The chamber of the Light shimmered into form—seven distorted visages arrayed in a dark circle, their edges glitching like static on glass. In the center of the room, unlike the others, stood a man in flesh and blood. Sportsmaster. Masked, arms crossed, and radiating barely restrained impatience
Vandal Savage spoke first, his voice always the still point in chaos, "He's gone too long without a leash. Marek moved on his own, and now with Project: Bombshell a success, we do not require his expertise in the immediate future"
Queen Bee's purr curled through the static like incense, "So clone him, and kill the original. A dozen Mareks, each more divine than the last… how decadent that would be"
Lex Luthor's voice cut through, "we've exhausted cloning. His DNA is… elastic. A living code. Attempt replication, and it rewrites itself"
Klarion twirled in the air like a child mid-tantrum, "put him in a box! A lovely padded box where I can peel back his layers like an onion! Oh—no, wait. Not like that! You know what I mean! Teekl, tell them!"
The cat said nothing
"He is League. He was bloodied in the shadows and the Demon Head claims him"
Savage countered, "no one contests his origin, and his containment will temporary. It will allow us study his anatomy on an accelerated timetable, and ensure his indoctrination"
Lex added, "mental protocols for total obedience. A form of Red Sun programming. Loyalty hard-coded… under your leadership, of course, Ra's"
Ra's didn't answer back
Sportsmaster's voice finally cut in—sharp and dry, "Why not just let me break him?"
All eyes—digital—turned to him
"I've watched that kid for years. He's dangerous, but inexperienced. Put me in front of him, I'll take the fight out of him."
Vandal nodded slowly, "you'll lead the capture"
Ra's spoke as a matter-of-fact, "he's the better fighter"
Sportsmaster huffed in anger, "I'll take Deathstroke with me. He'll keep things clean"
"Approved," said Luthor
Queen Bee murmured, "Cheshire too?"
Sportsmaster smirked, "already planned for it. She's the only one fast enough to read him"
Klarion clapped, "Ooh, this is shaping up to be fun, but he uses illusions. You'll need counter-magic"
"Wotan", Luthor offered immediately, "he'll be both effective and unsentimental, having never met the target"
Ra's agreed with a nod
"Then it's decided. Capture him, and deliver him to The Light", Vandal's voice hit like a gavel
Sportsmaster turned, boots echoing against the obsidian floor
"About time"
——————————————x
In the heart of Gotham's decaying industrial district, and beneath the flickering neon of a forgotten billboard, Marek moved within darkness. The air was thick with the scent of rust and rain, the city's pulse echoed through its alleys. He sensed the ambush before it happened—a subtle shift in the wind, the faintest creak of leather
Cheshire struck first, her blades slicing through the air with lethal precision. Marek parried, the clang of metal ringing out as sparks danced in the darkness. Deathstroke emerged from the shadows, his sword a blur as it aimed for Marek's flank. Marek twisted, the blade grazing his side, blood blooming like a dark rose
Wotan's incantations filled the air, warping reality as several Cheshire and Deathstroke surrounded him. Marek's mind reeled, and he too became many. Six different Marek fought a dozen different Slade Wilson and Jade Nguyen. His own illusions countered Wotan's, turning the battlefield into a kaleidoscope of colors, before it all shattered and returned to normal. Wotan spoke again, and hex blots blasted towards Marek, taking him by surprise and burning a hole through his abdomen. The illusion expanded and in Marek's place lay Deathstroke, dying
"What?", Wotan's exclaimed, as Cheshire jumped away on a different rooftop. A crow flew after her, then dozen, then two dozens, then more. Black silhouettes against a bruised sky, swirling in unnatural silence, their eyes gleaming with intelligence that should not have been there
One dove
Cheshire slashed at it with a flick of her blade, and the bird turned to ash. The others screamed—not animal cries, but something harsher, sharper, like the sound of a blade drawn across bone
She ran. Rooftop to rooftop, each leap chased by wings and shrieks, beaks snapping at her heels. One clawed at her shoulder, tearing through fabric and skin. Another tangled in her hair, yanking her head back before she rolled and crushed it under her heel
Still they followed. Not natural. Not alive
Illusion, she winced, the pain was real
The rooftops changed. Became longer. Endless. Repeating. The same chimney. The same pipe. The same fall of broken bricks
She was trapped in the loop, running forever under a sky filled with eyes
She felt her bones break and the world around her shattered. Marek had snapped her knee backward with a brutal strike of his heel. When the pain came, her scream—real and raw—ripped through her throat
She fell, clutching her leg, eyes wide with fury
She looked up to see circular glyph, massive and eldritch, ignite in the sky above—lines of blue flame curving and spinning, ancient script hissing. Wotan stepped through the circle, eyes gleaming with cruelty
"You play with mirages, boy", a disgusting smile occupied the sorcerer's face, "let me show you real magic"
Wotan's arms moved in a blur, And then he thrust them forward
A lance of glowing energy, crystalline and crude, impaled Marek before he could cast another illusion. It exploded out his back in a fan of golden light. Blood sprayed across the rooftop, and Marek's katana fell with a metallic cry
Wotan stepped forward, murmuring another curse, binding Marek's spirit in pain
Jade grimaced as the boy grunted in pain, his body arched against the impaling spell, golden light flickering like dying embers across his frame. His blood steamed against the chill of Gotham air, pooling near his knees as he slumped forward
"At least it's over now," she muttered, cradling her broken leg, the phantom agony of his illusions still echoing in the corners of her mind
But then—
Marek slowly looked up, and smiled
It wasn't the grin of a child bested. It wasn't even anger. It was calm. Knowing. As if this—this very moment—had been written and rehearsed long before Wotan ever whispered his first spell
The red in his eyes still burned bright, casting reflections in the pools of blood at his feet
Wotan stepped forward, arcane symbols weaving around his fingertips, tightening the soul-binding curse like chains, but Marek shifted his weight, and let go
There was no scream. No plea. He simply fell. Past gargoyles and antennas, past the halo of rooftop light, and into the mist-choked alleyways of Gotham's underbelly
Silence claimed them
Wotan stared down over the ledge, eyes scanning the depths, lips twitching in irritation. His magic flared again, searching, but crackle of boots against scorched gravel drew Wotan's attention from the edge
Sportsmaster stepped into view from the opposite rooftop, calm and deliberate, his mask catching the faint glow of the city's amber lights. He moved like a man unbothered by consequence, hands resting loosely on his hips
"Don't tell me you lost the kid", he said, voice dry, almost amused beneath the chrome
Wotan's head snapped towards him, eyes burning with arcane fury, "you were supposed to be here", he snarled, his voice cracking with magic, "where were you when I was piercing that little shadowspawn like the fraud he is?"
Sportsmaster tilted his head, unaffected by the rage, "I planned to join the fight when he'd worn himself out. No illusions. No tricks. Just me, bashing his face in", he shrugged, "It's what I'm good at"
Behind them, Cheshire leaned against a crumbling vent shaft, sweat clinging to her brow, one leg twisted unnaturally beneath her. "We're supposed to capture him alive", she said through gritted teeth, "you remember that part, right?"
Wotan scoffed and turned from the edge, his cloak whipping around, "The Light preferred him alive", he said coldly, "but I fight to kill, girl. Especially those who defile the arcane like that whelp. His power is an insult"
He turned his burning gaze toward Sportsmaster, "you gave him room. Time. Your delay cost us"
Sportsmaster took a single step forward, "and you let him slip", he cracked his neck, "find him, and let me finish things"
Jade grimaced, watching them both with tired eyes
"So what now?" she asked. "You think he's just going to crawl into a sewer and die?"
Wotan's gaze returned to the edge
"No", he said enthusiastically, pointing towards a large building, "he's crawling towards Gotham Academy"
Sportsmaster followed his line of sight, jaw tightening behind the mask, "boy's tougher than he looks"
"You'll find no illusions waiting", Wotan said sharply, "not in his state. Illusions require clarity, focus, and energy, all of which are in short supply when you're leaking from the gut"
The sorcerer turned then, stalking back toward the chaos they had left behind, "I'll catch up once I've ensured Deathstroke still has a pulse. I require his skills for a separate job, and a life debt would ensure his participation"
Sportsmaster gave a single nod and cracked his knuckles, "then I guess it's just me and the kid"
———————————————-x
Marek moved like a shadow beneath the dim emergency lights, the antiseptic tang of the nurse's office clinging to him like a second skin. He'd never been here before—never even stepped foot in Gotham Academy. It reeked of money and polish, every hallway wide and freshly waxed, every trophy case gleaming with legacy
But now it was to be his battlefield
He'd stitched himself together with gauze and surgical glue, his breathing steady despite the hole Wotan had torn through him. The pain remained, but distant now, like thunder after lightning. The Limitless Potential pulsed inside him—unlocked after his first death, a gift he embraced
Cells rewrote themselves. His bones no longer cracked when he moved. His flesh, no longer tore at a breath of wind. He was healing. Like tiny reactors, his cells expelled Wotan's magic as if his body had decided, No more. The arcane energy hissed out of his skin in golden threads. Bruises continued fading, and his muscles tightened
He reached down in his boots and pulled free two obsidian-hilted daggers slid from the sheaths around his ankles, their weight comforting. He inhaled through his nose, closed his eyes, and let the quiet seep in
Elsewhere in the school
Sportsmaster moved like a sledgehammer, not bothering with stealth to fight the unworthy boy. His armor glinted dully under emergency lights, and each step echoed like a war drum against the lockers. He held his bo staff low, ready, efficient. He wasn't worried—yet
His HUD scanned the area. No traps. No movement
Then a flicker. A shimmer. A silhouette far down the hallway
Lanky frame. Barefoot. Shirtless. Blood-caked
Marek
The boy just stood there, beneath a sagging light fixture. Red eyes glowing. Breathing too slow, and deliberate
Sportsmaster stopped walking, "you've gotten tougher, but you've bled enough. Time to go night-night, little Drakon"
The hallway lights snapped off, and it turned to total blackness. Sportmaster adjusted his HUD, but he still couldn't see. He twirled his Bo-staff and centered himself
Then came the whispers. Not from around him—from inside him. Words he didn't understand. The air turned thick, damp. Wrong
He opened his eyes and his visor scrambled. Static bled across the screen
He spun around, 'he's definitely here'
Nothing
A locker slammed shut behind him—metal against metal—screaming into the quiet
A cold draft slithered across the back of his neck
He turned again, this time too slow
Above him, on the ceiling, Marek crawled slow. The boy's dotted eyes spinning
The world shifted and he was a child again. His father, held a belt, and started beating him. Blood on his arms, and he was once again begging
His mother.He was in the kitchen again, looking at track marks and vomit. The smell of bleach and something sour. He saw her body limp on the kitchen floor
Then Tigress. Jade. Artemis.
Flashes of warmth, and real smiles
Then flashes of rage, screams, bruises, and tears
Missions. Blood. Orders from the Light. Lies upon lies upon lies
Beating his own daughters when they failed to meet expectations. Tigress taking the fall for a mission gone wrong. She was now paralyzed, staring at him with glassy hate through the hospital window
Then meeting Drakon and his son. The jealously at the boy's potential, and his departure to the League
Meeting Drakon again ———-A new daughter. Fiona. Her name whispered like a curse. A meta-human, born from Lady Viper
Drakon had started over, and she too would grow up to be a powerful killer
"She'll be like Marek," he had said once. "She'll be another Drakon"
Suddenly, Marek materialized into the memory like virus given form, fists cursed, barely restrained anger, "where is she? Where is my sister?"
His voice wasn't a shout. It was low and final
Sportsmaster—Lawrence—backpedaled in the mindspace, confused. He looked down at his hands. Younger. Smaller. Then older. Then armored. His identities flickering, untethered
"Where is my sister?" Marek asked again, and this time, the memory trembled
Marek dug
Again
And again
Replaying Sportsmaster's life like a film reel set on fire
Every shame. Every failure. Every regret, was played over and over. Each time it got faster, louder, and more grotesque
Lawrence saw Jade with her jaw broken
He saw Artemis crying into a pillow after a mission, where he "taught her a lesson"
He saw Paula—his wife—take the fall for the their mistake. Her legs never moved again, because her spine shattered
Then finally Fiona came into view—just three years old—silver, bright eyes, quiet
A little too quiet
"She's… beautiful", Marek muttered inside the memory,"She's innocent and Constantine's raising her the same—", Marek snarled, "the same way he raised me"
Marek tore through another wave of memories—Searching for more. Searching for anything
A location. A whisper. A corner of a room. A signal
Nothing
So he made Lawrence suffer.
Burned him alive, ripped apart by jade copies, who had knives for fingers. Locked him in a collapsing cage of screaming daughters. Hung him upside-down while Artemis stood over him, expressionless, carving lies into his chest.
Lawrence screamed, and begged, but Marek simply showed him Fiona, just her face—how she might look in ten years. How she might fight. How she might beg for freedom, and how Drakon would never let her go
Marek kept digging, through it all
Even when Lawrence's body went limp in the real world, blood pooled from his nose
Marek. Didn't. Stop.
He crushed every synapse, and poured fear into every corner of the enforcer's mind. He deleted every identity and rebuilt them only to destroy them again
By the end…
There was no Lawrence Crock, and no Sportsmaster