I leaned against a pile of rusty shipping containers, the cold metal pressing against my back even through the reinforced fabric of the cloak. The air on the docks was heavy—salty, oily, with that characteristic smell of burnt diesel and rotten fish that clung to your throat. The yellow streetlights flickered in the damp wind, casting long, distorted shadows over piles of crates, idle cranes, and black water lapping lazily against the concrete pillars.
Artemis was crouched beside me, almost invisible in the absolute black of the suit I had made for her; only the subtle glint of her aviator goggles betrayed her position when she moved. We had arrived there after a series of jumps and glides that still made my blood run faster just thinking about them—350 meters of controlled fall, wind roaring in my ears, the world turning into a blur of lights and concrete. The prototype had worked beyond my expectations, and seeing Artemis glide behind me with that feline grace gave me a satisfaction I wouldn't admit aloud.
Down below, in the darkest corner of the dock, Black Mask and his men were busy. There weren't 15, as I had estimated from afar; there were 30. An inner circle, well-armed: rifles slung over their shoulders, pistols in holsters, some with compact submachine guns strapped to their chests. Mask himself paced back and forth like a caged animal, his white mask reflecting the yellow lights, his black suit crumpled and greasy. He stomped his foot on the damp concrete, cursing under his breath at the henchmen carrying heavy crates from the ship that had just docked—a rusty freighter with no visible flag, spewing out containers full of sealed plastic packages and ammunition boxes that jingled like deathly bells.
He was furious. Very furious. His business had been bleeding for months—Batman, Robin, even us on the underground patrols, even the other smaller vigilantes in the city were closing in. Territory lost, shipments intercepted, money evaporating. His paranoia had reached the point where he only trusted thirty hand-picked men. And even then, he was there, waiting for a shipment worth millions, because he desperately needed to catch his breath.
"He's on the edge," I murmured into the helmet's internal communicator, my voice low enough not to be picked up by the wind. "Paranoid, but desperate. That makes him dangerous, but also predictable. He won't get away easily."
Artemis responded with a low grunt. "Then let's give him what he wants: a fight. Plan?"
I had already thought about this during the descent. "I enter from behind, disorienting them with the smoke grenade. It spins when launched, spreading gas over a wide radius. It has a diluted toxin that I synthesized—based on the Scarecrow, but weak. It disorients for a few hours, without permanent damage. I tested it on rats, it works. You provide support from above: arrows to take down those who remain standing. Prioritize those heavily armed."
She nodded, nocking an arrow onto the bow with a fluid motion. "Understood. Let's go."
I moved first—full camouflage mode activated, the suit merging with the shadows as if I were made of liquid night. The fabric absorbed light, reflecting nothing, making me an almost invisible ghost. I flanked the group from the side, leaping from container to container with silent jumps, the magnetically gripping boots sticking to the rusty metal for fractions of a second to propel myself forward.
The henchmen were focused on loading: crates being lifted by manual winches, filled with sealed plastic packages of crystal drugs and clinking ammunition boxes. Black Mask paced back and forth, cursing: "Hurry up, you idiots! The damn bats could show up at any moment. And if it's that fire kid again, I want his head!"
I smiled beneath my visor—they still saw me as the "fire kid" from the Zsasz incident. Forge was new, anonymous, and I intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.
I positioned myself behind a tall container, pulled the grenade from my belt—a compact cylinder I'd designed in the basement, with an internal impact-activated spinning mechanism—and threw it. It rolled on the ground, activating with a click, and began spinning at high speed like a crazed top, spreading gray gas over a wide radius. The smell was subtle—chemical smoke mixed with diluted toxin—but the effects were immediate: the nearest henchmen coughed, eyes glazed, beginning to hallucinate vague shapes in the shadows.
"What the hell is this?!" one shouted, turning the gun towards nothing.
Black Mask yelled: "Damn those masked men! Intruders! Kill them!"
The henchmen went on alert, rifles raised, but the gas was already disorienting them: visions of giant bats, creeping shadows. One of them fired into the air, thinking he saw something. Artemis took advantage—an arrow cut through the air, hitting a henchman in the shoulder, the tip of freezing gel immobilizing his arm in a block of non-lethal ice. He fell screaming, rifle on the ground.
I plunged into the chaos—leaping from the top of the container and landing on the nearest one: a kick to the head with the reinforced sole of my boot, the impact echoing like a cracked bell. He passed out instantly, his limp body collapsing onto the concrete. The others turned—the remaining 29, opening fire on me as if I were the devil incarnate. 9mm and 5.56mm bullets rained down: I raised my shield, the repulsor activated, pulsing, reflecting an entire burst back at the shooters. Two fell with their own bullets in their shoulder and leg, screaming in pain. The suit withstood the rest—impacts absorbed like light punches, the transmuted Kevlar dissipating kinetic energy without perforations. I couldn't care less about the lead—the Cloak was a walking fortress, and I advanced like a dark tank.
Artemis launched a flash arrow—the tip exploded in blinding white light, disorienting ten more henchmen who blinked, their eyes watering. I seized the opportunity: I threw my shield—perfect rotation, ricocheting off two enemies, shattering the first's rifle with a metallic clang and hitting the second's arm, bone cracking like a dry branch. The shield returned to my hand like a loyal boomerang. I approached the two: quick combo—right cross to the first's chin, jaw grinding, him falling backward; knee to the second's head, taking advantage of his being bent over in pain, the impact knocking him out with a dull thud.
Two down by me, two more by Artemis—arrows of expanding foam pinning them to the ground like flies to a web. Twenty-six remained. The henchmen yelled, "Let's run, Mask!" But Black Mask roared back, "Run my ass! I want the heads of these bastards! Kill them or I'll kill you!"
They obeyed—either fight me or die at the boss's hands. A burst of gunfire came from a mounted machine gun: I raised my shield, repulsor at maximum, reflecting the bullets back—three henchmen fell, hit, screaming with wounds to their legs and arms. I lunged at the sniper: grappling hook fired at the crane's ceiling above, pulling me up like a pendulum, landing on him with a downward kick to the shoulder—broken collarbone, he dropped his weapon screaming. I rolled to the side, shield deflecting shots from the side, and threw the disc again—ricochet off a henchman (broken his rifle), returning to me as I knocked out another with an uppercut to the stomach, folding him in half.
Artemis took down three more: an electromagnetic arrow fried the weapons of two, another tracking arrow with sedative hit the third in the neck—he fell drooling, eyes glazed. Twenty remained. The grenade gas still lingered, mixed with the diluted toxin—weak, as I had synthesized, to last only hours without serious damage. Some henchmen hallucinated: one fired into empty air, shouting "Bats!"; another cowered, murmuring about living shadows. I didn't care—they were criminals, perfect test subjects. Fuck their safety; I tested and moved on.
A group of five formed in front of me, rifles spitting lead. I defended with my shield—repulsor reflecting, bullets bouncing back and hitting two in the chest (vests absorbed the bullets, but knocked them down coughing). I advanced into the middle: shield hitting the third's knee, shattering his kneecap with a wet crack; cross to the fourth's chin, jaw grinding; knee to the fifth's stomach, doubling him over and finishing with a downward punch to the back of the neck. Five down by me—my total: 10. Artemis caught two more with gel arrows, freezing them in place. Thirteen remained.
Black Mask, in the center, watched the chaos unfold. "Damn vigilantes! You think you can stop me? I am the king of this city!" He opened fire with his customized pistol—a .45 caliber, tracer bullets cutting through the air like red lasers. I raised my shield, absorbing the shots—the suit vibrating with the impacts, but holding firm. I approached, zigzagging between henchmen: one tried to flank me—shield thrown, ricocheting off his arm and breaking his elbow; another fired at close range—suit absorbed, I responded with a hook to the chin, knockout. Two more down by me—total 12. Artemis took down three with low-lethality explosive arrows—flash and sound disorienting, sedative arrows finishing them off. Eight remained.
The last remaining henchmen formed a semicircle around Mask, rifles trembling in their hands. "Let's go, boss!" one shouted, his voice trembling.
"Run away? I'll kill you first!" Mask yelled, his eyes red with fury behind the white mask, his mouth foaming like a rabid dog. He fired relentlessly, cursing: "Damn new masked man! What do you think you are? A hero? I'll gut you!"
I ignored it—silence was my answer. I threw the shield again—it ricocheted off two, shattering rifles and arms; I snapped back as I lunged at the third: combo—cross to the chin, knee to the ribs, breaking bones with dry cracks. He fell groaning. Three more for me—15 total. Artemis caught two with net arrows—entangling them in the ground. Three remained.
The last henchmen tried to escape—Black Mask shot one in the back, yelling "Cowards!", but Artemis took them down with gel arrows, freezing them in place. I approached the Mask—he opened fire again, bullets ricocheting off my suit, absorbed as if they were stones. He cursed, eyes bloodshot, mouth foaming with hatred: "You bastard! I'll kill you! Gotham is mine!"
I got close—shield defending against the last shot—and I smashed through him: first, I broke his right arm with a precise punch to the elbow, the bone cracking like a dry branch; then, his left with a knee to the shoulder. He screamed, falling to his knees. I finished him off: a kick to the left leg, breaking the tibia; another to the right, cracking the fibula. He collapsed, his body destroyed, alive but immobilized, his red eyes fixed on me with pure hatred, his mouth foaming without coherent words.
I called the GCPD via the radio integrated into my helmet — encrypted channel: "Shipment intercepted at the east dock. Black Mask neutralized, 30 henchmen down. Send reinforcements."
Mission accomplished. I looked at Artemis in the container above—she nodded, bow still in hand. We had thwarted the operation, and Gotham would sleep a little safer that night.
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