Deadpool darted over to Spider-Man's opposite side, standing with his legs apart and whipping his head from side to side as though trying to figure out where the Assassin was. Finally, he looked at Deathstroke in horror.
Deathstroke was baffled too. He hadn't fired that shot!
Besides, why would he need to open fire at a concert? He was an Assassin, not a terrorist. Why waste bullets without a target? When he was on a job, a single bullet of his was worth millions of dollars.
He instinctively reached for the gun at his waist, but don't forget—most Spider-Men lived in Queens, where public safety was less than reassuring. What other instinctive reaction could they have when they saw someone reaching for a gun?
With several whooshes, more than a dozen webs fired at once and plastered Deathstroke's face. Countless sticky strands directly changed the color of his armor. Up close, he could barely still be recognized as Deathstroke. From afar, he looked like White Armor.
"Spider-Man!!!!!!"
As Deathstroke's furious roar rang out, the venue instantly descended into chaos. More Spider-Men rushed over after hearing the commotion, only to encounter plenty of people who had gone into a stress response along the way.
The cars that The Flash and Peter had seen one after another on the road earlier had all come from Black Island. Quite a few mercenaries and Assassins liked rap too, and there was no shortage of them in the crowd.
Every Assassin who could establish a foothold on Black Island was seasoned and battle-hardened. The instant they heard gunfire, they assumed combat stances. Ordinary people hurriedly ran for the exits, while the Spider-Men instead joined the fight, naturally becoming the targets of their interception.
For a time, fists and kicks flew through the audience area. Meanwhile,