Kneading, pressing, twisting.
The small piece of black skin was endlessly toyed with in Deathstroke's hand, spun back and forth between his fingers like a coin. But after fiddling with it for a while, he returned it to Hela.
"Since it inexplicably appeared in your hand, it must have some connection to you. Keep it. It didn't react at all in my hands."
Deathstroke had Strangle examine the uneven object. After taking a small taste, the Symbiote told him it was inedible, with a texture like mineral fibers—somewhat like asbestos or fiberglass.
It was worthless. If it had been human skin, that would have been better. This thing wasn't dark enough to suit its host.
"So you claim to have close ties to Death, yet you don't even have the ability to commune with spirits." Hela smiled and shook her head. She accepted the black skin, but it showed no unusual changes in her hand either, so she tucked it into her jeans pocket for the time being.
The three had already left District Ten and were on their way to the command center's control room. When they entered District Eleven, Su Ming deliberately looked around for any Japanese people.
There were none. This had once been a recycling area, and even if there had been employees, they had been evacuated not long ago.
"Being able to use the dead is enough for me. Necromancy would be useless. What, am I supposed to chat with corpses?" Su Ming waved dismissively and lit another cigarette. "So, Hela, the suicide attacker we're looking for—the one I call Little Black—is actually dead, right?"
"Yes. More precisely, he's an undead corpse." Hela glanced at Carol, then used Blackstone to create a hairpin and pinned up her long hair. "There must have already been a