Blood-Weaver and Desert-Hawk

One Week Ago – Somewhere in Texas

Blood-Weaver lounged in the VIP section of Venom Lounge, a high-end club known for attracting dangerous men and the women drawn to them.

He wore his signature armored suit, sleek and futuristic, colored in black with blood-red accents and gold trim that caught the neon lights with every move. The material hugged his athletic frame like a second skin, exuding both power and elegance. His gold-plated gauntlets and high-tech visor glinted beneath the pulsing strobes, marking him unmistakably as someone important, someone untouchable.

Stacks of cash littered the table in front of him like confetti, and the air was thick with perfume, sweat, and electricity. Half a dozen women crowded around him, some in see-through mesh, others in skin-tight leather or lace. They giggled, touched him, poured drinks. Blood-Weaver didn't smile, but his posture was relaxed. He owned the room without trying to.

Pop music thundered through the club's state-of-the-art sound system, bass heavy enough to rattle the glass walls. On the stage nearby, girls in glittering bikinis spun around chrome poles, while others...entirely nude, danced on illuminated platforms, bathed in violet and gold light.

He took a sip from a bottle of imported vodka, leaned back in his seat, and watched the chaos with a predator's patience.

Anyone else might've looked out of place in full combat armor in a club like this.

But not Blood-Weaver.

He made it fashion. He made it power.

And everyone knew: this was his party.

Even if he hadn't said a word.

The mood in Venom Lounge shifted like a power outage.

The music still throbbed, the lights still pulsed, but the energy twisted, tightened, when one of Blood-Weaver's security guards pushed through the velvet curtain. He wasn't alone.

Behind him walked a man dressed like a storm.

He wore a long black coat that swept the floor, concealing the hardened exoskeleton armor that moved beneath it like a second skin. His face was rough with stubble, skin tanned and weather-worn. A single black eye-patch covered his left eye, and atop his head sat a beat-up, dust-covered cowboy hat that looked like it had been through hell and come out dirtier.

The security guard's voice cracked as he approached.

"This m-man… says he wants an autograph, boss."

Blood-Weaver didn't flinch. His girls quieted. Even the pole dancers stopped mid-spin.

The man with the hat smirked, eyes full of trouble.

"It's not a good idea pointing a gun at my people, Desert-Hawk," Blood-Weaver said, voice low and ice-cold.

Desert-Hawk chuckled. It was the kind of sound that made your stomach twist. "He was being rude," he said, grinning wide. "Didn't want me to meet an icon like you."

Casually, he slid his pistol back into the holster at his hip. Then the other, mirroring the motion.

But these weren't ordinary. Blood-weaver knew them very well.

Each one looked custom-forged, sleek matte black with blood-gold etchings across the barrels that pulsed faintly with kinetic energy. The frames were reinforced with metallic ribs that extended along the slide like veins. Instead of triggers, the handles had exposed nodes, fingerprint-reactive pads tuned specifically to Desert-Hawk's bio-signature.

They were amplifiers.

Built not to fire bullets, but to channel the volatile high-hit energy generated by his fingers, energy strong enough to dent steel and rupture bones. When his fingertip touched the conductive pad, the weapon became an extension of his power. The blast that followed didn't just shoot, it obliterated.

He might've been the only man on the planet with a pair of those guns.

And now he was standing in Blood Weaver's booth like he owned the damn night.

Blood-Weaver leaned back lazily, a smug grin curling at his lips. He raised his glass and took a slow sip before responding.

"Well, I'd love to sign that autograph," he said, mockingly. "You got a pen?"

Desert-Hawk tilted his head slightly, grin unfading.

"I'm afraid I don't," he said coolly. "Actually… now that I think about it, I'll pass."

The air between them thinned like stretched wire.

Then Desert-Hawk's tone shifted, low and dangerous.

"You're a wanted man, Weaver. You know that?"

Blood-Weaver raised his hands in mock surrender, flashing his trademark smirk. "Last I checked, I was cool with the law. Maybe your sources need a software update. You're chasing a ghost bounty."

Desert-Hawk's one eye narrowed. His smile was gone.

"This one ain't government-issued," he said quietly. "Came from underground."

Blood-Weaver blinked, interest flickering behind his shades.

"Oh yeah? And how much is my head going for in the sewer?"

Desert-Hawk's voice dropped a notch, colder now.

"Four hundred and ten grand."

He adjusted his hat, his gaze unblinking.

"And it's a damn shame..." he added, almost to himself,

"...they want you alive."

"I've heard about you, my man," Blood-Weaver said, swirling the liquor in his glass. "They say you'd kill your own mother if the price was right."

Desert-Hawk shrugged, unbothered. "Well… the rumors are true."

Blood-Weaver leaned forward slightly, voice cool but edged with warning.

"Vanguard would pay you more if you walked away right now."

He paused, letting the silence build before locking eyes with the bounty hunter.

"Or… I could kill you right here. You do know I'm a superhero with a rating of seventy-three, right?"

Desert-Hawk smirked under the brim of his hat.

"Superheroes and rating charts..." he said with a scoff. "The only numbers I trust are green."

He tapped two fingers against his belt.

"Money never lies."

The air thickened, tension hanging like a knife between them. Neither flinched. Neither blinked.

Then....too fast to shout, too fast to think, a guard to Blood-Weaver's right moved. Gun out. Aiming.

He never got the shot off.

Desert-Hawk's hand blurred into his holster. A blink of motion.

PHOOM.

The designer pistol barked, releasing a tight beam of concentrated heat-energy, brilliant yellow and deadly precise.

The blast lanced through the guard's skull, punching clean through the back of his head like a drill of light. It kept going...through a waitress behind him, through her tray of wine glasses, through the wall beyond...sizzling everything in its path.

Silence. Then screaming.

Blood-Weaver didn't move. Neither did Desert-Hawk.

One shot. Two casualties.

Everyone else in the club either froze or hit the floor.

Desert-Hawk lowered the pistol slowly. No smoke. No recoil. Just cold, casual precision.

He looked at Blood-Weaver.

"Your move, hero."