A few dozen seconds later, Peter sat on the ground, clutching a bottle of soda with tears in his eyes as he caught his breath.
It was not that he wanted to cry. The electric current had interfered with his nerves, leaving his tear ducts and runny nose completely beyond his control. Fortunately, carbonated drinks could still soothe his wounded heart.
"Your performance was terrible. I'm afraid there isn't much fighting talent in you to dig out."
Deathstroke and the God of Thunder stood side by side, their shadows falling over Peter's face. Those icy words filled the boy with despair.
After all, Marauders had to rely on their fists. If he could not fight, his Future would surely be bleak.
"Why are you both human, yet so strong?" He sniffed and raised his head to ask.
"Because... I am Deathstroke!" Captain crouched down. A black-and-yellow mask filled the boy's entire field of vision, and an endless pressure bore down on him—only to vanish in an instant. "But since you boarded my ship, I have to find a way out for the fleet's third-in-command, Dancer Peter."
"Really?" Peter perked up again. For some reason, he suddenly felt that this fellow human named Deathstroke was actually a good person. "Though it would be better if you didn't keep emphasizing my position."
"Don't run from the reality that dancing is the only thing you're good at! Come on, we'll talk as we walk." Deathstroke hauled him to his feet. After checking their general direction, the three headed toward the city.
Mountains of garbage stretched endlessly around them. More than once, Peter felt someone watching him from behind, as though he had fallen into a spider's nest. There were definitely more than eight eyes around him.
Deathstroke ignored it completely. That was the