The kitchen in Mount Justice was usually quiet in the late afternoons. By then, most of the team had drifted off to training, school, or the ever-elusive pastime of sleep. Today, however, it smelled alive. Garlic and onions hissed softly in a pan, and M'gann hovered nearby, her expression split between eagerness and the slight panic of someone terrified of burning the food.
Attano leaned lazily against the counter, sleeves rolled up, an apron hanging loose around his waist. His hands moved with the confidence of someone who had cooked these dishes a hundred times before.
"You're sure about this?" M'gann asked, blinking at the pile of vegetables. "I mean—this is… a lot."
He smirked. "Cooking is like combat, M'gann. Preparation wins the war before the first strike." He gestured to the neatly arranged ingredients: chopped garlic, diced onions, ground pork, carrots cut into tiny matchsticks, cabbage, a stack of lumpia wrappers thawing on a plate, and a small bowl of beaten egg. Beside them, fresh tamarind pods for Sinigang, kangkong leaves, string beans, radish, tomatoes, and a slab of pork belly waiting to be sliced. And off to the side, cubes of squash and chopped green onions for the kalabasa patties.
M'gann tilted her head. "You sound like you've done this before."
"I grew up half Pinoy," Attano said, matter-of-factly. "Food was survival, sure, but it was also family. You feed people, you build trust. You feed them well, you build loyalty." He picked up a wrapper, spooned in a bit of the pork-and-vegetable filling, then rolled it deftly, sealing the edge with egg. "Now, pay attention. Lumpia first."
[Lumpia]
M'gann leaned close, mimicking his movements. "So… just roll it like this?"
"Not too tight. If you roll it like you're choking the life out of it, it'll tear when it fries. Firm but gentle. Like…" He paused, lips twitching. "Like holding a blade you don't want to cut yourself with."
She tried, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Her lumpia came out crooked, edges bulging. Attano chuckled but said nothing cruel, only reached over to adjust. "Not bad for a first. By the third dozen, you'll get the hang of it."
"Third dozen?"
He raised a brow. "You think Filipinos cook for one? No. You make lumpia, you make enough to feed an army." He gestured toward the fryer, oil shimmering. "Now, drop them in, gently."
The wrappers turned golden quickly, crackling in the oil. The scent of garlic, pork, and fried pastry filled the air. M'gann's eyes lit up. "That smells—oh, that smells amazing!"
"Wait until you taste it."
[Sinigang]
Next, Attano moved to the pot simmering on the stove. "Now for Sinigang. Sour soup. Comfort food." He dropped the pork belly pieces into boiling water, the fat beginning to render. Tomatoes followed, then sliced onions.
"What's that?" M'gann asked as he unwrapped the tamarind pods.
"Tamarind. The heart of Sinigang. Sour, sharp, makes you crave rice to balance it. Here—taste." He handed her a bit of the softened pulp.
She popped it in her mouth and nearly yelped. "Oh! That's—wow. That's really sour!"
Attano laughed softly. "Exactly. But in a soup, with pork, vegetables, and fish sauce—it becomes harmony." He mashed the tamarind, straining its juice into the pot. Soon, the broth carried a tangy aroma that filled the room. He added string beans, sliced radish, and finally kangkong leaves. "Patience now. Let it simmer. Let the flavors fight, then settle."
[Kalabasa Patties]
While it simmered, he pulled over the bowl of grated squash mixed with egg, flour, garlic, and green onions. "Kalabasa patties. Cheap, easy, healthy. My mother's trick when meat was scarce." He scooped a spoonful, pressed it flat on a pan with hot oil. It sizzled into a crisp, golden round.
M'gann's nose twitched. "This one smells… sweet?"
"Squash has that earth-sweetness. Fry it right, and even kids who hate vegetables will beg for more." He flipped the patty with practiced ease.
For a while, the only sound was sizzling oil, bubbling broth, and M'gann's occasional questions about when to stir or flip. The kitchen warmth contrasted the cold steel halls outside.
But eventually, curiosity gnawed at her. "Can I… ask you something?"
Attano glanced at her, noting the careful tone. "You can."
"Why do you kill?" she asked, voice soft but unwavering. "I mean—I've seen you smile. I've seen you cook, help, even laugh sometimes. You don't seem like a monster. But then…" She hesitated. "Then you speak about ending lives like it's nothing. Why?"
Attano stilled, wiping his hands on a cloth. For a moment, the mask of sarcasm fell away. He leaned against the counter, gaze distant.
"Because sometimes," he said quietly, "killing one prevents a hundred deaths. Sometimes you end a tyrant, and you save a village. Sometimes you cut off a warlord, and children get to grow up without chains on their wrists." He met her eyes. "It's never pretty. It's never easy. But it's necessary."
M'gann swallowed. "But… isn't there always another way?"
He shook his head. "That's the lie people comfort themselves with. That there's always a bloodless road. But I have seen too much, M'gann. When a man like Ivo builds monsters that could wipe out cities, I don't gamble with 'maybe we can talk him down.' I remove the threat. Permanently."
She looked down at the simmering pot, her reflection rippling in the broth. "So you really believe it's… for the greater good?"
"Yes." His tone was firm but not harsh. "I don't kill for pleasure. I don't kill for sport. I kill so others don't have to." He gestured at the food. "Just like this meal. I cook so you don't go hungry. I fight so you don't bleed."
M'gann blinked rapidly, clearly unsettled but also processing. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure how to respond.
Attano, however, had already turned back to the pan, unconcerned. "As for the League," he added casually, "let them argue. Their decision doesn't matter to me. If they want me gone, I walk. If they want me on a leash, I cut it. Either way, I'll keep doing what I do. Their politics won't change the world's ugliness."
His words carried no bitterness—just a calm certainty, like a soldier stating the weather.
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Evening.
M'gann had already gone off to do her own thing. I still had time until tomorrow before the League handed down their verdict.
I could have waited quietly. Cooked more food. Slept. Pretended to care.
Instead, I got bored. And boredom is dangerous.
So I went looking for Sportsmaster.
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The hospital was quiet, dim-lit corridors carrying the faint antiseptic sting of bleach. I slipped inside without anyone noticing; shadows always welcomed me like an old friend.
When I entered his room, I found him exactly as I'd left him — broken. His body was a map of insect bite scars, skin torn in patches where my swarm had chewed. Both legs were gone, wrapped in thick bandages where surgeons had stopped the bleeding. Tubes and wires ran across his body, the rhythm of the monitor ticking slow and steady.
I walked closer, boots heavy against the sterile tile. My mask — the mechanical skull of Corvo Attano — gleamed faintly under the fluorescent lights.
I pressed my gloved hand to his throat and squeezed.
His eyes shot open, wild, filled with both pain and recognition.
"Hey there, BateMaster," I whispered, voice deliberately light, almost giddy. "How you doing?"
He struggled, his body twitching, but I leaned closer, my mask inches from his face.
"Don't bother screaming. I isolated the room with a soundproof barrier." I lied smoothly, tone casual, like we were old friends sharing secrets.
His hand twitched under the blanket. I caught the glint just before it happened — a stolen scalpel, no doubt pilfered from some careless nurse. He slashed upward, aiming for my wrist.
The blade scraped uselessly against my suit — high-grade, military weave. A scalpel was no more dangerous to me than a toy knife.
I laughed softly, easing the choke just enough for him to breathe. "Don't worry, I won't kill you." My words dripped with mockery. "I'm not here for intel either. Keep your organization's secrets, your precious higher-ups, all to yourself. I couldn't care less."
With my free hand, I snatched the scalpel from his grasp and, without hesitation, drove it into his crotch.
The monitor spiked. His body bucked, trying to scream, but I tightened my grip on his neck, choking the sound down into a strangled rasp.
I tilted my head, watching the rage boil in his eyes. "I want you to remember it was me who did this to you," I whispered, my tone lilting, head bobbing with a strange rhythm. Behind the mask, I grinned.
He glared up at me, pupils red with fury and pain.
"You know," I continued, voice low and amused, "I was actually surprised when your own goon pulled the trigger on Kobra. Almost got you killed by Mammoth, too. Makes me think your higher-ups betrayed you. Probably planned something they 'forgot' to tell you about." I shrugged. "Not that I give a damn."
I leaned closer until the hollow sockets of my skull mask filled his vision. "What really interests me, Lawrence Crock… is how your family will react to you now."
That pierced deeper than the scalpel. His eyes widened further, the anger sharpened into something rawer. Fear.
"Paula Crock, your lovely wife. Artemis, your youngest daughter. Jade Nguyen, your oldest." I let each name drop like a hammer blow. "I want to see their faces when they see you like this."
His body went rigid, veins straining against his neck under my grip.
"I couldn't get Jade," I added with a mocking sigh. "Beggar's can't be choosers. But I did call your wife and youngest daughter."
That broke something in him. His eyes trembled, rage and terror tangled in his glare.
I flicked my fingers. [Devouring Swarm] Black mist curled, and a swarm of insects shimmered into existence, crawling over the edges of the bed, their mandibles clacking hungrily.
Sportsmaster froze, breath ragged. His trauma bled out in every twitch. Just the sight of them sent him spiraling back into the memory of when they had feasted on him, ripping into his flesh.
He clutched at my wrist weakly, trembling. His lips formed broken words.
"Pwees! Sop…" he begged, voice shredded by humiliation.
I tilted my head, smiling unseen. I tightened my grip again, cutting his air to shallow gulps.
"What's one plus one?"