the air like a whirlwind. By the time the black-suited gunmen realized what was happening, Cindy was already in their midst, wreaking havoc.

There was one who managed to block Cindy's blade with her gun, even trying to rally others to her aid.

But she was just a minor obstacle. This kind of small-time boss existed in droves among Gotham's gangs, and Deathstroke, the world's greatest mercenary, was on a different level entirely.

Cindy slashed down with a resounding *clang*, but before the sound of metal on metal could fade, she whipped out her shotgun and fired.

The clang and the blast overlapped, and the woman was sent flying, a gaping hole in her chest, revealing the shattered wall behind her.

Cindy's slaughter continued. She danced through the bloodshed like a diligent worker bee, but her black-and-yellow armor only inspired terror in the gunmen.

Su Ming's focus was on the police. Armed with an electrified staff, he took down officers one by one. They didn't have Batman's insulated gloves or boots, and their combat skills were nowhere near her level.

So he moved like a stoker in an old ship's boiler room. His staff was the poker. One thrust forward, a flash of electricity, and another cop was down. He'd reel them in, tossing their bodies into offices to keep them from getting caught in crossfire.

In about two minutes, forty or so black suits and a dozen police officers were taken care of.

They finished their work almost simultaneously. Cindy smirked, 

"Looks like I'm the stronger one. I took down twice as many as you."

Su Ming didn't argue. He just shrugged. His task had required more finesse. He had to be careful not to go too far and kill the police. They were regular people, after all. The time he spent electrocuting them had to be measured. When throwing them into rooms, he had to be gentle.

Some might say, "It's just a staff, how could you stab someone to death with it?" But with his strength, who said you needed a spearhead to stab someone?

At the same time, he had to suppress his bloodlust, which surged with every burst of adrenaline. It was like a mental tug-of-war between reason and instinct.

Seeing his apparent resignation, Cindy grew even more smug. If she had a tail, it would have been wagging. She wandered around the hallway for a moment before stopping in front of the communications room door.

"Alright, time to open the present. Let's see what's inside."

She began pulling plastic explosives from her leg pouch, humming a cheerful tune, clearly eager.

The door to the communications room was solid, like the armor on a tank.

"Don't use too much, or you might scare them to death," Su Ming reminded her. Given the situation, whoever was inside probably wasn't a combatant. A C4 explosion in a narrow hallway could generate a huge noise and directional shockwave.

They wouldn't die from it, but it could rupture their eardrums or knock them out.

Cindy didn't respond, just gave a thumbs-up, pulled out a small piece of C4, and affixed it to the door lock, setting the timer.