Chapter 15: Ch.14 Deathstroke’s Broadcast

Chapter 15: Ch.14 Deathstroke's Broadcast

Vika nodded. Being a male news anchor and acting scared? A bit of exaggeration was expected. Who knew that Peter, usually so bulky and tough, could scream just like any other terrified man?

"Good job, though you overdid it a bit," Vika critiqued, pointing out a few flaws in his performance. "The scream was too long and abrupt. If the viewers have their TVs turned up, you'll scare them. Keep the pitch high, but lower the volume a little. Try to avoid too much editing afterward; it's just a hassle."

But Peter remained frozen, maintaining the same horrified expression.

Vika walked over and gave him a push. "Come on, let's get back to the van and edit the footage. I can teach you more about facial expressions later. You look like you just saw a ghost."

She chuckled at her own joke. After all, ghosts don't exist, even with all the bodies lying around.

However, a voice suddenly appeared right behind her, close to her ear, saying, "It's not a ghost he's seen—it's me."

"!!!"

Vika stiffened. She had been facing away from the depths of the police station and had no idea someone had snuck up so close, completely unnoticed.

In this storm, in such a place, the only person who could still be here was probably the killer. Why hadn't this group of gangsters left after the murders? This wasn't like usual!

Vika's heart sank. She assumed that there were probably dozens of guns trained on them, which explained why Peter hadn't moved an inch.

"I'm a big fan of your show, Vika Vale," the voice continued lazily, as if it was floating around her, never staying in one place. Yet, she couldn't hear any footsteps.

"Heh... well, seems like everyone loves me. You do too, right? Please, don't hurt me."

Vika laughed nervously, though she was thinking otherwise. Was her biggest fan a mob boss or some psycho killer? Could this whole lead have been a trap just to catch her and do unspeakable things? This wasn't the kind of fan she wanted!

"Turn around slowly. I've got some plans for my own TV debut," the voice instructed.

Following the voice's directions, Vika slowly turned around, and immediately her face mirrored Peter's.

There weren't hundreds of mobsters pointing guns at her as she'd imagined. Instead, there was only one man, standing there with his arms crossed, silently observing them.

But this single man was more terrifying than a hundred gangsters—because he was Deathstroke.

The man before them was, of course, Su Ming. Initially, their plan had been to sneak off with the reporters' van while they were inside investigating. But upon hearing Vika introduce herself, Su Ming changed his mind.

He instructed Cindy to take Barbara around the back to the van while he borrowed not only the van but also the reporters.

Despite this world's Vika Vale being more like the New 52 version, a TV anchor instead of a reporter for the Gotham Gazette, one thing remained true—this woman had both the gift of gab and an uncanny streak of good luck.

Vika had originally appeared in DC Comics back in 1948, one of Batman's early love interests, before Catwoman or Talia al Ghul came onto the scene. She was the only one of Batman's girlfriends to survive those early years.

Her luck was almost supernatural, to the point where it felt like she was the "child of the universe."

Every major villain treated her with surprising respect, and it was always low-level goons who posed any threat to her—never the real threats. She casually dated Gotham's richest man, Bruce Wayne, and stumbled upon the biggest scoop in town: Batman.

Su Ming recalled the 1989 Batman movie by Tim Burton, where Joker planned to blow up Gotham to make Batman feel his pain. While everyone was rushing to evacuate, Vika ran the other way, seeking an interview with the Joker.

And the Joker, amused by her craziness, happily obliged, giving her an exclusive interview where he explained his twisted philosophy. He even let her tag along to witness his showdown with Batman.

Su Ming still remembered one line from that film, when the Joker showed her a super bomb and she clapped her hands like a child, saying, "Mr. Joker, what a marvelous creation! Oh, you're so powerful. I love purple."

Who knows if she was talking about the purple bomb or the Joker's purple suit?

If Batman hadn't defeated the Joker, Su Ming suspected Vika might have turned into another Harley Quinn.

Ever since, she'd shown a wild fascination with Gotham's dark side in the comics, interviewing many of Gotham's rogues, including lunatics like Two-Face. Yet, she always walked away unharmed, with every villain enjoying their chat with her.

The anchor received the signal and nodded slightly. After the clip finished playing, the broadcast cut back to the studio.

"We have an update from the scene. Now, we go live to our reporter, Vika Vale."

The live feed connected, but instead of Vika's familiar face, the screen showed a black-and-yellow mask.

"Good evening, Vika wa—oh! My God! It's Deathstroke!"

The anchor, smiling pleasantly just a moment ago, leapt from his chair as if scalded by hot water. He screamed, stumbling backward until his back hit the wall, trembling like a scared child.

But he couldn't tear his eyes from the screen. The black-and-yellow armor seemed to hold a magnetic power over him, capturing his full attention.

"Good evening, anchor," Deathstroke tilted his head slightly, greeting the camera with a playful tone. Then, with more enthusiasm, he addressed the city: "Good evening, Gotham!"

Somewhere in Gotham, surely, some lunatic might've replied, "Good evening, Deathstroke."

But in the studio, no one could muster the courage to speak. It was as if they'd all been choked into silence.

Su Ming didn't care if anyone dared to talk back. He waved his gun and signaled Peter to zoom out.

"As you can see, Gotham PD is done for. Unfortunately, the prize inside wasn't the chocolate I wanted—ha-ha."

That joke didn't land, and everyone watching felt a wave of fear.

The camera panned out, showing Deathstroke holding a gun to the head of a girl in a wheelchair. She was curled up in the rain, her eyes tightly shut, trembling uncontrollably.

"This is Barbara Gordon, Commissioner Gordon's daughter. Some of you might know her."

Su Ming tapped his head with the barrel of his gun, acting like a madman, enhancing the image of Deathstroke as Gotham's ultimate nightmare.

"My target is Commissioner Gordon, but another group got to him first. Here's my message to them."

He stepped closer to the camera, his presence overwhelming.

"You'd better deliver Gordon to me—alive. Otherwise, no matter where you hide, I'll find you. One by one, I'll kill you all. And I promise, the pain will be unimaginable."

With that, he fired his gun at Barbara. She collapsed from her wheelchair, her fate unknown.

At that moment, countless viewers at home covered their mouths in shock. Fear, which had receded somewhat since Joker's last capture, surged back into their hearts.

This was a different kind of terror from the Joker's chaos—this was cold, calculated, and deadly.

The camera cut back to Deathstroke, his gun still smoking. No one doubted that at such close range, Barbara was dead.

"If anyone has information on these black-clad assailants, or knows Gordon's whereabouts, contact the station. They'll pass it on to me. And as a reward, I'll grant you one wish—tell me who you want dead, and they won't live to see tomorrow. That's a $2 million service, free of charge."

"One more thing: to the staff at the station, I want this broadcast replayed 24/7. If you don't comply, your station will end up like the police station behind me."

Peter zoomed in on the devastated police station, capturing every horrific detail at Su Ming's request. The studio staff subconsciously imagined their own bodies lying among the wreckage, all swallowing nervously.

The broadcast cut off.

In the studio, the anchor screamed, running around like a headless chicken.

"We're doomed! Doomed! Deathstroke's coming to kill us! I'm going home! Home!"

His frantic behavior was broadcast to every home in Gotham, but not a single viewer laughed at him. Instead, they all felt a chill, as though someone was breathing down their necks.