The Death knell

Albert's first thought was that the person originally invited by Deathstroke had arrived.

A gust of wind swept away the heavy rain, and the neon lights from Wayne Tower illuminated him and the visitor.

Something felt off.

The person standing before him wore the same armor and carried identical weapons and equipment but was slightly shorter—about 1.7 meters tall.

The atmosphere became tense in an instant.

Instinctively, Albert relied on muscle memory. He reached for the staff on his back, twisting and pressing it. The two ends of the collapsible short staff extended automatically. Gripping it firmly, he swung it out, adopting a fighting stance.

This was Deathstroke's favorite weapon, equipped with powerful electric shocks and tranquilizer darts at both ends. Many employers preferred to capture targets alive, letting Deathstroke deliver them for further interrogation or play.

But the person in front of him mirrored his actions exactly.

If Albert hadn't seen the figure emerge from the door, he would have thought he was looking into a mirror—so synchronized were their movements, from assembling the staff to their fighting stances.

"Who are you?" they asked simultaneously, their voices distorted into hoarse whispers by their masks.

"I am Deathstroke," they declared in unison.

The tension thickened. Weapons in hand, they circled each other cautiously, eyes locked, analyzing every movement.

Rain poured down, but neither spoke. Both maintained a calculated distance, each assessing the other before making a move—habits ingrained in any master fighter.

Although Albert couldn't read the other person's mind, he was sure he was thinking more than his opponent.

"What's happening? Is this another version of me? Did people from other timelines all become Deathstroke? Or is this the real Deathstroke, and I'm just a cosplayer? But my physical abilities and thought speed are undeniably superhuman..."

In the DC universe, many people had extraordinary abilities and combat skills. Yet, very few could rival Deathstroke in close combat, and those who could had no reason to impersonate him by wearing the yellow-and-black armor.

Thanks to the legendary thinking speed—nine times faster than an average human—Albert ran through countless scenarios and discarded them all within a fraction of a second.

The situation was at a standstill. If he tried to retreat, his stance would weaken, leaving him vulnerable. Turning his back was out of the question in Gotham; that would be suicidal.

"There's no other way. I'll have to fight and knock them down before I can leave."

This thought occurred to both of them simultaneously. Without a word, they sprang into action.

"Boom!"

The metal staffs clashed in mid-air. Their strength was nearly identical, causing them both to stumble back a step. Water splashed beneath their feet as they swiftly repositioned, staffs aimed at each other to guard against any follow-up attacks.

Albert breathed a sigh of relief. Fortunately, he had inherited Deathstroke's combat experience. It felt instinctual, enabling him to unleash his full fighting potential. With these skills, at least his life was safeguarded for now.

The other figure showed no intention of pursuing him, seemingly formulating a strategy of their own.

"If the opponent is just a copycat wearing a Deathstroke helmet, they might struggle with the right-side blind spot. My best strategy would be to attack their right side, exploiting the visual weakness. The right foot is the ideal target since the nose would obstruct their vision."

Albert swiftly devised a tactic, twirling his staff before aiming a strike at his opponent's right foot.

"Whoosh!"

"Whoosh!"

The metal staffs sliced through the rain, shattering droplets mid-air. Neon hues reflected off the two shadows as they attacked each other.

"Clang!"

Their staffs collided once more. Both had targeted the other's right foot while defending their own, resulting in another stalemate.

The force of the clash sent them spinning in opposite directions, instinctively crouching low with one hand on the ground and the other holding the staff aloft like a scorpion's tail, ready to fire tranquilizers.

But seeing each other in the same stance made it clear that any sneak attack would be futile.

"This is absurd. I just arrived in the DC universe, and I'm already dealing with this mess. We're both Deathstroke, with identical memories and habits. Fighting will take days, and the commotion will be massive. Maybe we should talk?"

Albert hesitated, realizing his plan to defeat and escape was pointless.

"Wait!" they shouted together.

Albert inwardly rolled his eyes. The other person was clearly just as hesitant. No one had paid them to fight such a powerful opponent, and mercenaries didn't fight for free. Money mattered more than grudges.

"Drop your weapon so we can talk!" they demanded simultaneously.

"You first!"

"Together!"

Albert felt helpless. Everything was synchronized, making the situation eerily surreal.

Reflecting on his situation, Albert realized that although he was from another world and not the real Deathstroke, his thought process had been influenced by the original Deathstroke's instincts. But he was still himself, retaining his self-awareness.

With this realization, both he and his opponent dropped their staffs simultaneously.

"Clang!"

The weapons clattered onto the wet rooftop, splashing murky water. Rainwater cascaded down their masks like waterfalls.

"Talk!" they commanded in unison.

Albert raised his hand, stopping the eerie synchronization. "Alright, this is getting creepy. Let me speak first, okay?"

"Fine by me," the other person replied, clearly relieved that communication was finally possible.

"I'm a mercenary, codenamed Deathstroke. My real name is Slade, but you can call me Albert," he explained, keeping his backstory brief since he was unsure which parallel universe this was.

"Interesting. I'm also a mercenary, codenamed Deathstroke. But my name is Cindy," the other figure said, adjusting the lower edge of her helmet before lifting it off.

Albert's head spun. Cindy was a woman.

She had short blonde hair, a beautiful yet cold face, and a black eyepatch over her right eye. She was in her twenties, the picture of youth, whereas Albert had expected an older version of himself.

Unbuckling his own helmet, Albert revealed his face—short blonde hair, ruggedly handsome with light stubble, and the same eyepatch over his right eye. He realized he had inherited a younger version of Deathstroke's body.

Cindy's eyes widened in shock. "You're... a man?"

Albert was equally stunned. In this world, men with such power were rare. Cindy explained, "In this universe, I only know of one other powerful man—Charles."

Albert's mind raced. He was in Earth-11, a parallel DC universe where genders were swapped. Here, all heroes and villains were female, and men held a lower social status. Charles, the only male superhero, was an anomaly.

Piecing it together, Albert realized, "I must've crossed over from another universe and reverted to a younger version of Deathstroke due to temporal fluctuations."

For now, he and Cindy stood under Wayne Tower's neon lights, cigars in hand, silently processing this bizarre twist of fate.