The beast was caged.
The thunderous, ground-shaking impact of the iron chains had not just created a prison; it had redefined the very nature of the battle. The Glimmer-Hulk, the creature of intangible shadow and impossible physics, was gone. In its place was a thing of flesh and bone, a solidified, writhing nightmare trapped in a cage of cold, hard reality.
It thrashed against the thick, unforgiving links, its newly corporeal claws screeching and sparking against the pure-grade iron. Each point of contact sent a visible jolt through its oily black flesh, its form spasming as the iron's reality-anchoring properties warred with its own chaotic essence. Its silent, psychic screams of rage had been replaced by a guttural, wet, and deeply biological shriek of pure, physical agony. It was no longer a terrifying anomaly. It was just a monster, wounded and trapped.
And it was flammable.
As the chains had slammed down, the flasks of oil rigged in the rafters had shattered as planned. A shower of thick, viscous lamp oil had rained down, dousing the trapped beast and soaking the debris-strewn floor within the cage. The air was now thick with the cloying, chemical scent of oil, a perfect accelerant waiting for a spark.
From his high, shadowed perch, Zero watched the scene with a cold, detached satisfaction. Every piece of his intricate, brutal machine had worked flawlessly. The herding. The environmental collapses. The final, decisive trapping. It was a perfect, intellectual victory, a testament to the superiority of logic over chaos. The Zero persona, the cold, calculating strategist, was in its element, its every calculation validated, its every prediction fulfilled.
There was no triumph. There was no joy. There was only the quiet, profound satisfaction of a complex equation being solved.
Now, all that remained was the final, simple step. The Q.E.D. The execution.
His movements were economical, stripped of all wasted motion. He knelt in the darkness of his alcove, a dark priest preparing the final element of his profane rite. He produced a small, oil-soaked rag from his pouch, its fibers already dark and heavy with fuel. Beside it, he placed his flint and steel.
The beast below continued to shriek and thrash, a symphony of its own demise. It was a chaotic, desperate sound, the sound of a god discovering its own mortality.
Zero ignored it. He was a creature of singular, unwavering focus. He held the flint and steel over the rag. He did not rush. His hands were perfectly steady. The [Callous] skill was a perfect, silent engine, burning away the distracting static of adrenaline, leaving only the clean, cold mechanics of the task at hand.
He struck the flint.
A shower of bright, orange sparks erupted in the darkness of his alcove. One caught the edge of the oil-soaked rag. A small, hungry, and utterly silent flame sprang to life.
It grew quickly, a dancing, vibrant teardrop of orange and yellow in the oppressive gloom. It cast flickering, monstrous shadows against the wall behind him, the only light in the vast, dark chamber, save for the distant, indifferent glow of the Watchmen's lanterns that were now an irrelevance.
He picked up the burning rag. The heat was a pleasant, living thing against his cold fingers. This was the final variable. The answer to the Glimmer-Hulk's chaotic, un-living nature. Fire. The great, universal purifier. The ultimate solvent.
He took his last steel ball bearing from his pouch. It was heavy, dense, a perfect missile. He carefully, methodically, wrapped the burning cloth around the small, steel sphere, creating a miniature, flaming projectile. A shooting star to deliver his judgment.
He stood up, his form a tall, slender silhouette against the flickering light of his own making. He walked to the edge of his perch, looking down at the thrashing, oil-soaked creature in its iron cage.
The beast seemed to sense the shift in the air, the new, focused intent from above. Its struggles subsided for a moment, its featureless head tilting upwards, its single, gaping maw open in a silent, expectant snarl. It knew. In whatever alien, instinctual way it had of perceiving the world, it knew that its end was at hand.
Zero held the flaming projectile aloft. His arm was drawn back, his muscles coiled, a dark executioner poised to deliver the final sentence. The firelight danced in his cold, empty eyes, reflecting a tiny, burning inferno.
Below him, the beast was helpless. The trap was perfect. Victory was a fraction of a second away. All he had to do was let go.
The symphony was reaching its final, fiery crescendo. The board was set. The queen had been sacrificed, the king was in check. Now, all that was left was the final, simple, and utterly satisfying move. Checkmate.