Multiverse: Deathstroke-Chapter 516: Rescue

Su Ming moved silently through the darkness, checking each room. Most held outdated, primitive equipment—junk by his standards.

The electrotherapy machines paled compared to Professor X’s tech.

The brainwashing devices used cheap straps, not even leather.

The labs were ramshackle, with blackboards passing for research stations.

Even in heavy armor, Su Ming’s skills kept his steps silent. Only the faint creak of doors betrayed his presence.

Halfway through the level, he spotted a researcher stumbling to the bathroom—likely an assistant, as real scientists got suites, while grunts used communal facilities.

Su Ming ambushed him post-pee, mid-shiver. "I ask, you answer. Quietly," he whispered in fluent Russian, close to the man’s ear.

The researcher’s pants hit the floor as he clawed at the iron grip on his neck. Struggling was futile; the unseen figure behind him didn’t budge.

"Not cooperating?" Su Ming covered the man’s mouth with one hand, lifting him off the ground with the other.

As the saying goes, feet off the ground, fear shuts down, and sense kicks in. The researcher nodded frantically, signaling compliance.

"Where’s the Leech Serum?" Su Ming eased his grip on the man’s mouth.

"With the chief scientist. He keeps it himself."

"Where is he?"

"Down the corridor, left, straight, then right. Big suite."

"What’s your research?"

"The impact of psychological torment on human control theory."

"Thanks. Be better in your next life." Su Ming snapped his neck and dropped the body.

No choice—stealth demanded no loose ends. Besides, a researcher studying torture wasn’t useful. Deathstroke’s memories already carried too much dark knowledge.

Leaving the stench of the bathroom, Su Ming followed the directions, killing everyone in his path. The scientists here were more like mad psychologists, obsessed with control and brainwashing. Only the chief scientist seemed to specialize in biochemistry, explaining why he held the Leech Serum.

At the suite’s door, Su Ming heard a woman’s voice—sounds of unsavory activity. He’d seen the chief scientist’s photo: a balding, goateed old man. Researching this at midnight?

He eased the door open and regretted it. The old man was entangled with a gaunt, hideous woman. Heavy taste. Su Ming nearly backed out, but the woman’s senses were sharp. She detected the door’s brief opening through the air’s shift and spotted the intruder.

Unlike most women who’d scream or cover up, she leapt naked from the bed, charging Su Ming, aiming for his visor’s eye.

A logical move—target the one-eyed man’s apparent weakness. But as Deathstroke, who’d tangled with Batman, Su Ming was ready. His helmet wasn’t some flimsy mask; the visor was its strongest point. He had dozens of counters for such attacks.

He deflected her strike effortlessly, kicking a chair to knock out the fleeing scientist. The woman attacked like a feral beast, targeting his throat and groin after the eye failed. Su Ming parried with ease, noting her style—similar to the League of Assassins, but dirtier, more ruthless. The League sought honor in direct combat; the Red Room trained killers to exploit any weakness, human or physical.

She was likely an instructor, stronger and more agile than most, performing acrobatic flips despite being in her fifties. Her arms and legs bruised and broke under Su Ming’s blocks, fingers snapping, yet she didn’t make a sound, pressing her assault.

A decent warrior, but outmatched. Not everyone had the guts to face a clearly superior foe. Out of respect, Su Ming avoided weapons or Stranglehold, studying her moves before striking. A jaw-crushing blow stunned her, followed by a neck snap.

Done. He draped a sheet over her for dignity, then searched for the serum. A massive safe sat in the corner. No need for lockpicks or torches—Nightfall’s blade cut through it like butter. Inside were vials of crimson liquid, research documents, cash, and jewelry.

The files detailed the Leech Serum’s effects: enhanced cell division for near-immortality, minor boosts in healing, strength, and agility. The boosts were negligible—a normal person’s month-long recovery might take 25 days for a Black Widow. But its immunity enhancement, preventing illness, was intriguing.

Su Ming wanted the untrained girls, not Black Widows. Young enough to be reshaped at Legacy Academy, they could serve Wilson Enterprises without being murder-obsessed. Killing wasn’t the only path. The world was too beautiful for such violence.

Shaking his head, he ran his sword through the scientist. Useless—an ordinary chemist, not the serum’s creator, with vile live experiments. Su Ming stuffed the documents and loot into a pillowcase, tasking Stranglehold with carrying it. The serum vials went into his cigar case, secured.

Stranglehold, juggling money and files, seemed deflated. Half the mission was done. Now, clear the enemies, save the girls, and get them out safely. Su Ming had a plan.

Level by level, security was light—yawning guards patrolling corridors. Corner kills, ambushes, even popping out of a cardboard box—none could stop him. After clearing the instructors’ dorms, he amassed more cash and goods. Only the lowest level remained: the trainees’ dorms.

"What a hassle," Su Ming muttered, descending the stairs. The dark felt familiar, but the all-red walls were excessive. Color psychology, a branch of clinical study akin to Rorschach tests, showed red rooms raised blood pressure and heart rates, keeping occupants on edge. Red symbolized passion, prestige, confidence—but also blood, violence, jealousy, control.

"Leviathan’s got time for these twisted experiments but not for training more agents," Su Ming scoffed. Hydra’s spies were average but numerous, masters of disguise. The Hand’s ninjas were a feudal relic, endless in number. Leviathan spent years crafting one Black Widow. Even their Winter Soldier Program, still in development, was later stolen by Hydra post-Soviet collapse.

The last guards fell easily. Su Ming began opening the girls’ rooms, expecting relief or joy like a police rescue. Reality was different.

The girls were handcuffed to bedframes, arms raised in surrender-like poses. Even as Su Ming entered, they lay still in the dark, staring blankly at his visor’s red glow, silent.

He unlocked one girl using keys from a guard. She sat up, adjusting her ill-fitting dress, and asked pitifully, "Are you here to save us?"

"Yes, every one of you," Su Ming said, patting her head. "Wait outside while I free your friend."

She nodded obediently, but as he turned to unlock her roommate, she attacked. Jumping onto his back, she locked her legs around his waist and yanked at his jaw, aiming to snap his neck. When that failed, she pummeled his spine’s key points, trying to paralyze him.

To Su Ming, it was like a kitten’s scratches. His X-metal skeleton and Icon Armor shrugged it off. He plucked her off, holding her like a cat as she flailed, snarling fiercely. The chained roommate thrashed, trying to kick him.

He felt like a marauding bandit, not a savior.