The damp night air of Santa Prisca clung to our clothes like a second skin, impregnated with the smell of crushed foliage, gunpowder residue, and the metallic odor of spilled blood. The jungle around us teemed with the distant calls of nocturnal creatures, but the clearing we had transformed into a battlefield was now strangely silent, except for the occasional groan of the defeated.
We stood there, the team—shadowy figures in our black camouflage suits—catching our breath after the chaos. The ground was covered in debris: discarded weapons gleaming in the moonlight, spent cartridges crackling underfoot, and the bodies of henchmen and cultists scattered like broken puppets.
Not all were dead—most were unconscious or incapacitated, bound with plastic cable ties or handcuffed to trees with the ropes we had brought for the extraction. We separated them meticulously: Bane's henchmen, dressed in black, on one side of the clearing, tied to the trunks of ancient oak trees with their wrists twisted behind the rough bark, and the red-robed cultists on the other, their fanatical eyes still burning with defiance, even with blood dripping from cracked lips and bruised jaws.
The separation wasn't just for organizational purposes; it prevented last-minute alliances or escapes. Robin insisted on this, his tactical mind always three steps ahead.
Dick Grayson — Robin — crouched down beside one of the cultists, his gloved fingers tracing the serpent symbol embroidered on the man's crimson cloak. The fabric was rough, stained with sweat and dirt, but the symbol was unmistakable: a coiled snake, fangs bared, eyes gleaming with an almost hypnotic intensity. "These cultists here," Robin said, his voice low but conveyed through our telepathic link for emphasis, "are from the Cult of the Snake. The same ones Batman messed with last year. Fanatics who worship some ancient serpent god, led by that psychopath Jeffrey Burr — Lord Naga-Naga or whatever he calls himself these days."
I—Erick Smith, now known as Forge—nodded, my helmet visor scanning the garments for any hidden technology or symbols. The visor displayed overlays: thermal signatures fading as the bodies cooled, no hidden weapons detected. But my mind was already piecing together the puzzle. "And apparently, they were in conflict," I added, gesturing toward the scattered wreckage of the fight. Bullet holes riddled the trees, and the ground was turned to mud by the skirmish. Bane's men were caught off guard, their formation broken, while the cultists seemed more organized, their red robes torn, but their ranks holding firm. "Most likely Kobra clashed with Bane and managed to drive him out of the factory. That explains why the shipments stopped. He's stockpiling the batches now, for what? We don't know yet. But probably to sell to a large buyer."
The team absorbed the information in silence, our telepathic connection vibrating with shared thoughts. Wally West — Kid Flash — leaned against a tree, his yellow and red suit contrasting sharply with the shadows, chewing on an energy bar he'd pulled from his utility pouch. His metabolism was frantic, always demanding fuel after a fight. "Ah, so we've completed the mission," he said loudly, excited but brimming with impatience. He wiped the crumbs from his mouth, his green eyes scanning the surroundings. "We got the information. Kobra is after an army of strengthened cultists. Can we go home now? I'm starving — again."
Robin shot him a sidelong glance, his domino mask twitching in slight exasperation. "Kid Flash, don't be an idiot. These cultists here," he pointed to the bound figures, their robes disheveled and faces bruised from the restraints, "aren't using Venom. Look at them—skinny under those robes, no bulging veins, no fits of rage. Most likely, Kobra is stockpiling the substance to sell to someone important. This isn't about strengthening his own henchmen; it's an ongoing business."
Before anyone could respond, the audio scanner in my helmet picked up a whisper—weak, but amplified by the directional microphones. It came from Bane's side: one of his henchmen, a burly fellow with a shaved head and tattooed neck, leaning toward the unconscious giant. "The boss's out, but while these kids are chattering, we attack. Grab the weapons from the ground—"
I interrupted telepathically, my urgent voice echoing in everyone's minds: " Attention, everyone! Bane's henchmen are whispering to attack while we're discussing. They plan to grab weapons from the ground."
Superboy — Conner Kent — tilted his head, his heightened Kryptonian hearing instantly confirming. Yeah, I heard it too. Those idiots think we can't pick up whispers.
We moved as one, the team converging on Bane's bound group. The henchmen froze, realizing their plan had failed. Bane himself was still unconscious, handcuffed to a tree trunk with the reinforced handcuffs I'd pulled from my belt—standard League handcuffs, unbreakable even for someone like him. One of the henchmen, the Whisperer, tried to play dumb. "Hey, kids, we—"
Robin was already on top of him, a batarang gleaming in his hand—not to attack, but to intimidate, the sharp blade hovering near the man's throat. "Spare him. We heard every word."
Bane shifted, his enormous body swaying against the tree trunk. Even without Venom, he was a monster—over two meters of scarred muscle, his wrestler's mask cracked from Superboy's previous punch. His voice thumped like gravel in a blender. "Ah... so you heard. Clever brats. But if you really want to unravel this mess, I know a secret passage to the factory. One that bypasses the guards and the shadows."
We exchanged glances — telepathically, of course. Is he bluffing?, thought Wally, his impatience seething.
M'gann floated forward, her green skin glistening faintly in the moonlight. She knelt before Bane, her large eyes gleaming as she extended her telepathic probe. " Let me check..." We felt the echo of her mind brushing against his—superficial thoughts, nothing deep. Bane's mental defenses were rudimentary but effective: he recited football scores in his head, a monotonous loop of "Brazil 7, Germany 1... Brazil 7, Germany 1..." blocking access to anything deeper.
M'gann stepped back, rubbing his temple. The secret passage is real—he's not lying about that. But I can't go any deeper; he's blocking me with nonsense.
Kaldur's voice cut off the connection: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. For now. We'll use him—and then neutralize him.
I agreed, adding: As soon as we get the ticket, we'll get him out of there. No loose ends.
The team agreed. Superboy pulled Bane up with some difficulty, the giant grunting as his handcuffs were adjusted so he could walk. "Lead the way," Kaldur said loudly, in a tone that admitted no contest.
Bane chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Wise choice, fish-boy. Follow me."
We traversed the jungle, Bane limping ahead with Superboy's hand on his shoulder like a vise. The trail was narrow, overgrown vines whipping our legs, the dampness making each step feel like a soup bath. Bane guided us up a steep hill, the incline burning our calves, until we reached the top. From there, the factory stretched below like a mechanical beast: enormous silos spewing steam, conveyor belts humming in the distance, spotlights casting intense yellow beams over the loading docks. In front of the main building was a hangar, its doors open, revealing a large helicopter being loaded with crates—wooden crates with danger symbols, likely filled with the new Venom variant.
"They're loading it for shipment," Robin observed quietly. "But the helicopter hasn't arrived yet—it's probably on its way."
Bane pointed to a cluster of rocks at the base of the hill. "The entrance is over there. Move the large rock—it reveals a tunnel straight into the bowels."
We descended carefully, sliding down the slope in controlled bursts. When we reached the rocks, Superboy moved the boulder aside with a grunt—it weighed tons, but for him it was like lifting a suitcase. Below was a rusty grate, leading to a dark tunnel—damp air rose, smelling of mold and rust.
Kaldur turned to the team: Now.
Superboy acted faster than any human could react—he covered Bane's mouth with one hand, while his other arm wrapped around the giant's neck in an arm lock. Bane's eyes widened, his massive body thrashing like a beached shark, but Superboy's Kryptonian strength was unyielding. He tightened his grip, cutting off the flow of air and blood. Bane's efforts diminished—his fists striking Conner's arm in vain—until his eyes rolled back and his body went limp. He fell to the ground, unconscious.
I approached quickly, drawing the reinforced handcuffs from my belt—League-level, with biometric locks and anti-breakage mechanisms. I fastened them to Bane's wrists and ankles, the metal snapping shut like a final judgment. To be sure, I injected him with a sedative from my utility pouch—a custom concoction I'd synthesized in the basement, designed to keep even enhanced humans unconscious for 12 hours. The needle pierced his thick neck, the plunger pressing gently. Bane twitched once and then lay still.
The team approved—unanimous nods, no regrets. Good idea, Artemis thought as he analyzed the connection. No loose ends.
We entered the tunnel in single file, the passage narrow and damp, the walls slippery with condensation. The flashlights on our equipment pierced the darkness—the night vision in my helmet tinged everything with an intense green. After what seemed like an eternity of walking crouched down, we reached a metal door: rusty steel, with an electronic lock glowing faintly red.
"Password protected," Robin observed, examining it. "Encrypted—military grade."
I smiled beneath my helmet. "No problem." I grabbed a custom flash drive from my belt—integrated with the hacking protocols of Natasha, my AI back home. I plugged it in, and the device connected seamlessly. The keypad beeped, lights flashing as the code crackled in seconds. Access granted, Natasha's voice echoed in my mind through the helmet's secure connection.
The door slid open with a hiss, revealing the factory's interior: a vast two-story space, with walkways crisscrossing the ceiling like metallic veins. Below, workers in protective suits carried boxes on conveyor belts, the hum of the machines muffling our footsteps. In the distance, the hangar—workers carrying boxes to the waiting helicopter, its rotors still inactive.
Further ahead, an elevated control room dominated the operation—a glass-walled office on the second floor, accessible by a spiral staircase. Kaldur's voice cut through the communication: Robin, Forge—head to the control room. Extract the data on the buyer and the new formula. We, the rest of us, will provide cover down here.
Robin and I nodded, disappearing into the shadows. We climbed the stairs in silence—Robin like a ghost, me trusting in the sound-insulating soles of the Cloak. At the top, a guard stood watch: burly, armed with an assault rifle, his eyes fixed on the ground below.
Robin acted first—a batarang thrown with surgical precision, embedding itself in the wall beside the guard. A hiss escaped, gas escaping from the tip—a knockout formula, odorless and fast-acting. The guard's eyes widened, the rifle fell as he collapsed forward, unconscious before he even hit the ground.We dragged him into the control room—dimly lit consoles displaying intermittent data streams, monitors showing production statistics and security images. Robin hacked into the main terminal with his wrist computer, his fingers gliding over holographic keys. I plugged in my flash drive nearby, copying everything—blueprints, formulas, shipping records.
The data started coming in: Venom mixed with Blockbuster — the same Cadmus serum that transformed Mark Desmond into a raging giant. Robin's eyes widened. "That's the Cadmus substance — the same one that created that monster we faced when we rescued Superboy."
I nodded, feigning slight surprise—my knowledge of past lives reminded me of this, but I kept it a secret. "Yes, that sounds familiar. It explains the increased production—they're creating a hybrid. Stronger, more stable, perhaps."
While Robin focused on the buyer records—encrypted manifests that indicated a major off-planet deal—I discreetly copied snippets of data to the secure link in my helmet. Natasha, analyze this, I thought, as the files were transmitted back to my AIs in the basement. Blueprints for the new serum, chemical analyses—fuel for my own projects.
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