Supervillain War # 15








	From the distant reaches of the universe, out among the whorl of spiral galaxies and the incandescence of gaseous nebulae, and the beautiful devastation of supernovas and supermassive black holes… …they came. They traversed the currents of interdimensional space, cocooned within energies that approximated some mode of physical craft but which, in truth, held neither shape nor substance as might be understood by any but the most ancient of minds. They themselves had form, a reminder of the beings of flesh and blood they had once been, although this too shifted with individual perception. They were each separate, consumed by their own selfish obsessions, and yet they were ever entwined. They came because they were summoned, by one of their brethren. And, in each instance, they shared a swell of anger… and a sense of foreboding. Their brother, En Dwi Gast – in a manner that was wearily typical of his meddlesome disposition – was presently at the heart of a tempest all of his own making. Needless to say, the other Elders of the Universe were not impressed… The courtyard was littered with blackened debris and the air was heady with the stench of sulphur and scorched stone. It occurred to the man slumped against a ruined wall at the centre of this carnage that, if there was a Hell, then this is exactly what he would expect when he arrived there. Still, mustn’t grumble. He was singed and battered, he’d lost at least one tooth, and his inability to get up off his backside suggested some injury to his legs, but – when all was said and done – Pete Petruski, The Trapster, was still alive. Considering that he had been seconds away from being asphyxiated – or worse – by the green, mutagenic gas that had constituted the ‘spirit’ of the villain known as Mayhem, such survival wasn’t to be sniffed at. Unfortunately, Pete knew that the fact he was still breathing might well count for very little in his current circumstances. His recent altercation with the fresh corpses of Boomerang and Jack O’Lantern, reanimated by Mayhem’s gas, followed by his incineration of Mayhem’s own original body, had taken its toll. His welder’s mask was gone, his tan boiler suit shredded, his gun lost. The rest of his arsenal was severely depleted. The implications couldn’t be ignored; he was smart and – evidently – he was durable, but without his cache of traps he was just a regular guy. And, with the best will in the world, a regular guy wasn’t going to win The Grandmaster’s game… With a sigh, The Trapster reached inside his tunic. The charred fingertips of his gloves passed over an object clipped to the belt across his chest, and he snorted. The black cylinder. He’d come so far and that special compound remained in his possession, but the likelihood was that it would all be for nothing. In this condition he wouldn’t get close enough to anyone to be able to use it. Ironic, really. The fingers travelled on, removing a silver tin from an inside pocket. The tin was severely battered, but what lay inside was thankfully intact. Five cigarettes and a silver lighter. The Trapster smiled ruefully as he placed one of the cigarettes to his lips and lit up, wondering if he would survive long enough to smoke them all… Blacklash discarded what remained of his mask with a grimace, then pressed gingerly at his jaw and right eye. Nothing was broken, but he knew that his face was now likely the bruised hue of a punnet of blackberries, and probably not dissimilar in texture into the bargain. Not that he’d ever been a male model or anything, and this wasn’t exactly the kind of situation where a guy’s good looks were going to pull him through, but it was still depressing. The villain rolled his eyes. “That’s it, Mark,” he breathed. “You just keep making jokes. Stop yourself thinking about everything that’s happened. About… about…” About Donnie. Blacklash gritted his teeth and moved on slowly through the ruins, his heavy tread caused more by exhaustion than apprehension at being spotted by an enemy or because the ground was treacherous underfoot, both of which would have been serious concerns if he hadn’t felt so wasted. He held the handle of his whip in one hand and the coil, not charged at present, looped in the other. His violet cape hung from his neck in tatters, his black bodysuit torn in numerous places and caked in dust and dried blood. He resembled an earthquake victim emerging from ground zero, but there was no triumph in still being alive – not when he had watched his friend die before him, his own hands crushing the final breath from his lungs in an act of mercy. Besides, survival this far meant squat. The game wasn’t over. This point was driven home when Blacklash eased himself through a narrow gap between two collapsed walls and found himself in a devastated courtyard, hazy with dust and black smoke from what must have been a recent explosion. Slumped on the ground nearby there was a man with a haggard face wearing a scorched boiler suit, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. Blacklash froze. The Trapster glanced up, then smiled wearily, his relaxed expression suggesting a sense of familiarity. He extended his hand, offering a silver tin. “Well, hey there, Scarlotti,” he said. “Care to join me for a smoke…?” The forest was deathly silent, untroubled by birdsong and with nary a breeze to rustle through the thick canopy overhead. Lady Deathstrike also moved without a sound, passing quickly through the shadows, her expression lined with grim intent. Her flared, ivory shirt was torn and stained, the crimson sash about her waist ragged, and her bandana was long gone, but the body underneath was healed as much as she could expect, and that was all that mattered; that, and the fact that she still carried her two swords, stolen from Coldheart, and which had since served her so well. Spiral had been executed by these blades, as had The Enforcers. Twice. But, if Deathstrike had her way, then their thirst for blood would not yet have been slaked. She wanted to end this now. Although some secret facet of her nature had been intrigued by The Grandmaster’s game to begin with she had swiftly lost interest in slaughter for slaughter’s sake; now, in the wake of Spiral’s death, she simply wanted to return home. If it was necessary for her to kill a bare handful of survivors to bring that about, then so be it. There was, of course, just one problem. First she had to find where those others were hiding… She was hiding. Hiding in the darkness. She’d been trained as a ninja, and she would use the darkness to sneak up behind – Bullseye whirled at the last second and landed a straight roundhouse kick to the head of the woman who was preparing to spear him with her weapons, a pair of tri-pronged silver swords known as sai. She was beautiful, this assassin; dark-haired, dusky, her body lithe and barely clad in a scarlet body-wrap kept purposefully sparse to allow freedom of movement. She was better than Bullseye. Faster. Sharper. But he possessed a quality she couldn’t hope to match – whereas she was unafraid to die he simply believed that he couldn’t. He was the best. That’s what his father had taught him, over and over and over, with fists or sticks or whatever else came to hand. They traded thrusts and parries like dancers, spinning and strutting in the shadows of the darkened car lot, but in the end there could only be one winner of this duel. Catching his opponent off-guard with a brutal butt, then slamming her head into the asphalt, Bullseye wheeled clear – and in this one, precious instant, snatched an object from his belt. It was a playing card, the Ace of Spades. In the hands of another, nothing more than a ghoulish affectation – but for him… “You put up a pretty good fight, toots,” he sneered. “But me…? I’m magic.” And then he threw the card with practised accuracy, flat edge, glinting in the cast of on overhead fluorescent. The woman attempted to dodge, but he’d already anticipated her movement; the card sliced across her throat like a knife, and the air was filled with a mist of blood. Bullseye approached leisurely as his adversary choked on her own death. He plucked one her sai from where it had fallen and smiled. “And for my next trick,” he breathed… He thrust the tri-pronged blade deep into her stomach and out through her back with a victorious howl, the brute force of his strike lifting her off her feet. She didn’t scream, and that angered him. He had wanted to hear her agony. He wanted to be able to lie back at night and remember her in that moment: shrieking, broken, defiled. But instead… “Not this time,” the woman in red whispered, stepping back and removing the sword from her gut with a wet shuk. Bullseye’s eyes flew wide behind his mask. The woman smiled and handed the blade back to him. “Try again.” “No…” Bullseye protested. “No, this isn’t how it happened. This - ” “Try again.” Bullseye blinked, then snatched the weapon back, reversed it, and stabbed his enemy a second time, all in one movement. Still no scream. There was blood everywhere – on his hands, on the ground, in the woman’s raven black hair. Again, she didn’t fall. Again, she withdrew the sword from her stomach and handed it back to him. Her eyes were so beautiful, so dark. Hypnotic. “Not good enough,” she said, quietly. “You’re just not good enough, Leonard. All these years spent practising… and you’re a failure. You’re pathetic.” Bullseye was trembling. The woman’s voice was familiar. It didn’t belong to her, however. Not to the foe he had slain so many years before. It was… it… “You know what happens when you miss, Lenny. Now, take your punishment like a man, son.” Now the darkened car lot echoed with a piercing scream – but the pitiful cry belonged to Bullseye. He dropped the sai and fell to his knees. The woman in red stepped forward, arms outstretched, and cradled his head to her hip. Then, gently, she pulled him closer – into her wound. Pressed him deep. His face was wet, his mouth filled with blood and serrated flesh. And… darkness. He couldn’t breathe. Suffocating. Suffocating. “Die, you son of a bitch,” a woman’s voice hissed in his ear. Bullseye gasped. “No. No. This isn’t real. You can’t do this to me. Not to me. It’s not real!” And then he closed his eyes, hands scrabbling, heart pumping… …and when he opened them again, his assailant was gone, the faintest trace of her dissipating like scarlet smoke in the shadows. Bullseye breathed deeply then turned in a slow circle, eyes narrowed cruelly in the slits of his mask. He was back in the real world, such as it was; back in the church. And, no more than five feet away, his true enemy was staring back at him, her numb expression betraying her surprise. “So, you think you can screw with my mind, eh?” the man in black exclaimed with venom. “Well, here’s a newsflash, sweetheart. Sometimes things just don’t work out the way you want. See, that incident you just had me relive? Well, the first time around when I impaled that sexy little assassin with her own weapon, her boyfriend – a horny little cuss – took exception. He broke me – body as well as spirit, I’ll freely admit. But there was another guy, name of Lord Dark Wind… he took me and repaired me. In every way. That included lacing parts of my brain with a cybernetic relay so my flesh and blood wouldn’t reject the metal he’d inserted along the length of my spinal cord.” Bullseye grinned, gently placing a hand to his belt. “Your black magic mojo is potent stuff,” he hissed. “But I’ve literally got a mind of steel – Adamantium, to be precise – and what with you being so tired and strung out and all, well… honey, you just haven’t got what it takes.” Along the aisle of the candlelit church, Black Mamba stared at the man from whom her hatred had become all-consuming. His very presence made her skin crawl, made the blood hot as acid beneath her skin. Even though they had never encountered each other before being dumped here in the battlefield it was as if he had instantly come to represent everything she despised – about the world, and about herself. “I want you dead,” she declared, hoarsely. “Feel free to oblige by slitting your own throat.” “Is that before or after I rub myself to distraction all over your tight, sexy little hump? Oh no, wait… I already did that, didn’t I?” Mamba’s eyes flashed, and the darkness about her shivered and thickened once more in response. “In that case, forget what I just said,” she growled. “I want the pleasure of bleeding you dry myself.” Bullseye whistled. “Ooh, tease me, you little minx!” Then, eyes glinting, he raised his right hand from his belt – and candlelight sparked along the razor edge of another of his arsenal of shuriken, clenched between thumb and forefinger. “Or, better yet,” he breathed, “…die for me.” He flicked his wrist and the shuriken flew, aimed straight for Mamba’s heart… The Spot sat cross-legged in mid-air, like an Indian fakir, surrounded by whorls of white mist punctuated by slowly revolving black warp holes. In the years since gaining his powers he had spent little time here, in the Between, not least because of the sense of unease that would quickly envelop him whenever he lingered. On this occasion, however, he couldn’t care less how the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling, or how his hands were trembling uncontrollably, or how the churning in his stomach was building relentlessly to the point where he would be forced to be physically sick. After all, how much worse could he feel? The White Rabbit was dead. A woman he had only met an hour ago – was it really only that recently? – and whose real name he didn’t even know, but who, somehow, had stolen his heart away. And now, she was gone. How was that for fundamental bad luck? “I’ll bring you back,” he murmured to himself, a mantra he had been repeating ever since entering the Between. “I’ll win this contest and bring you back. I just need a plan… just need - ” There came a whispering in his ears then, wordless, like a soft breath. It alarmed him, because there was typically no sound or movement throughout the Between other than that made by him – or, at least, not that he had ever experienced before. He turned quickly, and his eyes shot wide. There was no one behind him, no physical presence, just white mist and black holes. Except that the mist was thicker than he had ever seen it, becoming a veritable fog even as he watched… and beyond the white the warps were growing larger, darker, many of them beginning to melt together at the edges, gradually forming a slick of liquid black. It was as if his surroundings were… …awakening. “What in the world?” The Spot whined. “This isn’t… I mean, this has never…” His voice trailed off then, and for good reason. Because that was when he saw the eyes… …as the shuriken spun, glittering in the shadows… “Just so you know,” The Trapster informed Blacklash, amiably, “My person and the surrounding area are rigged with all manner of nasty surprises. So I wouldn’t attempt anything rash.” Blacklash grimaced, his bruised eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.” The Trapster raised an eyebrow. “Maybe so,” he murmured, taking a drag on his cigarette. “But I’m thinking that’s a chance you aren’t willing to take, even striking at me from a distance with that whip of yours…” The two men stared at one another, a palpable air of resignation between them. “Do you feel as crap as you look, Petruski?” Blacklash asked eventually, to which The Trapster couldn’t help but smile. “Actually,” he said, “I feel as crap as you look.” “That bad, huh?” The Trapster flicked away the butt of his cigarette then – wincing – pulled his legs up into a crouch. Nothing broken, then, he mused. But that didn’t stop the pain. Keeping his eyes trained on Blacklash’s weapon he slowly rose to his feet. Scarlotti scrutinised his fellow villain’s every move in turn, noting his poor condition. All it would take was one strike… but, if The Trapster was telling the truth, then this could provoke a reaction that would kill them both. Therefore, they were at an impasse – not that it would actually matter a few second from now. Like a pair of old timers engaged in a chess match in the park, the two men were so intent on one another that they didn’t realise their immediate surroundings were being subtly transformed; the ghostly light filtering down from The Grandmaster’s craft overhead was slowly dimming, softening, until the gathering darkness suddenly became impossible to ignore. And at this point Blacklash and The Trapster both glanced up in shock to witness a gaping maw of liquid shadow, bearing down on them with a resonant hiss like a black python. The Trapster instinctively snatched at one of his last remaining wirebombs, clipped to his chest-belt, whilst Blacklash drew back his arm, flicking the thumb-switch that caused the steel-weave coil of his whip to instantly spark with electrical charge. But it was too late for the both of them. With what might have been a gurgle of delight, the tide of blackness engulfed them… …and the shuriken spun… Lady Deathstrike whirled as she heard the sudden explosion of noise behind her, and her eyes shot wide. Some thirty metres away, back in the direction from which she had just travelled, a wall of howling darkness was rushing towards her, swallowing everything in its path – trees, undergrowth, even the ground itself. It was like a tidal wave. Deathstrike scowled, spitting out a curse, and then turned and ran. Although she rarely had cause to resort to such fleetness of movement, she was more than capable; her legs had been rebuilt through Spiral’s biogenetic engineering every bit as much as the rest of her, meaning that she could run fast and hard without succumbing to the fatigue poisons or muscular strains that would have affected a normal human. Her reflexes were also considerably enhanced, allowing her to manoeuvre sharply in enclosed spaces, hurdling roots protruding from the earth and weaving between trees without sacrificing momentum. However, deep in her heart, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. The surging darkness cared nothing for Deathstrike’s expertise any more than it did for obstacles in its path. It simply locked onto her and swept forward, spreading ever wider to counter any attempt she made to alter her trajectory. She ran faster, faster, her bionic legs pumping like pistons, but it was only a matter of minutes before she was hunted down. At the last she wheeled, screaming in fury, and slashing with her extended claws… …but she was only met with soft, mocking laughter. And, in the blink of an eye, she disappeared… There was more to Bullseye’s deadly accuracy to gauging the distance between him and his target, or altering his throw to account for the weight and aerodynamic qualities of whatever he was using as a missile. He had also trained himself to factor in the variables of any given situation. In this instance, that included the way that Black Mamba was standing, with her weight slightly on her left leg and hip, whilst there was a pew directly to he right, perhaps a foot and half back from her position. He had instantly adjusted his throw accordingly, aiming the shuriken towards the centre of her chest, but with an inch of spin to the right, so that when she attempted to dodge in that direction – as he knew that she would – the shuriken would follow her with what might seem to be an uncanny precision bordering on the supernatural but which was actually all down to his incredible skills that he had spent so many years perfecting. It would have happened exactly like that, as well. Almost from the moment the shuriken left Bullseye’s black-gloved hand, Mamba was pushing away to her right, having anticipated that her enemy would launch some kind of attack without realising just how futile her attempts at evasion would be. Fortunately for her, there were variables involved in this situation that even Bullseye could not have foreseen in a hundred years. The shuriken spun, a microsecond away from sinking deep into the tender flesh of Mamba’s neck… …only to vanish in mid-flight as it entered a shapeless swirl of liquid darkness that erupted at that exact moment in the air between the two combatants. Bullseye’s jaw snapped wide for a moment, then his eyes danced in the slits of his mask. “Oh, for the love of… garrgh!” he snapped, shaking his fists. “Will you stop doing that?” On this occasion, however, Mamba was just as stunned as her enemy – more so, in fact, because she immediately recognised the shifting black mass for what it was. Darkforce. But not conjured from her mind. Hungry, a voice breathed. Feed me. She heard the command clearly, far more insistent than the rasping whisper at the pit of her mind that had guided her since departing the forest clearing where Slyde had been killed. This time it was the shadows themselves that were speaking – and judging by his expression, Bullseye could hear it too. Mamba turned, intending to sprint for cover, more from whatever it was that lurked in the dark than from the man attempting to spear her with throwing discs. But, for both villains, their personal conflict was about to be rudely hijacked. The cloud of Darkforce expanded in all directions at once, engulfing both Bullseye and Mamba almost simultaneously, dragging them into its trembling heart. And, as was now becoming customary, there was that terrible, triumphant laughter… Anomaly. Anomaly. Anomaly. Anaaaark! The Grandmaster winced as the last of his drones was suddenly enclosed in a fist of darkness and crushed before him with a muffled cry. His red eyes were sunken into hollows, his despair now absolute, as he watched the remains of his tentacled pet gust away in a rain of metal ash in the same manner as all its fellows had before it. The shadows seethed and roared with laughter, then began to dance as if cast in the light of a hundred thousand guttering candles. With the energy shell that formed the body of his craft now translucent at his whim, En Dwi Gast stared down at the battlefield moon below. He was desperately scrutinising the artificial landscape from afar, but it was all too late. The events transpiring upon Se’dai were no longer visible, and not just due to the widespread destruction of the mechanised servants that had acted as his eyes; there was now a gathering swell of darkness in the skies above the moon, cavorting storm clouds amidst the tempest. Soon it would shroud the atmosphere about his vessel, like squid ink squirted into dark waters. No light would escape, the pulsing glow of The Grandmaster’s craft absorbed without trace into the shadowtide. Those contestants yet to taste death below would be plunged into gloom, unaware that the game in which they participated was already over. En Dwi Gast closed his eyes and trembled in his misery. Before, his countenance had twisted with naked fear at the realisation of what he had unwittingly unleashed; now there was merely grim acceptance. The end was nigh – the end of all things. “Daes Shamblu,” he breathed, as the darkness finally overwhelmed him as it had his drones. “Oh, what have I done…?” “What have I done?” The Spot wailed as he drifted in the oily black, scrabbling desperately to gain some manner of handhold but knowing there was none to be had. “I didn’t know! I didn’t - ” Suddenly, from all directions – although the notion that there was no such thing as true spatial direction in the Between was never more obvious than now – there erupted sheer pandemonium. There were cries of alarm and a sweep of figures hurtling back and forth past one another, amidst a veritable storm of debris such as trees and rocks and flagstones and splinters of steel. The Spot looked on, aghast. From his right came two men, both bedraggled, one in a tattered boiler suit and another clinging on to a glowing whip; from his left, another man, in a black costume and mask emblazoned with white, concentric circles on his forehead, followed by a voluptuous, dark-haired woman in skin-tight leather. Then, finally, falling down from somewhere overhead, there was a second woman, brandishing a pair of gleaming swords, her expression fierce. The Spot wheeled, unable to maintain any sense of balance or gravity, and abruptly the swordswoman was beneath him, whilst the others were all spinning alongside, in opposite, impossible trajectories. And, all around, the darkness was shivering and hissing, swallowing any last vestiges of white mist from what had once been the Between. The Spot felt thoroughly nauseous. And he probably wasn’t the only one. Hungry, a voice from the black suddenly proclaimed. Hungry. Feed me! Feed Daes Shamblu! It was then that The Spot – along with the five other individuals who had appeared from nowhere in the dimensional vortex – felt himself being sucked down into a swirl of slippery black that threatened to squeeze every last ounce of life from his body… …falling… …spinning… …dying… …until - The Grandmaster’s vessel shivered, its ephemeral form buckling beneath a warp of almighty power – and then, with a discordant screech, the diaphanous skin of reality tore and darkness spilled forth from a gaping aperture in a congealed wave of oil and smoke, blackening everything it touched. It was an incredible sight, to see the foundation of being unstitched in such raw fashion… but En Dwi Gast himself, conspicuous by his absence, was not there to witness it. The Trapster was the first to emerge from the shadowslick, a fish belched up onto a polluted beach. He was coughing and grinding his knuckles into his stinging eyes; then, muttering curses beneath his breath, he quickly glanced about at his new surroundings – and immediately regretted it. He had been exposed to The Grandmaster’s Court before, of course, when the Elder had briefed him and his fellow abductees on what awaited them. However, just like earlier, his mind now struggled to comprehend the alien characteristics of this multi-dimensional space that refused to comply with traditional physical laws. In fact, on this occasion it all seemed even worse; without The Grandmaster himself and his drones to offer some measure of perspective, the Elder’s gigantic throne at the head of the hall seemed positively surreal, and the walls seemed reluctant to hold their shape. And then, of course, there was the ever-pulsing darkness… Feeling more than a little weary after the recent turn of events, The Trapster was distracted from his reverie by a gasp from behind him. He turned to see a lithe woman in black leather and a green snake tiara stumble forward from the rend in reality, just as he had done before her. She was tugging hysterically at her dark hair and her eyes were wild. The Trapster immediately took a step backwards, his hands hovering at his belt. “It’s in my head!” Mamba whimpered, utterly distraught. “Daes Shamblu! Please. Please! Help me…” The Trapster grimaced, his mouth drooping even more than was customary. “Day-ess what? Lady, keep the hell away from me, else - ” “Ever the gentleman, Pete,” muttered another voice – and then Blacklash stepped warily from the shadows in Mamba’s wake. He gave his new surroundings a cursory inspection, then tucked his whip under his arm and sighed. Moving to Mamba’s side, he made an attempt to gather her close, genuinely sympathetic, but she pulled clear with a cry and sank to her knees like a child. The Trapster snorted, and Blacklash gave him the finger. He persevered, reaching down to where Mamba had fallen. He was smiling in what he hoping was a reassuring manner, although he knew his face was currently the hue of rotten fruit and wasn’t best suited for offering comfort; predictably, Mamba remained disinclined to take the hand that was being extended. Blacklash sighed again, suddenly very weary. “Don’t waste your time, pal,” a gruff voice sneered. “This sassy little bitch belongs to me. So just stand aside and let me finish what I started…” Blacklash turned to see another man standing behind him, juggling something from one hand to the other. It was a chunk of masonry, no bigger than a baseball – but, in the possession of this individual, it was a decidedly deadly weapon. The man named Bullseye grinned. Blacklash simply stared back at him. “What was that you said?” he asked, quietly. “I said stand aside, goofball.” Bullseye’s eyes narrowed in the slits of his mask. “Of course, if you’d prefer I went through you to get at her…” “Please,” Black Mamba whispered, staring up at the man who wished her harm. “You don’t understand. All the rest of it – the fighting, the killing – it’s not important. Not any more. The only thing that matters now is the Darkforce. I can barely keep it contained. Right now, there’s still a chance, but if my concentration fails and I let it loose, then - ” “Ah, quit whining,” Bullseye snarled, hefting his stone exactly like one of those baseballs he’d once pitched, way back in a past so distant it was like a whole other life. He pulled back his arm… …but then a hand closed about his wrist from behind. A hand replete with ten-inch steel claws. And a length of silver blade then slid menacingly along the curve of Bullseye’s throat, where, glinting, it came to rest. “Thief,” a woman’s voice whispered in the assassin’s ear. “Say what?” “Thief. My father rebuilt your shattered body, and how did you repay him? By stealing his work and reneging on your pledge…” Lady Deathstrike smiled, thinly, and curled her other hand about Bullseye’s temples so that the sharpened tips of her fingers pressed directly upon the circles that adorned the brow of his mask. “Now,” she purred, “The only question left for me to ask is this. Having conceived of so many ways to kill you in the years since we last saw one another… which of those methods should I now choose?” Blacklash glanced uneasily at The Trapster, then frowned as he saw the other man staring intently at Bullseye and Deathstrike, his hand moving quietly beneath the flap of his tunic and across his chest to the strap where, throughout the conflict that had occurred on the battlefield moon, a black cylinder had been clipped… With Deathstrike behind him and shielded from his field of vision Bullseye’s eyes instead moved calmly between Blacklash, The Trapster and Black Mamba. He was still smirking. “Jesus,” he muttered. “This is really the cream of the crop? I expected a real test when it came down to it. You know? I was thinking Magneto, Doctor Doom, Juggernaut… hell, even Doctor freaking Octopus. Instead all I get is a bunch of nutjob second-raters. And that includes you, Yuriko. What, you think you can kill me as easily as you did your own poppa?” “You doubt I can?” Deathstrike hissed, leaning forward so that her lips were pressed softly against the bulge of her captive’s ear beneath his mask. “My father may have reinforced your bones with Adamantium, but your jugular vein is as tender as anyone else’s. I could - ” “Psyche!” Without warning, Bullseye snapped his head backwards into Deathstrike’s shoulder, simultaneously bringing up both arms in a triangular spike so that he could deflect the blade at his throat. He ducked and whirled, whipping out an elbow into Deathstrike’s gut then sweeping both her legs with one of his, and finally slapping her across the face with the back of his free hand as she tumbled. He then sprang clear of her slashing claws, lashing a kick into her ribs for good measure as he turned away. When he wheeled back towards his fellow villains he was holding a shuriken in his hand. “Honey, you are some twenty-four carat nugget of idiot, you know that?” Bullseye spat. “You should have taken your shot when you could. Instead you just had to have to have your little moment of triumph, didn’t you? Well, I hope it was worth it, because now I’m going to - ” “It doesn’t have to be like this.” Everyone turned at the sound of the voice, even Black Mamba, who was still cowering on the ground. They saw a thin man in a crumpled, ill-fitting suit standing on the edge of the shifting darkness, his skin porcelain, his black-blotch eyes flickering nervously. No one recognised him, of course; if there was any individual doomed to be termed as a second-rater, as in Bullseye’s colourful parlance, then this was him. At least, that had always been the case before. “I know how to end this,” said Jonathan Cohn, alias The Spot. “Please. All you have to do is listen…” He was an Elder of the Universe, as close to immortal as any could be; he was a God, blessed with such great and terrible power. Yet for all that, En Dwi Gast was now simply a prisoner, ensnared at the heart of the swirling shadowstorm. The darkness allowed him to bear witness to the scene playing out before him, undoubtedly as a gesture of cruelty. The Grandmaster had always been a celestial voyeur, of course, but on his own terms; now that such observation was forced upon him he understood the extent of his helplessness – just as he was aware of the dire consequences that would follow. These human pawns, the six remaining participants of his game of life and death, were even now jostling for supremacy. It was their nature. At heart each was selfish and avaricious in his or her own fashion, regardless of how some sought to temper their desires. They couldn’t comprehend the truth of their situation – at least, not immediately. Soon, however… soon they would see. This was the endgame now. The final stand. On the edge of the gathering, the individual known as The Spot was making a speech, the response to which would decide the fates of those who listened on in stunned silence. The Grandmaster exhaled a sigh of defeat and closed his eyes. He knew that when he opened them again… …all but one of those below would be dead. The Spot said his piece, then stepped back and waited. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Bullseye barked with laughter, glancing at each of his fellows whilst they simply looked on, aghast at what they had just heard. Only Black Mamba, still trembling, was regarding The Spot with anything more than contempt; her countenance was instead dark with fear. “Okay, let me get this straight…” Bullseye snarled. “You want us to surrender? To you?” The Spot remained silent. Bullseye laughed again, mirthlessly. “You want us to bow down before you, so you can kill us all without any fuss?” the assassin continued. “That is what you just said, right?” The Spot nodded, the warps about his eyes thoroughly agitated. “It makes perfect sense, when you think about it,” he said. “I mean… yes, I do have to kill you. But when I’m proclaimed the winner of the game, I’ll just bring you all back to life, right? The Grandmaster himself said that was within the realms of his power. And, within my remit of wish fulfilment, my request will be that all your wishes are granted, just as they would be if you had emerged victorious – which, in effect, you will. You see? Everyone wins.” Lady Deathstrike breathed deeply, then extended the tip of one sword in The Spot’s direction. “You,” she said, evenly, “Are utterly insane.” Bullseye snorted. “Well, honey, there’s something we agree on.” He smiled ferociously at The Spot, flicking his shuriken between his fingers. “Man, for a scrawny little scrub, you’ve got balls of steel. For that reason, I’m going to kill you quick…” “He does have a point, you know,” The Trapster murmured. “I mean, if it was you making the deal then I’d be wetting myself laughing too. But if it was someone trustworthy, well… it’s a loophole, just there to be exploited.” The Spot grew a smile, his eyes flashing. The Trapster cocked his head. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “We’re not talking about Captain America or Reed Richards, are we? We’re talking supervillains. That’s the whole point of all of this, after all. Are you trustworthy, Spot? Or is this just another game within a game?” Blacklash pursed his lips. Deathstrike scowled. Black Mamba was slowly shaking her head, her face growing paler by the second. It looked like she was about to speak… but then, his brittle patience finally snapping, Bullseye made the decision for all of them. Roaring, he made a move to hurl his missile – causing Mamba to cry out and hurl herself towards him, deflecting his aim at the last moment. “No!” she shrieked. “We have to stand down. You don’t understand what he is… what he’s become. If you - ” “Bitch, you are seriously getting on my nerves!” Bullseye snapped, slamming a fist into Mamba’s face and sending her sprawling – an act that pushed Blacklash, hitherto unresolved as to how he should react to the current situation, over the edge. At the end of the day, Bullseye was a sociopath. A sadistic bully. Just like The Jester. Looking at Mamba, lying on her back on the chequered floor of The Grandmaster’s Court with blood spooling from a split lip, Scarlotti couldn’t help but think of poor Donnie… and that made him mad as hell. Blacklash cracked his whip with venom, smashing an unsuspecting Bullseye across the back with a heavy slash of electrified steel cable that sent sparks flying. The flayed assassin screamed and hurtled forward, hitting the ground and skidding on his front, his arms flailing. Then, just as he was attempting to arrest his momentum, Blacklash followed in with another ker-crack! even more forceful then the first, this one stripping ribbons of flesh from victim’s shoulders and upper arms. Bullseye shrieked again and flopped over onto his back, then over again, leaving a bloodied imprint on the floor. His costume, reinforced against most attacks, was shredded like paper under the onslaught of a weapon that had once compromised the armour of Iron Man; but, in contrast, the body beneath was far from human. The blood obscured the Adamantium plating that had been grafted onto his spinal cord many years ago, but it was most definitely there – which was why, whereas Blacklash’s assault would have proved fatal to a normal man, it served only to rile Bullseye to a state of pain and fury. “Bastard!” the blood-soaked man screamed, leaping to his feet and hurling a shuriken in one fluid movement. Blacklash brought his whip down a third time, and saw the charged coil wrap about Bullseye’s neck, administering a thousand volts of devastating electrical fire – but any sense of triumph he felt was fleeting, for in the next instant the spinning shuriken was lodged deep in his throat, and his mouth was full of blood. Blacklash staggered, dropping his whip. His hands were at his neck, his fingers dark and wet. He gasped… and then toppled. Bullseye wrenched away the whip coil with a wordless shriek of rage, his entire body still in spasm from the shock he had received. The next thing he knew, Lady Deathstrike was taking advantage of his distress; raking her claws down his face, she tore away his mask and punctured one of his eyes in the process, then attempted to slide the blade of one of her swords between his ribs. Bullseye instinctively shifted his bodyweight and the two of them crashed to the ground, snarling and slashing at one another. Deathstrike swung up one knee into the assassin’s groin then gouged at his mouth, almost ripping out his tongue; Bullseye replied by hammering his fist into her stomach, over and again, desperately seeking a soft spot in her defences that wouldn’t be biogenetically reinforced. It was a savage brawl. On the edge of the battle, The Spot looked on in sadness, glancing from Bullseye and Deathstrike to where Black Mamba was kneeling by the side of the fallen Blacklash, with the sour-faced Trapster loitering nearby. It was then that the being once known as Jonathan Cohn spoke, in an alien voice that was suddenly and obviously altered from what those present had heard before - not least in the fact that it was now decidedly female. Such a waste, the shadow entity breathed, her eyes now flaring red rather than black, her body contorting like a nest of snakes. Live food is always preferable… She raised her hands above her head, elongated fingers spread – and, with what sounded like a sigh of contentment, began to draw the surrounding whorl of darkness into her body from all directions, causing her to stretch and swell and grow. The liquid shadow that had engulfed The Grandmaster’s craft and most of the Se’dai battlefield below now flooded the entity in a shrieking rush, shredding what remained of The Spot’s clothes asunder and discolouring the chalk-white skin beneath with a wash of deep, impenetrable black. Oh, delicious! the creature gurgled, an approximation of a wound-like mouth splitting her face to issue a wet, rasping cackle. Oh, it has been so long… The Trapster stared on, wide eyed, then glanced over to where Black Mamba was swaying, pale and silent, as if entranced. “What is it?” he barked, jolting her from her stupor. “What the hell is it?” Mamba gasped, a single tear – a sparkling black tear – rolling down her cheek. “It’s Daes Shamblu,” she whispered. “The beast that lurks within the Darkforce. The embodiment of the Dark Dimension itself, starved of all but the barest morsels of light for an eternity – but now it’s out. And… it’s hungry.” Suddenly Black Mamba began to scream, sinking to her knees and clutching at her forehead. Then, between the cracks of her finger, dark tendrils began to seep from her eyes and through the pores of her skin, like intestines trailing from a wound. It was a process that was evidently causing her considerable pain, The Trapster noted. He saw that her cheeks were now stained with more black tears, and that she was clawing at her brow as if her brain itself were on fire. He could only guess that The Spot – or rather the unholy thing the villain had become – was absorbing the sparse but not altogether insignificant deposits of Darkforce that had accumulated in Mamba’s cerebellum over the years, literally strip-mining her of every last scrap. Only when the procedure was done did she allow the poor woman to collapse forward, shivering and wailing. “Not the best development,” The Trapster mused, with far more composure than he actually felt. He turned and scampered away, intent on putting distance between himself and the shadow surf that was slowly beginning to spread throughout the Court – and it was then he noticed that, ludicrously, Bullseye and Lady Deathstrike were still rolling around on the floor trading blows, seemingly oblivious to the chaos erupting around them. Petruski rolled his eyes. Some people just didn’t know when to call it quits… Deathstrike was gradually gaining the upper hand, of course; the technology in her body enabled her to regenerate, whereas Bullseye’s did not, and there was also the fact that she was samurai. However, Bullseye was nothing if not a warrior – and he was arrogant to the extreme. He couldn’t countenance defeat, especially not to some stern-faced witch with swords, as bitterly ironic a fate as that might have been considering his past record. His heart may still have been muscle and blood but, in many ways, it was perhaps stronger even than Adamantium. He had his father to thank for that – just as Deathstrike was a product of her own upbringing. It was all about the sins of the fathers; he and his enemy had more in common than either of them would have liked to admit. “You want the truth, Yuriko?” Bullseye hissed, pressing his one remaining good eye close to Deathstrike’s face as they wrestled. “It was me. I stole your daddy’s blueprints and hawked them to the higher bidder. And you know what? He knew. He knew it was me. But he never had the courage to track me down himself. He was hot stuff when it came to branding the faces of his own helpless little kids like cattle, but deep down he was a coward.” Deathstrike snarled and sank her claws deep into Bullseye’s back, not for the first time, struggling to find a chink in the intricate weaving of metal plates below his skin. Bullseye grinned and planted a kiss upon her mouth, biting down hard onto her lower lip. The two of them were so embroiled in their personal conflict that they didn’t notice a shadow fall across them… …but it wasn’t that of the entity that was once The Spot. Instead, it was The Trapster who approached, unclipping a small, black cylinder from the strap across his chest. In his tattered boiler suit and with his droopy, Bogart face, Pete Petruski currently didn’t look much like a supervillain, let alone one on the verge of emerging successful from a war of his kind. However, as he’d said all along, this conflict was always destined to be about so much more than simply strength or special powers; it was about craft, about intellect, and also about luck. Without those former qualities, Pete could never have designed, developed and manufactured the substance he now held in his palm; without the most scandalous good fortune, that substance would never have remained in his possession throughout this entire experience. Now, standing some ten feet from where Bullseye and Lady Deathstrike were wrestling, he smiled and unscrewed the cap of the black cylinder. He stepped forward… …and Deathstrike, holding Bullseye down with one hand, flicked out the other with her claws menacingly splayed. “Stay back,” she hissed, without even looking up. The Trapster raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Yuriko,” he said. “I was thinking your friend might like a little… tonic. But, if you’d rather I just get rid of it…” Deathstrike glanced up through the dark curtain of her hair and saw the cylinder in The Trapster’s hand. Her eyes sparked. “Oh, on the contrary,” she declared. “Perhaps, Mister Petruski, you are truly honourable after all? Or perhaps you know full well that, without your weapons and traps, you’ll stand little chance against this butcher should he defeat me. Always playing the angles, yes?” She reached out and snatched the black cylinder, then held it in front of Bullseye’s face, grinning down at him as he struggled. “What’s that, sweetcheeks?” he snarled. “A nip of gin to keep you warm at night?” “Actually, it’s something I commissioned back on Earth with you in mind. Mister Petruski, would you care to explain…?” The Trapster looked down at Bullseye, his expression apologetic. “Sorry, Leonard,” he murmured. “But you know the score; these days I work on contract, the more lucrative the better. And Miss Oyama here was willing to pay a very high price for me the come up with this particular item to aid her in dealing with you once she’d tracked you down. She’s been on your trail a long time, you know.” Bullseye scowled, his expression suddenly concerned. He struggled to get free but he was weary, and Deathstrike had all the leverage. “Dammit, you bastard!” he blustered. “What’ve you cooked up for this bitch?” “Osteoclastic Acid.” Bullseye paled. “And what the hell’s that?” “An osteoclast is a multinucleated cell that functions in the breakdown and re-absorption of bone tissue, and which is particularly effective in the degradation of Hydroxylapatite, a mineral most commonly known as a component of dental enamel and bone. This apatite is widely used in the process of biointegration, a form of regular osseointegration that engenders a superior level of molecular adhesion between bones and artificial implants – a process that formed the basis of Kenji Oyama’s Adamantium grafting procedure that you underwent.” “You should have taken greater interest in the data you stole,” Deathstrike hissed, tearing away Bullseye’s mask and pressing the cap of the cylinder against his exposed forehead. “A man should always know exactly how he’s going to die.” “Without Hydroxylapatite stimulating the chemical bonding,” The Trapster continued, “Biointegration fails. The body rejects whatever has been placed inside it – in this instance, the Adamantium grafting onto your spinal cord. This occurrence, known as Graft Rejection, typically happens over a period of time when it transpires naturally. Unfortunately for you, my Osteoclastic Acid is designed to speed up the process significantly. “Take a deep breath, Leonard. The chemical adhesive that bonded Adamantium to your bones is about to dissolve in a matter of seconds, followed quickly by your system reacting to the foreign matter in your body in an indescribably violent fashion. Needless to say… I imagine it will hurt.” Bullseye shrieked and attempted to shove Deathstrike clear, but without success. Still smiling, ghoulishly, Deathstrike released the cap at the end of the cylinder… …and the small explosion that resulted expelled a smoking, gelatinous white compound somewhere between liquid and dust in the faces of both combatants, who instantly pushed away from one another, each screaming and clawing at their eyes and mouth. The Trapster looked on for a moment, then nodded to himself in satisfaction and removed his silver tin from the inside pocket of his suit. One cigarette remaining. He lit it and exhaled a plume of smoke as both Bullseye and Lady Deathstrike writhed and screamed and spasmed in abject agony before him, their skin darkened and blistering as their physiology erupted in accelerated internal corrosion. “You should have listened to your own advice, Yuriko,” Pete Petruski said, quietly. “You should have taken greater interest in your own genesis. Cybernetic augmentation is different to Adamantium grafting in many respects, but not in the sense that it still requires the application of Hydroxylapatite during the biointegration process; in fact, in needs a hell of a lot more. That’s why you’ll expire first, maybe a whole half minute before poor Leonard here. Maybe I should have warned you when we made our deal, and certainly before you exposed yourself – as you said, a man should always know exactly how he’s going to die, and that must also hold true for a woman. But, then, if you’d known the truth about what I’d developed then it wouldn’t have been a surprise. I couldn’t have sprung my trap. “And, let’s face it…” The Trapster smiled. “Where would old Pete be without his traps?” Where indeed? The Trapster turned slowly at the sound of the rasping voice behind him, cigarette dangling from his lower lip, his expression calm beyond a veil of smoke. The shadow beast that had once been The Spot gazed down on him from above, levitating with arms outstretched. Although the creature’s form remained humanoid she was unmistakably otherworldly, composed not of skin and bone and muscle but of living darkness. Darkforce. Only a pair of coal-red eyes, and a carved mouth of black on black, suggested that this thing had once been human. Well, little Trapster? the creature hissed. Do you have a trap for me? The Trapster flicked his ash, his drooping eyes bright – but not with fear. Rather, he was indulging in a rather elated glow. “No traps left,” he said, simply, discarding the butt of his final cigarette and spreading his empty hands wide. “Not a one. Nada. But I think I did rather well, don’t you? One of the last two contestants standing in our wonderful game. That two doesn’t include you, by the way, because I’m guessing you don’t qualify. I doubt there’s anything left of poor old Spot inside you. No, I’m referring to her.” The shadow beast turned her head as The Trapster gestured to the far end of the hall. There, Black Mamba was still curled upon the floor with her head between her knees and her hair fallen down about her face like a black curtain as she shivered and whimpered like a small animal abandoned in the cold. The manifestation of Darkforce chuckled. Ah, yes, she hissed. Such an insignificant thing, I had overlooked her. Rest assured, I shall tear her asunder and paint these walls with her blood… after I have dealt with you. The Trapster snorted. “Uh-huh. Well, here’s the thing: you should never kid a kidder.” The shadow’s eyes flashed bright. You doubt me? “Actually, I think you’re a lying sack of crap.” The creature snarled and bared her black teeth, but The Trapster was unimpressed. “See,” he murmured, “It’s as I’ve said all along. It’s not how strong you are, or how special your powers might be; it’s all about preparation, about how you apply yourself. That’s the reason I’ve scaled the heights back on Earth, and how I’ve survived so long here, even if I’m ultimately going to fall short of the grand prize. You know what I’ve been doing these past couple of years? Building an information database. I know pretty much everything there is to know about every man or woman who has decided, at one point or another, to put on a costume and take something for themselves from the world. Call them villains, call them opportunists, it doesn’t matter – I know about them, my reasoning being that such information was essential if I was to advertise myself as an organiser, and to be able to match the perfect employee to the perfect job. I can’t begin to tell you how handy that’s all been in this situation.” The shadow beast sneered. Impressive, I’m sure, she rasped. Can you then put a name to me? The Trapster shrugged. “Daes Shamblu? Means nothing to me. But I don’t need to know who are you when I know what you are.” And what is that? “Just as the young lady confirmed – you’re an embodiment of a specific brand of energy. Darkforce is the generic term used on my planet, used by the likes of The Shroud, Blackout, Asylum… and, it seems, by The Spot, although I doubt even he knew that himself, poor guy. But none of those others are important. Not like supposedly insignificant little Black Mamba over there – who, I’m thinking, is anything but. You’ve kept her alive for a reason…” The creature was becoming increasingly fractious, her body shimmering and fluctuating before The Trapster’s steady gaze, validating everything he was saying. And can you tell me that reason? the shadow growled. “Absolutely – and here’s where the question of my expertise becomes relevant. It’s because, as detailed in those files I just mentioned, Black Mamba – Tanya Sealy – is without question the most adept manipulator of Darkforce humankind has ever seen. She can control it to the extent that she can fashion and maintain solid form from its mass… such as, the cocoon that’s currently keeping The Grandmaster prisoner.” The Trapster gestured casually to a seething mass of shadow away to his right, at the perimeter of the Court – a mass that, now attention had been drawn to it, appeared to enclose a gigantic form. “See,” Petruski murmured, “I’ve noticed that Mamba’s been a little spacey since pitching up here. That’s because it isn’t you that’s keeping our resident God contained. It’s her, at your command.” The shadow creature reared, howling in fury. The Trapster breathed deeply, then glanced back over towards Black Mamba, who had now raised her head and was staring at him with those deep, beautiful eyes. “And I guess there’s just one thing left to say, right Tanya?” he said, quietly. “Well done. You won. The last one standing. Now it’s time to claim your prize.” And with that, Pete Petruski closed his eyes and smiled – and then died, as the darkness that was once The Spot lashed out with black claws and tore her enemy’s head clean from his neck, filling the air with blood. Black Mamba gasped in shock as she watched The Trapster’s decapitated corpse collapse in a heap. For a moment she expected the shadow beast to then turn on her… but she didn’t. She wouldn’t even look at her. It was then that Mamba understood that everything Petruski had said was true – and that there was only one thing she could do about it. Her body trembling but her mind as keen as a blade – a shining scalpel – she reached out, telepathically, for the alien energy that passed as her adversary’s mind… …and, in the next instant, the final truth about the entity known as Daes Shamblu was revealed. To Be Continued...