THE GAME BEGINS IN THE RAIN

A sharp crack rang out in the distance, carried by the wind and softened by the rain. It could have been a power line snapping loose, or perhaps the storm had short-circuited a transformer box. Above them, the Wayne Enterprises lightbox flickered erratically before a burst of sparks leaped into the night, accompanied by a wisp of blue smoke curling upward like a ghostly signal.

The rain quickly smothered the smoke, dispersing it into the gloom. Neither of them spoke as they lifted their gazes to the darkened billboard. The only remaining light came from the smoldering tips of their cigars, glowing like embers in the dimness.

Slade Wilson exhaled slowly, considering his next words. "I come from a parallel world," he said at last. "This isn't my Earth."

The admission was calculated. If she was truly the Deathstroke of this reality, then she would understand the weight of such information. It wasn't intelligence that could be sold or weaponized easily—not if it had no immediate value. He had learned long ago that in certain circles, knowledge was a currency, but only when the timing was right. Just as Batman hoarded contingency plans against every hero and villain alike, this revelation was a strategic asset. Slade wasn't worried about it being leaked. Not yet.

Deathstroke regarded him impassively, her yellow-tinted visor catching the distant glint of Gotham's city lights. The two of them had operated under similar principles—pragmatism, efficiency, and a preference for order within chaos.

She spoke at last. "I figured as much," she said, taking a drag from her cigarette. The rain barely dulled the red glow at its tip. "I've seen another version of myself before. But he was older. Much older."

Slade's brow furrowed slightly. "What was he like?"

She flicked ash from her cigarette, her voice indifferent. "A relic. Wore a cloth mask like some back-alley bank robber. Used old-fashioned firearms, nothing special. His body was falling apart, but his self-healing kept him from dying. An endless cycle of decay and renewal."

There was no pity in her voice, only detached observation. Slade knew that tone well—it was the voice of someone who had seen too much to be shocked anymore.

"Did he say how he got here? Or how he left?" Slade asked. If there was a way back, he needed to know.

Deathstroke exhaled another plume of smoke. "He was hunting a group called the Syndicate. They killed his kid. He tracked them through dimensions, waiting for the right moment to strike." She let out a short, humorless chuckle. "But this world isn't kind to invaders. The Amazon Parliament runs things here. Centralized power, strong governance—none of that vigilante free-for-all you see on other Earths. The moment outsiders show up, they get crushed before they can make a move. That old man? He got sent back the moment they found him."

Slade's mind worked quickly, piecing together the implications. "So your world has an Amazon Parliament. But what about the Justice League?" His voice was measured, but beneath it, he was testing a theory.

He had read about alternate worlds before. DC had just released a new multiverse event before he crossed over—Metal. If this world had no Justice League, it could mean he was in a Dark Multiverse reality. A shadowed mirror of the main universe, where everything twisted toward ruin.

If this was Earth-11, it wouldn't be so bad. The Amazon Council ruled, but as long as he stayed out of their way, he could live comfortably. Maybe even enjoy the company of his world's heroines in a new light.

But if this was Negative Earth-11—if it was one of the dying worlds—then he had a much bigger problem. That was a reality where the Justice League never formed. A place where only Batwoman remained, locked in an endless war against a world consumed by villains. And in the end, Atlantis would rise and drown everything, leaving her as the sole survivor—a warrior-turned-machine, more relentless than human.

Deathstroke gave a dry laugh at his question. "Justice League?" she scoffed. "Sounds like a rock band."

She smirked, tapping the side of her helmet. "It's bad enough with the Amazon Council breathing down our necks. You think we need another bunch of costumed idealists running around forming boy bands?"

Slade said nothing, but inwardly, he was calculating. If he was trapped in this world, he needed to know the rules. The players. And more importantly—whether there was a way out.

For now, though, he would wait.

And watch.

Because in every world, there were those who thought they could control the chaos. But he knew better.

The real game had only just begun.