The drive to the eastern industrial sector was short—less than ten minutes, but each second felt like stretching time like rubber under tension.
Warehouse 47 was only four blocks from the Artemis building, a distance that, in Gotham, could be covered in a straight line across the rooftops if you knew the way. We didn't use the zeta tube; it was too risky to activate a teleportation point so close to an active conflict zone—the signal could be tracked by anyone with decent equipment, and I still didn't want the League to know we'd left "supervised training" without permission.
So we did parkour.
Artemis led the way, leaping from the terrace to the neighboring roof with the grace of someone born for it—a short jump, a perfect roll, her feet touching the concrete silently, her body already propelling itself into the next step. I followed her, my heart pounding in my chest, elemental energy burning like fuel.
It wasn't the first time I'd used Manto's grappling hook launcher, but pure parkour, without equipment? That was another story. My body responded well—years of pull-ups, push-ups, and jumps in the basement had given me strength and coordination—but I lacked her natural fluidity.
The first jump was a close one. Artemis leaped onto the lower roof with an elegant spin, landing silently. I hesitated for a split second—the wind whipping my jacket, the gap between the buildings seeming larger than it was—and almost slipped on the edge. My foot slid on the damp concrete, but I managed to grab the rusty railing with my left hand, propelling my body upward with a pull that made my shoulder muscles burn. Artemis stopped on the other side, looking back with a crooked smile.
"Hold on there, rookie," she whispered, her voice cutting through the air. "It's not a race. It's a dance."
I nodded, biting my tongue to avoid answering. She was right. I forced my breathing to calm, mimicking her movements: light feet, arms outstretched for balance, body leaning forward. The second jump was better—I followed the line she traced, using the momentum of a chimney to gain height, a soft landing that absorbed the impact silently. I still stumbled on the third roof, my knee hitting the concrete, but Artemis reached out and pulled me up without a word. Her touch was firm, warm, and for a second our eyes met in the darkness—a spark that had nothing to do with the elemental.
After that, it flowed better. I followed her trail like a shadow behind a light: jump, roll, short run, another jump. The wind whipped against my face, the distant sound of sirens grew louder with each building we left behind. My body ached—thighs burning from the effort, lungs pounding—but the elemental energy helped: internal heat that eased the fatigue, subtle regeneration that closed micro-tears before they became a problem. Artemis seemed to feel nothing—long legs devouring distance, body bending and stretching as if parkour were a natural extension of her.
We arrived at the eight-story building that offered a direct view of warehouse 47. Artemis climbed the external fire escape as if it were a ladder, me behind her, pulling myself up with my arms when the steps creaked too much. At the top, we threw ourselves face down behind a low chimney, our bodies pressed against the cold concrete, breathing heavily.
Down there, all hell had broken loose.
The warehouse courtyard was a chaotic mess of flashing lights and thick smoke. Gunfire echoed in irregular bursts—pistols, submachine guns, the deep sound of shotguns. Two distinct groups: on one side, men in impeccable black suits, white masks covering their faces—Black Mask's henchmen.
On the other, dark gray suits, no masks, but with the rigid posture of those who worked for the Falcone family. Police officers tried to form a barrier at the main entrance, ballistic shields raised, but a wall of pulsating black shadows blocked the entire street—dense as living ink, absorbing light and sound, isolating the confrontation from the rest of the city.
Behind the wall of shadows, in the center of the courtyard, a giant moved.
Amygdala.
I recognized him immediately from my memories of a past life—Aaron Helzinger, the brain-damaged psychopath who had gained superhuman strength after experiments. He was enormous: over 6 feet tall, muscles bulging as if his skin were about to stretch and tear at any moment, arms as thick as tree trunks, a face deformed by blind rage.
He carried a piece of steel beam like a baseball bat, crushing Falcone's henchmen with blows that made the ground tremble. Bodies were already scattered—at least twenty from the Falcone family, some with limbs twisted at impossible angles, others with sunken skulls. On Black Mask's side, fewer casualties, but still five bodies lay fallen.
Two policemen lay motionless near the entrance, uniforms torn, blood running onto the asphalt. At least eight others were trapped behind overturned patrol cars, wounded, shouting for backup as they tried to hold their position.
I activated the helmet's HUD, the visor darkening slightly for analysis. The system tallied it in real time:
Black Mask's henchmen: 30 active, armed with pistols, submachine guns, and shotguns. Falcone Family: 25 active (originally 45, 20 confirmed dead). Police: 2 dead, 8 wounded and cornered, 4 attempting to flank across rooftops with sniper rifles. Main villains identified: Shadow Thief (shadow metahuman who creates the barrier and manipulates darkness like tentacles) and Amygdala (superhuman strength, high resistance, uncontrollable rage).
"Shadow Thief," I whispered to Artemis, pointing to the hooded figure atop a container. "He controls shadows as extensions of his body—he can solidify them, use them as weapons or shields. Amygdala... pure brute force, almost invulnerable to normal damage, but with a fragile mind. If you anger him too much, he loses control."
Artemis nodded, her eyes fixed on the carnage. "Take care of the big guy. I'll handle the shadowy figure."
I looked at her, then at the chaos below. The shooting continued—bursts of bullets ricocheting off the wall of shadows, henchmen shouting orders, the sound of metal against flesh when Amygdala hit someone. The trapped police officers yelled for help, some dragging wounded colleagues behind makeshift cover.
"We can't just attack the villains," I said, my voice low but firm. "If we let both factions continue, more police officers will die. And more civilians too, if this spreads to the streets."
She raised an eyebrow. "Plan?"
I took a deep breath. "Let's split up. You take care of Black Mask's henchmen—there are 30 of them, but they're concentrated at the front, exchanging fire with Falcone. I'll take care of Falcone's—25 of them, also grouped together. We'll attack from behind, quickly and silently. They're so focused on each other that they won't see us coming."
Artemis grinned—a dangerous, toothy grin. "I like it. Let's finish this before the League notices."
We parted ways without saying anything more. Artemis rolled to the left, disappearing into the shadows of the adjacent rooftop with the grace of a feline. I went to the right, my climbing hook activated. The cable shot out with a slight hiss, digging into the edge of a nearby building. I glided through the air, body stretched out, the wind whipping against my reinforced jacket. The hook pulled me up and I landed silently on the next rooftop, rolling to absorb the impact.
Behind the Falcone family, the situation was perfect: they were trapped between two containers, desperately firing at Black Mask's men, their backs exposed. I crawled closer, the magnetic shield on my back vibrating slightly with the movement. The first henchman—in a gray suit, with a submachine gun in his hand—didn't even see me coming. I stood up behind him, shield already on my left arm, and struck the back of his neck with the reinforced edge. The impact was precise—he fell like a puppet with his strings cut, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
The second one turned at the sound of the impact. I was already in motion: shield in front as a barrier, body crouched. He raised his pistol—I advanced, the shield striking his arm, deflecting the shot upwards. His arm shattered with an audible crack; he screamed, and I finished him off with a direct punch to the chin—concentrated force, elemental energy providing a subtle boost. He collapsed, his teeth flying.
The third and fourth understood. "Hey, who—"
I didn't wait. I threw the shield—perfect rotation, exactly as Sensei had taught: wrist twisted at 45 degrees, hip rotation. The disc cut through the air, hitting the first one in the forehead with a metallic clang. He fell. The shield ricocheted off the second one's helmet, returning to my hand like a poorly trained but efficient boomerang. I caught it, rolled forward, and used the momentum for a low blow—the henchman's leg swept, his body falling. When he touched the ground, shield to the face—not to kill, but to knock him out. He passed out.
The next five turned around at the same time. "Intruder!"
The shooting began. 9mm and .45 caliber bullets ricocheted off the shield—the repulsor activated by a touch on the inner cable, a pulsing force field deflecting the projectiles at random angles. The impact vibrated in my arm, but the jacket and cape absorbed the rest. I felt the heat of the bullets, the smell of burnt gunpowder, but no holes in the armor. High quality, I thought, advancing.
I moved like a furious shadow. The first one who tried to flank me took a shield slap to the thigh—the spinning disc, with enough force to break his femur. He fell screaming. I ran to him, shield in hand, delivered a downward blow to the temple—knocked out. The second opened fire with a shotgun—I raised my shield, the repulsor reflecting the projectiles back at him. Two hit him in the shoulder, making him drop his weapon. I closed the distance, a punch to the stomach—ribs cracking—followed by an elbow to the back of the neck. Unconscious.
The last three attempted an improvised formation: one firing from cover, the others flanking. I advanced on the one in the middle—shield raised, repulsor off to conserve battery—blocking the shots with the transmuted metal. The field wasn't necessary here; the diamond-hard alloy absorbed the light calibers without deforming. I closed in, knee to his groin, followed by an uppercut that lifted him off the ground for a moment before he fell inert. The one on the left tried to hit me from behind—I spun, shield hitting his arm, breaking his elbow with a damp crack. He screamed, dropping his weapon, and I finished him off with a leg sweep: leg swept, body falling, shield in the face to extinguish the lights.
The last one—a skinny guy with terrified eyes—tried to run. I threw the shield again: wide curve, disc ricocheting off the asphalt and hitting his back with controlled force. He stumbled, fell to his knees, and I ran over—punch to the back of the neck, knocked out.
Twenty-three of Falcone's henchmen—all on the ground, alive but neutralized, groaning or motionless. Two had been crushed by Amygdala during the chaos, their bodies twisted like rags beneath his beam. I breathed heavily, shield back on my arm, body vibrating with adrenaline. The gunfire on the other side continued—Artemis must already be doing his part with Black Mask's men. I allowed myself a moment of reflection: I'm more evolved than ever. The Cloak absorbs impacts that would have killed me before, the shield transforms defense into a weapon. From the lonely basement to this—taking down an entire gang single-handedly. The path was arduous, but worth every drop of sweat.
My HUD blinked—thermal analysis revealing the center of the chaos. I looked over: Amygdala, the deformed giant, had just crushed another Falcone henchman with his makeshift metal beam. The man's body flew like a broken doll, slamming into the ground with a damp sound of shattered bones. I didn't care much—this wasn't Batman, with his obsession with saving even the worst. These were criminals, and Gotham was better off without them on the streets.
The brute—over 2.20 meters tall, his muscles bulging, his skin stretched as if it were about to tear, his face contorted in animal rage—turned his head toward me. His small, bloodshot eyes fixed on me as if I were an irritating intrusion.
"Hmm... who are you?" he growled, his voice as thick as crushed gravel. "A missile from the Falcone family?"
I smiled beneath my helmet, shield firmly on my arm. "No, you blockhead. I came here to finish you off."
He laughed—a guttural sound, like an engine sputtering—and lifted the beam as if it were a toy. We exchanged glances for an eternity: me, compact and equipped, him, a mountain of fury. Then, the fight erupted.
I moved forward first—not impulsively, but by calculation. The shield ahead acted as a barrier, blocking my right-hand movement: I pulled the grappling hook from my belt, aimed, and fired at the container behind him. The hook pierced with a metallic clang, the retractable handle tightening.
Amygdala turned his head toward the sound, distracted for a moment—a fatal mistake. I triggered the mechanism, the cable pulling me forward like a human missile. I flew toward him, shield in front, activating the repulsor at the last second. The force field pulsed, and I struck him squarely in the chest. The repulsion amplified the impact: his head ricocheted off the shield with tremendous force, his left arm trembling with recoil, and then collided with the container behind him—metal crumpling like tin under the weight.
He flopped, his eyes blinking in confusion, and I threw the hook, dropping to a crouch. I took advantage: an uppercut from below to his chin, my right fist propelled by the elemental, landing with an audible crack. His head snapped back, blood trickling from his split lip. I tried the sweep—a low leg sweep, trying to bring down the mountain.
It failed.
He was too strong—the balance of a brute with superhuman strength. My leg struck his as if kicking a rooted tree, and the impact reverberated in my knee. Amygdala recovered quickly, his bloodshot eyes focused on me with blind fury. He raised the beam like a golf club, twisting his entire body to strike me—I was still crouched, vulnerable.
I pulled the shield forward, activating the repulsor the instant of impact. The beam struck with the force of a jackhammer—the field pulsed, reflecting some of the energy back. My arm trembled as if struck by lightning, but I gripped it tightly. The recoil threw me back a good 10 meters, my body spinning in the air, my back slamming against another container with a thud that echoed like a gong. The Cloak absorbed most of it—reinforced jacket dissipating the shock, shield intact—but the air left my lungs with a whoosh, and I slid to the ground, my vision blurred for a second.
Shit , I thought, rolling to the side as I stood up. He's a tank. Batman's fought him before—he knows brute force doesn't win. I need to be smarter.
Amygdala laughed now—a guttural sound, drooling blood. He came running, footsteps making the ground tremble, beam raised for another downward blow. I moved: I threw the shield low, ricocheting off the ground vertically—a calculated curve, the disc rising like a hook to hit his groin. The impact was dirty, but effective—he roared, doubling in two for an instant, eyes bulging.
I ran, caught the shield in mid-air—my left hand fitting perfectly onto the handle—and delivered an upward hook to his chin with the disc. The transmuted metal hit with a clang, his head snapping back. Combo: right punch to the stomach, shield striking his left knee, uppercut with my free fist. He staggered, but on the third strike—shield aimed at his solar plexus—he recovered.
His free hand came like a bear slap—I defended with my shield, repulsor activated, but the brute force threw me back down, sliding across the damp asphalt until I hit a pile of crates. Pain radiated through my ribs, but the Cloak held—nothing broken, just bruises that the elemental was already healing.
Lessons from Canary , I thought, rising. Circle, redirect. Don't go head-on. He came again, beam spinning like a windmill. I circled—sideways steps, keeping my distance, shield ready. He attacked horizontally—I jumped, rolling to the side, and counterattacked: shield thrown at his shoulder, ricocheting back. He roared, right arm dangling slightly, but ignored it and came in with a downward punch. I redirected: shield angled, repulsor pulsing, deflecting the fist to the ground—asphalt cracking under the impact.
I took advantage: a hook to the chin, followed by a better-timed sweep—using his imbalance. He fell to his knees, beam slipping. I jumped on him, shield hitting the back of his neck—clang! He roared, hand sweeping back, grazing me. I flew, hitting the ground, rolling to absorb the impact.
The fight was fierce—I landed more strikes, precise blows that made him bleed and stagger, but the damage was minimal to his thick skin. He landed fewer blows, but each touch was an earthquake: vibrations that made my bones creak, even with the Cloak resisting. I tried not to use flames—to keep my identity secret, to avoid the "gray hooded figure" being linked to the fiery meta of Zsasz's judgment. But he beat me slowly, brute force eroding my defense.
We traded endless blows—me circling, redirecting, him attacking like an avalanche. I felt the limit approaching, but I didn't stop. The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and blood, the sound of metal against flesh echoing in the courtyard like a war ritual. Amygdala came with a side punch—I defended with the shield, repulsor at maximum, reflecting the fist back and making him stumble. I took advantage: shield throw at his right knee, disc ricocheting and returning, followed by a spinning kick to the ribs. He grunted, doubling over, but counterattacked with the beam—I rolled to the side, the blow denting the asphalt where I had been seconds before.
I stood up, circling again. He was slow, but relentless—every mistake of mine was punished with brute force. I tried a feint: shield thrown high, distracting him, while I dove low for a double sweep. It worked halfway—he fell to his knees, but his hand caught me in mid-air, fingers like claws closing on my arm. Pain exploded—the Cloak resisted, but the grip crushed tissue and muscle, leaving deep bruises that the elemental would heal later. He hurled me like a rag doll, my body slamming into a pile of barrels that rolled with a crash.
I stood up coughing, shield back in hand. He rarely lands, but when he does, it hurts. My blows are more numerous—cuts, bruises—but he ignores them as if they were stings. He came running, beam raised for a vertical strike. I activated the repulsor, angled shield—the impact reflected the beam upwards, unbalancing him. Combo: punch to the kidney, shield to the face, sweep. He fell on his back, the ground cracking under his weight.
But he rose roaring, his eyes red with fury. The fight continued—I dodged, redirected, struck wherever I could. A shield thrown to his shoulder made him drop the beam; I caught it, spun, and struck his knee. He limped, but attacked with his fists—I defended, my arm trembling, and countered with an uppercut that cracked his jaw.
The accumulated pain: bruises forming beneath the cloak, ribs throbbing, but I persisted. He hit me again—a slap that threw me against a car, denting the metal. I got up, double vision, but the elemental was healing. The fight was a stalemate—I more agile, he more resilient. I felt the limit, but I didn't stop. The courtyard echoed with our grunts, metal hitting flesh, the surrounding chaos diminishing as the factions fell. I circled, waiting for his mistake, shield ready for the next round. Gotham's night watched, sirens approaching in the distance, but I wouldn't stop until I took him down.
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