Mordillo Island, East China Sea

Commando yawned as he saw Chapman beginning his best Patton impersonation. His father had met the real deal, even had dinner with him and somehow, Commando suspected that Chapman just didn’t measure up. Regardless, he still paid attention, knowing that any information about what was to come was good information.

“Membership in Excalibur is not a right,” Chapman told the heroes gathered before him. Fourteen heroes stood before him in an uneven line. Their expressions couldn’t have been more different if they tried, but there were a few constants mixed in. Some regarded him with amusement, others with disgust while others were just plain dismissive. Chapman didn’t care too much, that just made the job he had to do easier, “it is a burden. We are constantly asked to get involved in messy, dangerous situations. If we’re lucky, the odds against us are just overwhelming. But if we’re really unlucky, we have more than just the odds against us. That’s something I intend to demonstrate today. But first, in the interests of giving you a shot in hell, I’ll allow you see who else will be involved in this little exercise.”

A HERMES teleport signature appeared about four yards away, and Commando went about committing the faces to memory. More than a few concerned him, though he’d never admit that aloud.

Silver Sable and her legendary Wildpack. The Chinese Agent known as The Cat. The feral Puma, Bullet and others that Commando regarded as well trained professionals in the field of violence.

“These are the highly trained agents I would prefer to have on Excalibur instead of you lot, but simply can’t afford,” Chapman stated, “Union Jack, if you would?”

Union Jack came forward with a box. He presented it to American Eagle first, who reached in and pulled out a silver bracelet (which Commando could see were already worn by the opposing mercenaries). When everyone had a bracelet, Chapman started again.

“This exercise is going to be a variant of ‘capture the flag’”, Chapman began, “the objective is to capture another bracelet while retaining your own. As you can see, the fine mercenaries behind me have one as well.”

“What’s the catch?” asked American Eagle.

“It’s fairly straight forward,” Chapman stated, “you cannot remove your bracelet for any reason. You can claim a bracelet from a fellow candidate or from one of the fine hired guns here. If you lose your bracelet and cannot reclaim it within ten minutes, you will be removed from the field by the HERMES teleporter and from consideration from membership. Also, those who capture an additional bracelet will be teleported out within five minutes of their victory. Beyond that, the rules are fairly open, and no killing allowed whatsoever. Those who violate that rule will be instantly deported to the home country of their victim to face justice.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Batal remarked.

“I’m not done,” snapped Chapman, “the bracelets on your wrists also act as homing devises. In addition, I took the liberty of giving my mercenary friends here full dossiers on the lot of you. Ponder that for a spell, if you will.”

That garnered Chapman more than a few looks of shock and outrage.

“For those of you a little slower on the uptake, that means not only will your opposition know where you are at all times, but they’ll know full well what to expect from you. And should you manage to take a bracelet from them, they can still fight past the ten minute limit that applies to all of you. Oh, and this island? Used to be a villain hideout. While all the lethal traps have been downgraded, they’re still active and reasonable dangerous. So watch yourself, eh?”

“That…that’s not fair!” Firearm sputtered.

“What, having your enemies knowing everything about you, not knowing who’s your ally, having the terrain against you and rules specifically designed to hinder your effectiveness?” Chapman smiled in a manner that clearly indicated just how little sympathy he felt, “that’s what being on a team like Excalibur is all about. Anyone who can’t handle that, walk away now.”

No one took Chapman up on his offer, so he finished explaining.

“Also, one last thing. This exercise isn’t over until about half of you have been eliminated. You can work together all you want, but until there are only eight candidates left, the exercise will continue.”

“He’s going through a lot of trouble just to find two new members,” Er Lang muttered to himself in his native tongue. Junta, who overheard, just smirked knowingly.

A moment later, the heroes were teleported to the interior of the island, and the games began.

---

The Indian killer known as Shiva looked around the forest for a moment, still adjusting to the sudden displacement of teleportation.

This jungle wasn’t much different from that of her native India, where she had performed a mission or two. With a hook sword in each hand, Shiva leapt at the nearest tree, sank one sword into the trunk and began climbing.

There were easier ways to reach the top, but more than anyone else, Shiva needed to work up a good sweat before she started a fight.

---

The second Danny Vincent’s feet hit the ground, his mind was running like a formula one stockcar, but not in panic. No, he already had a plan and what he saw as a perfect strategy for an ambush. Not a single thing Chapman had warned them about really concerned the young spook known as Junta.

First, he removed a heavy hunting knife he carried and quickly cut off several branches from nearby trees. Holding them in one hand, he looked around until he saw where one tree had collapsed upon another. Adjusting his gravity belt, he walked up the ninety degree angled surface like it was a sidewalk until he was where the trees met. He carefully laid his branches down, mindful of their appearance from the outside. Junta made several more quick trips for branches before he was finally done.

From the ground, his hidey hole looked like a suspicious bunch of branches possibly concealing a handsome young spy. And that’s why Junta took up residence in another tree, much higher up less than ten feet away.

The plan was pretty simple, and in Danny’s experience, those worked best. Most homing devices were two dimensional. And anyone tracking the homing device in his bracelet likely wouldn’t think to look up and those who did would see his nest long before they saw him. If Puma was the one to stumble across it, Danny knew he might be in some trouble. The man was a tracker and wilderness expert after all, but Junta had little fear there. Without a scent, Junta was confident he’d see Puma first.

Treating it like a stakeout, Junta waited patiently for fifteen straight minutes without complaint. He was ready to go for hours more when his instincts began blaring. He had just begun turning around when a foot slammed into his chest. Junta went limp, rolling with the hit and leapt backwards.

To Danny Vincent, Junta, gravity was often little more than an afterthought. He all but flew out of the tree, twisting in midair. He grabbed a loose branch, swung towards a tree and when his feet met the trunk, he pushed off towards the ground. He spun again and came to a skidding halt, his eyes locked upon his former hiding place and whoever might have attacked him.

Junta watched as the man leapt down from the tree with such grace it was as if he, and not Junta, possessed the ability to casually defy gravity. Danny checked the surrounding area for any additional enemies as best he could without removing his eyes from his foe. The young spy’s heart was pounding, if this man was who he thought he was, a fight was a sure one way ticket to the hospital.

“I would have thought someone of your national background would do better in the jungle.”

Oh crap.

Junta’s instincts were right. His foe was none others Shen Kuei, a Hong Kong intelligence agent known as The Cat. He was regarded as one of the best spies in the field, his name mentioned in the same breath as ‘Nick Fury’ and ‘Black Widow’, and as if that weren’t enough, he was also internationally recognized by intelligence agencies as one of the greatest hand to hand combatants in the world (that same list that didn’t even mention Junta). His threat assessment amounted to a single sentence. If encountered, run like hell.

“What can I say, camping was never my thing. I’m a city boy, Cat.” Junta removed his collapsible bo-staff his behind his back and extended it to full length. Flight wasn’t an option, not from someone this good, which only left fight.

“Jungle survival training is a lost art,” Cat observed as he strolled forward. Junta tensed, his mind racing. Running wasn’t an option. Even with his gravity powers, Junta knew that the moment his feet left the earth, he’d be at an even greater disadvantage than he was now. He observed how The Cat wore gloves, meaning that his foe knew that touching Danny’s skin to his would induce extreme nausea, which meant Chapman wasn’t bluffing when he said that his mercenaries were fully briefed.

Realizing the full implications of that, a light went off in Junta’s head and though his face betrayed no emotion, Danny began to feel better about this fight, began to feel like he had a chance.

The Cat moved with all the speed and grace of his namesake. Junta had barely registered the first blow by the time another three punishing hits connected. He fought back with his staff as best he could, but The Cat stepped between his counter attacks with practiced ease.

Junta endured another four punishing blows before he finally saw his opening. The Cat had aimed a punch at his left rib, but instead of trying to dodge it, Junta brought his arm down at the last second, redirecting the blow to his waist, where it connected with something metal.

Junta waited several seconds before reacting, acting as though he was still swept up in the fight. After several seconds though, his eyes went wide and he shouted, “My gravity belt, I think it’s broken!”

The Cat stopped instantly, recalling the implications. According to files, Junta lived in ‘gravity well’ and his ability to interact normally depended on the belt secured around his waist. If it malfunctioned or was tampered with, a miniature black hole would consume everything within a six block radius.

Junta sank to one knee, one hand pressed against the belt.

“What can I do to help?” Shen asked quickly.

“I…I don’t think we can fix this,” Junta’s voice was filled with such raw emotion, The Cat didn’t notice Danny’s free hand until it landed upon his unprotected face.

The effect was immediate. Shen found himself so overwhelmed with vertigo that he literally had no idea which way was up. When the bo staff cracked against The Cat’s temple and knocked him unconscious, it was almost a mercy.

---

“That boy was playing with fire,” Union Jack commented. He sat in one of the island’s many command bunkers, watching a large monitor screen that were connected to the hidden cameras that allowed him to observe Danny Vincent’s fight from any angle. He was on a raised platform, watching the action alongside Chapman and Sabra, while below a host of specially trained agents were keeping an eye on their monitors, observing the other heroes on the field.

“That’s what any hero does,” Chapman countered.

“He cries wolf too many times and we may all regret it,” stated Sabra, “still, this Junta seems skilled and reliable in his own slimy way. Much like yourself, Chapman.”

“People used to respect their superiors,” Chapman sighed. He signaled to one of the agents below, “be prepared teleport Junta to the barracks. We have our first winner.”

---

Gauntlet moved through the thick forest slow and deliberately. He knew that with the oversized weapon connected to his arm, there was little hope of him moving with any stealth. So instead, he chose to move like a convoy, moving briskly while trying to keep an eye out for anything that might be a threat.

“Yo Joe!”

Gauntlet swung his weapon up towards where he heard the voice, and saw American Eagle sitting in a tree, a piece of long grass in the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t start man, I hear that enough from my brothers,” Gauntlet snapped, “so…we going to throw down or what, Jason? I like you okay, but stand-offs aren’t my thing.”

“Mine either,” American Eagle leapt down off the tree, “I like you okay too, and there are plenty of other people to beat up.”

Gauntlet smiled and lowered his weapon, “Yeah, true dat.”

The two heroes had met while waiting for this exercise to begin. With little else to do, they struck a conversation and before long were well on their way to becoming fast friends. Neither wanted to jeopardize a new friendship when they were both luke warm to the idea of actually joining Excalibur.

“So this is a team-up, huh?” Gauntlet smirked, “this is a first for me. I don’t need to learn no secret hand shake, now do I?”

“We’re good there,” American Eagle’s face went somber, and in a low tone said, “actually, I wanted to ask you something now that we’re away from prying ears. After Excalibur approached me, I got a call from a friend in the DOD. Said he was passing along some under the table orders.”

Gauntlet nodded serious, “Let me guess. He said to eliminate that Commando guy from the competition.”

“Yeah. Any idea why? He didn’t seem that bad.”

“None, man,” Gauntlet shrugged, “but orders are orders. For me anyways.”

“I just can’t see any reason for it,” American Eagle shook his head, “still, whatever. This is a big island, chances are we won’t even see him.”

Some thirty yards away, the man of discussion sat in excellent concealment, with a directional microphone that conveyed the conversation perfectly. As the pair walked away, Commando stalked after them, a sinister grin on his face.

---

The superhuman labeled to as Guishen was literally taking time to stop and smell the flowers when he sensed two men of hostile intent and company, approaching.

“Please stand down, surrender your bracelets and you will not be harmed,” Guishen said in a calm, conversational tone that carried complete and utter self conviction.

“It is you who should be worried about being harmed,” Er Lang said in his native tongue. Beside him stood Malak, technological member of the Saudi team called the Janissaries. Behind him stood a contingent of twelve robot toy soldiers that looked like they were plucked from the play ‘The Nutcracker’, that Guishen guessed were under the Arab’s control.

Why they were clearly working together so naturally was a mystery, one Guishen intended to solve.

“Lethal force is prohibited by the rules,” Guishen reminded them as he stood up. The two took a step back on reflex.

“We have no intention of killing you,” Er Lang’s smile was forced, “but alliances are allowed and Malak thinks we would do better together. Don’t be jealous that you didn’t use your spare time to network. A good soldier knows when to look for allies.”

“I see,” Guishen’s face remained impassive, “however, I already have two allies.”

In one fluid motion, Guishen’s Russian GSh-18 were in his hand and he was running towards Er Lanf and Malek before they could properly react. He pumped the triggers of his gun as he approached their toy soldiers. He came straight down the middle, rolled on his back while still in between them and came up to a standing position.

The toy soldiers turned around as ordered by Malak…and then fell apart thanks to Guishen’s explosive bullets and expertly placed shots.

Er Lang instantly created an energy shield while Malak just stood there, absolutely stunned.

“You should be thankful lethal force is prohibited,” Guishen hit the release on his guns, and the empty magazines slid out and fell to the ground. He slapped the guns to his belt and the mechanisms within instantly loaded in another full clip. But instead of raining hot lead down upon them, Guishen returned his weapons to their holsters.

“Give up!” Er Lang snapped, “you know what this is about!”

“I will in a moment,” Guishen replied. Er Lang and Malak watched as Guishen took a step to the side…and disappeared completely.

The two government declared heroes looked around frantically, but could find no sign of their prey. Er Lang gripped the energy sword in his hands tighter than he was ever trained to as he scanned the area. He saw nothing, but out of nowhere he felt a warm breath on the back of his neck and felt cold steel against his throat and a hand gripping his hair.

“Why are you doing this?” Guishen said, “what is your intention?”

“I will never answer!” Er Lang spat defiantly.

“You were improperly briefed,” Guishen stated, “because you already have.”

Guishen dispatched Er Lang with a swift blow to the back of the head, and turned to his co-conspirator.

“My government wishes me dead, and bargained with yours for assistance. That is why, I presume, the monitors on this island haven’t picked up this fight?”

Malak nodded, “As far as they’re concerned, we’re on opposite sides of the island. Technology is in my blood, you might say. Just like your blood will be on the ground in a moment”

“I think not,” Guishen said evenly, “you see, you and Er Lang were not fully briefed, likely because your superiors thought that full knowledge of my abilities would do more to intimidate you than help you defeat me.”

Malak assumed a fighting stance, “I’m no slouch myself! Technology isn’t my only advantage!”

“Yes, I know,” Guishen was calm, polite, “but you’re having trouble focusing right now, aren’t you? You see an idea in your head, but you can’t quite grasp it.”

Malak swallowed hard.

“You see, not only am I built for combat, my powers also inhibit the mental abilities of my opponents. While you struggle to put string a thought together, my mind is working perfectly. I understand that the American cliché is ‘Do the math’, but at the moment, you can’t even do that.”

Two minutes later, Guishen was teleported to the barracks with two bracelets as signs of his victory.

---

The warrior known as Kamau strolled into a vast field of low lying grass, all the while contemplating his role in this mockery of a battle.

Despite how the Englishman might protest, this petty little conflict was nothing compared to what Kamau had seen and done in his life. A life he now sought to make amends for every waking moment of his life.

But because of Chapman, Kamou now found himself torn. He wanted to dive head first into the battles around this island, to meet them weapon in hand and conquer them without fear or hesitation.

But was that desire merely blood lust, or had his unconscious mind seen the path to redemption that his waking mind refused?

His heart torn by conflict, Kamau decided to that the best thing to do was to leave the matter up to fate. So instead of searching out any prey, he sat down lotus style and waited.

---

“Look at that black cur,” Batal sneered. He and Arabian Knight were less than thirty yards away, though the shade of the trees above them and gentle downward slope of the clearing allowed them a better view of Kamau than he had of them, “he thinks this is a time for meditation.”

“Perhaps he simply does not wish to fight,” Arabian Knight countered, wincing inwardly at his comrade’s racism. The heroes of Saudi Arabia and Syria had fought side by side in the past, but each time Arabian Knight was a little more grateful than usual when the threat passed. Batal was a strong and powerful ally, but he was anything but enlightened. Arabian Knight supposed that was because his handlers didn’t want someone with had both superpowers and the intelligence to question their orders.

“He would not be here, if that were the case,” said Batal, “if he is going to lower his guard, I see no reason not to take advantage of that.”

“You do what you want,” Arabian Knight turned and began walking away, disgusted, “I think I will find more willing participants.”

Arabian Knight left his sometimes comrade and began wandering into the jungle’s interior. He had no particular destination in mind, but was confident someone would find him sooner or later.

Sure enough, his special training alerted him in just enough time to bring his scimitar up to block several throwing stars aimed at his head.

“Five minutes?” he asked his foe.

“Little over seven, actually,” Silver Sable stepped out of the foliage, knife in one hand and a gun in the other.

“Let me guess, you were herding me away from any help and away from whatever traps may be lying about.”

“Correct.”

Arabian Knight willed a small amount of mystic energy through his sword, causing it glow brightly, and making his opponent away of the power this ancient weapon held. It was both for intimidation and misdirection. Navid found that his opponents often focused too much on the weapon and not where the man holding it would be attacking with it.

Silver Sable watched her foe carefully, observing the powerful sword and how the sash tied around Arabian Knight’s belt seemed to twitch against the wind. She ran through several scenarios in her head

Confident that his foe wouldn’t attempt to put a bullet in his head, Arabian Knight surged forward and swung the flat of his blade at Silver Sable’s head. Sable knew better than to try to block the mystical weapon with her knife. According to the briefings, the sword could literally cut through anything.

Arabian Knight switched tactics with his second strike, slashing his sword like a seeming madman, the cutting edge coming closer and closer to Silver Sable.

Silver Sable was so focused on avoiding the deadly blade, that she forgot all about Arabian Knight’s sash until lashed out as if it had a mind of it’s own and grabbed her by the ankle. Silver Sable, already dodging backwards, had no way to stop her momentum and spilled to the ground.

Arabian Knight smiled and twisted his sword in his hand, ready to smack Silver Sable upside the head with the flat of his blade (which he knew from experience was non-fatal). He felt neither hesitation nor perverse satisfaction in beating a woman. While Arabian Knight didn’t approve of female warriors, he knew they were just as capable and deserving of respect as men, making them every bit as dangerous.

Ironically, Arabian Knight would later realize he failed to give Silver Sable the full respect he knew she deserved. When Arabian Knight raised his sword above his head to disable the professional mercenary, Silver Sable took aim with her gun and shot the Knight six times in the chest.

The Saudi hero went down like a sack of bricks. He felt like a horse had kicked him in the chest, and realized his mistake. Long ago, Arabian Knight had woven the magic carpet of his predecessor into his uniform. So while it looked like all that remained of the magic carpet was the red sash he wore around his belt, in reality Arabian Knight’s seemingly normal uniform had threads of the carpet woven into it. Given that the magic carpet itself was indestructible, it acted as excellent body armor and had saved Navid’s life several times already.

Unfortunately, the armor was much like Kevlar. It would stop the bullets and save his life, but did nothing to stop the kinetic energy of the bullets themselves.

Silver Sable flipped up, and approached the Knight. Arabian Knight realized that he failed to fully take into account his opponent’s knowledge before he began the fight. He cursed himself for acting like an American as the butt of Silver Sable’s handgun met his forehead.

“Arabian Knight has been eliminated,” said Silver Sable into her radio, “Team three, what’s the status of Batal and Kamau?”

“Batal is preparing to engage Kamau. He hasn’t made us yet.”

“And Kamau?”

“Who knows? He’s just sitting there. Were Chapman’s files a bluff?”

Silver Sable shook her head, “Not in the least, I helped compile them myself. Keep an eye on them and be prepared to intervene. Remember, part of our contract is preventing fatalities.”

“Understood. So are we to just observe?”

“Correct. Let those two fight it out. Then, pick off the winner. No reason we need to make this any harder than it needs to be.”

---

Guy Smith, The Orphan of Fallen Angels, moved along the island in a pattern only he could see, only he could sense.

Unlike some of the others, Smith was actually relieved when Chapman said that the island contained traps. In the days leading up to this exercise, Guy was anything but ideal. He walked the grounds, encountering his fellow competitors and allowing his super senses to wash over them. And though the information he gleaned was hardly comprehensive, it was enough to make him painfully aware of how outclassed he was. Orphan was keenly aware of how he didn’t possess the raw power of Gauntlet, the sheer strength of Batal or the weapon skills of Firearm.

But with a battlefield like this, Smith was confident he could offset that disadvantage. Even the greatest survival expert would have been hard pressed to make it through these downgraded death traps, but to the Orphan, the traps might have well come with hazard signs, warning lights and detailed instructions written with neon signs.

He could smell the gun oil, taste the metal and feel the electrical power lines that fed the traps, every one of which stood out like a sore thumb in this thick jungle. It was as if Guy had a detailed, X-ray picture of his immediate surroundings. In this jungle filled with traps, Orphan found that his powers put him perfectly at ease.

But like all good things, Smith knew that it wouldn’t last. He heard a pounding heart approach, and with a calming breath, purged his anxiety and looked towards his approaching foe.

The trees of this jungle were unnaturally tall (according to Orphan’s nose), but Guy was still a little surprised when he saw a woman swinging through them like Spider-Man through New York.

Like all his senses, Guy’s eye sight was enhanced to epic levels, and he identified the approaching woman as Shiva.

Just my luck, thought Guy Smith. Unlike the other competitors, Shiva was kept isolated until they were ready to begin. As a result, Orphan had no idea what her powers were. He could smell the poison on her blades though, and that was enough for him. One nick and he’d be in serious trouble.

Shiva saw Orphan looking right at her, and grinned like a shark in return. She swung herself towards another tree face first. She hit the tree trunk hard and drove the blades on her pummel into the wood. Her body weight was enough carry her back to mother earth.

Guy decided instantly that it would be better if he could hit her before she reached the ground, and ran towards where Shiva was descending.

“Eager for death, are we?” Shiva sensed the Fallen Angel approaching, and when she decided she was close enough to the ground, pushed off from the tree and landed in a crouch, one sword aimed at Orphan.

“You care to lose your limbs in any particular order?” asked Shiva.

“Why do all sociopaths think they sound clever?” Orphan asked aloud. He did a cart wheel to the side, activating a trap he detected there.

Shiva barely saw the net coming in time. She sliced it in two, but Orphan had closed the distance between them. Shiva swung her other sword, but Orphan rolled between the attack and his foot came up to nail Shiva in the stomach. Orphan rolled to his side and came up again, a smirk on his face.

“Hook swords are good weapons, but not the easiest to stab with, are they?”

“You are correct,” Shiva dropped her weapons to the ground, and grabbed her two katars, V shaped weapons with five inch blades, “you’re better than I gave you credit for. Up close and personal it is, then.”

Orphan eyed the swords on the ground for a moment, wondering if he should grab one. He’d practiced with swords in the past and knew his way around them better than most. But at the same time, he couldn’t imagine someone as well trained as Shiva leaving a weapon that could be turned against her just laying on the battlefield like that, if it could be turned against her.

Shiva came at him like a wild animal, and Orphan used every last bit of his enhanced senses to predict her attacks. Orphan ducked and weaved as he avoided the blades. He could sense her pounding heart, and suspected that she couldn’t keep this effort up much longer. Nothing about Shiva’s physical body was enhanced, Orphan could tell that much easily.

Shiva swung her katars in a tight arc, aimed at Orphan’s neck. Guy blocked her wrists with his own and head-butted Shiva, who stumbled backwards.

“You’re good, but I’m afraid you don’t stand a chance against me,” Orphan stated evenly, “I can sense every attack you make and counter it. And unlike you, I didn’t waste any energy swinging through the jungle like a monkey.”

Shiva’s response was to spit upon Orphan’s chest and smirk, “I was just working up a sweat. You’re the one outclassed here, little boy. I will enjoy carving my name into your skull.”

Guy looked at Shiva with a raised eye brow, “Okay little girl, time for a time-out.”

Orphan slammed his foot down upon the switch for a trap door that he had maneuvered Shiva atop of. When the sociopath disappeared beneath the ground, Orphan breathed a little easier. His lungs were starting to burn for air and he felt a little light headed.

Took more out of me than I thought, Orphan commented to himself. He wiped away a brow of sweat, and then realized something.

He couldn’t sense Shiva anywhere.

He couldn’t detect her body mass in the trap below, he couldn’t hear her heartbeat anywhere while her scent…seemed to oddly linger.

Guy concentrated, trying to detect any energy signatures, in case she’d teleported away somehow.

“You’re more clever than I gave you credit for,” Shiva appeared out of thin air behind Guy. In one fluid motion, she removed three throwing stars and sent them flying towards Orphan’s chest. Orphan leaned back to avoid them…and then fell on his ass, his head and vision swimming.

“Having a little trouble standing boy?” asked Shiva, “I think that may be because my body can produce any poison I wish. My sweat…my spit…all as lethal as my blades. I can even produce poisons that are completely scentless. Of course, that doesn’t prevent your enhanced senses from detecting them, does it?”

Orphan felt a chill run down his spine and cursed his luck. He realized too late that Shiva was the absolute last foe he should have picked a fight with.

“You have enhanced senses, right?” Shiva removed a crooked dagger from behind her back, “logic would suggest then that you have a higher pain threshold. Lets test that, shall we?”

---

Next issue: The non-stop action continues as secret agendas and personal grudges pollute an otherwise completely civilized battle royal.

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