The Loom Factory served as the New York headquarters of the League of Assassins—a fortress disguised as a relic. Beneath its aging brick façade, the structure was a labyrinth of pressure plates, hidden firing slots, retractable floors, and mechanical traps woven seamlessly into the bones of the building. Only the most elite operatives survived long enough to work inside. Assassins like Firefox didn't just belong here—they thrived here.
Lex Williams' decision to walk in alone wasn't recklessness. It was calculus.
The League of Assassins and the Shadow Warriors traced their origins to the same ancient order. Philosophies diverged, leadership fractured, but their foundational combat disciplines remained compatible. Lex already possessed the physical conditioning and battlefield awareness of a Shadow Warrior Master. Add to that the Assassin-derived abilities he'd recently integrated—Heartbeat Acceleration and Bullet Curve—and in direct combat he was effectively untouchable.
Layer in two remote-linked combat mechs and Poison Ivy operating unseen somewhere in the surrounding ruins, and annihilating the Loom Factory would be achievable.
But destruction wasn't the objective.
"Raise your hands."
Firefox closed the distance smoothly, pressing the barrel of her pistol against Lex's forehead.
"Careful," Lex said evenly. "Accidents tend to escalate."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the entrance, where the Bat Mech and the Mark 20 Python stood in silent sentinel mode.
If her trigger slipped, those machines would respond.
She understood that.
The Mark 20 Python alone had demonstrated enough firepower to reduce the building to rubble. The only reason she'd agreed to dialogue was because she couldn't confirm how many additional units Lex had positioned in reserve.
Inside the Loom Factory, tension hung like a physical weight. Assassins watched from rafters, balconies, and shadowed recesses. Every one of them knew this moment balanced on a razor's edge.
Firefox searched him thoroughly, professional and unembarrassed. She checked his waistband, boots, jacket lining—everywhere. Her hand paused briefly at his inner thigh.
Lex raised an eyebrow. "Find what you're looking for?"
A faint, amused curve touched her lips before she stepped back.
"Move."
They walked deeper into the factory. Lex counted silhouettes in peripheral vision—dozens visible, likely hundreds concealed. Core operatives. Veterans. The League hadn't thinned nearly as much as the outside world assumed.
They entered a chamber dominated by an enormous antique loom. Its mechanical arms clattered rhythmically, weaving coded threads into fabric that hung like a tapestry of fate.
Standing beside it was Sloan.
White hair framed a sharp, composed face. Age spots marked his dark skin, but his eyes were alert, predatory, analytical. Around him stood the Loom's inner circle: the Gunsmith, the Butcher, the Pharmacist, the Repairman, the Exterminator, and the Split-Mouth.
They formed a loose ring around Lex.
Sloan examined the fabric through a magnifying lens before finally looking up.
"One bat-themed mech," he said mildly. "And one modeled after Iron Man armor."
He set the lens aside.
"That combination raises questions. Who are you? And who do you represent?"
"My name is Lex Williams," he replied. "I represent myself."
Sloan's brows lifted slightly.
"Possessing technology derived from both Bruce Wayne and Tony Stark suggests you are anything but independent."
"I didn't say I was ordinary."
Sloan stepped closer.
"What do you want?"
"Therapeutic solution."
He deliberately avoided saying Dionysian Factor. Most here likely didn't know its deeper origin.
Sloan laughed softly, spreading his hands.
"You came to my doorstep, armed with war machines, to request our most valuable resource?"
The inner circle smirked.
Lex moved.
One instant he stood relaxed.
The next, his hand clamped around Sloan's throat while an M1911 pressed against Sloan's temple.
Firefox and the others reacted—too slow.
Guns came up, but Sloan was already captive.
Firefox's eyes sharpened. "I searched him."
She had.
No visible weapon.
The pistol had appeared from nowhere.
Lex didn't bother explaining the storage function of his System.
"Still amused?" he asked Sloan calmly.
Sloan raised both hands slightly, signaling the others to stand down.
"Lower your weapons."
They obeyed.
Lex released him and stepped back. The M1911 vanished with a flick of his wrist.
"I'm not here to steal," Lex said. "I'm here to trade."
Sloan studied him carefully.
"Continue."
"In this world," Lex said, "guns and blades are secondary. The real threat is the zombie virus."
No one disagreed.
He flipped his hand again. A syringe materialized between his fingers.
"Antitoxin Version 2.0."
Silence.
"Complete immunity upon injection."
Eyes sharpened across the room.
Sloan took the syringe, examining its clarity.
"How do I verify that?"
"Test it."
The suggestion shifted the room's atmosphere.
No one volunteered.
Firefox stepped forward. "I will."
Sloan smiled faintly—but shook his head.
"Bring him."
Moments later, a young man was dragged into the chamber. Pale. Frightened. Intelligent eyes behind fear.
Wesley.
Carlos' son.
Lex recognized him immediately.
Before the outbreak, Sloan had intended to train Wesley into an assassin and send him after his father. That plan had stalled when the world collapsed.
"What are you doing?" Wesley demanded shakily. "I'll call the police!"
He had no idea civilization had ended.
Firefox injected him before he could resist.
"What did you put in me?" he shouted.
She offered no answer. Instead, she hauled him outside and shoved him through the gates.
A gunshot cracked near his feet.
"Run," she ordered coldly.
Wesley ran.
From the walls, Sloan and his circle observed.
Two hundred meters out, a zombie lunged from rubble and tackled him.
Screams.
Struggle.
Firefox drove a pickup forward, shot the zombie cleanly, then restrained Wesley and brought him back.
He bore over a dozen bite wounds.
Under normal circumstances, he would turn within minutes.
They locked him in a steel cage.
Half an hour later, the Pharmacist returned with bloodwork results.
Sloan's expression shifted.
He turned to Lex.
"Let's discuss terms."
"I can provide ten doses immediately," Lex said. "More with time."
Ten.
Enough for the core leadership.
Sloan didn't need to voice the unspoken calculation: others were expendable.
"How much therapeutic solution do you want?" Sloan asked.
"How much are you offering?"
"Ten antitoxin doses for three treatment immersions."
Lex smiled faintly.
"Not interested in vials."
He paused.
"Prepare a full bath."
The room went still.
"A bath?" Sloan repeated.
"Yes."
The Gunsmith shifted uncomfortably. The Butcher scowled.
Sloan's eyes narrowed.
"And why would you require that?"
Lex exhaled lightly.
"Because I have a condition. Incurable. I've heard your solution restores anyone not yet dead. I want to test whether it applies to me."
Sloan did not believe him.
Lex didn't care.
"If that's unacceptable," he said, turning, "we're done."
Weapons lifted instantly.
He stopped and looked back at Sloan.
"Planning to take it by force?"
Sloan considered the mechs outside.
Then smiled thinly.
"Give me three doses as good faith. The bath will be prepared."
Lex produced three syringes and handed them over.
"Deposit," he said. "Balance after."
Ten minutes later, he stood before a stone basin filled with luminous green liquid.
He could sense it immediately.
The Dionysian Factor pulsed within the solution.
Without hesitation, Lex stepped in.
The liquid closed over his shoulders, cool and electric against his skin.
Then he began.
Activating Poison Ivy's botanical purification ability, he drew the Dionysian energy out of suspension. The glowing particles separated from the base solution, drawn into his bloodstream in controlled waves.
Power surged.
Cells ignited.
Every nerve sharpened.
He absorbed all of it.
When the basin dulled from radiant green to faint murk, he stepped out.
For verification, he drew a blade across his forearm.
The wound sealed within seconds—flesh knitting visibly, flawlessly.
The Dionysian Factor was extraordinary.
True resurrection might still require precise conditions.
But healing?
Undeniable.
Lex dried off, composed.
Sloan would soon realize the bathwater held none of its former potency.
But by then, Lex would have the remaining antitoxin—and the leverage to leave unharmed.
The real objective was complete.
Bruce Wayne could be saved.
....
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