Chapitre 40: Guest from the Heavens
With all these thoughts swirling in my head, I hadn't noticed when I removed the last bug planted in my apartment. Green Arrow's team had worked hard to place them everywhere they possibly could. The moment I leave the apartment, they'll probably reinstall everything, but this would be a minor inconvenience for them. In truth, I wasn't doing this out of sheer spite — I needed complete privacy.
A stream of hot air blew in from my balcony. A man in a specialized suit entered the room. Wings jutted out from his back, and in one hand, he held a flamethrower. Firefly — that's the name he'd chosen for himself. About nine years ago, I stopped him from blowing up an entire skyscraper. Because of me, he'd suffered horrific burns to his face and hands. Now, he wore a fully fireproof and armored suit. The flames bursting from his weapon could melt metal, they were that powerful. Pouches along the line of his belt contained incendiary grenades. I still vividly remember the aerial bombardment he unleashed once.
"Well, here you are," I greeted him. But why wouldn't he kill me right now? After all, I'd put him in Arkham for so long, and the wounds on his body were my doing. I couldn't help but think back to the day we first met. Though I wouldn't call that meeting pleasant. My body still remembers the pain.
Flashback
Standing on the pier, watching the waves, I struggled to suppress the trembling in my body. I had just become an accomplice to something I never wanted to be part of. No, that's a lie — I gave the order myself. It was so hard to say, just two words, yet they weighed so heavily. I wished they'd never passed my lips.
"Kill them," — that was the order I gave my men. And now, standing here on the pier where, just moments ago, two thieves hauling stolen client money had stood, I tried to convince myself it was for the greater good, that it wouldn't happen again. But still, I had commanded the deaths of two people and ordered their bodies thrown into the river.
I finally regained some composure. I couldn't show weakness in front of my people, or they might turn against me.
"We're leaving," I said.
We climbed into the car and drove away from the scene of the crime. This wasn't the first theft, but it was the first time I'd ordered someone killed. They had grown too bold, stealing a significant sum. For two years now, I've been immersed in the criminal underworld. I tried to keep my distance from the darkest aspects, minimizing contact with both crime bosses and their dealings, focusing solely on finances.
Besides the nickname "The Limp," they gave me a slightly mocking moniker: "Clean Hands," for obvious reasons. Not so clean anymore. Just as bloodstained as anyone else's.
The one thing that comforted me was that the documents were fuller than ever with crucial information, and my people had become a formidable force. My security agency now controlled key locations, expanding my influence. By doing so, I was weakening the gangs' hold and their extortion of businesses. When the law is on your side, and you have the means to crush this cancer, it brought me a sense of satisfaction.
Of course, murders happened, but they usually occurred out of my sight. Today, however, I had looked the dying straight in the eyes. One of them had a family, now left without a provider. The only thing I could do was transfer money to their account to ensure their needs were met.
The Salamanca network remained the primary problem. Their influence extended across numerous states, and their product reached all layers of society. "Blue Meth" was high-quality and incredibly addictive. While it didn't harm health as severely as some other substances, addiction was inevitable. I hadn't been able to locate the laboratory where their product was manufactured, but I had managed to compile a substantial database on the entire structure.
What I lacked was someone who could act on my leads and dismantle this network. Personally, I was tied up and under constant surveillance, as they were worried about their money despite my reputation. This person couldn't be just anyone; perhaps someone with superhuman abilities. But such individuals were rare, and my search had yielded no results.
I had heard rumors from Smallville about a man impervious to bullets and capable of flight. Unfortunately, I hadn't been able to make contact with him. All I had were a couple of photographs showing a silhouette flying through the night sky. Then there was Gotham — a city teeming with rumors and stories. Yet most of them were about psychopaths already locked away in Arkham.
One name remained: Deathstroke. A renowned mercenary who had fought in numerous wars. Truly a professional of the highest caliber, with prices to match. His starting fee for eliminating a target was half a million dollars, and the upper limit didn't exist. I hesitated to approach him. I didn't know him well enough. He could sell information to the gangs, and that would be the end of me.
Thus, I hit a wall of my own and others' limitations. Suppressing even one storage site would require almost an entire army. I'd seen firsthand how fortified these bunkers were, how many people guarded them, and the level of their weaponry. Not all their locations were so secure, but striking one fortified site would prompt the others to tighten their defenses immediately.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A sharp sense of unease gripped my chest, and as soon as it let go, my heart started pounding so fast it felt like it might leap out. Could it be an ambush? The armored car should withstand the initial hits. No, perhaps a bomb under the car? No, that didn't make sense — there wasn't any sign of it when I got in. Maybe a large vehicle, one capable of crushing me into a pulp? A quick glance around revealed nothing; I didn't see any truck barreling toward us at full speed.
"Something wrong, boss?" asked the bodyguard sitting in the front seat.
"Yes, stay alert. Someone wants me dead," I replied. There was no other explanation. Whenever I felt this kind of dread, it was always due to an imminent threat. My men already knew: if I was alarmed, it was never without reason.
We had only driven another block when I heard a strange sound, like a rocket flying nearby. Looking up, I saw a dark silhouette with wings spread wide. A moment later, spherical projectiles began falling from the sky.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The danger was overwhelming. Sitting back in my seat, I tightened my seatbelt as much as I could and gripped the door handle tightly. The car should be able to withstand the explosion. Within moments, I saw the projectiles up close through the windshield. Simple, round devices—I'd seen something like them before. They carried more threat than a machine gun, judging by the feeling in my gut. The moment they hit the asphalt, flames burst forth from them. The windshield cracked almost immediately from the intense heat. The shockwave threw the car, saving me from the terrifying inferno.
The car flipped over multiple times before crashing into something and coming to a stop on its side. Moments later, it tipped over onto its roof, leaving me hanging upside down. My head spun from the strain, and I struggled to move my limbs as I tried to unbuckle the seatbelt. The mechanism seemed damaged. Pressing the release button yielded no results. Finally, after several attempts, it gave way, and I tumbled downward, hitting the interior hard.
After flipping myself upright, I started crawling out through a shattered window. Once outside, I hoped to take a breath of fresh air, but instead, I inhaled the acrid smell of smoke, burning flesh, and napalm. Crawling to the front window to help my guards, I froze and recoiled in horror as I peeked inside. All I found were charred bodies, their faces burned to the bone. One of the projectiles had landed directly on the car's hood, and it was a miracle that the flames hadn't consumed me as well.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The sound of a rocket roared again. Above me, that unknown transport flew by. A new weapon?
Surveying the streets, it looked like a battlefield: craters everywhere, mangled cars, and scorched human bodies—unfortunate souls caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Once more, the engines roared, and through the dark clouds of smoke emerged the silhouette of a man with two wings. He was rapidly approaching me. He wore some kind of suit, wielded devices in both hands, and had two rectangular engines strapped to his back, attached to wings.
I saw no point in trying to run with my injuries, but I wasn't going to surrender without a fight. Pulling a pistol from my inner pocket, I prepared to put a few holes in him. Just a few meters away from me, he slowed down and landed gracefully on both feet.
[image]
I saw no point in running from him with my injury, but I wasn't opposed to putting up a fight. Drawing a pistol from my inner pocket, I prepared to put a couple of holes in him. A few meters away from me, he slowed his speed and landed gracefully on both feet.
"I've waited so long for this, you can't even imagine," a slightly distorted voice echoed, likely due to the mask covering his face.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten me? Let me remind you," he said, pressing several spots on his head with one hand. The helmet opened, revealing a horribly burned face. Large patches of flesh were missing around his mouth, exposing his teeth. His nose was almost completely gone, and the rest of his face was covered in scars and burns. I barely recognized the arsonist in him. He survived? I didn't think anyone could survive that. "I see you've recognized me. I never thought some pathetic kid would turn me into a monster. For nine years, I've dreamed of gutting you and roasting you like a pig."
Realizing he intended to kill me and spotting an opening, I quickly aimed my pistol at him and fired several shots. But his reflexes were still sharp; he managed to block the shots with his arms and weapons. The bullets that hit his armor deformed and fell to the ground without penetrating. His suit had clearly been upgraded—where before he'd dodged bullets, now they seemed to mean nothing to him.
However, I noticed something: the metal on his flamethrower wasn't as thick. Clear marks from bullet impacts were visible, and judging by the design, it appeared to have a fuel tank connected to it via several tubes. That meant his weakness was the high-pressure fuel tank—a potential explosion that could kill him.
"There's something off about you. While I was watching you, you always walked with a cane. But I clearly remember your injuries healed without issue. Either you're faking it, or I was afraid for no reason, and you've become just an ordinary man," he said, putting his mask back on. "All the better for me." He aimed his flamethrower at me.
!!!!!!!!!!!
A jet of fire burst from the flamethrower. Even at this distance, the wave of heat struck me, and I jumped to the side with all my strength. The stream of fire hit the car; I watched as the metal glowed red-hot and then began to melt.
Hitting the asphalt, I aimed several times at the grenades hanging from his body and fired a few shots. One of the three bullets hit its mark, grazing a grenade, but it only ricocheted off. My attempt to end this quickly had failed; I would have to aim for the tubes on the flamethrower.
"I accounted for everything, including my past defeat. You cleverly caught me off guard, hitting the grenade with a knife. But it's different now—the construction is durable and won't detonate that easily," the arsonist said.
Pointing his flamethrower at me again, he unleashed another jet of fire. Time seemed to slow. I could see the stream of flames rushing toward me. I held the pistol as though I'd never held it correctly before. It fit perfectly into my hand; I felt every millimeter of the grip's texture. My hand guided the weapon as if it had a mind of its own. I merely thought about where I wanted to shoot. I didn't see the sights, but I felt the point where the bullet needed to go.
I remembered this sensation, the one I had when I threw knives perfectly. It all felt the same. I aimed for a joint on his flamethrower. The shot rang out; the casing ejected upward, and the bullet flew on a remarkable trajectory.
Like a living creature, it evaded the consuming flames. I saw what the fire did and was sure the bullet would burn in it. Instead, the projectile struck the door of a nearby car, ricocheted at just the right angle, and perfectly hit the joint connecting the pipes between the fuel tank and the flamethrower barrel. A stream of liquid burst out, and the flames spewing from the muzzle instantly ignited it.
Time sped up again, and I didn't manage to dodge as the fire engulfed me. From the arsonist's direction came a powerful explosion. The furious flames began consuming my flesh. The jacket I wore burned away in seconds, along with the rest of my outer clothing. I was drowning in fire. My flesh vanished quickly, and I started losing consciousness from the excruciating pain.
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The scene resembled the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. Police officers cordoned off the area, inspecting every inch and trying to piece together the sequence of events. Some spoke of terrorists, others of a madman who had dropped bombs, and a few claimed it was a monster from hell spewing fire. Many victims had burned in the inferno, and a vast number of black body bags lay scattered across the asphalt. Ambulances couldn't keep up with the number of bodies.
Amid the charred remains lay the lifeless body of Brian, reduced to little more than a charred husk.
Amidst this mass death appeared the Reaper, the harbinger of souls to the next life, a messenger of death. It collected the souls from every body, one by one, until it reached Brian.
[image]
A skeletal hand touched the lifeless body, and the soul began to emerge from its vessel—fragile and wounded. Burned chains could be seen etched into the very essence of the soul. As the Reaper attempted to claim yet another soul, it encountered an obstacle. The soul resisted, as though unwilling to leave this world.
The Reaper had seen such resistance before and summoned the power of death, forcefully pulling at the soul. It began to yield but then fought back even harder. The chains ignited with dark flames, and the soul's resistance grew stronger still.
Their struggle unfolded on a spiritual plane: death, arriving at its destined time, against a soul defying the very essence of demise. The laws of existence were clear: the journey was over, and the cycle of life and death had to continue. Yet, as the Reaper pulled, something extraordinary happened. The heart, dead within the chest, began to beat once more. The bond between the body and soul, severed moments before, started to reforge.
Death can only claim a soul when nothing ties it to the material world. The chains wrapped around the soul thinned and began to vanish, as the soul broke free, denying the laws of death and life.
Freed from the Reaper's grasp, the soul returned to the body that had already been loaded into an ambulance and was en route to the morgue.
The Reaper watched the departing soul with a silent gaze before turning back to its duties, collecting the remaining dead.
In the ambulance, the body lying inside a black bag twitched slightly. Fingers moved faintly. The heart began to beat faster. The horrific burns covering the body slowly started to regenerate.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone