The rooftop's silence fractured with the wet click of safeties disengaging. Sixteen SWAT rifles trembled in unison, their red dots converging on Vergil's sternum like a constellation of impending violence. One officer—younger, with a fresh scar bisecting his eyebrow—swallowed audibly. His nametag read *Esposito*.
Gordon's blood dripped onto his collar, the droplet spreading like ink in cheap fabric. "Power," he echoed, voice fraying at the edges. His revolver remained half-lifted, caught between duty and the animal instinct to *run*. "That what you call butchering defenseless—"
Yamato flicked left.
A muzzle flash erupted near the rooftop access door—one of the SWAT team had panicked—but the bullet never reached its target. The projectile hung suspended mid-air, bisected lengthwise by the katana's edge, both halves spinning lazily in a halo of gunpowder residue. Vergil exhaled through his nose, watching the lead fragments tumble to the concrete with metallic sighs.
"Defenseless." He tested the word like a rotten fruit. Behind him, Esposito's rifle slid from nerveless fingers, clattering against the rooftop. The smell of urine bloomed sharp beneath Kevlar.
Gordon's jaw clenched. "You—"
"*Enough.*" The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, vibrating through the steel girders underfoot.
A shadow detached itself from the rooftop's ventilation unit—not Batman, but a woman in a skintight black bodysuit, her white hair whipping in the sudden updraft. She landed with the precision of a guillotine blade, twin pistols already leveled at Vergil's temple.
"You talk too much," Black Canary snarled, finger taut on the trigger. The scent of her cherry-flavored lip balm clashed with gun oil.
Vergil didn't turn. Yamato's guard caught the moonlight as he adjusted his grip. "Dinah Lance," he murmured. "I wondered when the Birds of Prey would roost."
Behind Canary, three more figures materialized from the gloom—Huntress's crossbow creaked as she took aim from a fire escape, its bolt tipped with something that reeked of curare. Batgirl perched on a gargoyle, her cape snapping like a threat. And leaning against the rooftop access door, cigarette dangling from his lips, Constantine exhaled a plume of smoke that curled unnaturally toward Vergil's boots.
"Mate," Constantine drawled, flipping his Zippo shut with a *snick*. "You're making the wrong kind of friends." His collar was stained with what looked like whisky—or possibly blood.
Vergil's smirk deepened. The rooftop's temperature plummeted three degrees in as many seconds. Huntress's breath fogged visibly. "How quaint," he said, watching Batgirl's fingers tighten around her escrima sticks. "The circus comes to town."
Canary's pistols didn't waver. "Last chance. Surrender."
The katana's edge caught a stray raindrop, splitting it into twin beads that mirrored Canary's pupils. Vergil's chuckle was silk wrapped around a razor. "You brought a singer to a swordfight."
Constantine's cigarette hit the pavement in a shower of sparks. "Oh, you *wanker*—"
Space *folded*.
Yamato moved faster than retinal persistence could track—first vertically, severing Huntress's crossbow string with a sound like a snapping violin. Then horizontally, deflecting Batgirl's thrown batarang into Constantine's chest with a hollow *thunk*. The Brit yelped, clutching his sternum where the emblem had dented his ribs.
Canary fired.
The bullet passed through empty air where Vergil's head had been, embedding itself in Gordon's thermos with a *ping*. The detective dove sideways as hot coffee geysered upward.
"You missed," Vergil observed from directly behind her, breath stirring the baby hairs at her nape.
Canary spun, pistols coming up—
—only for Yamato's flat to slam into her wrists with enough force to send both guns skittering toward the rooftop's edge. Batgirl lunged, escrima sticks crackling with electricity, but Vergil sidestepped without looking, letting her momentum carry her past him. Her startled grunt was cut short as he hooked her ankle with the katana's guard, sending her sprawling into a SWAT officer's legs.
Huntress swore in Italian, reaching for a dagger—
—and froze when Yamato's tip kissed her jugular.
"No more toys," Vergil murmured. The dagger clattered to the roof. Somewhere below, a car horn blared before cutting off abruptly.
Huntress's pulse hammered against Yamato's edge, each throb visible beneath the thin skin of her throat. The scent of her sweat—sharp with adrenaline and the faint floral note of jasmine body wash—mingled with cordite from Canary's discharged pistols. Vergil's breath stirred a loose strand of her dark hair as he leaned in, close enough to count the individual threads in her domino mask's fabric.
"You're slow," he observed. The words formed frost on her cheek.
Constantine coughed blood into his palm, the iron tang cutting through the rooftop's stench of ozone and coffee. "Right," he wheezed, wiping his mouth with a sleeve that left a rust-colored smear. "Because *speed's* the issue here." His Zippo flickered to life again, the flame casting jaundiced light across the fresh bruise blooming on his sternum.
Batgirl scrambled upright, her left boot squeaking on spilled coffee. The sound—high-pitched, almost comical—contrasted with the way her escrima sticks sparked violet in the damp air. "Let her go," she demanded, voice cracking mid-sentence. The whites of her eyes showed all around her irises.
Vergil's smirk didn't reach his eyes. "Or?"
Behind them, Esposito's rifle clattered as he fumbled the reload. The magazine hit the rooftop with a plastic *clack*, bullets scattering like dropped teeth. Gordon, still crouched by his ruined thermos, reached instinctively for his service revolver—only to freeze when Yamato twitched against Huntress's throat. A bead of blood welled, tracing the line of her collarbone before soaking into her tactical suit's high collar.
Canary flexed her wrists, the motion subtle but deliberate. Vergil tracked the way her tendons shifted beneath skin—prepping for a scream, no doubt. He exhaled through his nose. "Try it," he challenged, just as the air around them *warped*, blue energy crackling along Yamato's fuller. The blade drank the ambient light greedily, casting jagged shadows across Huntress's face.
Constantine's cigarette burst into flame without touching the Zippo's flame. "Oh, *bollocks*," he muttered, watching the ash disintegrate midair. His fingers twitched toward a pocket—likely reaching for some enchanted trinket—but Batgirl's sharp headshake stopped him cold.
Gordon's radio squawked to life, a dispatcher's garbled voice slicing through the tension: "*—all units, we have a 10-78 at—*" The transmission cut off with a burst of static as Yamato hummed louder, the vibration resonating through the concrete underfoot. Huntress swallowed hard, her Adam's apple bobbing against cold steel.
"You don't want to do this," she ground out, each word measured. The scent of her peppermint gum clashed with the coppery tang of her own blood.
Vergil tilted his head, considering. The movement made the SWAT team's laser sights dance across his coat like drunken fireflies. "You're right," he conceded—and stepped *through* Huntress, his form dissolving into azure mist just as Canary's sonic scream ripped across the rooftop.
The shockwave shattered every remaining window in a three-block radius. Glass rained onto the streets below like jagged hail. Gordon clapped hands over his ears too late; blood trickled from his left eardrum, hot and slick against his fingertips. Constantine's nosebleed resumed with renewed vigor, the crimson stream painting his upper lip like war paint.
Batgirl's cry of "*NO!*" was swallowed by the aftershocks, her voice hoarse with strain. Her escrima sticks clattered to the ground as she clutched at her ears, domino mask askew from the force of the blast.
And then—silence.
The kind that comes after artillery fire, when the ringing in your ears becomes its own presence.
Esposito was the first to move, his boots scraping concrete as he gaped at the empty space where Vergil had stood. "What the *fuck*," he breathed, voice tinny through his gas mask's filter.
Huntress touched her throat, fingers coming away smeared red. Her gloves' tactical fabric absorbed the blood greedily, leaving no trace. "He wasn't even here," she murmured, more to herself than the others. The realization tasted like bile.
Constantine spat a glob of blood and phlegm onto the rooftop. "Oh, he was here," he corrected, nudging one of the scattered bullet casings with his boot. It rolled in a perfect circle before toppling over. "Just not *all* here." His fingernails
Constantine's fingernails scraped against the rooftop's gravel as he scooped up a handful of bullet casings. The brass was warm from spent powder, their scent sharp beneath the ozone left by Yamato's departure. He let them trickle through his fingers one by one, each *clink* against concrete louder than it should've been in the stunned silence.
"See this?" He held up a casing between thumb and forefinger, the copper glinting in the ruined Bat signal's intermittent glow. "Normal bullet. Normal copper jacket." His other hand fished a cigarette from behind his ear—somehow unsmoked despite the chaos—and lit it with a snap of his Zippo. The flame cast moving shadows across the deep bags under his eyes. "But the rifling marks?" He spun the casing slowly. "They're mirrored. Like someone fired it through a *funhouse*."
Batgirl's boots crunched over broken glass as she approached, her cape snagging on a stray rebar. Up close, the whites of her eyes were spiderwebbed with burst capillaries. "Meaning what?" Her voice was hoarse from Canary's scream, each word sandpaper-rough.
Constantine exhaled smoke through his nostrils, watching it curl unnaturally toward the spot where Vergil had vanished. "Meaning our boy's playing with dimensions like a kid with Lego." The cherry of his cigarette flared as he took a drag. "Ever try building on quicksand, luv? That's Gotham right now."
Gordon groaned as he peeled his palm away from his bleeding ear. The blood was already clotting, black in the uneven light. "Bullshit." He spat the word like a rotten tooth. "You're telling me that—that *sword-wielding maniac* can—"
"Fold reality like a napkin?" Constantine interrupted, flicking ash onto Esposito's boot. The SWAT officer didn't even flinch. "Pretty much."
Huntress wiped her dagger clean on her thigh, the motion quick and practiced. The blade's edge caught the moonlight, revealing a hairline fracture where Yamato had kissed it. "So how do we kill him?"
A wet chuckle came from the rooftop access door. Canary leaned against the frame, her fishnets torn at both knees. One hand massaged her throat where bruising was already blooming in the shape of fingers that hadn't touched her. "We don't." Her voice was wrecked, the sonic vibrations having shredded her vocal cords raw. "We *contain*."
Batgirl's escrima sticks sparked when she clenched them too tight. The electricity arced between her knuckles, casting jumpy shadows across her determined frown. "Like how?"
Constantine stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his boot. The ember hissed against damp leather. "Ever hear of the *Qliphoth*?" The word hung in the air like a noose.
Gordon's radio crackled again—this time with Barbara's voice, crisp despite the interference: "*Oracle to all points. We've got a situation at the docks.*" The transmission dissolved into static, then cleared abruptly. "*Something's...growing there.*"
Esposito's helmet visor reflected the sudden glow from the harbor—a sickly purple pulse that throbbed like a heartbeat against the low clouds. The SWAT team's collective intake of breath smelled of stale coffee and fear-sweat.
Huntress sheathed her dagger with a definitive *click*. "Define 'growing.'"
Barbara's sigh filtered through the comms, laced with something none of them had heard before—dread. "*Like a tree. But wrong. Its roots are—*" The signal dissolved into white noise.
Constantine was already moving, his trench coat flapping behind him like crow's wings. "Right," he muttered, digging in his pockets. His fingers emerged clutching a vial of something that writhed against the glass. "Anyone got a spare crucifix? Preferably silver?"
Batgirl's domino mask wrinkled as she frowned. "Since when are you religious?"
The mage's grin was all teeth. "Since demons started using Gotham as a fucking *jungle gym*." He tossed the vial into the air—it hung suspended for three heartbeats before shattering into a thousand prismatic shards that reformed into a keyring. The largest key was blackened iron, its teeth jagged like broken fangs.
Gordon's revolver slid home with a *click* that echoed in the sudden hush. "Then we move." His jaw worked around unspoken orders before settling on: "*Carefully.*"
Canary pushed off the wall, her steps uneven but determined. She caught Batgirl' elbow as she passed, her whisper barely audible: "Tell Zinda...if this goes south—"
Cassandra nods than leaves with Constantine and huntress to the roots meanwhile Vergil is already at the tree looking unimpressedThe Qliphoth's roots pulsed beneath Gotham's harbor like a sleeping leviathan's veins, each throb sending ripples of unnatural viscosity through the brackish water. Vergil stood atop a shipping container, Yamato's scabbard tapping an idle rhythm against his thigh. The katana hummed in its sheath—not a warning, but recognition.
"Pathetic," he murmured, watching the tree's lowest branch twitch as it breached the surface. The wood wasn't wood at all—more like petrified sinew, its grain resembling muscle fibers frozen mid-spasm. The stench of rotting pomegranates and hot copper rolled off it in waves.
A rusted ladder groaned three containers over. Constantine's boots hit the corrugated metal with a clang that echoed across the docks. His Zippo flared to life, the flame bending unnaturally toward the Qliphoth despite the absence of wind. "Christ," he breathed, squinting through the smoke of his freshly lit cigarette. "That's not a sapling. That's a fucking *artery*."
Batgirl landed soundlessly to Vergil's left, her cape momentarily catching on a jagged piece of rebar. The fabric tore with a sound like ripping parchment. She didn't flinch. "You knew," she accused, her voice flat. The whites of her eyes were still red from Canary's scream.
Vergil didn't turn. "I did."
Huntress's crossbow creaked as she took position behind a stack of pallets. The quarrels in her quiver oozed something black and viscous. "Then why're you just *standing* there?" Her finger hovered over the trigger guard, knuckle white with tension.
The first root burst from the water like a striking cobra, tendrils unfurling in a grotesque parody of willow branches. Vergil's coat flared as he sidestepped—not out of necessity, but disdain. The root splintered the container where he'd stood, spraying rust and rotten wood pulp.
"Observing," he said, finally turning to face them. Yamato slid free with a whisper. The blade's edge caught the Qliphoth's eerie glow, refracting it into a thousand sickly shards across the dockyard. "This is what happens when weaklings play with forces they can't comprehend."
Constantine's cigarette tumbled from his lips as the entire dock shuddered. The water boiled suddenly, releasing a geyser of what looked like molten amber—except it *moved*, forming sinewy limbs midair. A dozen more roots erupted, each tipped with something resembling a human face frozen in a scream.
"*Move!*" Batgirl tackled Huntress sideways as a root smashed through their cover. Wooden splinters peppered Cass's exposed cheek, drawing thin lines of blood that smelled faintly of peppermint—adrenaline masking the pain.
Constantine was chanting, his hands moving in sharp glyphs that left afterimages in the air. The spell stank of burnt hair and ozone. "—*per sanguinem et ignem*—" The incantation cut off as a root wrapped around his ankle, yanking him off-balance. His head cracked against the container's edge with a wet *thock*.
Vergil sighed. "Amateurs."
Yamato moved in a silver blur—first horizontally, severing the root holding Constantine. Then vertically, splitting the next attacking tendril lengthwise. The bisected root writhed like a dying snake, spraying black ichor that hissed where it hit the pavement.
Batgirl rolled to her feet, escrima sticks sparking. "We need a plan—"
"No." Vergil flicked gore from his blade. "You need to leave."
Huntress's bolt *thunked* into the Qliphoth's trunk—and promptly dissolved, the metal dripping like wax. "Oh, *come on*," she snarled, already reaching for another.
Constantine groaned, pressing a hand to his bleeding scalp. His fingers came away glistening. "He's right," he coughed, staggering upright. "This isn't a fight. It's a *cleansing*."
The Qliphoth's trunk split open with a sound like tearing ligaments. Inside, pulsing in the hollow, something *shimmered*—a fruit? A heart? It throbbed in time with Vergil's breathing.
Batgirl's pupils dilated. "You *want* it," she realized aloud, her voice hushed.
Vergil's smirk was a blade unsheathed. "I won't insult you by lying." His coat billowed as he stepped toward the tree, Yamato humming a war hymn.