Thea had already noticed something strange about this so-called Angel of Death. Why had this idiot suddenly jumped into a crowd and started a one-man massacre without saying a word?
A more scientific explanation would be that he suffered from behavioral recognition impairment—or, put simply, he couldn't tell friend from foe. Kind of like those huskies who, the moment you take off their leash, sprint off into the horizon because every human looks the same to them.
The guy Thea had been fighting for half the day clearly had the same problem. His "handler"—no, let's be real, his creator—must have cut corners during cloning, copying only the original's memories without giving him any logical processing ability.
He looked fierce from a distance, but he was just an attack dog—nothing more.
As a bodyguard, he'd probably go berserk and cut down his employer within five minutes.
As an assassin, he'd lose track of his target after half an hour and end up wandering aimlessly.
Whoever engineered him had likely gone through many failures before finally deciding: Fine, we'll use him as a disposable weapon.
Drop him into the enemy ranks, let him slaughter until he dies—if he survives, lucky; if not, oh well.
And that was exactly what was happening now.
Under the force of momentum, a gang member couldn't stop his charge and lunged straight at the Angel of Death.
"Pfft!"
The clone, now operating purely on instinct, didn't even realize the oncoming figure was one of his own. Maybe the very concept of "allies" didn't exist in his brain. He simply rammed his sword straight through the man's chest.
As he went to pull the blade free, Thea had already darted around to his side.
A perfect opening—he was wide open, both hands gripping the sword stuck in the body. There was no way she was letting him reclaim that weapon.
She sheathed her dagger, gripped her katana with both hands, and brought it down in a sharp, overhead iaido slash at his forearm.
Even in his broken mental state, the Angel's basic combat instincts were intact. If he tried to yank out the sword now, she'd sever his arm before he could swing.
A sword wasn't paper; even one sharp enough to cut iron met some resistance, and his wounded muscles would instinctively tense against the pain.
In that split second, he realized he wouldn't be able to free the weapon in time. He had no choice but to release it and jump back to avoid her crushing blow.
Good. Finally unarmed.
Thea had zero interest in "fair duels."
She wasn't one of those idiots who toss their weapon aside just because the other guy dropped his.
Her only thought was: How do I kill this lunatic quickly, safely, and efficiently?
Without his precious sword, the Angel of Death was just a tiger with no fangs.
His hand-to-hand skills weren't bad—but "not bad" only mattered when compared to someone like Commissioner Gordon. Against Thea, it was nothing.
The two clashed at blinding speed—seven, eight exchanges in mere seconds. Drawing on her refined combat experience, Thea spotted three flaws in his movements and exploited them ruthlessly, cutting two fresh gashes across his body.
Blood streamed freely now, and his speed visibly faltered. His constant shouts turned into ragged gasps. For a clone, he was impressively durable; bleeding this much and still conscious was an achievement in itself.
But Thea knew the end was near.
She feinted with her left-hand dagger, forcing him to raise his arm to block, then lunged forward, driving her right-hand blade straight toward his chest.
He saw the strike coming but was too slow. His body tried to twist aside—
"Thud!"
The katana plunged deep into his ribs, sliding under the arm.
Half-delirious, he reacted on instinct, grabbing the blade with one hand and glaring at her, eyes full of bloodlust.
Oh, come on, Thea thought, don't pull that heroic-sacrifice nonsense on me.
This kind of "grab the enemy's weapon and turn it around" move was the protagonist's shtick, not his.
What, did his creators let him watch too many anime reruns while he was in the lab?
He probably didn't even realize she carried two weapons.
Without hesitation, Thea flicked her left wrist. The dagger flashed once across his throat.
The crazed fury in his eyes dissolved into confusion.
He clutched at his neck as dark blood gushed through his fingers, making guttural, meaningless sounds before his tall frame slowly toppled backward.
Well, Thea thought, I wonder if that counts as an "honorable kill."
Was a clone even considered a person?
Had she technically broken the "no killing" rule?
She'd have to ask Superman next time they met—he was the expert on moral headaches like this.
She let out a slow breath and dropped what remained of her katana. The special alloy blade that had followed her for over a year had finally snapped during the final clash—half still buried in the Angel's ribs.
Sure, she'd killed the enemy with a stylish "slow-mo double-strike" finish, but she was also a victim here.
Sighing, she bent down and picked up his sword.
Not because she wanted a shiny new weapon, of course. No, she swore to God—it was purely for scientific research.
She just wanted to analyze its composition later.
Then she noticed the sheath.
Exquisite craftsmanship, ornate detailing—definitely antique. If she left it here, these gangsters would probably use it as a club. Clearly, it was her duty to protect this valuable cultural artifact.
Cutting the strap from the corpse's belt, Thea took the scabbard and examined its color. It actually matched the deep red of her battle suit quite well. Perfect. She slid it neatly into one of her empty arrow quivers.
Looking back toward the battlefield, she quickly assessed the situation.
Barbara was going berserk, whipping and beating thugs with frightening enthusiasm—on the verge of shouting something like "Bow before your queen!"
Robin was still getting tossed around by the two Talons, fending off blows with sheer desperation. He wasn't in immediate danger, but he was definitely losing.
Fine. One thing at a time. She couldn't reach him yet, so she'd free up Catwoman first.
Drawing an arrow, Thea set her sights on the short, round man gleefully dueling Selina—Penguin, clutching his ridiculous umbrella like a toy.
He might look unimpressive, but he had the largest number of followers on the field.
Kill him, and their morale would collapse.
Once that happened, victory would be theirs.