After giving it some thoughts, I've decided to change a few things going forward. Chapters are still Monday to Friday, but you can get up to two more chapters if we reach powerstone goals. The first is 300 and the second is 500.
Secondly Patreon is going live next week. It's going to be 5 chapters ahead for $5.
Dr. Hugo Strange POV
"We're burning money, Doc," Roland Desmond—Blockbuster's brother and manager—grumbled. "Why isn't he back up and running?"
He glared at the massive tank where his brother lay, an oxygen mask over his face, and several tubes embedded in major arteries. They delivered saline and potent regenerative cocktails—formulations I had personally engineered.
"The patient has never sustained this level of trauma before," I said, adjusting my glasses with one finger. "My treatments can only enhance what his body is already capable of. If you're expecting miracles, you'll need to look elsewhere."
Roland's eyes snapped to me. He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow. I met his gaze without flinching.
Roland Desmond was a thug and an ignoramus, with a vicious streak that made his brother look like a saint by comparison. But I was no stranger to the self-serving and sadistic. Most of my metahuman patients were of that ilk. In truth, I almost preferred them. They made it easier to pry out secrets—more satisfying, too.
And if things ever turned violent, well… I had Ivy's security detail.
"How much longer does he need to be in there?" Roland asked.
"A month," I replied.
"A month?!" he barked. "He'll be a memory in the arena by then. We'll be lucky if he can even land an exhibition match."
"Regaining lost ground shouldn't be an issue for someone with his capabilities."
Roland placed a palm on the tank. "And damage his rep like that? Look, I know the kind of stuff you're into, Doc. I know you're holding back. Whatever it takes—fix him. Money's not an issue. We'll make it back in a week."
I took a breath, steadying myself.
"There's a stem-cell facility in Bludhaven. It's run by a few ex-LuthorCorp scientists. They've made remarkable progress in accelerated tissue regeneration. I know the man in charge—he owes me a favor. With his help, your brother could be back in fighting shape within the week."
Roland narrowed his eyes. "And what's that intro gonna cost me?"
"You know what I want."
"And you know my answer," he said coldly. "His notes are off-limits."
"Your devotion to your brother is admirable, but it's making you blind to the opportunities that could actually help him," I said, and earned a sharp look. "Understanding the original formula—and how it affected Mark's biology—could be the key to restoring his mind."
That made him pause.
"So you're saying strength and smarts… it's not an either-or thing?" he asked.
I smiled. "Not necessarily. With proper rebalancing, there's no reason we couldn't recreate the original formula—only better. Stronger. Smarter. Theoretically, we could craft the perfect superhuman."
"Make me a serum of my own," he said, too quickly. "You've got yourself a deal, Doc."
I smiled, allowing myself a flicker of genuine excitement. "Excellent."
I glanced one last time at Blockbuster's chart.
"I'll make the calls as soon as I have the notes in hand."
---
Cheshire POV.
The pit sand smelled like blood and sweat. A coliseum of the desperate and cruel. I fit in just fine.
I twirled a sai between my fingers, rolling my shoulders loose as I sized up my opponent. Mister Negative. A.K.A. Julius Spencer.
My sister's suicidal loser boyfriend.
I had to give him props, though—he was tenacious.
"I've been looking forward to this," I said, my voice smooth, casual. "Might be the only real fight I get in this bracket."
He didn't respond. Didn't even shift. Just stood there, hands loose but ready. I watched them closely.
Stronger than he looks.
I'd seen it in his other fights—how he sent men twice his size crumpling with a single blow.
He wasn't big, but he hit like he was.
The bell rang.
I moved first.
A flick of my wrist—sai darting toward his ribs. He caught the movement early, arm snapping down to block. A clean, controlled deflection. I lifted a brow. Sharp. A feint low, then a kick to the shin. He stepped back, but barely. My heel grazed his leg.
I laughed. "Not bad."
His response was a short exhale. Then he lunged.
His strikes were precise. Not just throwing hands—he was placing them. A jab for my throat, a palm strike toward my ribs. I tilted my head just enough for the jab to pass, then slapped his wrist away before the palm strike could land.
I grinned. "Better."
He was fast—supernaturally so. But his movements weren't clean. He blocked with his hands well enough, but some attacks slipped through, and his footwork was stiff.
Everything about him was just slightly off--half a step too slow, a shift too late. Against most fighters, it wouldn't matter. Against me?
It might as well have been a bullseye.
A high feint into a spinning kick. A slash that turned into a sweep. A dozen movements layered together, breaking his defenses inch by inch.
I clipped his ribs with a knee, spun behind him, and slashed at his shoulder.
He didn't even grunt. He just kept going.
I'd seen it on video already, but it was far more impressive up close.
I pressed harder, ramping up the pressure. More strikes. More layers. Testing him. He blocked the obvious ones. Dodged the second. But the third? The follow-ups? Those landed.
Yet he kept coming.
And that's when I noticed something else.
He wasn't just reacting. He was reading me.
Mister Negative wasn't just enduring—he was learning. Adjusting.
His next block wasn't just a deflection. It was a trap. He shifted his weight slightly, baiting me forward, then moved to counter.
Clever.
I twisted away, feeling the air shift past my cheek as his strike barely missed.
He was perceptive. More than I expected.
If he didn't telegraph every movement...
I could have lost.
That realization slithered through me as we clashed again. He was still just a step behind, but I had to work harder to keep him there.
The speed. The strength. The awareness. It was all there.
He was League of Shadows material, even.
Barbara would be over the moon.
But Artemis already had first dibs.
I watched him carefully. His breath was steady. He could keep going, probably for a while.
And I had seen everything I needed to.
The next time he struck, I didn't move. His fist slammed into my stomach. Air rushed from my lungs. I let my body fold around the hit and flew back.
Jesus fuck.
"I surrender," I rasped, not even needing to make a show of it. A few more of those, and I'd be done for.
Mister Negative stood over me, shoulders tense, like he didn't quite believe it.
Smart. Maybe he'll last long enough to see this revenge thing through.
I struggled to my feet and stood straight. As I passed him, I leaned in close, my voice just for him.
"Good luck with Szasz."
His breathing sped up just the slightest bit. He was nervous. Good.
The crowd booed as I walked out of the arena. Harley said something about being disappointed, but I didn't care.
I was about to get paid and had satisfied my curiosity.
I'd placed a very large, very illegal bet on my own loss.
Extensive physical damage wasn't something I could risk right now. Not with our timeline and mission.
I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. My stomach still ached. Perfect chance to check out the Infirmary.
With my winnings already on their way to the right accounts, I strolled off to the infirmary.
All in all?
Not a bad night.