The first strike was a week out, and I dove headlong into preparation with everything I had.
I started with an acid bath in a metal tub I'd bought for the Narrows hideout. There was nowhere else I could've pulled it off without attracting too much attention.
The first mix dissolved skin and melted fat. I nearly passed out from the pain, but my body adjusted with each subsequent dip. My skin grew tougher. My lungs and eyes followed suit.
By midweek, I was stabbing myself just to force my regeneration to work harder. But with my increased vitality, I had to hurt myself worse every time—not that I minded.
My meta-ability was adjusting and reacting to the damage faster, but I wasn't ready to test it against truly lethal injuries just yet.
After nights of mutilating torture, I spent my days at the underground hideout.
Partly to train.
Mostly to gather intel on my new teammates.
Shade was elusive. An expert marksman who spent most of his time on the lair's second floor—a section I didn't even know existed—practicing at the gun range.
The girls, when they weren't out on missions they literally couldn't talk about, trained like demons.
They asked me to join them on the first day, right after a sweaty round of breakneck sparring and brutal hits.
They simply pointed their staves at me and whispered something so faint I couldn't catch it.
But I got the gist pretty quickly, stepping into the ring with a practice Katana.
It was the next weapon I'd chosen to learn.
Sally's Katana still lay in my inventory, and I needed a more deadly option when my fists failed me.
I sparred without cursed energy. It was hell.
They fought like an eight-limbed asura. Every opening was a trap. Every move intended to deal lethal harm.
But I weathered it.
After the tenth round, they stopped. One of them exchanged a look with her sister, then walked to the weapons rack and returned with a wooden sword.
My muscles tensed. I thought I was in for another beating, with my preferred weapon no less.
But then the twin started demonstrating forms with the blade.
I stared, confused, then began mimicking.
By the end of the week, I was halfway decent with the sword, had logged dozens of hours at the range, and practiced coordinated attacks.
D-day arrived.
The team split. Shade came with me. The girls went off on their own.
Our first stop: a shuttered art-deco theater in Gotham's older district. It had been closed to the public for over a year for "renovations." Hell, the permits were legit—despite no actual work being done.
According to Shade's intel packet, Black Mask had four men on the roof, ten in the main hall—some armed with venom vials—and one young meta: Icicle Junior.
Whether he was bucking against his father's unusually tight leash or doing him a favor, it was unclear. But he was by far the most dangerous element, and my job was to keep him and the rest of the goons busy while Shade slipped through the underground defenses and extracted the cash buried beneath the stage.
Surprisingly, Shade gave me complete freedom on how to approach the job.
I didn't waste it.
I vaulted to the rooftop and activated Curtain. A murky semi-dome of cursed energy descended as I touched down, isolating the rooftop from the rest of the theater.
They opened fire.
I blurred forward with cursed energy reinforcement flaring.
I kneed the first man in the nose, driving him into the wall. Shot the second twice in the head. Darted out of the third's gunfire.
Wooden bullets rang out, destroying lights and plunging the rooftop into darkness.
The third man fumbled for his radio, but it was too late.
I wrapped my hands around his neck from behind and squeezed until he dropped.
Shade emerged from the shadows beside me.
"Fast, but loud. Then again, that is your style."
I gave a noncommittal shrug.
"Be careful with Icicle Junior," he said. "He's cocky, but powerful. Put him down fast—but don't kill him. We can't afford to make an enemy of Icicle Senior."
"Really? Him?"
"The Old Guard of Gotham is well-connected. You might gain enemies we can't protect you from."
As opposed to the robust protection I was already getting? I nearly scoffed but held my tongue. I dispelled Curtain and slipped through the roof entrance while Shade vanished into the dark again.
I lowered myself onto the scaffolding that lined the ceiling, scanned the shadows, and screwed on my silencer.
Four men patrolled the catwalk. Six more loitered below.
Icicle Junior sat laughing, teasing another guy about a girl.
"She's out of this world—I mean, not literally, but—whatever. She's special. How many girls do you know who look that good and can lift a car?"
"You say that like it's a good thing," his friend said. "She could literally crush you with her thighs."
But the idiot just grinned. "What a way to go."
I rolled my eyes and started moving.
I stalked tight corners, timing my movements. I activated Curtain just as the first guard rounded the bend.
He didn't realize the danger until it was too late. A swipe disarmed him. A punch sent him reeling to one knee. A stomp finished the job.
I covered him with a construction tarp and moved on.
Three more guards went down in silence. The fourth turned just as I dropped Curtain and phased back into reality.
He fumbled with his gun, yelling.
Two bullets silenced him. But the noise had already blown my cover.
"It's Negative!" someone shouted as gunfire erupted.
Curtain snapped back into place as I vanished. I reappeared on the main floor, wooden bullets firing.
One man caught a shot to the neck, collapsing in a strangled yelp, blood gushing out.
Another's knees exploded, pitching him forward.
I winced at the sight. Not at the bullets that followed.
Icicle Junior was already moving, leaping to his feet.
"You might be bulletproof, but what about ice!?" he yelled.
A dozen ice spears launched toward me. I let them shatter against my cursed energy, but immediately noticed the difference.
They carried weight—more than any bullet I'd taken so far. Enough of them, and I'd be drained before the real fight even began.
Can't have that.
I dodged the next volley and tossed two smoke grenades into the crowd.
The canisters hissed and spun, releasing thick plumes that burned the eyes and lungs.
Even Icicle wasn't spared.
I surged forward, titanium knuckles forming around my fists as I slipped into the fog.
I shattered hands. Snapped shins. Broke jaws.
All in seconds.
But I'd underestimated the villain's kid.
The temperature plummeted. That was my only warning before half the stage and seats iced over.
The goons I'd incapacitated now hung mid-air, impaled by dozens of jagged spears.
I stood several feet from where I'd originally landed, down a third of my cursed energy, frostbite burning along my arms.
And there he was—Icicle Junior, behind layers of ice, surprised.
I met his eyes, malice pouring out of me.