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Nameless Black Mask Henchmen POV.
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I swallowed down the knot in my throat and gripped the tray a little tighter. The fine china rattled against the silver, betraying my nerves. I forced myself to take a breath. Just get in, set it down, and get out—that was the plan.
The rumors about Black Mask had never been kind. I'd heard stories before I joined—stories about what he did to people who failed him, who disappointed him. And now, I was the one delivering bad news.
Four of his best men were dead—all killed by some uppity teenager on a rooftop with their own guns! I hardly believed the paper even after I read it, but the Gotham Gazette was nothing if not reliable. It was what the criminal elements of Gotham both loved and hated about it the most.
When you leaked something damaging about your enemy or they fucked up big, you could always count on the Gazette to make a spectacle out of it.
I stepped inside the penthouse, dreading the minutes to come. But the sight of him made me pause.
He had a smile on his very human face. When Batman attacked the cult last time, the rumors said he'd mutilated his face, disfiguring it into a blackened, skeletal abomination. Yet, here before me stood one of the most handsome men I'd ever laid eyes on. He had deep green eyes, a square jaw, and charcoal-black hair.
Dressed in a crisp, expensive suit—the kind you'd expect on a man of his stature—he sat near the window at a sleek, dark table, the morning sun painting the room in shades of gold. He caught my stare, which had lingered far too long.
"Well? You going to stand there all morning?"
I nearly jumped, my hands tightening around the tray. "S–sorry, sir." I hurried forward and set it down before him, careful not to spill anything. My fingers trembled as I took a step back, waiting for his reaction.
For an agonizing moment, he simply ate, ignoring the paper. Toast. Sausage. Coffee. A methodical, deliberate pace.
I watched, frozen in place, my stomach twisting into knots. He hadn't opened the newspaper yet—that was the moment I feared most: the moment he'd learn what happened to his bounty hunters; the moment he'd lash out, and I'd be his closest target.
I wasn't ready to die.
Then, it happened. He finally unfolded the paper, his sharp eyes scanning the front page. I braced myself, my fingers curling into fists to steady my shaking hands. I could already see it in my mind—his fists slamming against the table, his voice booming with fury, his face twisting into something monstrous. Maybe he'd spare me the pain and just shoot me. Maybe he'd do much worse.
But none of that happened.
Instead, his lips quirked into a smile.
"Not bad. Not bad at all."
He took another bite of toast.
"You're not upset?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, and I immediately regretted it.
His head tilted slightly, as if noticing me for the first time. "Quite the opposite. I'm relieved, actually."
My mouth went dry. "Relieved?"
"Wouldn't be satisfying if he were weak." He cut into a sausage with slow, deliberate pressure. "If some two-bit thug could take him down, he wouldn't be worth my time."
It took me a second to realize whom he meant—the one responsible for killing his men.
"Forgive me for being forward," I started hesitantly, "but… wouldn't it be safer to just… kill him?"
He shook his head. "Where's the excitement in that?"
I swallowed. I knew from reputation that Black Mask had certain... appetites, but why let somebody as dangerous as Julius walk free? Why let him become an even bigger threat?
He must have seen my confusion because his lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Most of the hunt is the chase, Tula." He twirled his knife between his fingers before driving it down into the table. "You can't just point a rifle at the elk and pull the trigger. You gotta tease it a little—fire a warning shot. Let it think it has a chance."
He leaned back, his chair creaking slightly. "Sure, you risk it getting away. But that's the thrill of it, isn't it? The kill is sweeter that way."
I nodded numbly. My stomach was still in knots as I carted the tray out of his room. There was talk among the lower members of the cult that Black Mask might've lost his edge, but now I'd seen why the older members believed. In a business where people decapitated first and asked questions later, I was glad to have a master capable of both.
---
We were led into a corridor when the fighting was done. It opened up to rest rooms, a medical center, and a food bar.
I chose the medbay for obvious reasons. It was tended to by a young woman in her early twenties. She was clearly a nurse or a medical student of some kind, but I knew better than to ask. Ivy had a pair of guards stationed nearby, all wearing the same tattoos I had seen on the burly guy I'd taken apart before coming in—something to do with ranks, perhaps.
She didn't seem as guarded as the others, though. As she pulled the remnants of my cut apart—which had already clotted over and was healing—she looked up in surprise.
"Your meta-ability is potent," she said, lightly touching my side. "But I wouldn't push my luck in the upcoming rounds."
I wasn't surprised that she could tell with one look, but her directness caught me off guard.
"It's why we're here, isn't it? To risk our lives and earn money?" I asked, trying to play off my nervousness.
"I don't even know why I bother," she said automatically as she reached for a bottle of alcohol, dipped a cleaning cloth in it, and began cleaning the wound. "None of you listen to me."
I winced. "So, you know about Metas?"
"How did you figure that out?" she asked.
"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic."
She spread a white cloth over my wound and slowly began bandaging me. "But I figure you'd have to know something about us if you work here."
"Fewer Meta comes in than you think," she said. "And I'm typically not the one who sees them—that's Doctor Strange's wheelhouse, but I've picked up a few things over the years."
She looked up, and our eyes met. Up close, she was breathtaking.
"You had a question?"
"I read somewhere online that Meta-abilities grow over time, but no one has come up with a conclusive reason as to why. Some think it's age, others stress, and a few believe it's like exercise—if you work at it, it grows. Some have even suggested chemical enhancements...."
My stamina and Cursed Energy regeneration heavily relied on my Meta-ability. It hadn't let me down yet, but I'd hardly pushed it. I needed more regeneration for when I inevitably made a deadly mistake with Inverse. Sure, each level in the technique helped with the backlash, but one mistake could cost me everything.
If I had a chance to grow my meta-ability, I owed it to myself to chase that lead. Failing that, I'd have to figure out some way to learn to heal with Curse Energy or learn a first-aid skill to maybe boost my regeneration.
It was anyone's guess if that would actually work.
While I ranted mentally, the doctor's expression only grew more troubled. "Stay away from anybody peddling enhancements," she said firmly. "Meta biology is not an exact science. There's no predicting what will give you the breakthrough you're looking for. But as a start, I recommend stressing your regeneration, assuming it's your primary ability. New stimuli could teach your body to heal itself more efficiently—though I advise you against proceeding without a physician present."
"So, poisons, blunt-force trauma, bullet wounds—"
"All very dangerous," she cut me off, her face scandalized. "You could bleed out in seconds."
"But?"
She hesitated. "...but it should help you explore your limits safely. It's certainly better than injecting yourself with some foreign cocktail that would most certainly kill you."
I flashed her a grin. "Thanks, doc." Hopping off the chair, I heard Harley's voice blare over the loudspeakers.
"Now for a special treat: an exhibition match between two of our heaviest hitters—Dr. Phosphorus an' the reigning meta champ, Blockbuster. Let's see if the egghead can give everyone's favorite brute a real challenge."
That sounded interesting.
"I'm off. Thanks for the patch-up, doc?"
"Avery," she replied.
There was a look of expectation in her eyes.
Right.
It was customary to return the favor.
"I would tell you my name—"
"But you wear a mask for a reason," she completed. "Take care, Immortal. I hope you don't die out there."
"Immortal?" I scoffed. I hardly was. "That's a jinx if I ever heard one. Stick to patching people up, doc."
Her soft chuckle drifted behind me as I re-entered the corridor.
That was the easiest conversation I'd had in weeks. It was a nice change of pace.