Sportsmaster, surrounded by his cadre of burly, well-armed goons, stepped down from the helicopter. Behind him, Kobra—the snake-themed hybrid, equal parts menace and unnatural ugliness—emerged. His minions, a slithering mix of cultists, fanatics, and barely restrained zealots, fanned out in a protective circle. The smell of chemicals, sweat, and ambition clung to the air like a bad perfume.
I couldn't help but grin under my skull mask, the faint mechanical rasp of my breathing punctuating my amusement. HEHE. This… this was peak chaos potential.
Everyone on my team was now fully aware of who the buyer was. Robin had frozen like a cat watching the slow movements of a predator. Miss Martian hovered a few meters above, psychic tendrils probing for danger. Superboy's massive frame provided the literal and metaphorical shadow cover, while Wally, still pale from his earlier cow-shit incident, was frozen mid-step, clearly debating life choices. Aqualad, ever the calm eye in my storm, had his gaze locked on the negotiation, trying to parse threats and intentions before we all became collateral.
I, of course, was far from their hiding spot, grinning in the shadows, my mark of the Outsider glowing faintly beneath my glove. None of them—not even the Justice League or Batman, if they had been watching—knew the full extent of what I could do. That's the fun of the Mark. Chaos, control, and mischief all bundled into one neat little package. And tonight… tonight it was about to bloom.
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Sportsmaster's boots hit the concrete with a firm, deliberate thud. He adjusted his gauntlet and surveyed the crates of Kobra Venom with the kind of professional detachment only someone who spent a decade turning lethal athleticism into a career could muster. Behind him, his cadre of heavily armed goons shifted in practiced synchronization, eyes flicking across every angle, every shadow.
Kobra, that snake-themed nightmare in human form, slithered forward with the serpentine grace of a predator and the unsettling smell of wet leather, cheap cologne, and industrial chemicals trailing in his wake. His minions spread out in a fan-shaped protective screen, their hands twitching near weapons, their eyes darting for threats. Kobra's own eyes glimmered like molten green, a mixture of madness, pride, and paranoia—a toxic cocktail worthy of his reputation.
"Gentlemen," Kobra hissed, his voice low and venomous, "you will find the terms satisfactory. The Venom shipment—enhanced with Cadmus Blockbuster serum—is ready for immediate transfer. One vial—carefully handled—will transform an ordinary operative into an apex warrior in under sixty seconds. As for payment, my instructions are clear…"
Sportsmaster, as always, let the words wash over him, nodding with calculated patience. He had no intention of letting a venomous snake dictate terms to him. Negotiation, after all, was a game of leverage, timing, and intimidation—and he was exceptionally good at all three. His gauntlet flexed as he subtly surveyed the immediate battlefield—the cultists, the chemical crates, the tension that hung thick enough to choke a man.
"Interesting proposition," Sportsmaster said, voice smooth, clipped, rehearsed. "But I don't negotiate with threats. Only results. And results… I deliver with certainty."
Kobra blinked, a micro-expression flickering across his unnatural face—a warning Sportsmaster noted but ignored. The cult leader's tone grew sharper, teeth glinting in the dim light. "Do not test me, mercenary. My patience is—"
Before Kobra could finish, one of Sportsmaster's goons suddenly raised his rifle and fired. A single shot tore through Kobra's grotesque visage, sending his face into a bloody spray that shocked even the most seasoned members of the cult. His body jerked violently before collapsing, limbs twitching in final convulsions.
Sportsmaster froze. His eyes widened behind the mask, the momentary crack in his composure betraying his surprise. The goon, grinning like a madman, didn't stop there. The remaining cultists—already tense and jittery—were caught in a storm of bullets and chaos. Shots rang out, echoing through the cavernous warehouse as Kobra's minions fell in grotesque, chaotic arcs.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Sportsmaster bellowed, fury cracking his voice like a whip. "WHAT HAVE—"
Before he could finish, a massive shadow tore through the shattered window. Concrete and glass rained down as Mammoth hurled himself into the fray with unholy strength. The first goon—already mid-celebration over Kobra's death—was flattened in a single, bone-crushing stomp. The impact reverberated across the warehouse, knocking crates off their pallets and sending chemical fumes into the air.
"SHIT!" Sportsmaster cursed, scrambling to reposition. His tactical mind raced, trying to account for the massive disruption, the unexpected force, and the threat now barreling toward him and his remaining men. Every carefully laid plan dissolved in seconds under Mammoth's destructive weight.
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HEHEHEHE. I couldn't suppress a laugh, low and cruel, as the warehouse dissolved into chaos around us. Sparks from shattered crates danced in the smoke, chemical fumes stung the eyes, and bodies—both cultist and Sportsmaster's goon—fell in twisted, grotesque arcs. With the powers of [Possession] and [Bend Time], I had orchestrated a perfect little sabotage: one of Sportsmaster's own men had killed Kobra under my control, and now the blame fell squarely on him. Perfect chaos, courtesy of yours truly.
I glanced at my team as they watched, mouths slightly agape, the horror of the sudden bloodbath reflected in their eyes. "Shit got worse," I said, blinking near them in a ghostlike shimmer. The sudden displacement made heads turn and breaths catch. "Come on. We need to stop this and get information—both Sportsmaster and the remaining cultists. And yes, we do it in style."
Aqualad's eyes were calm, sharp, analytical—a perfect counterbalance to my manic energy. His hands flicked, drawing arcs in the air as he commanded water from broken pipes to form barriers, mop up fires, and flood escape routes. "Team, positions. Contain the remaining cultists and Sportsmaster's men. Do not underestimate them. Superboy, Mammoth is your priority. Kid Flash, perimeter coverage. Robin, intel extraction. Miss Martian, disable and immobilize. Attano… try not to burn the warehouse down before we get what we need."
I saluted mockingly. "Yes, yes, water boy. Consider me the dessert topping on your bland vegetable platter."
The team moved with purpose, a mix of practiced coordination and panic-driven instinct. Kid Flash zipped into position, bouncing between shadows and crates, slowing cultist movements, tripping some, distracting others with blinding speed. Miss Martian's psychic tendrils weaved through the chaos, immobilizing and disorienting the fleeing cultists, rendering them pliable for questioning. Robin ducked behind a support beam, analyzing Kobra Venom crates, mapping out the remaining chemical threats and cultist personnel. Aqualad's water walls forced the survivors to funnel into choke points, where Superboy and I were ready to meet them head-on.
"Now," Aqualad said, voice calm but commanding. "Engage. Take control before they can regroup."
The air thickened with tension as Superboy launched himself toward Mammoth, bracing for impact. The hulking mutant lunged, smashing crates and walls with seismic force, and Superboy intercepted him mid-strike, countering with sheer strength, holding Mammoth back with grappling force. The ground shook with every collision, metal beams groaning in protest.
Meanwhile, I blinked into position near Sportsmaster, my skull mask reflecting the chaos like a macabre theater of destruction. His eyes widened in recognition—confidence morphing into instant calculation—but he had no time to react. I flicked my wrist with surgical precision, drawing my blade, and in a fluid, invisible motion, sliced through both of his legs, severing them cleanly. He collapsed, shock turning into fury as blood sprayed across crates and scorched concrete.
"Not today, darling," I whispered, summoning [Devouring Swarm]. Hundreds of tiny, black insects emerged from the shadows, a writhing mass that engulfed Sportsmaster, biting, stinging, and forcing him into immediate submission. He screamed—a high, pained, frustrated, enraged scream—but his attempts to resist were futile. Each attempt to crawl or grab a weapon was met with biting, swarming assault.
I stepped back, observing him thrash and fight, and allowed a brief chuckle to escape. "Ah, yes. This is exactly what chaos smells like."
The rest of the warehouse had turned into a battlefield of surreal violence. Cultists tried to flee through openings created by the explosions and Mammoth's rampage. Miss Martian kept them immobile long enough for Robin to gather intel from the Kobra Venom containers. Superboy struggled against Mammoth's brute force, each blow shaking concrete and sending sparks flying.
"Time for a little finishing touch," I muttered. I focused, heart rate steady, lungs controlled, and screamed "ZA WARUDO!", a temporal spell that slammed the world into frozen stillness. Every molecule, every flying spark, every desperate cultist frozen mid-step.
The world was suspended like a painting mid-stroke, time itself kneeling to my command. Every missile of debris, every flailing arm, every droplet of water hung motionless in the air. Superboy was frozen mid-grapple with Mammoth, whose massive form loomed like a statue of pure destruction. Cultists were suspended mid-scream, rifles raised in useless defiance, and Sportsmaster, writhing in [Devouring Swarm], had been caught mid-crawl, his rage and confusion frozen like wax.
I blinked closer, moving through the frozen tableau with a predator's precision. My eyes gleamed beneath the skull mask as I retrieved the small canister of Baygon from my belt—unassuming, mundane, yet catastrophic in the right hands. Mammoth's gaping maw, frozen mid-snarl, beckoned like an open portal to chaos.
With a flick of my wrist, I launched the can straight into his mouth. It landed cleanly, tilting slightly with that delicious inevitability. I smirked. "Enjoy, big guy. It's lunchtime."
Then, raising my pistol, I aimed at the canister. A single, precise shot punctured it. A soft hiss erupted—time still frozen—but the potential energy crackled like a held breath. The insecticide spray began to fume inside Mammoth's throat and lungs, the chemical reaction already primed. I could almost hear it sizzling against his frozen physiology.
"Perfect," I whispered under my mask. A grin spread across my face. Every chaotic element was in place.
"Release," I muttered, the word a command and a promise.
Time snapped forward with a violent pulse. The suspended world lurched back into motion like a rubber band snapping into hyperdrive. Mammoth convulsed violently, coughing, thrashing, and staggering backward as the Baygon sprayed through his massive system. The insecticide filled his lungs, paralyzing internal muscles, forcing coughs that shook his gargantuan frame. He roared, a sound so deep and pained it made the warehouse tremble, and stumbled into crates, smashing them with bone-crunching force.
Superboy reacted instantly, seizing the opportunity. With a single, precise jump, he launched himself onto Mammoth's back, straddling the massive shoulders.
The mutant thrashed, but Superboy's grip was ironclad. With a grunt, he swung Mammoth's head down toward the concrete floor, slamming him in a bone-rattling stomp that echoed through the warehouse like a seismic tremor. Dust, debris, and chemical fumes sprayed in every direction. Mammoth let out a final, choked roar before collapsing unconscious, sprawled across the broken crates, his massive form quivering as the insecticide fully took hold.
I blinked next to Sportsmaster, the swarm of [Devouring Swarm] still keeping him pinned and screaming. Wounds and cut-off legs and bite marks decorated his body, yet I couldn't allow him to die—not yet. With a flick of my finger, I removed the insects and stabilized the bastard. His survival was critical—Batman's no-kill rules, and the potential intel, demanded it.
I crouched near him, voice low and mocking. "You're going to live, darling, just long enough to talk. I would hate to disappoint the higher-ups, wouldn't I?"
Around us, the team executed their tasks flawlessly. Robin finished securing data drives, Miss Martian maintained psychic control over the remaining cultists, Kid Flash herded any fleeing threats into controlled zones, and Aqualad's water constructs kept escape routes contained. Superboy ensured Mammoth stayed down, pacing and gripping his massive arms in case of sudden resurgence.