When the special agency realized it had been tricked and sent its own troops charging into the hotel room where the mysterious visitors were staying, the outsiders were gathered around a table, fiddling with strange green tiles.
Each tile was green on the back and white on the front, with odd patterns drawn on the white side—either short lines or circles.
None of them seemed flustered. Aside from an excessively hairy Black man, everything seemed highly abnormal.
"You finally came. I've been waiting so long." The one-eyed man sat atop the money and valuables they had swindled earlier. It was clear that none of it had been touched.
Rather than showing any panic, he seemed more like he was eagerly awaiting the arrival of brutal revenge.
Though all kinds of abnormalities lay before the special squad, the city's future still depended on relics for its survival. Without relics, there were no souls; without souls, there was no energy.
At least, that was what Prophet had told everyone.
So when this powerful all-female strike team arrived, the older, somewhat plump leader issued an order after a brief moment of astonishment:
"Kill them! They are criminals against the city!"
This squad was quite interesting. They carried high-tech firearms and powered weapons fueled by Energy Crystals, yet dressed more like Amazon Warriors, in classically styled armor that exposed their strong arms and thighs.
That was a little too un-1950s.
The warriors were exceptionally elite. They stormed through the front entrance and rappelled in through every window, splitting into seven groups that breached simultaneously, down to the second. Even Deathstroke wanted to applaud their tactical execution.
But his response to their gunfire was far more direct.
"Strangle."
In an instant, a black ocean seemed to surge violently up from the carpet beneath their feet.