The rain was a greasy film on the rooftop, reflecting the neon vomit of New Gotham-Hell's Kitchen. Below, the streets seethed with a chaotic blend of pre- and post-Merge traffic, sirens wailing a discordant symphony. I was a shadow against a shadow, a ghost among ghosts, watching a two-bit gang move product between warehouses. Small-time. Unimportant. But I needed the practice, the feel of the edge. This new body, this… smoke show… it took some getting used to.
Then I heard it. A voice I hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime.
"You're a hard man to find, even here."
The voice was gravel, sandpaper on steel. Viktor Strain. I didn't need to turn to know. The scent of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne clinging to the air confirmed it.
I didn't react, didn't flinch, didn't even breathe differently. The rain masked the subtle shift of my weight, the almost imperceptible tightening of my grip on the silenced pistol tucked inside my coat.
"Viktor," I said, my voice a low rasp, almost lost in the downpour. I didn't bother turning. I already knew who stood behind him.
Two figures materialized from the gloom, stepping into the dim light spilling from a flickering neon sign across the street. Kera Vale. Her crimson hair, though now streaked with grey, was still pulled back in that severe, almost military style. Her eyes, though, they hadn't changed. Still held that unnerving mix of calculating intelligence and genuine warmth. And then there was Marlow Creed. I'd seen him blown to pieces five years ago, a flash of white-hot light and then… nothing. But here he was, gaunt, eyes wild, a network of scars crisscrossing his face like a roadmap of past explosions.
"Fancy meeting you here, Ghost," Viktor said, stepping closer, his hand hovering near the vibro-blade sheathed on his thigh. "Or should I say… Spectre? That's quite the new look you're sporting. That head of yours just smoke, how did you even managed that."
My head, or where my head used to be, was now a swirling mass of black smoke, constantly shifting, an absence of form where a face should be. A side effect of the Merge, the chaotic collision of worlds. It was… unsettling, even to me.
"The Merge changed everyone," I said, finally turning to face them. My smoky head tilted slightly, a gesture that might have been curiosity, or perhaps a predator assessing its prey. "Clearly, some more than others."
"Changed," Kera echoed, her voice softer than I remembered. "It's an understatement. The rules are gone, Ghost. Governments, nations… just ashes in the wind. The world's ripe for the taking."
"Opportunity," Marlow cackled, a high-pitched, unsettling sound. "That's what it is! A goddamn gold rush!"
Viktor stepped forward, laying out his proposal with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "We're putting the band back together. We're offering our services to the highest bidder. Heroes, villains, whoever's got the credits. Red Reign needs some wet work done? We're there. Waller looking to clear out some meta threats? We're in. Fisk wants a rival neutralized? Consider it done. Cold, profitable, ruthless. You in?"
I stared at them, my smoky head unreadable. I ran calculations, probabilities, potential outcomes. I saw the future they envisioned: a mercenary free-for-all, fuelled by chaos and bloodshed.
"No," I said, the single word hanging in the rain-soaked air.
Kera stepped forward, her expression softening, a hint of the old… something… in her eyes. "You always said chaos suits people like us, Ghost. That we thrive in the shadows. But deep down, you liked the way I cleaned up your messes… and how I made you forget them."
She was trying to appeal to my… what? Humanity? Sentimentality? It was a wasted effort. Those parts of me were long dead, buried beneath layers of hardened steel and strategic calculation.
"I didn't survive the Merge to become someone else's dog," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I'll kill when I choose. For my reasons. Not because this world's gone mad."
The air crackled with tension. The rain seemed to intensify, blurring the edges of the rooftop, turning the world into a watercolor of greys and blacks.
Marlow laughed again, a manic, unsettling sound. "Suit yourself, Ghost. But we got a big one lined up. Assassination gig. Some merged-world mutant diplomat. Big payday."
That… that crossed a line. I didn't care about chaos, about profit, about the new world order. But targeting a diplomat, someone trying to bridge the gaps between worlds… that was a different breed of depravity.
Viktor saw the shift in my posture, the almost imperceptible tensing of my muscles. He wasn't stupid. He knew me. Knew what I was capable of.
"Too bad, Ghost," he said, drawing his vibro-blade in a lightning-fast motion. "We were hoping you'd see reason."
He wasn't fast enough.
Before Viktor's blade was fully extended, I was moving. A blur of motion, a whisper of sound. Years of training, of honed reflexes, of brutal efficiency took over.
My first move was aimed at Kera. Not to kill, but to disable. A disorienting strike to the temple, followed by a swift grab for her wrist, crushing the delicate mechanisms of her dart launcher. She gasped, surprise and pain flashing in her eyes as the weapon clattered to the rooftop.
Marlow, in his eagerness, lunged forward, a small demolition charge clutched in his hand. But he was too slow. A precise shot to his shoulder, a dull thud against the bone, sending him sprawling, the charge skittering across the slick surface.
Viktor was the real threat. He was fast, skilled, and ruthless. His vibro-blade hummed with lethal energy, slicing through the air with deadly precision. He pressed the attack, forcing me to retreat, his blade a constant threat.
I parried, dodged, weaved, using the limited space to my advantage. The rain made the rooftop treacherous, but I had the edge. I knew my opponent's weaknesses, his tells, his tendencies.
We traded blows, a brutal dance of steel and smoke. The air filled with the metallic tang of blood, the hum of the vibro-blade, the hiss of the rain.
Viktor was good, but I was better. I saw an opening, a momentary lapse in his defense. I exploited it without hesitation. A swift knee strike to his groin, a sickening crunch, followed by a point-blank shot to his leg. He crumpled to the ground, screaming in agony, his vibro-blade clattering uselessly beside him.
I stood over them, my smoky head swirling, my body radiating a cold, lethal aura. Kera was nursing a bruised temple, Marlow was clutching his bleeding shoulder, and Viktor was a writhing mess of pain on the rain-soaked rooftop.
"I'm going to let you live," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Consider it a courtesy. But know this: come near me, or my blood, again… and I won't miss next time."
I turned and vanished into the shadows, a ghost fading into the night. Behind me, the sirens wailed, growing louder, closer.
As I moved through the labyrinthine streets of New Gotham-Hell's Kitchen, disappearing into the anonymity of the crowd, I reflected on what had just transpired.
They were proof. Proof that the past never really stays buried. That the ghosts of yesterday can haunt the battlefields of today. And in a world full of gods and monsters… it's the devils who blend in best.
I knew they'd be back. They wouldn't forgive my betrayal, my refusal to join their mercenary band. And next time, they might not come alone.
The Merge had unleashed chaos, but it had also unleashed the past. And I, the Ghost, was now caught in the crossfire between the present and the ghosts of yesterday.
My daughter. I saw her face in my mind, her bright, innocent eyes. How could I ever hope to connect with her, to be a father to her, when I was nothing more than a ghost, a creature of shadow and death?
The thought stung, a brief flicker of pain in the icy wasteland of my heart. But it was fleeting. The mission called. The world needed a ghost. And the Curator dosen't seem like a being who would let me leave so easily. He said my mission will come soon but I haven't had contact in near two weeks.
Just what is this mission.