Sorcerer in DC

A few minutes earlier.

Priya's POV

I looked out of my bulletproof window and drank in the majesty of Berlin. Skyscrapers dotted the horizon, reflecting and refracting light that bounced around the rising German city. My enhanced senses picked up distant car engines, the slow chug of departing trams, and the idle chatter of early risers and industrious worker bees. I'd always wanted to see Berlin, but I was always too busy before.

Work brought me to the city a second time, but maybe this time would be different. Lots to see. The Berlin Wall, Brandenburg Gate, maybe an ex-lover or two. I shook my head. No. No, I couldn't let myself get distracted. I was here for them. Everything I did was for them. There would be time for all of that later, when Artisan was dead.

I looked back at the room, my eyes wandering to all the vents where I'd hidden a small package with five serums. They weren't technically supposed to exist. If Luthor and the Light ever found out I kept some for myself, they would call off the deal, but I was done letting others dictate how I operated.

Those serums were the next generation of super-soldier serums. They were the future of modern warfare, if I ever managed to make the formula less lethal. I'd cobbled them together using insights from the Blockbuster Venom formula to build on the original Super Soldier formula, the one that flowed through Deathstroke's deceased body.

It'd taken a lot of work and sleepless nights, but eventually I saw the connection, and with the help of Brain, I created a working formula that we tested again and again. First it was rats, then primates, and finally volunteers.

Maximo, our new-gen super-soldier serum, was still very much lethal, despite months of tweaking and careful testing.

Sixty percent of all the subjects Luthor sent my way died minutes after they were injected; twenty percent suffered unstable mutations, their bones and bodies deforming as a result of uneven enhancement. A further fifteen percent suffered psychological breaks and neurological deterioration after successful enhancement. Reverse Cursed Technique couldn't save them, nor could Psimon. Something about their egos having already collapsed.

Only five percent survived. And the kind of improvements they showed were outside the scope of our expectations.

The weakest of them could lift over twenty tons, move faster than the fastest commercial car, withstand small- and large-caliber gunfire and small explosions, react several dozen times faster than most humans, and bounce back from life-threatening wounds in seconds without dipping too much into their energy stores.

Then there were the enhanced senses, precise motor control, unnatural pain tolerance, extended lifespan, and faster processing and tactical reasoning.

It would take nothing short of a really lucky First-Grade Sorcerer with a Blockbuster Venom serum or a Special Grade to take them down, and Luthor already had five of them. Pair that with his small army of supervillain clones he was cooking up, and he had the beginnings of an army strong enough to oppose her, but I feared it wouldn't be enough, even with Artisan crippled.

There was a knock on the door. It must've been Bob, one of my new minders.

He was one of the surviving five percent, tasked with minding me and implanted with a kill chip, of course. There were five other metas and Blockbuster Venom-enhanced soldiers spread throughout the hotel.

I didn't mind the security, even though I was used to protecting myself. Luthor was a careful man, by profession and habit, and he wanted a face-to-face to finalize our pact. I was surprised he'd even set the meeting somewhere public.

Once we agreed on the final details, we could proceed with the breakout plot. The Light already had agents inside Bellevue; Psimon's clone was going to lead the breakout himself. By the end of the day tomorrow, Ming and the others should be free.

Another knock came, pulling me from my thoughts.

"I heard you the first time," I snapped, a touch irritated as I spun around and grabbed my suit jacket. Adjusting my knife holsters, I threw on my jacket and, on a whim, listened for Bob's heartbeat, but found two quick ones. Neither of them was Bob.

Cursed energy flooded my body, and I sensed them move as well. The far side of my room exploded, flinging psychically-empowered stone and plaster chunks at me like buckshot as my first attacker ran into the room. She wore casual clothes, black gloves, and a mask.

Telepath.

My second attacker was only a step behind. Her shirt was stitched entirely from Talismans that hid a Special Grade sorcerer's energy signature. She had tattoos on the sides of her mouth, ones that I recognized. They belonged to sorcerers that Artisan had managed to infuse with Curse Speech. It was a ridiculously powerful technique with steep costs. But when you had the Blockbuster Venom formula flowing through your veins, they weren't as steep.

Immediately, I realized it was futile to run, but I was far from defenseless.

My fingers came together, forming a vulgar hand sign as I looked at them dead-on. Psychically enhanced pieces of masonry bounced off my reinforced skin as I uttered the words no reasonable sorcerer wanted to hear, especially when you had no protection of your own.

"Domain Expansion: Theater of Pain."

The world stuttered, and suddenly we were back in my operating room at the first base. I was in my scrubs, with gloves on, and to my left, there was a tray filled with operating tools. Bone saws, scalpels, hammers, disposable blades. The walls were slick with fresh blood, the equipment overturned. Lights overhead flickered.

My attackers looked lost, then taken aback, and finally afraid. The sorcerer opened her mouth to speak, but she was already dead. The scapula traced a line through the air, removing her head completely.

What a waste.

She was a complete amateur. She should've used a Simple Domain, but that would imply that Artisan had the time to teach them properly and prepare them for battle with a sorcerer with experience. Then again, if Artisan had known I'd learned to expand my Domain, she would've sent better people. So, I suppose keeping that particular move up my sleeve all these years had been the right call.

The psychic threw up a panicked shield, trying to stop my attack. It didn't work. The esoteric energy bypassed her mental shield, lopping her head clean off.

The lights overhead dimmed, and I was alone in my room again, breathing heavily. Their blood pooled into the carpet.

I hurried over to the vent and ripped it open, pulling out my suitcase with the serums, and then I tried to place a call to Luthor. A different voice picked up, one that wasn't Mercy.

I crushed the phone and hurried out of my room, checking the hallway before I made it to the back of the building. I didn't bother doubling back to check on my security. They were either fighting or dead. Both meant I was on my own for now.

I had a specific destination in mind: a window at the back of the building. Leaping out of it should put me behind the dumpsters and out of view of most pedestrians and cars.

It should buy me some time. I pulled out my backup encrypted phone and called Brain, and then the other members of the Light. No one was responding.

My stomach turned.

They're dead, aren't they? Or at the very least, fighting for their lives.

I had no proof, but I knew Artisan well enough to know this was her style. An all-out assault on multiple targets.

I needed backup yesterday.

And the only people I could call were the last people I wanted to be in business with again.

Julius Spencer and Shelim.

Shelim was a sociopathic opportunist with no moral fiber, and Julius had killed several of my children, butchered Ade, and dragged his feet on the rescue plan.

Neither had the resources to really help me, but it was better than nothing.

I dialed Shelim's encrypted line as I arrived at the window. Several footsteps climbed up the stairwell leading to my floor. The call went through as I smashed through the bulletproof window, dropping ten stories.

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