"I knew it. This kind of outdated face-slapping cliché had Cousin written all over it. If he wasn't behind this, may my whole family drop dead on the spot, okay?"
Deadpool had been told by Diana and Carol not to come any closer and to stay at least five meters away, but he did not care. As he flew across the lake toward the huge crowd of Angels, he turned his head toward no one in particular and babbled away: "Folks, send some gifts my way. I've figured it out. Those Angels who came later and aren't wearing Golden Armor? The ones you're looking at? They're all Synthezoids, or artificial humans. There were too many of them to make enough golden armor in time, so Cousin just put bedsheets on them."
Deadpool might have been crazy and utterly disgusting, but he understood Cousin's style well enough.
Diana flew ahead while wiping her mouth, though she had also been listening in on her cousin's muttering. Now she realized it too. Yes, this army occupying the park did not seem to be Angels at all, but another winged race.
Their clothing styles differed, and even their eyes were different.
The Angels' eyes were full of greed. When they looked at people, they resembled butchers at a supermarket sizing up pork on their chopping blocks, constantly calculating how much money they could sell it for.
But these people without Golden Armor? Their eyes held only fervor, an emotion that would send them through fire and water for their faith. They seemed to have no worldly desires at all, only a desire to offer their loyalty to someone.
Diana had seen plenty of fanatics before. Such people were often only a hair's breadth away from madness, which really did fit Deathstroke's style.
But when