Obligatory Disclaimer : I do not own anything (except maybe OC characters) all characters, places, worlds, universes…etc mentioned here belong to their respective owners and/or companies.

This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.

HEAVEN'S FEEL

Being able to move at near sonic speeds and not have to answer to the physics of motion gave the yellow blur an insurmountable advantage. It moved through his men, he expected limbs to fly and blood to stain the floor of The Rose—his cherished ship, christened after a daughter he promised to find no matter the cost or consequence. The bodies dropped but he could see that they were still breathing. All this happened in what amounted to less than the blink of an eye.

Slade’s mind ran simulations at incredible speeds, he constructed a detailed 3-dimensional mental map of the entire ship and ran his calculations on where the blur would be positioned based on how fast it was moving and the obstacles in its path. Slade withdrew his handguns, took a sharp breath and aimed to his left, firing a barrage of bullets at what seemed like empty air.

He heard a muffled groan drift along the wind, perhaps confirming that some of the bullets had indeed hit their target.

Good. He thought, it would give him micro seconds— enough time to be prepared for close contact combat against such an opponent. Slade’s body was enhanced to the degree where there was barely any lag between his thought process and actions. But this blur was moving —too fast— at a speed that far outmatched his, it was an enemy he had no concept of. One that was an extreme representation of speed.

Slade tossed his guns aside made for his twin blades —micron edged, Promethium forged Katanas— that were neigh unbreakable in one fluid motion. And then he noticed it, the blur did the impossible, it sped up.

Its prior velocity was nothing compared to this. Slade knew that he had fallen for a trap, the blur made him assume that it was already operating at maximum speed, going to the extent of taking bullets just to sustain the illusion. Slade’s current posture was a vulnerable one, his arms were still in the motion of going over his head to reach for the swords.

Given the chance, he could regain his composure and update his model on the opponent, factoring this new speed into the equation to better counter it.

The chance was not awarded to him. Slade heard the pop of his knee caps accompanied by the familiar pain of bullets moving through flesh, but without the sounds. He hissed at the cold, sharp sting of what seemed like a fine tipped drill bit, digging into his lower vertebra. What followed was a sudden weightlessness, lightheadedness and temporary disorientation. When the world’s best mercenary regained his wits, he noticed that both his prized swords were missing. And judging from the dull ache pulsating along his spine and the prior symptoms— some of his spinal fluid.

Slade took a deep breath to calm himself, stifling the cold fury and bloodlust that permeated his being upon reading the handwritten note left by the blur in his palm. He rose to his feet, even as his injuries closed and healed. He swore to find this blur and kill it, painfully.

He noticed the irregularity in the waves, to normal human eyes it would be nothing but the sway of the sea, Slade was anything but normal. Alarms blared over The Rose, rousing all the unconscious on board into an alert state of mind. Many had questions, but under the cold, hard gaze of Deathstroke, each crew member went about their task with utmost efficiency and discipline—a result of relentlessly practiced drills.

“We have a problem.” Said a voice through Slade’s earpiece. His brows narrowed into a frown, if the man behind the voice said there was a problem, he meant it for the worst.

“Status, Lex.”

*.*.*.*.*

Rapidly knitting tissue painfully expelled the six bullets lodged in the flesh of my almost mangled arm on to asphalt, it was a macabre form of sweating I couldn’t help but be fascinated by. Thank the speed-force for the temporary boost it gave my enhanced healing factor. I couldn’t say the same for the tattered cloth of my right arm.

Slade is a hard man to go up against, an even harder man to steal from, if it wasn’t for the fact that he had never encountered a speedster I probably would have sustained more lethal injuries.

I could dwell on that later, my connection to the speed-force was fading as is.

I burst right into the store called Rags ‘n Tatters. This seemingly inconspicuous antique store, under the management of one Rory Rogan, held an artefact of great value and —under the right circumstances— power; The suit of souls.

A magical, semi-sentient shape shifting artefact that stores the souls of the corrupt. Uses said souls to grant enhanced physical abilities to the wielder among other things and a few magical effects. Let’s focus on one; the ability to sense evil souls in its immediate proximity.

Out of the shadows it crawled—of course I had noticed him earlier, I just need him to think he can match me. Him being a man dressed in a patched up suit made of mismatched rags. I felt the influence exerted from the suit, its hunger for my very unique soul. I am something it has never encountered, a soul from the highest dimension. And would you know it, I happen to be evil—according to it that is.

The man beneath said suit of souls could barely hold himself back, wicked tendrils of cloth extended from his back and cracked at me. Magical means, call for magical measures. His combat skills couldn’t match up to mine, and regardless of his physical enhancements a concussion is a concussion.

I acted, moving faster than his mind could register, slamming the Nth metal mace against the back of his head with a loud thud. He crumpled to the ground in an embarrassing heap. I would’ve preferred to take this slow, but the speed-force connection was fading. I tagged him with a tracer and went to work.

Withdrawing one of Promethium Katanas strapped to my waist, I rested its edge on Ragman’s forehead, pushed it into the cloth and made a clean vertical slice downwards along the length of the suit. Had it been any other blade, I wouldn’t be able to leave a deep enough scratch on the magical suit, but like Nth metal, Promethium was also special. Turns out snowflakes can be useful huh.

The cut closed instantaneously, as though it were never even there. I made another and another and another, all while slicing off tendrils that kept lashing at me.

You’d notice my lack of mention of blood was because I didn’t pierce flesh, it wasn’t necessary to kill someone if I could help it, but the suit wasn’t making it easy for me. I searched my utility belt for flammable fluid packs, but found the next best thing; incendiary pellets.

I cracked it open, poured its contents on the unconscious man and ignited it. The suit disappeared into thin air, it and the man within.

I pulled up the tracer console and located them relatively easily. For a relatively low power artefact such as the Suit of souls to survive this long, meant that it valued its existence more than fighting a losing battle. Too bad it met me.

“Missed me?” I asked, looking down at its singed and smoking form in a dumpster four hundred meters away from the store. It wasn’t teleporting any longer, neither did it try to attack me with its tendrils. Which implies that this suit has dangerously exhausted the souls in its reserves. Let’s test that.

I made a vertical cut, noticing that the suit healed at a much slower rate, and no longer fought me. I was able to reach into it and pry it free from the athletic looking, brown haired man within.

“Argh!” He screamed in agony. The pain of forcefully separating him from the suit had woken him up and caused him to subsequently pass. I guess that solved itself.

“Listen clearly, I won’t repeat myself. You’re going to serve me and in turn I provide you with the souls you need. If you don’t…” I dropped it to the ground, drew the mace and began beating down on the suit like a disgruntled batter unleashing the frustration and rage of losing a championship.

I pounded it harder than a virgin on the receiving end of a hate fuck. It shivered in place; its mangled defeated form twitched from moment to moment. “You’re a tool, nothing more, nothing less. You will obey me and function as required. Is that understood?” I might have had a future as a pimp, but I became a bat instead. I stretched out my cape, watching the suit quickly change into a matte black cloak that blended perfectly into the fabric. It even fixed the bullet holes and tears in my suit.

It was like using the Nth metal mace, but with a stronger psychic connection. It gave me little in the way of physical enhancements considering its current state and soul reserve. But it was nevertheless useful. I could carry Rory back to his place rather than leave him here, but this world was going to end anyway, what use would it be to even save people? Sure, I didn’t have to needlessly kill them, but that didn’t mean I was going to be saving them.

With the suit of souls now in my possession, I was as prepared as the time constraints allowed me to be and it was time to get going to my destination. I prepared to run, but stopped. Turning back, I walked to where Rory Regan lay. I drew out my new katana, admiring the exquisite marksmanship of the blade as I drove its glinting edge into the unconscious man’s chest, puncturing his lung and heart in one swift stab. I could feel the tiny vibrations run along its length from a wildly squirming heart.

Why did I do that? Why did I just needlessly kill someone after preaching about how I wasn’t going to do just that?

I pushed, one foot after the other, breaking the sound barrier as I sped through an almost frame frozen world.

I don’t owe you answers. I never did, I never will. Hate me, love me. It doesn’t matter. I can’t hear you, even though I know you’re there watching me, hearing me. Just know that I told, nay, begged you at the start of all this to send me back to my world and you refused. These characters and their lives are nothing to me. I will not be trapped by illusions, no matter how robust they may be. If I ever am, know I’ll wake up, and when I do, there’ll be hell to pay.

*.*.*.*.*.*

It’s a place you’ve probably never heard of, except for maybe if you’ve read/seen Odysseus’ Odyssey, and even then, it wasn’t an accurate representation of the land before my eyes. I took out the holy herb, bit the bulb off and swallowed it whole. Its taste lingered on my tongue as did the image of desiccated bones.

The speed force faded out completely, my steps were no longer aided by an extradimensional representation of kinetic force. Running a mental check over my weapons, and my sanity I stepped onto the marble paved path. Walking step by step into the witch’s palace.

***..****…*****..******