A.N. Intermission chapters are less effort, lesser word count breather chapters before going back into the action. So let's enjoy this quiet before the crazy.
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Chapter 11
-(Somewhere in the universe)-
The Grand Circuit roared beneath a blood-red sky, its immense tiers of black metal packed with spectators from a hundred conquered worlds. Above them, suspended walkways and armoured observation galleries criss-crossed the cavernous interior of the arena, connecting towers adorned with the insignia of Warworld's ruling power. Searchlights swept across the stands, illuminating the grotesque variety of faces that had gathered to witness the day's principal attraction.
Some spectators possessed too many eyes, others too many limbs; a few were scarcely distinguishable from the machinery that supported their bodies, while others looked deceptively humanoid until they opened their mouths and revealed rows of needle-like teeth. Merchants had travelled from distant star systems to wager fortunes, mercenary captains had brought their crews to watch, and representatives of the arena's various fighting houses occupied private balconies overlooking the killing ground. They had come expecting blood. The Grand Circuit rarely disappointed them. Yet today, the spectacle unfolding upon its scarred floor was proving rather different from the slaughter they had paid to witness.
At the centre of the arena stood a lone swordsman in a dark trench coat, its long tails stirring in the hot artificial wind generated by the arena's ventilation system. Lavender hair protruded from beneath a battered, featureless mask, the strands falling across his forehead and around his ears. A sword rested in his right hand, its polished blade reflecting the crimson illumination overhead, while his left remained free at his side. Around him, the bodies of defeated warriors littered the ground in various states of discomfort, some groaning as they struggled to rise, others lying perfectly still after being knocked unconscious.
There were considerably more of them than there were of him. That numerical advantage, however, had ceased to mean anything several minutes earlier, when the masked fighter had begun dismantling their collective assault with a level of precision that was rapidly becoming an embarrassment to everyone involved. He had not killed a single opponent. Judging by the number of broken weapons scattered across the arena floor, he had not found it necessary to do so.
A hulking figure charged from his left, its armoured hide resembling overlapping plates of volcanic stone. The creature belonged to a species descended from the harsher regions of the Vega system, its broad shoulders supporting a pair of muscular arms thick enough to crush an ordinary humanoid's skull. It wielded a double-headed axe, the weapon's edges crackling with electrical energy as it swung down towards the swordsman's head. The masked stranger stepped forward rather than retreating, allowing the axe to descend past his shoulder before turning his body sideways.
Steel flashed. The weapon's haft separated cleanly in two, and the warrior stared at the broken ends in momentary disbelief. A boot struck its chest before it could recover, sending the enormous creature sprawling across the ground with a crash that shook the nearest barrier. The swordsman was already turning away when a second attacker descended from above, propelled by a pair of membranous wings and a shriek that sounded like metal scraping against glass.
Its claws were inches from his shoulders when he tilted his head, caught one wrist, and redirected the creature's momentum into the ground. The resulting impact drove a cloud of dust across the arena floor. He released the unfortunate warrior, who remained motionless apart from the occasional twitch of an injured wing, and glanced towards the next challenger without the slightest sign of exertion.
The spectators erupted. From the upper tiers came a cacophony of alien voices, growls, whistles and electronically amplified battle cries, all competing to be heard above the din. The announcer's voice thundered through the arena's public-address system, an electronically distorted baritone that carried easily above the crowd.
"And still he stands! The Silent Blade refuses to fall! Look at him, Warworld! Look at what happens when raw strength meets a warrior who actually knows how to use it!"
The announcer's enthusiasm was matched by the increasingly desperate efforts of the gladiators surrounding the swordsman. A pair of Khundish warriors advanced together, their armoured frames bearing the unmistakable markings of a people whose military traditions had been forged through generations of interstellar conquest. Khunds were not renowned for subtlety, and these two had evidently decided that the stranger's refusal to kill made him a suitable target for a coordinated assault.
One swung a heavy mace towards his ribs while the other attempted to hamstring him with a serrated blade. The swordsman ducked beneath the mace, pivoted on one foot, and caught the second warrior's sword against his own. A brief twist sent the serrated weapon spinning away. His elbow struck its former wielder beneath the jaw, and a sweeping kick removed the first Khund's feet from beneath him. Both landed heavily, one atop the other, and the masked stranger stepped over them as though crossing an inconvenient patch of debris.
They were not the only ones attempting to bring him down. A cluster of armed Citadelians, recognisable by their disciplined formation and the dark insignia stamped upon their armour, had formed a semicircle several metres away. The Citadel's forces had a reputation for ruthless expansion, and their soldiers were accustomed to fighting as units rather than individuals.
They moved with commendable coordination, one pair advancing behind portable energy shields while another prepared to fire a volley of stun projectiles from compact rifles. The swordsman watched them approach, his masked face betraying nothing. When the first projectiles left their barrels, he moved. To the spectators, he seemed to vanish between one instant and the next, leaving the bolts to strike empty air.
A heartbeat later, he was behind the shield line. The flat of his blade struck one soldier across the back of the helmet, followed by a precise cut through the power coupling of another's weapon. He kicked the second rifle into the air, caught it by its barrel and used it to knock a third combatant off balance before discarding it. The entire formation collapsed in seconds. A few Citadelians attempted to retreat, only to discover that the masked swordsman had already positioned himself between them and the nearest exit from the fighting ground. He gestured towards the floor with the tip of his sword, inviting them to surrender. After a brief, uncomfortable pause, they did.
The battle royale had begun with nearly forty combatants, each convinced that the quickest route to the Grand Circuit's prize purse lay in eliminating the unfamiliar newcomer. Some had attempted to overwhelm him with brute force, others had relied upon ranged weapons or exotic biological abilities, and a particularly unfortunate warrior with four arms had tried to attack from multiple directions simultaneously.
None had accomplished anything beyond providing the crowd with increasingly inventive demonstrations of failure. The Silent Blade's movements were economical, his footwork almost impossibly refined. He did not waste energy on extravagant flourishes, nor did he appear interested in humiliating his opponents beyond what was unavoidable.
A blade would turn aside an incoming strike; a shoulder would redirect a charging body; a precise blow would find an exposed nerve cluster or the gap beneath a breastplate. He fought as though he had already decided how each encounter would end before his opponents had finished drawing their weapons. Even when six warriors rushed him simultaneously, he seemed less concerned with their numbers than with the inconvenience of having to deal with all of them before he could leave.
One after another, they fell. Some were disarmed, some were knocked unconscious, and several discovered that the arena floor was considerably harder than they had anticipated. When the last remaining combatant, a towering warrior whose skin shimmered with metallic lustre, finally dropped to one knee and raised both hands in surrender, the masked swordsman lowered his weapon. He waited until the arena's officials signalled the end of the contest before turning away.
For a moment, the Grand Circuit fell into an astonished silence. Then the entire stadium erupted with such force that the sound seemed to shake the immense structure itself.
The announcer practically shouted over the din. "Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable! The Silent Blade has done it again! Forty combatants entered this battle royale, and every last one of them has been defeated! Not one fatality, not one surrender from our masked champion, and not a single opponent capable of forcing him to abandon that sword!"
The image of the lone fighter appeared upon enormous display panels suspended above the arena, his dark coat hanging around him as he stood amid the defeated warriors.
"But the question remains, honoured spectators! How far can this mysterious contender go? Is the Grand Circuit merely the beginning? Could our Silent Blade earn his place among the champions of Emperor Mongul's Great Arena itself? Imagine the spectacle! Imagine the wagers! Imagine what the emperor might offer a warrior capable of turning an entire field of gladiators into an afternoon's exercise!"
The announcer allowed the crowd to roar before adding, with barely concealed anticipation, "Keep your eyes upon this one, Warworld. The Silent Blade may yet strike it very, very big!"
The swordsman did not acknowledge the applause. He sheathed his weapon, accepted the payment offered by an arena official, and inspected the contents of the small metallic credit cylinder before slipping it into an inner pocket of his coat. The sum was respectable, although not quite enough to compensate for the time he had spent waiting for the match to begin. He had been assured that the battle royale would feature several experienced combatants, and while a few had demonstrated worthwhile techniques, the majority had been disappointing.
One of the Khunds had possessed an interesting opening feint, but his follow-through had been so predictable that the encounter had barely lasted three seconds. The masked swordsman suppressed a sigh as he passed through the arena's service corridors, where attendants hurried between equipment rooms and medical stations, dragging away broken weapons and injured fighters.
Somewhere behind him, the crowd was already clamouring for another appearance. He had no intention of giving them one today. He had earned his money, and there were more important matters to attend to than entertaining a stadium full of bloodthirsty aliens.
The Grand Circuit's outer corridors opened into one of Warworld's commercial districts, where the air smelled of hot machinery, spilled liquor and the pungent chemical residue of industrial processing. The mechanical planet was a world of contradictions: immense fortifications and extravagant arenas existed alongside cramped habitation blocks, makeshift markets and districts where the inhabitants lived beneath layers of soot and rust. The streets were crowded with mercenaries, traders, off-duty arena personnel and labourers whose exhausted expressions suggested that the day's work had been considerably less entertaining than the spectacle they had just witnessed.
Overhead, massive conduits carried energy through the city's metal superstructure, their surfaces glowing with the dull red illumination that permeated much of Warworld's atmosphere. The swordsman had barely entered the district when three figures detached themselves from the shadows beside a maintenance access. Their armour bore the marks of arena combat, although none appeared to have enjoyed the same success as the man they now surrounded.
One was the Khundish warrior he had defeated earlier, his jaw swollen and one arm held awkwardly against his chest. The other two carried short-barrelled energy weapons.
"That was a good purse you collected," the Khund growled, positioning himself in front of the swordsman. "A purse that ought to be shared with the warriors who made you look impressive."
The masked stranger looked at him for a moment. "You mean the warriors who tried to kill me?"
"Don't get clever, offworlder."
"I wasn't trying to."
The Khund's expression darkened. His companions raised their weapons. The swordsman exhaled through his nose, already regretting the prospect of having to explain to the arena's authorities why three more combatants had been rendered incapable of walking.
The first attacker lunged. The masked stranger caught his wrist, turned beneath his arm and drove him face-first into the wall. He took the weapon from the second assailant before its owner had finished raising it, dismantled the firing mechanism with a twist of his fingers, and struck the third man in the stomach hard enough to fold him around the blow.
The Khund attempted to bring his remaining arm across the swordsman's head. A short sidestep, a sharp tap behind the knee and a shove against the shoulder sent him sprawling into a pile of discarded containers. The entire encounter lasted less time than the exchange of threats that had preceded it. The swordsman placed the broken weapon on top of the nearest container, adjusted the collar of his coat and continued down the street.
"Get better at losing," he remarked over his shoulder. He did not look back to see whether they had heard him.
Beyond the commercial district, Warworld's outer infrastructure rose in a succession of colossal armoured ridges, each studded with gun emplacements and defensive machinery. From the elevated walkway where he paused, the masked swordsman could see several layers of the planet's security network extending towards the horizon. Massive turrets protruded from fortified housings embedded in the machine world's surface, their rotating barrels tracking movement across the surrounding approaches.
Between them stood surveillance towers, sensor arrays and launch platforms capable of deploying interceptor craft. Farther away, immense armoured vehicles travelled along elevated transit routes, accompanied by columns of heavily equipped troops. Some formations bore the insignia of Mongul's personal forces; others appeared to belong to security units tasked with suppressing disturbances among the population. The precise organisation varied between districts, but the purpose was unmistakable. Warworld was not merely a planet covered in weapons. It was a fortress designed to ensure that the people living upon it remained subject to its ruler.
The swordsman had already observed enough to understand the broad principles of its operation. The defence grid monitored the principal transport corridors, while orbital or high-altitude platforms controlled the approaches through which a vessel might attempt to escape. Armoured patrols reinforced the checkpoints, and the heavier machines could be deployed against organised resistance or any group attempting to seize a transport facility. The lower districts were less heavily fortified, but they were not unobserved.
Sensors tracked traffic through the principal arteries, surveillance devices monitored gathering points, and mobile units could seal off entire sections when the authorities suspected unrest. It was an impressive system, although not an infallible one. Every defence required power, maintenance and personnel; every patrol followed procedures, and every procedure created habits that could eventually be exploited. He had spent enough time studying the planet to identify a handful of potential weaknesses, but a weakness was not the same thing as an opportunity. He would need both if he intended to leave.
There was another problem, and it was one he had been investigating since his arrival. Warworld's atmosphere and the radiation bathing its exposed surfaces were not entirely benign. The red-sun spectrum emitted by the planet's artificial illumination and environmental systems had a measurable effect upon several of the alien populations held here, particularly those whose physiology depended upon solar energy.
He had seen workers who appeared chronically exhausted, their movements sluggish and their skin unnaturally pale; others had struggled with injuries that should have healed far more quickly. The effect was not universal, and he had no reason to believe that every inhabitant was affected in the same way, but the pattern was sufficiently consistent to interest him.
Red solar radiation could suppress the abilities of certain solar powered physiologies, for example, depriving them of the yellow-sun energy upon which their extraordinary strength and resilience depended. Whether Warworld's artificial spectrum had been deliberately calibrated to exploit such vulnerabilities across multiple species was another matter.
Still, the concentration of affected individuals among the labouring populations was difficult to dismiss as coincidence. If the environment weakened the very people most likely to resist their captivity, then it was a remarkably convenient arrangement for those in charge.
He rested his hands upon the railing and watched a transport convoy disappear behind a fortified barrier. Somewhere beyond those walls lay the launch facilities, the docking structures and the ships that connected Warworld to the wider cosmos. He could reach them, given enough time. He was reasonably confident that the turrets would not pose a decisive obstacle if he committed himself to fighting through them, and the soldiers would discover that their weapons were considerably less effective against him than their commanders might hope.
But the ability to reach space was not the same as the ability to survive there. Without a spacecraft or suitable protective equipment, even his strength would not allow him to breathe in a vacuum. He could endure punishment that would kill most warriors, but he was not about to discover whether his lungs could negotiate with the absence of an atmosphere. Nor did he possess the kind of effortless freedom that certain other beings seemed to enjoy when traversing the void between worlds.
If only there were a window.
His gaze drifted towards the distant docking towers. He had no reliable means of determining how long he would remain trapped on Warworld, and the thought irritated him more than he cared to admit. He had survived worse circumstances, certainly. He had faced enemies who could destroy cities, travelled through fractured timelines and witnessed events that would have sounded absurd to anyone unfamiliar with the workings of the multiverse.
Yet here he was, stranded on an enormous mechanical world because he lacked a way to leave it without suffocating. His best friend would have found the situation amusing. That particular individual, the mightiest Time Patroller, could cross extraordinary distances, survive conditions that would incapacitate ordinary warriors and turn a hopeless battle into a victory through sheer stubbornness. It was difficult not to envy that particular combination of power and experience. Then again, the Future Warrior had a talent for attracting trouble on a scale that made this entire predicament seem almost modest.
The masked swordsman straightened, pushed away from the railing and resumed walking. He would find a way off Warworld eventually. In the meantime, he had money, a growing reputation and enough freedom to investigate the planet without drawing too much attention. That would have to suffice. He had almost reached a junction between two industrial thoroughfares when he noticed the officials following him. They were dressed in the dark uniforms of the arena's administrative authority, their insignia identifying them as representatives of the Grand Circuit's management.
One carried a data slate, while another spoke quietly into a communications device. They had been watching him since he left the arena, maintaining enough distance to avoid provoking him while evidently assuming that he would eventually notice their presence. Their interest was hardly surprising. A masked fighter who could defeat forty opponents without killing any of them was an unusual commodity, and the prospect of presenting such a warrior to Mongul's court would undoubtedly appeal to ambitious officials.
He considered allowing them to approach. Perhaps they had an offer worth hearing; perhaps they intended to demand a contract that would tie him more firmly to the Grand Circuit. Either possibility could wait. He had no desire to be escorted into an administrative office, questioned about his origins and pressured into signing away his freedom.
The last thing he needed was a bureaucrat deciding that the masked swordsman belonged to the arena. With a quiet sigh, he slipped into a narrow passage between two industrial buildings, where overhead pipes dripped condensation onto the uneven metal flooring. The officials quickened their pace, but by the time they reached the passage, the stranger had already disappeared around a corner.
He went deeper into Warworld's lower districts, shedding the conspicuous silhouette of the arena champion as he moved. The trench coat vanished beneath a loose outer garment purchased several days earlier, and the mask was tucked away where it could be retrieved when required. At the mouth of a dimly lit service alley, he glanced over his shoulder, listened to the distant clatter of armoured boots, and made a small, decisive adjustment beneath his clothing. With that precaution taken, he slipped through a side entrance into the labyrinth of Warworld's rougher neighbourhoods.
The atmosphere changed almost immediately. The orderly commercial thoroughfares gave way to cramped streets lined with makeshift taverns, crowded drinking halls and establishments whose neon signs advertised everything from gambling to illegal combat. Warriors from dozens of worlds drank beneath flickering lights, exchanging boasts in languages he could not understand or arguing over wagers that had apparently gone badly.
Some were off-duty mercenaries; others were arena fighters who had lost their earnings before the evening was out. A pair of broad-shouldered aliens wrestled beside a doorway while their companions cheered them on, and somewhere inside a crowded club, a percussion-heavy rhythm pounded through the walls. The lower districts were loud, dangerous and thoroughly indifferent to the identity of any individual who did not make a point of announcing it. For the moment, that suited him perfectly.
He adjusted his collar and melted into the crowd, passing between a group of drunken gladiators and a merchant selling questionable pieces of salvaged technology. Nobody spared more than a passing glance for the quiet stranger with lavender hair, and those who noticed the faint outline of a sword beneath his clothing quickly decided that asking questions would be unwise.
Behind him, the officials continued searching the surrounding streets, their frustration growing as they discovered how easily a man could disappear into Warworld's underbelly. Ahead lay a maze of taverns, markets, gambling dens and concealed passageways, each offering another opportunity to gather information or uncover a useful contact. The masked swordsman had no intention of remaining a prisoner forever. He simply needed to be patient, keep his head down and wait for the right moment. After all, he had escaped worse places than this.
And if Warworld's rulers eventually decided that the Silent Blade belonged to them, they were welcome to try convincing him.
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-General POV-
Central City had a habit of looking brighter than it really was. The morning sun reflected off the glass fronts of its office buildings, painted the pavements gold, and glinted from the elevated railway lines that ran between the older streets and the newer districts. Traffic moved steadily through the intersections, pedestrians hurried past coffee shops with paper cups in their hands, and somewhere in the distance a siren rose above the general noise before fading away.
It was an ordinary weekday, or as ordinary as Central City ever managed to be in a world where a man could run faster than sound and an android capable of copying superpowers could be dismantled in the middle of a busy street.
The latter incident was already becoming yesterday's news in the literal sense. The city had survived the immediate danger, the injured had been taken to hospital, and the authorities were trying to establish precisely how much damage had been done. The question of who was responsible for allowing the situation to develop so far, however, was proving considerably harder to settle.
Bardock was not especially concerned with any of that.
He had found a bar on a side street a reasonable distance from his hotel, ordered a glass of whiskey, and settled onto a stool with the relaxed air of a man who had nowhere in particular to be. He wore a dark muscle top that showed off his broad shoulders and arms, faded blue jeans, and a pair of black trainers. His hair, usually held upright in its thick, unruly spikes, had been allowed to fall loosely around his face and neck.
It softened his appearance in some respects, although the sharpness of his features and the faintly dangerous expression he wore when left to his own thoughts made him look less like an ordinary tourist than a man who had recently finished a fight and was looking for another reason to have a bad day.
His tail was concealed beneath a specially designed waistband, fitted into the back of his jeans and arranged so that the fabric hung naturally. It was not uncomfortable, exactly, but Bardock had already decided that whoever invented human trousers had never considered the needs of anyone with an additional limb. He had spent enough time in disguise to know that the trick was not to make himself look completely unremarkable. That was impossible, given his build. The trick was to make people think they had understood what they were looking at and then lose interest.
The bartender was having some difficulty with that last part.
She had glanced his way several times since serving him, usually when she thought he was looking elsewhere. Bardock had noticed every occasion, but he had been polite enough not to comment. He was accustomed to being stared at, though usually for reasons considerably less flattering than his appearance.
On Earth, people had a curious habit of looking at a man with muscles and scars as though they were trying to decide whether he was an athlete, a criminal, or someone who belonged on a magazine cover. Sometimes, judging by the bartender's expression, the answer could be more than one of those things.
He lifted his glass and took another drink. The whiskey was decent, warm as it went down, with enough bite to make it interesting without being particularly impressive. He had tasted stronger things in places where the atmosphere itself could corrode metal, and he had once swallowed something that had been described as a local delicacy only to discover that it was still trying to eat him back. Compared with those experiences, human alcohol was a pleasant diversion.
The television mounted above the bar was playing the morning news. Bardock had paid little attention to it until the familiar image of Central City's streets appeared on the screen, followed by a still photograph of a mechanical figure with a humanoid frame and an unnervingly smooth face.
He raised two fingers towards the bartender. "Could you turn that up a bit?"
She looked at him, then at the television. "Sure."
The volume increased, and the room's quiet background conversation diminished as several patrons turned their attention towards the broadcast. The reporter on the screen was Linda Park, seated at a news desk with footage from the previous day's attack displayed behind her. Bardock recognised the streets immediately. The camera angles were familiar, as were the vehicles and the shattered pavement. There was even a brief glimpse of the crater he had made when he introduced Amazo to the road.
He leaned an elbow on the bar and listened.
"Yesterday afternoon, Central City was confronted with one of the most dangerous incidents the city has seen in recent months. An advanced android identified as Amazo caused extensive damage before engaging police and a specialised STAR Labs response team. Several officers and technicians were injured, although authorities have not confirmed any fatalities."
The broadcast cut to footage of Amazo walking through the street as vehicles lay overturned around it. A police cruiser had been pushed sideways into a traffic light, and the android stood amid the wreckage with its arms hanging loosely at its sides. Its face was expressionless, almost human in shape but lacking anything that suggested a person might be looking out through its eyes. A STAR Labs team in protective equipment had established a perimeter, attempting to contain it with heavy weapons and specialised restraints. None of those measures had worked particularly well.
"Witnesses report that the machine appeared to be provoking a response, engaging the authorities and then adapting to their attempts to restrain it. The confrontation escalated when members of a young metahuman team entered the scene."
The footage changed again. Robin was the first of the young heroes to appear clearly, dropping from above and directing the others into position. Aqualad moved towards the STAR Labs personnel, while Kid Flash darted through the street. Artemis fired from a rooftop, and Miss Martian and Superboy came in from opposite directions.
Bardock watched without much expression. He remembered the fight well enough, but seeing it from the cameras' perspective made the whole encounter look more chaotic than it had felt from where he stood. The footage could not show the small decisions made between movements, the moments when one fighter recognised another's intention, or the distinction between a powerful attack and a clever one. It showed impacts, destruction, and people trying to avoid being caught in the middle.
Amazo had looked almost leisurely while beating the Team down. The android had used strength against Conner, speed against Wally, and abilities copied from several other heroes to neutralise the rest. The broadcast selected a sequence in which Superboy was thrown across the road, Kid Flash was intercepted before he could escape, and Miss Martian's attempt to restrain the android ended with her being struck hard enough to send her tumbling across the pavement.
A few patrons at the bar muttered at that last image.
"Robin, who is widely recognised as Batman's young partner, appeared to coordinate the team's response with the one whom many suspect to be an Atlantean. Despite their efforts, the android proved capable of countering their abilities, leaving several members injured and forcing the group onto the defensive."
The reporter did not dwell on the footage, but the implication was clear. The young heroes had gone in with a plan and found themselves facing something that could dismantle it faster than they could adapt. There was a difference between being brave enough to enter a fight and being experienced enough to understand how it was changing around you. The Team had learned that distinction the hard way.
Then the camera angle shifted.
Bardock appeared on the screen, standing at the edge of the street with his arms folded across his chest. His red staff was visible at his waist, and his hair stood out against the buildings behind him. The camera zoomed in slightly, capturing his stillness as the fight raged in front of him. He took another drink.
"One figure appeared to remain outside the confrontation for much of the battle. The man, known to audiences across Asia as Wukong, was seen observing the fight before the android turned its attention towards him."
The footage showed Amazo turning its head. Bardock remembered the moment clearly. He had been studying the machine's movements, wondering how much of its behaviour came from the powers it had copied and how much came from whatever intelligence had been built into its systems. Then it had noticed him, and the battle had changed.
On the screen, Bardock vanished. A second later, he reappeared directly in front of Amazo, seized its head, and drove it into the road. The camera shook as the impact sent dust and fragments of asphalt into the air. The android tried to retaliate, but the next few seconds of footage were a blur of motion, shattered concrete, and attacks that seemed to arrive before the machine could finish responding to the previous one. The patrons watching the broadcast fell quiet.
"The confrontation ended when Wukong overwhelmed the android and destroyed it with what witnesses described as a concentrated energy attack. The beam reduced Amazo to nothing in a matter of seconds, although officials have yet to explain how the machine's advanced construction was unable to withstand the blast."
Bardock's expression remained neutral as the television showed him levitating the damaged android, gathering energy between his hands, and beginning the familiar sequence.
Ka…
A schoolboy in the foreground of the footage had been standing beside his mother, holding a phone up to record the fight. He had copied the stance with such enthusiasm that he nearly struck a passer-by with his elbow.
Me…
Bardock's hands came together, the blue light intensifying between his palms. Even through the grainy recording, the growing energy was unmistakable.
Ha…
The image brightened. The sound system of the broadcast reproduced the rising roar of the attack, and the bar's patrons watched as the beam swallowed the android and swept away the surrounding smoke.
Me…
A moment later, the footage cut to the aftermath, with the street filled with dust and people staring at the empty space where Amazo had been.
HAAAAAAA!
The news desk returned to view. Linda Park's expression was professional, but there was a faintly amused quality to her eyes.
"The dramatic finishing attack has already inspired a wave of imitation, with videos appearing online of schoolchildren and teenagers attempting to reproduce Wukong's distinctive stance and shouting the name of the technique. Several schools have reportedly had to remind pupils that classroom demonstrations involving energy projection are not, in fact, part of the curriculum."
A couple of people in the bar laughed. One man shook his head and muttered something about children copying everything they saw on the internet. Bardock set his glass down. He had not expected the attack to become a public spectacle, although perhaps he should have. Humans were remarkably good at turning something dangerous into a game once they were certain it could not hurt them.
He had seen children imitate Superman, Flash, and Batman. Apparently, his own contribution to the cultural landscape involved shouting at his hands before pretending to obliterate an imaginary robot. He was not certain whether he should feel flattered or embarrassed.
Linda's expression became more serious as the footage behind her returned to a view of the damaged street.
"The incident also raises questions about the response. The Justice League has not yet explained why its more experienced members were absent while a dangerous android fought police and a group of young heroes. Was this an independent operation by the Team, or was Wukong present in a supervisory role?"
Bardock's eyes narrowed slightly.
"If the latter, questions remain about the decision to allow such inexperienced heroes to confront an opponent capable of matching and combining the abilities of established League members. The fact that several people were injured before Wukong intervened will inevitably prompt scrutiny."
The broadcast displayed a photograph of Superman, followed by one of the Flash. Neither image remained on screen for long, but their presence was enough to make the question clear.
"Wukong's performance also raises a separate issue. His ability to withstand attacks that overwhelmed the young team, coupled with the apparent ease with which he destroyed Amazo, has led to comparisons with the Justice League's most powerful members. Could the relatively new arrival be operating at Superman's level, or beyond it?"
Linda paused briefly while the screen showed the remains of the crater and the emergency crews moving through the street.
"Neither the Justice League, STAR Labs, nor Central City's own Flash has yet issued a statement. We have contacted all three for comment and will continue to seek answers as more information becomes available."
The broadcast moved on to another story. For several seconds, Bardock watched the television without really seeing it. The report had been fair enough. Linda had not exaggerated the injuries, invented details, or pretended to know more than she did. She had simply laid out the facts in a way that made the people responsible for the operation look as though they had some explaining to do. Which, in Bardock's opinion, they did.
He had not ordered the Team into battle. Dinah had, and she had done so because they were responding to an active threat. The League had not sent them to be sacrificed for a training exercise, either, at least not as far as he knew. But the distinction between a planned exercise and a mission that went badly wrong was unlikely to matter much to a parent whose child had returned from it injured.
The public did not know the details of the operation, and it had no reason to trust a group of masked strangers simply because they claimed to be protecting it. Bardock understood that much. A warrior could know why he had entered a fight, but the people watching from behind the barricades had only the consequences to judge. He lifted his glass again, found it nearly empty, and considered ordering another.
"Not quite the morning entertainment you were expecting?"
The voice came from the stool beside him. Bardock did not turn immediately. He had sensed the approaching presence before the man had entered the bar, and had recognised the particular rhythm of his movement well before he reached the counter.
Barry Allen sat down beside him in a plain jacket and an ordinary shirt, looking every bit like the kind of man who might spend his morning catching up on the news before going to work. His disguise was considerably less elaborate than Bardock's, though he had the advantage of being a familiar face to the people who knew him personally and a stranger to those who did not. He glanced at the television, where a cheerful advertisement had replaced the footage of the battle, and then at Bardock.
"Surprised to see me?"
"No, not particularly."
Barry rested his forearms on the bar. "You could at least pretend."
"I knew you were coming before you turned onto the street."
Barry looked at him, then at the entrance, as if he might discover that the door had somehow betrayed him. "How?"
"Your smell, mostly. Then I sensed your energy." Bardock shrugged. "You move quickly enough that most people probably don't notice you approaching until you're already beside them. That doesn't make you difficult to detect."
Barry's mouth opened, then closed again. He glanced down at his clothes and gave the sleeves of his jacket a quick inspection, as though he might have missed some obvious flaw in his disguise.
"Right. I really need to stop assuming that being fast makes me subtle."
"It doesn't, not to me anyway."
"Good to know. Thanks buddy."
The bartender came over, her attention shifting between Barry and Bardock. She had clearly recognised Barry, although whether from his work as a forensic scientist or from his occasional public appearances as an analyst after a Flash incident to comment at a crime scene was difficult to tell. Barry ordered a coffee and something to eat, then thanked her with an easy smile. She returned the smile, though her eyes wandered back towards Bardock before she left.
Barry noticed. Naturally, he noticed. He was a detective by profession and a superhero by necessity; paying attention to people was a habit that survived even when he was off duty.
"You're getting a lot of attention today." he observed.
"Am I? I didn't notice." The Saiyan said sarcastically.
"You know you are."
"People stare. It doesn't bother me. Soon enough they'll find something even more pretty to gawk at."
"Unlikely. You look like you could bench-press a car and throw it through a wall."
"Probably because I can." Bardock took a final sip of whiskey. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"
"I hadn't decided yet."
The bartender returned with Barry's coffee, and he thanked her again before turning back to the Saiyan. He looked more relaxed now that he had settled in, though there was still a watchfulness beneath the casual manner. Barry had come alone, without a League escort or an obvious attempt to make the meeting feel official. That suggested he wanted a conversation rather than an interrogation, which Bardock appreciated.
Barry nodded towards the television. "Linda's good at her job, by the way. I know her personally. She's fair, even when she's being critical. She'll ask uncomfortable questions, but she doesn't make things up just to get a headline."
"She seems competent at her job, I'll give her that."
"That's a strong endorsement from you."
"I've met people who mistake shouting for intelligence. She doesn't seem to have that problem." Bardock traced the rim off his glass. "Unlike a certain loud-mouthed clone."
Barry smiled, ignoring the dig at Conner. It wasn't malicious and Conner could be a little frustrating to deal with at times. "I'll pass the compliment along if I see her. Though I should warn you, she's not the best journalist in my social circle."
"No? Then who is?"
"My girlfriend, Iris West."
Bardock gave him a sidelong look. "Of course you'd say that. You'd be in for a rough time if you said otherwise."
"She is brilliant though."
"I'm sure, if she's able to put up with you."
"Dude, not cool. And before you say anything else, no, I'm not biased."
"You're obviously biased."
"… okay, yes, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong."
Bardock's mouth twitched. Barry had a gift for filling silence with words, but unlike some of the other heroes Bardock had met, he did not seem to use conversation as a means of asserting control. He talked because he enjoyed talking, because he was curious, and because he seemed to believe most misunderstandings could be resolved if everyone involved simply kept speaking long enough. It was an optimistic approach. Bardock was not entirely convinced it worked, but he could appreciate the intention. He much preferred their eating contests together.
He gestured towards the television. "She's right to ask why the League wasn't there."
Barry's smile faded a little. "Yeah. I figured you'd say that."
"Should I not?"
"No, it's a fair question. The trouble is that the answer is more complicated than it looks from the outside."
"Then the League should explain it. Might put some minds at ease."
"Probably."
"You're agreeing with me rather quickly."
"Don't get used to it." Bardock gave a low chuckle and signalled to the bartender for another whiskey. Barry watched him for a moment, apparently trying to decide whether to bring up the next subject or let the conversation develop naturally. Eventually, his curiosity won. "So, how long you been in Central City?"
"Since yesterday."
"I meant how long are you planning to stay?"
"That depends on whether I find something interesting to do."
Barry tilted his head. "You could try sightseeing. We have a museum, a science centre, some good restaurants, and a few places that don't get blown up every other week."
"I was planning on doing exactly that."
"Really?"
Bardock looked at him. "Why does that surprise you?"
"Because the last time I saw you on Earth, you were dismantling an android in the middle of the street, and the time before that, you were fighting with Superman. You don't exactly give off the impression of someone who spends his free time visiting museums."
"Contrary to the impression I give off, I do enjoy learning things."
"Such as?"
"How this world works. What people build when they're not trying to kill one another. What they eat. What they consider entertaining. How their cities are organised. There are a lot of things to see here."
Barry's expression softened. "That's actually a pretty good reason to travel. So you're on holiday."
"Something like that. I'm thinking of going to LA next."
Barry took a sip of coffee. "You know, most people who go on holiday don't leave a trail of property damage behind them."
"Most people don't have to fight androids."
"Most people don't go looking for them, either."
"I didn't go looking for Amazo. I was just a tag-a-long until the clanker turned his beady eyes on me. At least I didn't sink half the continent this time."
"No, I suppose you didn't."
The exchange might have ended there, but Barry's expression changed as he remembered something. He set his coffee down and leaned closer, lowering his voice slightly.
"Actually, I have a question. How did you manage to check into one of the most expensive hotels in the city?"
Bardock looked at him with mild interest. "Why do you ask?"
"Because Bruce put an alert on the identities you've been using."
That got Bardock's attention. "An alert?"
"Several, actually. He has a list of your known aliases, a few likely variations, and a system that flags certain kinds of activity associated with them. It's not as invasive as it sounds."
"It sounds exactly as invasive as it sounds. Fourth Amendment violation, much?"
"Okay, it is a little invasive. But Bruce is gonna Bruce."
"That explains nothing."
"It explains everything if you've met him."
Bardock considered that and decided Barry had a point. Batman had the sort of mind that could turn a casual observation into a file containing photographs, financial records, and a working theory about the subject's childhood. Bardock had known people like that before. Most of them had eventually become very unpleasant enemies, although he suspected Bruce Wayne's intentions were somewhat less straightforward.
"So he knows where I'm staying."
"He knows which hotel you checked into. He probably knows which room too and who the bellhop booking your taxi is, but I didn't ask."
"How considerate of the detective." Bardock gave him a flat look.
Barry raised both hands. "Look, I didn't come here to talk about Bruce's surveillance habits. I came because I wanted to see how you were doing, genuinely, and because the League would rather hear from you directly than read about you in a newspaper."
"Then why mention the hotel?"
"Because I'm curious. That place costs more per night than some people earn in a month. How are you paying for it?"
Bardock took the fresh glass the bartender had placed before him and rolled it slowly between his fingers. "I won the money on a game show."
Barry blinked. For a moment, the only sound between them was the low murmur of conversation from the rest of the bar. "A game show."
"Yes."
"What kind of game show?"
"It's called 'Beat the Shit Out of a Piece of Shit Drug Dealer and You Get to Keep His Shit'."
Barry stared at him but the Saiyan just took another drink. "That is not a real game show."
"It was a very exclusive event. It had rules too."
"That doesn't make it a game show, Bardock."
"You had to beat him, take his money, and make sure he couldn't use the drugs he was selling. I followed the rules."
Barry pressed his lips together. He looked as though he was attempting to work through the explanation with the same careful attention he might give to a complicated forensic report. Unfortunately, every answer Bardock provided seemed to create another question.
"Okay," he said at last. "Let's start with the obvious. What did you do with the narcotics?"
"I burnt them."
Barry paused. "You burned them?"
"Yes. All of them. Every last key."
"Where?"
"Somewhere where they wouldn't hurt anyone. And it's the only answer you're getting."
Barry rubbed a hand over his face. "Fine, fine. Was the dealer alive when you left?"
"Yes. He's in a federal prison."
"Good." Barry lowered his hand. "You put him in federal prison? Don't tell me you just dropped him into the yard."
"I left him with the police. They arrested him after I gave them evidence of what he'd been doing. His drugs, his money, his records, and the people who worked for him. He had enough illegal material on him to keep a prosecutor busy for years. I imagine they'll find more once they finish searching his properties."
Barry studied him for a moment, his expression shifting from disbelief to something more thoughtful. "And you just took the money and disappeared."
"Yeah. Would have been pointless otherwise. It would sit in some empty evidence locker until some dirty cops pocketed it anyway. It's a moral thing to put the gains of ill means towards a good cause. Five-star room service in my specific case."
Bardock's answer was so matter-of-fact that Barry found himself struggling to determine whether the Saiyan understood how unusual the whole thing sounded. Most people who described beating a drug dealer, burning his supply, and taking his money would be trying to impress someone. Bardock seemed to regard it as an ordinary errand that had happened to produce a useful financial outcome.
"Right." Barry said simply as he just sipped his coffee. "How much money are we talking about?"
"Enough."
"That is not a number Bardock."
"Since when are you interested in numbers?"
"I'm a forensic scientist. Numbers are sort of my thing."
"Then calculate it yourself."
"I would, if I knew which drug dealer you beat up."
Bardock gave him a faint smile. "Maybe you should ask Bruce. He's the detective keeping track of me."
"You know I'm not gonna do that." Barry groaned. The bartender came by to check whether they wanted anything else. Barry ordered a second coffee and some toast, then waited until she had left before turning back to Bardock. "All right. I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to answer honestly."
"I've been answering honestly the whole time."
"That's what worries me." Bardock raised an eyebrow. Barry leaned his elbows on the bar. "You can't keep solving every problem by beating people up and taking whatever they have. Even if they're criminals. Even if you think you're doing the right thing. There are laws, procedures, and people whose job it is to handle this stuff."
"Yes, I'm aware."
"Do you?"
Bardock's expression became more serious. "Barry, I handed a criminal over to the authorities. I removed the narcotics from circulation. I left the evidence where it could be found, and I didn't kill the man. If I had wanted to ignore your laws, I could have taken the money, destroyed the evidence, and left him with a broken neck in an alley. I didn't."
Barry considered that. The Saiyan had not raised his voice, and there was no trace of anger in his expression, but the answer carried a quiet firmness that made it clear he was not going to be lectured as though he were an ignorant child.
"Fair enough," Barry said after a moment. "I wasn't accusing you of anything. I just wanted to understand how you think about this."
"I think about the outcome. People were being poisoned by the drugs he sold. I stopped him. The authorities have him now, and they'll decide what to do with him. If they want to prosecute him, they have the evidence. If they want to investigate his associates, they have the names. I'm a man of my word, otherwise I'd have been inclined to end him given how many young people OD'd on his dope. What else should I have done?"
Barry opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was not that he had no answer. He could have talked about chain of custody, the risks of vigilantism, the importance of preserving evidence, or the fact that a powerful stranger deciding who deserved to be beaten was not a system anyone should want to live under. He could have explained that even good intentions could lead to terrible outcomes when nobody was willing to question them.
But Bardock had already done most of what Barry would have asked him to do. He had stopped the immediate harm, preserved the evidence, and left the criminal alive to face the law. The fact that he had done so with his fists did not automatically make the result wrong. Taking the drug money was the only contestable thing, though really, what could they do about it?
Barry let out a breath. "Nothing, I suppose. Not in this particular case."
"Then we agree."
"Don't sound so pleased. I'm still going to tell Bruce you described a felony as a game show."
"He'd be disappointed if I don't give him something interesting to investigate."
Barry shook his head, smiling despite himself. "You really don't make this easy for yourself."
"I'm a Saiyan warrior. We don't do 'easy'."
"That tracks."
For a while, they sat in companionable silence. The television had moved on to a report about a proposed redevelopment project near the river, and the bartender had begun serving a small group of office workers who had entered during the broadcast. Outside, the street continued its steady rhythm of traffic and pedestrians, seemingly indifferent to the fact that one of the most powerful beings on the planet was sitting in a bar, drinking whiskey and discussing the best way to deal with drug dealers. Barry watched Bardock for a moment, then looked at the glass in front of him.
"Can I ask you something else?"
"You've been doing that since you arrived."
"Just one more then."
"Go ahead."
"Why Central City?"
Bardock turned his head towards him. "What do you mean?"
"You said you wanted to stay and look around. But you could have chosen Metropolis, Gotham, Coast City, or somewhere else entirely. Why here?"
Bardock thought about it. The honest answer was that he had chosen Central City because it was somewhere new, somewhere he had not yet spent much time exploring. The city had its own culture, its own history, and its own collection of unusual people. Its proximity to STAR Labs made it interesting, too, although the laboratory's habit of producing or attracting dangerous inventions was not necessarily a selling point.
"I haven't seen much of it," he said. "I thought I'd start here."
"That's it?"
"Do you need a more complicated answer?"
"No. Actually, that's probably the most normal answer you've given me today."
"Then you should treasure it."
Barry laughed. "I might frame it."
Bardock finished his whiskey and pushed the glass away. The bartender noticed immediately and came over to ask whether he wanted another. He declined, paid for both drinks, and left a generous tip. The woman thanked him, then looked as though she wanted to say something else before deciding against it and instead slipped him a note with her number scribbled on it.
Barry watched the exchange with quiet amusement. "You ever going to dial that?"
"Ever heard the expression 'breaking her back'? Even if I was interested, I'd probably bring new literal meaning to that phrase. So no, I probably won't."
"Fair point."
Bardock slid from the stool and adjusted the waistband that concealed his tail. He had become aware of the slight discomfort again, and decided that he would need to find a tailor who could make something more practical if he intended to spend much time on Earth. Humans had made remarkable advances in medicine, transport, communications, and countless other fields, but apparently nobody had thought to design trousers for a person with a tail.
Barry rose beside him. "Where are you headed?"
"Somewhere with better trousers."
Barry glanced down at his jeans. "What's wrong with those?"
"They're designed for people with two legs and no tail."
"Ah. Your clothing is badly thought out in that regard then."
"I'll bring it up at the next fashion summit." Bardock gave him a look that made it clear he had no intention of making good on that suggestion. Barry grinned and followed him towards the door.
Outside, the sun had climbed higher, and the pavement was busy with people going about their day. A delivery truck was unloading crates outside a restaurant, a cyclist was arguing with a driver who had stopped across the bicycle lane, and two children were attempting to imitate the stance from the news broadcast while their mother told them to stop before they knocked into someone. Bardock watched them for a moment.
One boy planted his feet apart and thrust his hands forward with great enthusiasm. His companion copied him, nearly losing his balance, and both shouted the name of the technique with enough force to attract the attention of everyone within several metres. Bardock's expression tightened. Barry followed his gaze and immediately recognised the problem.
"Kids imitate superheroes. It's normal."
"They're imitating me…which is probably not the smartest thing for anyone to do."
"You can't blame them."
"Why?"
Barry looked at him as though the answer should have been obvious. "Because you destroyed a giant robot with a giant energy beam. That's pretty impressive when you're eight years old."
"They're going to hurt themselves. That boy nearly fell over and cracked his head. His stance was way off."
"He's eight. He'll survive."
Bardock watched the children for another moment, then turned away with a low sigh. "I should have used a different technique."
"Then they'd be copying that instead."
"Perhaps I should stop fighting in public. You'd like that wouldn't you?"
Barry laughed. "Good luck with that."
They started down the pavement, moving with the crowd. Barry kept his pace deliberately ordinary, and Bardock matched it without difficulty. For someone who could cross a city in the blink of an eye, Barry seemed perfectly content to walk at the speed of everyone else. Bardock found that interesting. Speed was an advantage, but Barry did not seem to regard every second spent moving slowly as wasted time.
"So," Barry said, "what are you planning to do for the rest of the day?"
"Find a tailor. Look around the city. Eat something."
"In that order?"
"Possibly. Though I might eat before seeing a tailor also."
"Well, if you're looking for food, I know a few places worth trying."
Bardock glanced at him. "Are you offering to show me around?"
"Maybe. Depends on whether you promise not to look for any more androids to fight before lunch."
"I make no such promises."
"Then we're off to a great start."
Barry pulled his phone from his pocket and checked a message. His expression changed slightly as he read it, and Bardock recognised the shift from casual conversation to the alert attention of someone whose work had just intruded on his free time.
"Everything all right?" Bardock asked.
"Yeah. Just a message from Iris." Barry typed a quick reply, then slipped the phone away. "She's asking whether I can meet her later. She's been following the Amazo story, too, and she wants to know if I can get her anything useful."
"You can tell her the League should explain why the Team was there."
Barry gave him a sidelong look. "You really aren't going to let that go, are you?"
"Should I? People were injured. The public has a right to know what happened."
"Agreed. But there are things we can't discuss publicly, especially if Ivo is involved."
Bardock's expression sharpened slightly. "You think he's still active?"
"Definitely. You didn't find him after getting rid of Amazo. We don't know how much of his operation was connected to Amazo, or whether he was even there when the android attacked. He was behind it but he may have been watching from somewhere else."
"Then he has a problem, depending on what he does next. He's already lost his machine."
Barry gave him a careful look. "A machine he built to copy superpowers, apparently. Someone like that doesn't necessarily stop because his third attempt failed."
Bardock considered the point. He had fought enough inventors, sorcerers, and other ambitious fools to know that defeat could make certain people more dangerous rather than less (cough, Fu, cough). They did not see failure as a warning. They saw it as a challenge to be answered, and the answer usually involved building something bigger.
"Then he should learn from it." Bardock said. "Build something that actually makes things a little entertaining. Or he can build another one and lose that, too. Makes no difference to me."
Barry sighed. "I'd prefer it if he didn't get the chance to put more people in danger."
"I suppose I can agree on that as well."
They reached the corner, where the pavement widened around a small square with benches and a fountain. Bardock paused to examine a street map displayed on a public information board, studying the layout of the surrounding districts. Barry waited beside him, looking at the map over his shoulder.
"You're actually going to explore the city, aren't you?" Barry asked. "I thought you might be humouring me."
"I don't humour people." Bardock gave him a faint smile. "Not often anyway."
"Well, Central City has a lot to offer. There's the science centre, the museum, the old railway district, and a few places where you can get food that's worth the money. If you want to see something unusual, there's a public exhibition at the Flash Museum this week."
Bardock turned his head. "The Flash Museum? An entire museum dedicated to you?"
Barry's expression became wary. "Yes. And not just me. The Flash. It's a historical exhibition."
"That sounds remarkably self-indulgent. Do they have statues?"
"I had nothing to do with the name. And yes they do. Paintings as well."
"And little figures of you running?"
Barry's mouth tightened. "I am beginning to regret telling you about it."
Bardock chuckled. "In that case, I think I'll go. Perhaps I'll buy a souvenir."
"Please don't."
"Why not? One of those little figures might be amusing."
Barry shook his head, but he was smiling again. For all his protests, there was something reassuring about Bardock's interest in ordinary things. The Saiyan could have spent the morning discussing the limits of his powers, demanding access to the League's resources, or asking for a rematch with Superman.
Instead, he wanted to visit a museum and find better trousers. It did not make him harmless. Barry had seen what Bardock could do, and he had no intention of forgetting it. But it did make him easier to understand than the first impression suggested. They continued along the pavement, passing a shop selling electronics and another displaying a collection of books in its front window. Bardock slowed to look at the books, and Barry followed his gaze.
"You read much?"
"Yes, when I get the chance. I don't have a particular preference. History, science, philosophy, stories about people doing things they shouldn't. I like learning how other people think."
Barry looked at him with renewed interest. "You might get along with Iris then. She'd probably spend the whole afternoon asking you questions though."
"Would that be a problem?"
"For you? Probably not. For everyone else, she'd be writing an article before you finished answering."
Bardock considered that. "You'll have to introduce me to her then. Any woman that can make you slow down a few paces must be quite the specimen."
"Hey, don't you go making moves on my girl." Barry mock-frowned. "But sure. I'll see when she's free next.
They stopped outside a small clothing shop, its front window displaying jackets, jeans, and shirts arranged on mannequins. Bardock examined the display, then glanced at Barry. "Is this place any good?"
"I bought a shirt here once. A really good one."
Bardock studied him for a moment. "Your standards are questionable."
"That hurts." The speedster brought a hand to his chest before laughing, and for the first time since he had arrived, the conversation felt entirely free of the tension surrounding the previous day's battle.
There were still questions to answer, and the League would eventually want a more formal discussion with Bardock. Batman would continue monitoring him, Superman would likely revisit the question of training, and the Team would have to deal with the matter of being defeated in front of an audience. None of those matters would disappear simply because the sun was shining. But they could wait for an hour.
Bardock pushed open the shop door and stepped inside, leaving Barry to follow him. A bell chimed above the entrance, and a shop assistant looked up from behind the counter. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw Bardock, then she quickly recovered and greeted them.
"Good morning. Can I help you find anything?"
Bardock glanced around at the racks of clothing. "Yes. I need trousers that accommodate a tail." Barry just stared at him, making the Saiyan glance back. "What?" he asked. "You said this place was good."
Barry pressed his lips together, his shoulders beginning to shake. The shop assistant glanced between them, clearly trying to decide whether this was a joke, a request for specialist costume work, or the beginning of the strangest customer interaction of her career. Bardock waited patiently.
After a few seconds, she cleared her throat. "We might be able to arrange something custom-made. We do accommodate cosplaying events or costume parties. Could you describe what you need?"
Bardock considered the question. "A waistband that doesn't crush the tail, enough room for it to move, and fabric that won't tear if I need to use it."
The assistant nodded slowly, reaching for a notebook. "Right. And what sort of activities would you be using them for? Dancing? Magic tricks?"
"Ordinary daily life. Walking around. Eating. Fighting, if necessary."
Barry turned away and covered his mouth. The assistant wrote something down, then looked up again to consider what she'd just heard. "Fighting?"
"Occasionally. Would be nice if they were comfortable to nap in too."
"Of course," she said, with the determined professionalism of someone who had decided that asking further questions would only make things worse. "Let's see what we can do."
Bardock nodded in approval and followed her towards the back of the shop. Barry remained near the entrance, struggling to contain his laughter until Bardock looked over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"
Barry took a breath and straightened. "Yes. Absolutely. Wouldn't miss it."
"Good. You can help explain human clothing of this Earth to me."
"That is not a sentence I ever expected to hear."
"Get used to it."
Barry followed him deeper into the shop, still grinning. Maybe Dr Fate would be willing to come around and mind-wipe the woman of this event later. Outside, Central City carried on with its day, and somewhere in the distance another news broadcast was likely discussing the android, the young heroes, and the stranger who had destroyed a machine that had seemed capable of defeating them all.
The questions raised by Linda Park's report would not vanish. The public would demand answers, the League would have to decide how much it could reveal, and Professor Ivo would undoubtedly be considering his next move. Bardock's arrival had created a new complication for everyone involved, whether they understood that yet or not.
For the moment, however, the most immediate challenge facing the Saiyan was finding a pair of trousers that fit. Barry Allen, who had faced alien invasions, time-travelling criminals, and threats capable of destroying the world, decided that he would rather take his chances with the androids.