Lex found the armor half-buried in fractured concrete and twisted rebar.
Black and gold plating. Heavy chassis. Missile pods embedded across the shoulders, torso, thighs.
He recognized it instantly.
Mark 20.
Codename: Python.
Specifically engineered as a high-yield support platform. The suit was lined with approximately two hundred micro Sidewinder missiles distributed across modular launch rails. Enhanced propulsion modifications allowed high-altitude insertion and rapid redeployment.
A flying arsenal.
And a walking explosion hazard.
The fact that it had fallen like a meteor and hadn't detonated on impact bordered on statistical absurdity.
Lex circled it carefully.
This was not a frontline brawler. Stark rarely wore Python personally because any serious structural compromise risked sympathetic missile detonation. It was designed for suppression—airborne saturation, not close-quarters combat.
He disengaged the helmet seal and lifted the visor.
Empty.
No Tony Stark.
Lex exhaled through his nose.
Disappointing.
He scanned the suit's diagnostics interface. Power reserves depleted. Reactor offline.
It hadn't crashed from combat damage.
It had simply run dry.
Which meant one of two things.
Either JARVIS had been operating autonomously after Stark's death and miscalculated energy return parameters—
Or JARVIS was compromised.
Because under normal protocol, Stark's AI would never allow an active armor unit to wander unsupervised until depletion.
Lex's gaze sharpened.
Regardless of the reason, this was an asset.
Yes, Python carried inherent detonation risk.
But even in that state, it vastly outclassed standard tactical armor—including his current Batsuit configuration.
He activated his storage interface and phased the entire suit into secured containment.
Recharge first.
Then modification.
The Batcomputer would need to isolate and sever any residual JARVIS command architecture. If the suit reactivated and flew off the moment it regained power, that would be a waste of time—and a strategic liability.
With the armor secured, Lex conducted a full sweep of Blackgate.
Three escape tunnels.
Collapsed riot barricades.
Rotting administrative offices.
No trace of the Dionysus Factor.
Bruce Wayne had listed Blackgate as a possibility.
But possibility did not equal probability.
Lex prepared to withdraw and continue the search elsewhere the following day.
Then his phone vibrated.
The System.
A new notification pulsed across the display.
"A special forces unit is approaching your position. Estimated arrival: 30 seconds. Survival recommended."
Lex's expression hardened.
Special forces?
Aside from eliminating Poison Ivy and Henry Ducard, and capturing the Joker and Scarecrow, he hadn't directly antagonized any organized paramilitary faction.
Thirty seconds.
He moved immediately.
The Batmobile was relocated into a concealed chamber within the yard's collapsed service tunnel.
Overhead, rotor thunder rolled across the sky.
An AH-64 Apache appeared first, circling aggressively.
Then a V-22 Osprey tiltrotor descended in escort formation.
The Apache maintained overwatch.
The Osprey landed in the open yard.
Lex remained concealed, observing through micro-optics.
The Osprey's rear ramp dropped.
Twenty operators disembarked with precision discipline.
Standardized tactical helmets. Modular plate carriers. Professional spacing. Controlled movement.
Not mercenaries.
Trained.
Lex narrowed his eyes.
Umbrella.
The same insignia patterning he'd seen during Alice's execution.
Umbrella Corporation special operations.
That meant this deployment was intentional.
But why?
He had no direct engagement history with Umbrella beyond witnessing events tied to Alice.
Their strategic doctrine prioritized eradication of survivors to enable global restructuring.
Targeting Batman would be logical.
Batman symbolized resistance.
Neutralize the symbol, destabilize the population.
That aligned.
Unless—
The System had detected them before any conventional signal intercept.
Which meant satellite-level surveillance.
Blackgate's internal cameras were dead.
Even the Batcomputer had no feed.
But satellites?
If the System could track him via orbital observation—
So could Umbrella.
Which meant his anonymity was thinner than he'd assumed.
His jaw tightened.
The Apache hovered but did not fire.
Escort posture.
The Osprey's ramp closed partially.
Then she stepped out.
Black hair.
Red dress cut sharply against tactical chaos.
Ada Wong.
Senior operative.
High-level deployment confirmed.
This was not a routine sweep.
Lex studied her briefly.
Controlled posture. No wasted movement. Calculating.
She scanned the yard once.
Then gestured.
The team split into two formations and advanced toward the cell blocks.
Lex withdrew silently into the labyrinth of corridors.
Thermal optics were likely active.
He adjusted environmental interference—displaced debris, altered airflow.
A blast detonated behind him.
No warning.
They had attempted a blind suppressive strike.
That eliminated ambiguity.
They were here to kill.
He slipped deeper into the maze.
Ada signaled pursuit.
The squad entered the cell wing.
Seconds later—
Screams.
Abrupt.
Cut off.
Ada's expression shifted—just slightly.
She returned to the Osprey, retrieved a silver Tavor assault rifle, and advanced personally.
Inside, the corridors were quiet.
No gunfire.
No structural damage.
No signs of active engagement.
That was wrong.
She advanced cautiously.
At the third junction, she found them.
All twenty operators.
Inside an open cell.
Bodies arranged almost deliberately.
Necks crushed.
Precise.
No ballistic wounds.
No prolonged struggle.
It had happened too fast.
Ada's eyes narrowed.
This was not panic.
This was control.
Somewhere beyond the bars, deeper in the shadows of Blackgate's dead corridors—
Lex Williams watched.
And waited.
....
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