Chapter 19: 19

Joseph's fingers twitched as he felt the temptation to activate Speed State. He could end this fight in an instant but then what? He'd collapse from the pain, sprawled out on some rooftop with millions in cash next to him, completely vulnerable with Nova having only 25% of it's nanites, not even enough processing power to move his body. Not exactly the power move he was going for. Nova had told him before that using Speed State more frequently would gradually lessen the backlash. In theory. If it did, it was to such a minuscule degree that it barely mattered. He didn't remember the first time being so painful that he nearly blacked out, but that was before he pushed the limits. Now, without a teammate or a safe place to recover, activating Speed State was out of the question. Instead, he was going to do this the hard way. The fun way. 'Nova, just like last time, don't assist with muscle enhancements or give any warnings. I'm handling this punk myself.' //That would be unwise. He is coming with the intention to kill.// 'Wouldn't be the first time. It's been ages since I fought outside of Dream State. Let's see how much I've improved from sparring with your avatar every night.' Black Spider wasn't paying attention to the money. That was good—meant he wasn't here for a payday. Joseph dropped the two duffel bags and squared up. He wasn't in the mood to run anymore. If this guy wanted a fight, he was getting one. The moment they lunged at each other, Joseph immediately understood why Black Spider had an ego. The guy was fast and trained. Professional. A single strike from him wasn't anything special, but his combinations were fluid, ruthless. Joseph barely had time to register the elbow coming for his face before he twisted away. He ducked under a roundhouse, only for his foot to get yanked by a web line, nearly pulling him off balance. Joseph barely managed to recover before a kick slammed into his gut, sending him skidding toward the edge of the rooftop. His feet scraped against the gravel, stopping just before he could go over. He was not about to fall off a building because of some knockoff ninja. He growled in frustration, shaking off the sting of impact. This guy had obviously been doing this a lot longer than him. Trained martial artist, good instincts, annoying-ass web shooters—Joseph was at a serious disadvantage. For now. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Black Spider smirked behind his mask. "That all you got, newbie?" Joseph clenched his fists. He didn't even do anything to this guy, and he was acting like they had some kind of personal beef. That made this whole fight even more infuriating. Joseph wasn't about to get shown up by some weird mercenary with an arachnid obsession. The next exchange was different. Joseph wasn't just reacting anymore—he was learning. His stamina held firm, his endurance solid. Every time Black Spider threw something at him, he adapted. The martial arts techniques started to make sense, the patterns clicking into place. His muscles ached from the earlier blows, but he was still standing, still improving with every move. Black Spider swung a lead pipe with a web at his head, and this time Joseph didn't just dodge—he caught it. A sharp tug sent Black Spider stumbling forward, and Joseph drove his knee into his ribs. The mercenary grunted, leaping back to create distance, but Joseph didn't let up. He rushed forward, dodging another web shot, slipping past a right hook, then countered with an elbow to Black Spider's jaw. For the first time, Black Spider seemed pissed. "Alright, you little—" Joseph didn't let him finish. He grabbed Black Spider's arm and twisted it, slamming his foot into the back of his knee. The mercenary buckled, but before he could recover, Joseph sent a brutal kick to his stomach, sending him sprawling onto the rooftop. Joseph stepped back, breathing heavily. Black Spider groaned, clutching his side, trying to push himself up. "Stay down," Joseph muttered. "It's over." Black Spider growled, trying to get to his feet, but Joseph cut him off with a solid punch to the temple. The mercenary collapsed, unconscious. Joseph rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply. His body ached, but he felt good. This was the first real fight he had in a while, and he won. No tricks. No Speed State. Just him. His gaze shifted to Black Spider's suit. It was a hell of a lot better than the raggedy mess he had been wearing. More durable. Reinforced. Useful. And he had been thinking a lot about getting a new one. He crouched down, ripping the web shooter bracelets off first before yanking the rest of the suit off the unconscious mercenary. He'd have to do something about the lame colors, but this? This would do nicely. Joseph took a burner phone out his pocket and called the police stating there was a naked homeless bum on top of a roof, gave the address, and hung up. Grabbing his two duffel bags of stolen millions, he stuffed the new equipment into them before, he gave one last look at the defeated assassin. "Thanks for the gear, dumbass." Then he disappeared into the night. ** Karoselle was at his wit's end. He had built an empire in the shadows, clawing his way back from the grave. Once, he had been Salvatore Maroni, one of Gotham's most feared and respected gangsters. In his prime, he was second only to Carmine Falcone, a man whose name still haunted the streets of Gotham like a ghost. But power had its price. Maroni had been put on trial for the murder of Dr. Henry Benson—the same doctor who had been injecting children with experimental LexCorp vaccines. Some powerful people had wanted Benson gone the moment his crimes were exposed, and Maroni had been called upon to see it through. He had done the job personally, swiftly and cleanly. But then came the trial. Harvey Dent, the idealistic prosecutor, had built his case meticulously. The evidence? Maroni's lucky two-headed silver coin, found at the scene with his fingerprints. And to make things worse, Dent had called Batman as his first witness. Maroni had been backed into a corner. Enraged, he made a desperate move—hurling a vial of acid at Dent in the middle of the courtroom. He hadn't counted on Batman's reflexes. The Dark Knight had leapt into action, knocking Maroni out, but not before the acid splashed across Dent's face. That was the day Harvey Dent died and Two-Face was born. And with Two-Face birth, Salvatore Maroni died. At least, that's what they all thought. The world believed that Two-Face had executed him in revenge, that Salvatore Maroni had been wiped from existence. But the truth was more complicated. The attack had left him paralyzed from the waist down, but he had survived. He had disappeared, undergone plastic surgery, and emerged as Anton Karoselle, a loan shark with a new name and a new purpose. And for a while, it had worked. He had rebuilt, amassing wealth and influence. He had men, weapons, and connections. But then, things started unraveling. First, his weapons shipments were disrupted. A damn kid with a bow and arrows kept interfering with his operations, hitting his convoys, taking out his men. And then, just a few months later, it got worse. His money—millions of dollars—was vanishing. His supposedly secure hideouts were being hit one after another, robbed clean. Someone had betrayed him. There was no other explanation. Now, Karoselle sat in his dimly lit office, the weight of it all pressing down on him like a noose tightening around his throat. He had to escape Gotham before things got worse. He reached for the phone, dialing the only two men he still trusted. "Tooth. Scar. Get in here." Silence. His stomach twisted. He called again. No response. A cold sense of dread crawled up his spine. And then, the door creaked open. Two-Face stepped inside, his grotesque, half-scarred face illuminated by the flickering desk lamp. Karoselle froze. His blood ran cold. "Long time no see, Sal." His breath hitched. His mind raced. He needed to say something—anything—to get out of this alive. Two-Face reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar silver coin. Maroni's coin. "Let's leave it up to chance," Two-Face said, his voice eerily calm. He held up the coin between two fingers, letting the dim light glint off its surface. "Tails, you live. Heads... you die." "No, wait—" The coin flipped into the air. It spun, catching the light, its fate-sealing rotation feeling like an eternity. Clink. It landed on the back of Two-Face's scarred hand. Heads. Maroni never had a chance. "The world is cruel, Sal," Two-Face murmured, pulling out a pistol. His voice was emotionless. Cold. "And the only morality in a cruel world... is chance. Unbiased. Unprejudiced. Fair." Maroni barely had time to plead before the gunshot rang out. The last thing he saw was the barrel of the gun, and then—nothing. Two-Face stood over the lifeless body, pocketed the coin, and walked out into the night.