Chapter Text
The Grand Hall of Reconciliation stood as a monument to optimism, a structure built in the neutral zone between Markovia and Vlatava with the express purpose of preventing the very conflict that now seemed inevitable. The building itself was a masterwork of modern architecture fused with classical European sensibilities. Soaring ceilings stretched forty feet overhead, supported by marble columns that had been quarried from the Carpathian Mountains, each one carved with intricate reliefs depicting scenes of peace, prosperity, and cooperation between nations. The columns were a pale cream color, veined with gold that caught the light from the massive crystal chandeliers suspended above. These chandeliers, twelve in total, were each the size of a compact car, dripping with thousands of individual crystals that refracted the light into dancing rainbows across every surface.
The walls were paneled in rich mahogany, polished to a mirror shine, and between each panel hung portraits of previous diplomatic successes, peace treaties signed, wars averted, all framed in gilt that matched the veining in the marble. The floor was an elaborate mosaic of colored marble, depicting a map of Europe with Markovia and Vlatava highlighted in their respective national colors, deep crimson for Markovia and royal blue for Vlatava, the two colors meeting at a border rendered in white marble, symbolizing the peace that was supposed to exist between them.
At the far end of the hall, enormous windows stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside, rolling hills covered in late autumn foliage, the leaves a riot of orange, red, and gold. The windows were fitted with bulletproof glass, a concession to modern security concerns, though they were designed to be as unobtrusive as possible, the frames slim and elegant. Heavy velvet curtains in deep burgundy were pulled back and held with golden cords as thick as a man's wrist, allowing the afternoon sunlight to stream in, creating dramatic shafts of light that cut through the air, making visible every mote of dust that dared to float in this sacred space of diplomacy.
The conference table itself was a work of art, a massive oval of polished ebony that could seat thirty people comfortably. It had been custom-made for this hall, transported in pieces and assembled on-site because it was too large to fit through any door. The wood was so dark it was almost black, and so highly polished that it reflected the faces of those seated around it like a dark mirror. Inlaid into the surface were the seals of both nations, rendered in mother-of-pearl and precious metals, positioned so that the monarchs would sit with their national symbols directly before them.
Around the table sat the delegations, though most of the seats were empty, this meeting having been stripped down to its essential participants due to the sensitivity of the discussions. Security personnel lined the walls, stone-faced men and women in dark suits with earpieces, their eyes constantly scanning for threats. But the real security, the security that mattered, stood on a raised platform behind the table, elevated just enough to give them a clear view of the entire hall.
Wonder Woman stood with the bearing of a warrior goddess, which was precisely what she was. Her armor gleamed in the light from the chandeliers, the red and gold catching the illumination and seeming to glow with an inner fire. Her dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and her blue eyes, sharp and alert, missed nothing. She stood perfectly still, but there was a coiled tension in her posture, like a spring compressed and ready to release. Her hands rested loosely at her sides, but everyone in the room knew she could move faster than the eye could follow, could strike with enough force to shatter steel, could defend against threats that would overwhelm entire armies.
Beside her, Hawk-Woman presented a different kind of intimidation. Where Wonder Woman was classical beauty and controlled power, Hawk-Woman was fierce and predatory. Her wings, massive constructs of Nth metal feathers, were folded against her back, but even folded they added to her imposing presence, making her appear larger, more threatening. Her red hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face, the intensity of her green eyes. She held her mace loosely in one hand, the ancient weapon humming with barely contained energy, the Nth metal it was forged from resonating at a frequency just below human hearing, a subsonic threat that made everyone in the room vaguely uneasy without quite knowing why.
The two heroines were not here by accident. The Justice League had been asked to provide security for this meeting precisely because the situation had deteriorated to the point where neither nation trusted the other's guards. Only neutral parties, and parties powerful enough to enforce that neutrality, would suffice.
At the table, King Gregor Markov IV of Markovia sat with his hands folded before him, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. He was a man in his late fifties, with iron-gray hair swept back from a high forehead, a strong jaw, and eyes the color of storm clouds. He wore a military-style uniform, deep crimson with gold braid and medals that represented a lifetime of service to his nation, first as a soldier, then as a leader. His posture was rigid, his shoulders squared, every inch of him radiating authority and anger.
Across from him sat Count Vertigo, the ruler of Vlatava, though his claim to that title was disputed by some. He was younger than Gregor, perhaps in his early forties, with sharp, aristocratic features and cold blue eyes that seemed to calculate the value of everything they looked upon. His hair was dark, touched with silver at the temples, styled in a way that suggested careful attention without vanity. He wore a suit rather than a uniform, charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes, a deep blue tie that matched his nation's colors, and a single pin on his lapel, the seal of Vlatava rendered in platinum and sapphires. Where Gregor projected military strength, Vertigo projected cunning and sophistication, but there was steel beneath that polished exterior, a ruthlessness that had allowed him to seize and hold power in a nation torn by internal strife.
Between them sat the mediator, Ambassador Chen of the United Nations, a small, elderly woman with silver hair pulled back in a bun, wearing a simple gray suit. She had been chosen for her reputation as a skilled negotiator, someone who had successfully mediated conflicts in three different continents. But even her considerable skills were being tested by the situation before her.
The cameras were everywhere. This meeting was being broadcast live to both nations, a decision that had been controversial but ultimately deemed necessary. The people of both Markovia and Vlatava needed to see their leaders attempting to resolve this crisis peacefully. The cameras were mounted on robotic arms that moved silently along tracks installed in the walls and ceiling, controlled by technicians in a separate room, capturing every angle, every expression, every gesture. Additional cameras were positioned at fixed points around the hall, ensuring complete coverage. The feeds were being transmitted to every television station, every news network, every streaming service in both nations. Millions of people were watching, holding their breath, hoping for peace but fearing war.
Ambassador Chen cleared her throat, the sound amplified by the microphones embedded in the table. "Gentlemen, we have been at this for three hours. Perhaps we could take a moment to review what we have established so far."
King Gregor's jaw tightened. "What we have established, Ambassador, is that Count Vertigo continues to deny the undeniable. His government is running a meta-human trafficking operation that is abducting Markovian citizens, subjecting them to forced genetic activation, and selling them to the highest bidder. We have provided evidence. We have provided testimony. We have provided documentation. And still, he sits there and lies."
Vertigo's expression didn't change, but his eyes grew colder. "Your Majesty continues to make accusations based on fabricated evidence and the testimony of criminals seeking to avoid prosecution in Markovia. The so-called documentation has been examined by independent experts who have found it to be, at best, circumstantial, and at worst, deliberately falsified."
"Falsified?" Gregor's voice rose, his control slipping. "We have satellite imagery of the facility. We have intercepted communications. We have rescued victims who bear the scars of your experiments."
"You have satellite imagery of a pharmaceutical research facility that operates with full transparency and international oversight," Vertigo countered, his voice maddeningly calm.
"You have intercepted communications that, when examined in full context rather than the carefully edited versions you have released, clearly refer to legitimate medical research. And you have individuals who were criminals in your nation, who fled to Vlatava seeking asylum, and who you then kidnapped in violation of international law."
The muscles in Gregor's neck stood out like cords. "We did not kidnap anyone. We conducted a rescue operation."
"You violated our sovereignty. You sent military forces across our border without permission or notification. That, Your Majesty, is an act of war."
"What you are doing to our people is an act of war!" Gregor slammed his hand on the table, the sound echoing through the hall like a gunshot. Several of the security personnel along the walls tensed, hands moving toward weapons before they caught themselves. On the platform, Wonder Woman shifted slightly, her weight moving forward onto the balls of her feet, ready to intervene if necessary.
Ambassador Chen raised her hands in a placating gesture. "Gentlemen, please. This is exactly the kind of escalation we are here to prevent. Your Majesty," she turned to Gregor, "I understand your frustration, but we must maintain decorum. Count Vertigo," she turned to the Vlatavan ruler, "perhaps you could address the specific evidence that Markovia has presented regarding the facility in question."
Vertigo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Very well. The facility that Markovia has fixated upon is the Vlatavan Institute for Genetic Medicine. It is a research hospital that specializes in treating genetic disorders. Yes, it conducts research into meta-human genetics, but this research is aimed at understanding and curing genetic diseases, not creating meta-humans for sale. The institute operates under the supervision of the International Medical Ethics Board. It undergoes regular inspections. Its research is published in peer-reviewed journals. It is, in every way, a legitimate medical facility."
"Then why," Gregor leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl, "did we find twenty-three Markovian citizens imprisoned in its sub-levels? Citizens who had been reported missing over the past eighteen months? Citizens who had been subjected to forced activation of latent meta-genes?"
"You found twenty-three Vlatavan citizens who had emigrated from Markovia, some of them years ago, who were receiving treatment for genetic conditions at a medical facility. The fact that some of them manifested meta-human abilities during treatment is not evidence of forced activation. Meta-gene activation can occur spontaneously, triggered by stress, illness, or medical procedures. This is well-documented in the scientific literature."
"They were in cells. They were restrained. They bore signs of torture."
"They were in secure medical rooms, necessary when treating patients who have recently manifested dangerous abilities and do not yet have control over them. They were restrained for their own safety and the safety of the medical staff. And the injuries you characterize as torture were the result of their own powers manifesting uncontrollably, something that, again, is well-documented in cases of spontaneous meta-gene activation."
Gregor's face had gone red. "You are a liar. You are a criminal. And you are using semantics and bureaucratic cover to hide atrocities."
Vertigo's calm finally cracked, just slightly, a flash of anger crossing his face. "And you, Your Majesty, are a warmonger looking for an excuse to invade my nation. Markovia has coveted Vlatava's resources for generations. The mineral deposits in our northern territories, the agricultural capacity of our river valleys, the strategic position of our ports. You want what we have, and you are manufacturing a crisis to justify taking it."
"We want nothing from you except the return of our citizens and an end to your crimes!"
"Your citizens left Markovia voluntarily, fleeing your oppressive regime. They sought asylum in Vlatava, and we granted it. We will not return them to face your show trials and executions."
"Oppressive regime?" Gregor stood, his chair scraping back across the marble floor with a screech that made everyone in the room wince. "I have built Markovia into a beacon of democracy in Eastern Europe. We have free elections, a free press, an independent judiciary. While you seized power in a coup and rule as a dictator."
Vertigo stood as well, his movements controlled and deliberate. "I restored order to a nation that was tearing itself apart in civil war. I brought stability where there was chaos. And yes, I rule with a firm hand, because that is what Vlatava needs. But I do not pretend to be something I am not. I do not hide behind the facade of democracy while running a police state."
"Gentlemen!" Ambassador Chen was on her feet now as well, her voice sharp. "This is not productive. We are here to find a peaceful resolution, not to trade insults."
Both men remained standing, glaring at each other across the table. The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on. The cameras continued to roll, capturing every moment, broadcasting this confrontation to millions of viewers who were watching their leaders bring them closer to war with every word.
On the platform, Wonder Woman exchanged a glance with Hawk-Woman. Both heroines were thinking the same thing: this meeting was failing. The two leaders were too entrenched in their positions, too angry, too convinced of their own righteousness. Unless something changed dramatically, this conference would end with both sides more committed to conflict than they had been when it started.
Ambassador Chen tried again. "Perhaps we could focus on concrete steps. Your Majesty," she addressed Gregor, "what would Markovia need to see from Vlatava to de-escalate this situation?"
Gregor took a deep breath, visibly trying to control his temper. "We need access to the facility. Full access, not a guided tour. We need to interview the individuals being held there, without Vlatavan officials present. We need a full accounting of all Markovian citizens currently in Vlatava, their status, and their location. And we need assurances, backed by international monitoring, that the meta-human trafficking operation will cease immediately."
Vertigo laughed, a short, bitter sound. "You want us to allow Markovian military intelligence to tour one of our most sensitive research facilities. You want us to allow you to interrogate our citizens without supervision. You want us to provide you with a complete list of everyone from Markovia currently in our nation, essentially creating a target list for your agents. And you want us to shut down a legitimate medical research program based on your unfounded accusations. Is there anything else? Perhaps you would like the keys to our treasury as well?"
"We are not asking for anything unreasonable. These are standard transparency measures."
"These are the demands of a conqueror, not a negotiating partner."
"Then what do you propose?" Gregor's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "What would Vlatava accept?"
Vertigo's eyes narrowed. "Markovia will formally apologize for the violation of our sovereignty. You will withdraw all military forces from within fifty kilometers of our border. You will cease all intelligence operations within Vlatava. You will extradite the individuals responsible for planning and executing the raid on our medical facility to face trial in Vlatava. And you will pay reparations for the damage caused and the lives lost during your illegal incursion."
"You cannot be serious."
"I am entirely serious. You violated our sovereignty. You killed Vlatavan citizens. You destroyed property. There must be consequences."
"The only individuals who died in that operation were armed guards who fired upon our rescue team. Guards who were protecting a facility where our citizens were being held against their will and tortured."
"Your version of events. Not supported by the evidence."
"Your version of the evidence. Carefully curated to hide your crimes."
They were going in circles, the same arguments repeated with slight variations, the anger building with each iteration. Ambassador Chen looked exhausted, her age showing in the lines around her eyes, the slump of her shoulders. She had mediated many conflicts, but this one was different. Both sides were convinced not just that they were right, but that the other side was fundamentally evil. There was no common ground to build on, no shared understanding of basic facts.
The afternoon sun had shifted, the light coming through the windows at a lower angle now, casting longer shadows across the floor. The mosaic map of Europe was half in light, half in shadow, the border between Markovia and Vlatava falling exactly along the line where light met dark. It was almost too perfect, too symbolic, as if the universe itself was commenting on the situation.
King Gregor sat back down, his movements heavy with frustration. "This is pointless. You have no intention of negotiating in good faith."
Vertigo remained standing for a moment longer, then slowly lowered himself back into his chair. "I could say the same of you, Your Majesty. You came here with demands, not proposals. You came here to issue an ultimatum, not to find a compromise."
"Because there can be no compromise with what you are doing. You are trafficking in human beings. You are creating meta-humans against their will and selling them as weapons. This is not a policy disagreement. This is not a border dispute. This is a crime against humanity."
"And if I were doing what you accuse me of, you would be right. But I am not. And your refusal to accept the evidence, your insistence on believing the worst despite all proof to the contrary, suggests that this is not really about meta-human trafficking at all. This is about something else. This is about old grudges, old territorial ambitions, old hatreds."
"Do not presume to tell me what this is about. I have met with the families of the victims. I have looked into the eyes of parents whose children were stolen. I have seen the scars, physical and psychological, borne by those who survived your experiments. I know exactly what this is about."
"You have met with families who have been fed lies by your intelligence services. You have seen individuals who have been coached on what to say, what scars to display. You have been manipulated, Your Majesty, by elements within your own government who want this war for their own purposes."
Gregor's hands clenched into fists on the table. "Now you accuse me of being a puppet? You go too far, Vertigo."
"I accuse you of being deceived. There is a difference."
"The only deception here is yours."
The argument continued, the same points raised and rebutted, the same accusations hurled and denied. The cameras captured it all, the anger, the frustration, the complete inability of these two leaders to find any path forward. In living rooms and bars across Markovia and Vlatava, people watched with growing despair, realizing that war was not just possible but probable, perhaps inevitable.
On the platform, Wonder Woman felt a growing sense of unease. Something was wrong. She could not put her finger on it, but her instincts, honed by centuries of combat, were screaming at her. She scanned the room again, her eyes moving over every security guard, every camera, every shadow. Hawk-Woman had noticed her tension and was now on higher alert as well, her grip tightening on her mace.
The shadows in the room had grown longer as the sun continued its descent. The light from the chandeliers seemed dimmer somehow, or perhaps it was just that the shadows seemed darker. Beneath the conference table, in the space where the ebony wood blocked the light, the darkness was absolute, a pool of black that seemed deeper than it should be.
And it was moving.
It was subtle at first, just a slight shifting, like water disturbed by a pebble. But then it began to stretch, to extend, reaching out from under the table like a living thing. None of the people seated at the table noticed, their attention focused on each other, on the argument, on the cameras. The security personnel along the walls did not see it, their eyes trained on the principals, watching for threats from the expected directions.
But Wonder Woman saw it. Her eyes widened slightly, her body tensing. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, already moving, already launching herself from the platform.
She was too late.
The shadow bulged upward, rising from the floor like a bubble of darkness, and from it emerged a figure. He came up fast, exploding from the shadow in a smooth, practiced motion that spoke of countless repetitions, countless entries and exits through this impossible medium. He was young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with a lean, muscular build that was evident even through his clothing. His hair was black and spiky, defying gravity in a way that seemed almost deliberate, styled or perhaps naturally chaotic. His face was angular, handsome in a sharp, dangerous way, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. But it was his eyes that were most striking, a deep green that seemed to glow slightly in the light, cold and calculating, the eyes of someone much older than his apparent age.
He wore a black compression shirt that clung to his torso like a second skin, showing every line of muscle, every contour of his athletic build. The shirt had no visible seams or tags, as if it had been custom-made or perhaps created through some other means. His trousers were white, fitted but allowing freedom of movement, tucked into black boots that made no sound as he moved. Around his waist was a simple black belt, and from it hung several small pouches.
He moved with a speed and precision that was almost supernatural. In the half-second it took for Wonder Woman to cross half the distance from the platform to the table, in the fraction of a moment before anyone else in the room could even process what was happening, he was on King Gregor.
His left hand shot out, fingers spread, and clamped onto the king's face like a vice. Gregor's eyes went wide with shock and terror, his hands coming up instinctively to grab the boy's wrist, but he might as well have been trying to move a steel beam. The boy's grip was immovable, his fingers digging into Gregor's cheeks and jaw with enough force to bruise, to crack bone.
In his right hand, the boy held a knife. It had not been there a moment before, or perhaps it had been hidden in one of the pouches, drawn so quickly that the eye could not follow. The blade was black, not painted or coated but seemingly forged from some dark metal that drank in the light rather than reflecting it. It was perhaps eight inches long, single-edged, with a slight curve to the blade and a wicked point. The handle was wrapped in black cord, and the boy's grip on it was relaxed.
Time seemed to slow, each moment stretching out, becoming an eternity. The cameras continued to roll, capturing everything in high definition, broadcasting it to millions of horrified viewers. Ambassador Chen was rising from her chair, her mouth open in a scream that had not yet found voice. Count Vertigo was frozen, his face a mask of shock. The security personnel were reaching for weapons, but they were too slow, far too slow.
Wonder Woman was in mid-air, her fist drawn back, her face set in grim determination. But even she, with all her speed, with all her power, was not going to reach them in time.
The boy drove the knife into King Gregor's throat.
The blade punched through skin and muscle with almost no resistance, the point emerging from the back of Gregor's neck in a spray of blood. The boy did not stop there. With a savage twist of his wrist, he dragged the knife sideways, opening Gregor's throat in a gaping wound that stretched from one side of his neck to the other. Blood erupted from the wound, not spurting but gushing, a torrent of crimson that sprayed across the table, across Vertigo, across the boy himself.
Gregor's hands fell away from the boy's wrist, his strength leaving him in an instant. His eyes, wide with shock and terror, began to glaze over. His mouth worked, trying to form words, but all that came out was a wet, gurgling sound as blood filled his throat and lungs.
The boy was not finished. He released Gregor's face and grabbed the king's hair with his left hand, yanking the dying man's head back, exposing the ruined throat even more. With his right hand, he drove the knife in again, this time angling upward, punching through the soft tissue under Gregor's jaw, through his tongue, through the roof of his mouth, the point of the blade emerging just below his right eye.
Gregor's body convulsed, his legs kicking out, his arms flailing weakly. Blood poured from his throat, from his mouth, from the new wound in his face. It pooled on the table, ran off the edges in streams, splattered on the floor. The boy held him there, suspended in that moment of agony, and then he twisted the knife again, stirring it inside Gregor's skull, scrambling his brain, ensuring that there would be no chance of survival, no possibility of some meta-human healer or advanced medical technology saving him.
King Gregor Markov IV, ruler of Markovia, died on live television, his blood painting the conference table, his final moments captured in excruciating detail by a dozen cameras from a dozen angles.
The boy released him, and Gregor's body slumped forward, his face hitting the table with a wet thud, more blood spreading out from beneath him. The knife remained buried in his skull, the black blade now slick with red.
And then the boy did something that would be replayed on news broadcasts for days, something that would become iconic in its audacity. He straightened up, standing over Gregor's corpse, and he spread his arms wide, turning slowly to face the cameras. His face was expressionless, cold, but there was something in his eyes, a glint of satisfaction, of pride in a job well done. Blood covered him, soaked his shirt, dripped from his hands, spattered his face
He held that pose for perhaps two seconds, long enough for every camera to capture it, long enough for the image to be seared into the minds of everyone watching. And then he moved again.
Wonder Woman's fist was descending, aimed at the spot where the boy stood. She had put everything into this punch, all her strength, all her speed, all her fury at having failed to prevent this atrocity. The air itself seemed to compress before her fist, a visible distortion, a shockwave building.
But the boy was already gone, dropping straight down, sinking into his own shadow as if it were a pool of water. He vanished in an instant, there one moment and gone the next, leaving only the spreading pool of blood as evidence he had ever been there.
Wonder Woman's fist hit the floor where he had been standing.
The impact was cataclysmic. The marble floor, that beautiful mosaic that had taken artisans months to create, shattered. Not cracked, not chipped, but shattered, exploding outward in a circle twenty feet in diameter. Chunks of marble, some as large as a man's head, were launched into the air by the force of the impact. The ebony conference table, that massive piece of furniture that had been too large to fit through any door, was lifted off the floor by the shockwave, flipping end over end before crashing down on its side.
The shockwave continued outward, a visible ripple in the air. Windows cracked, some of them shattering despite being bulletproof. The chandeliers swayed violently, crystals breaking free and raining down like glittering hail. The portraits on the walls fell, their frames breaking, glass scattering. The security personnel were knocked off their feet, thrown backward by the force of the blast.
A crater had formed where Wonder Woman's fist had struck, perhaps three feet deep and perfectly circular, the edges of it glowing faintly from the heat generated by the impact. Cracks radiated outward from the crater, spiderwebbing across the floor, climbing the walls, reaching the ceiling. Dust filled the air, making it hard to see, hard to breathe.
Wonder Woman stood in the center of the destruction, her fist still buried in the crater, her face twisted in frustration and rage. She had been too slow. Despite all her power, despite all her speed, she had been too slow. A man had been murdered right in front of her, on her watch, and she had failed to prevent it.
Hawk-Woman landed beside her, her wings stirring up more dust. "Diana," she said, her voice tight with controlled anger, "he went into the shadows. Some kind of teleportation or phasing ability."
Wonder Woman pulled her fist from the crater and straightened up. "Find him," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "I do not care what it takes. Find him."
Around them, chaos reigned. Ambassador Chen was being helped to her feet by one of the security personnel, her face pale with shock. Count Vertigo had been thrown clear when the table flipped, and he was now sitting on the floor, covered in King Gregor's blood, staring at the corpse with an expression of absolute horror. The security personnel were shouting into their radios, calling for backup, for medical assistance, for someone to make sense of what had just happened.
But it was too late for medical assistance. King Gregor Markov IV was dead, murdered in front of the world, and the fragile peace between Markovia and Vlatava had died with him.
The rooftop was six blocks away from the Grand Hall of Reconciliation, a nondescript building that housed offices for various small businesses, accountants and lawyers and insurance agents. It was five stories tall, unremarkable in every way, the kind of building that people passed every day without really seeing. The roof was flat, covered in tar paper and gravel, with a few ventilation units and a small structure that housed the stairwell access.
The boy sat on the edge of the roof, his legs dangling over the side, his back against the low wall that ran around the perimeter. He was covered in blood, absolutely drenched in it. His black shirt was now more red than black, the fabric heavy with it. His white trousers were ruined, stained crimson from waist to knee. His hands were red, blood caked under his fingernails, in the lines of his palms. His face was spattered with it, droplets across his cheeks and forehead, a smear across his jaw where he had wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
He did not seem bothered by it. He sat calmly, his breathing steady, his expression neutral. He had done this before, many times. The blood would wash off. The clothes could be burned. The memory of King Gregor's eyes, wide with terror and incomprehension in his final moments, would fade eventually, joining all the other memories of all the other targets.
In the distance, he could see the Grand Hall, could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles beginning to arrive. Police cars, their sirens wailing. SWAT vans, heavily armored. Ambulances, though they would find no one to save. News vans, their satellite dishes extending, reporters scrambling to get as close as possible, to capture every detail of the aftermath.
Too late. All of them too late.
He reached into one of the pouches on his belt and pulled out a small device, about the size of a deck of cards, black and featureless except for a single button on the top. He pressed the button and set the device on the roof in front of him.
There was a moment of silence, and then the device hummed to life. A holographic projection appeared above it, a figure rendered in white light against the darkening sky. The figure was humanoid in shape but lacked any real detail, just an outline, a silhouette. Where the head should be was a smooth, featureless oval, glowing white.
The figure stood motionless, waiting. It had learned, over the course of their professional relationship, that the boy preferred to speak first, to control the flow of conversation. It was a small thing, a minor concession, but it helped maintain the illusion that the boy was in control, that he was the one calling the shots.
The boy let the silence stretch out for a few seconds, watching the emergency vehicles in the distance, then said, "Okay. Job's done."
The figure's voice was distorted, run through some kind of filter that made it impossible to determine gender, age, or accent. It was a voice that could have belonged to anyone, which was precisely the point. "Marvellous," the figure said, and there was genuine satisfaction in the tone. "The money will be deposited into your account within the hour. As always, it has been a pleasure doing business with you."
Another silence. The boy knew what was coming next. It was the same every time.
"You're welcome to still work with us," the figure continued. "You're quite capable. Are you sure you don't want another assignment? I can assure you that we—"
"I'll pass," the boy interrupted, his voice flat.
The figure sighed, and the sound was exaggerated, theatrical, almost sassy. The boy's eyebrows twitched in annoyance. He hated when the figure did that, hated the performative nature of it, the way it tried to inject personality into what should be a purely professional interaction.
"The light will always welcome you, Megumi," the figure said, using his name for the first time in the conversation.
Megumi's jaw tightened. He did not like the figure using his name. It felt too familiar, too personal. This was business, nothing more.
Before he could respond, before he could reach out and shut off the transmitter, the figure spoke again, its tone shifting to something playful, teasing. "Oh, and Megumi dear, do try and not throw your hard-earned money on race horses again, will you?"
Megumi's eye twitched. His teeth ground together, the muscles in his jaw standing out. "That was one time," he said, his voice tight with irritation. "One singular time."
The figure started to laugh, a sound that was distorted by the filter, cutting in and out, glitching. It was an unpleasant sound, artificial and grating.
Megumi had heard enough. His hand shot out, grabbing the transmitter, and he crushed it in his fist. The holographic figure cut out mid-laugh, vanishing as the device crumpled, its internal components shattering. Megumi opened his hand and let the broken pieces fall to the roof, scattering among the gravel.
He sat there for a moment, breathing slowly, forcing his irritation down. It did not matter. The figure was just a voice, just a client. The money would be deposited, and that was all that mattered.
He stood up, his muscles protesting slightly. The job had been quick, but it had required intense focus, precise timing. He was not tired, exactly, but he was ready to be done, ready to leave this place behind.
He looked down at himself, at the blood covering him, and grimaced. He needed a shower. Badly. He could feel the blood drying on his skin, tightening, itching. He could smell it, that distinctive copper scent mixed with something else, something organic and unpleasant. He imagined the shower, imagined standing under hot water, watching the blood swirl down the drain, washing away the evidence of what he had done. He imagined the feeling of being clean again, of putting on fresh clothes, of being just another anonymous face in the crowd.
He looked back toward the Grand Hall. More vehicles were arriving now, a steady stream of them. He could see figures moving around, could imagine the chaos, the confusion, the horror. They would be trying to figure out what had happened, how someone had gotten past their security, past Wonder Woman and Hawk-Woman. They would be reviewing the camera footage, analyzing every frame, looking for clues.
They would not find much. He had been careful. He had left no fingerprints, no DNA, nothing that could be traced back to him. The knife was still buried in King Gregor's skull, but it was a generic weapon, untraceable, purchased with cash from a black-market dealer who was now dead. The shadows he had used to enter and exit left no trace, no residue, nothing that their forensic teams could analyze.
He turned away from the edge of the roof, preparing to leave, to sink back into the shadows and make his way to his safe house, to that shower he was craving.
And then a hand clamped onto his face.
It was so sudden, so unexpected, that for a fraction of a second Megumi's mind went blank with shock. No one snuck up on him. No one. His senses were too sharp, his awareness too complete. He could feel the presence of living things around him, could sense their shadows, their connection to the darkness he manipulated.
But he had not sensed this.
The hand was strong, inhumanly strong, fingers digging into his cheeks and jaw with enough force to make his bones creak. And then he was moving, lifted off his feet and thrown.
The world blurred. He had a confused impression of sky and buildings spinning, and then he was falling, plummeting toward the street below. Five stories. Fifty feet. Enough to kill a normal person, to turn them into a broken mess of shattered bones and ruptured organs.
Megumi was not a normal person.
Even as he fell, even with his mind reeling from the shock of the attack, his training kicked in. His hands moved in a rapid series of gestures, fingers forming shapes, channeling his cursed energy. Shadows erupted from his body, wrapping around him, hardening, forming a protective shell.
He hit the street like a meteor.
The impact was tremendous. The asphalt cracked, a spiderweb of fractures spreading out from the point of impact. A car parked nearby had its windows blown out by the shockwave, its alarm starting to wail. Dust and debris filled the air.
But Megumi was alive. The shadows had absorbed most of the impact, distributing the force across his entire body rather than letting it concentrate at a single point. He had still felt it, though. Oh, he had felt it. It was like being hit by a truck, every bone in his body jarring, his teeth clacking together, his vision going white for a moment.
He lay in the crater he had created, his shadow armor dissipating, and took stock. Nothing broken, he thought. Bruised, definitely. Possibly a concussion starting to build, his head throbbing, his thoughts slightly fuzzy. But nothing broken.
He opened his eyes and looked up.
Wonder Woman floated above him, perhaps twenty feet in the air. Her hair, which had been perfectly styled at the conference, was now disheveled, strands hanging loose around her face. Her neck veins were bulging, standing out like cords, pulsing with each beat of her heart. Her teeth were clenched so hard that he could see the muscles in her jaw working, could see the tendons standing out. Her eyes, those blue eyes that had seemed so calm and controlled at the conference, now burned with fury.
She looked like she wanted to tear him apart with her bare hands. And she probably could.
Beside her, also floating, was Hawk-Woman. She looked calmer, more controlled, but her body language told a different story. Her wings were spread wide, the Nth metal feathers gleaming in the fading light. Her hand gripped her mace so tightly that her knuckles were white, the skin stretched taut over the bones. The mace itself was humming, that subsonic frequency now audible, a low thrumming that Megumi could feel in his chest.
Megumi pushed himself up to a sitting position, wincing at the pain in his ribs, his back, his everything. He looked up at the two heroines, at their fury, at their power, and despite everything, despite the pain and the danger, he felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Seems I've made quite an impression."
Wonder Woman's eyes narrowed. Her hands clenched into fists. And then she moved, diving toward him like a missile, her fist drawn back, ready to drive him through the street and into the earth below.
Megumi's smile widened, just for a moment, and then he was moving too, his hands forming shapes, shadows rising around him, ready for the fight of his life.