Chapter 2: FIRST BLOOD
Cold air hit like a slap.
Norway in January. 1975. Three hours before Vandal Savage's arms deal and everything that came after. I stood in ankle-deep snow with eight people who didn't know what was coming.
"Overwatch positions." Sara had taken command the moment Rip started delegating. Natural authority. "Ray, Shane—you're on the eastern ridge. Eyes only. Do not engage."
"What about me?" Mick hefted his heat gun.
"You're with Snart. Western approach. Same rules."
Snart's smirk didn't waver. "Rules were made to be broken, blondie."
"Break them and I break something of yours." Sara's voice stayed level. "This is reconnaissance. We get intel. We don't start a war."
You're going to get one anyway, I thought. Savage will sense the Hawks. The mission will burn.
Kendra and Carter were already moving toward the compound's northern perimeter. Something about their presence drew Savage like a magnet—lifetimes of murder and obsession creating a psychic beacon neither side could ignore.
I wanted to say something. Stop them. Change the outcome.
But what would I say? I watched this episode?
"Shane." Ray nudged my arm. "Eastern ridge. Let's move."
We moved.
The snow muffled everything. My breath fogged in front of my face. Shane Bennett's body wasn't built for fieldwork—too many hours in labs, not enough in gyms—but it kept pace with Ray's powered-down exosuit.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Ray gestured at the frozen landscape. "1975. Before smartphones. Before the internet. Before—"
"Before we had any tactical advantage." I kept my voice low. "They're using hardware from this era. We've got future tech and numerical superiority. Should be enough."
"Worried?"
Terrified.
"Cautious," I said. "First missions have a way of going sideways."
"Voice of experience?"
"Voice of pattern recognition."
We reached the ridge. The Savage compound sprawled below—a converted military bunker, pre-Cold War construction, now housing enough weapons to arm a small nation. Guards patrolled in pairs. Floodlights swept the perimeter.
Ray activated his suit's optics. "I'm counting... twelve visible hostiles. Armed with what looks like modified AK-47s. Some energy weapons mixed in."
Savage has been collecting across centuries. Of course he has energy weapons in the seventies.
"The Hawks are too close." I pointed at the northern treeline. Kendra and Carter were visible if you knew where to look—two shadows moving wrong for the environment. "If Savage is in there—"
"He'll sense them. I know." Ray's jaw tightened. "Rip warned them. They said they could handle it."
They can't.
The compound's main door opened. A figure emerged—tall, broad, moving with the confidence of someone who'd lived four thousand years and never learned to fear death.
Vandal Savage.
Even from this distance, something about him felt wrong. Too still. Too certain. A predator who'd forgotten what it was like to be prey.
He stopped walking.
Turned toward the northern treeline.
"Oh no," Ray whispered.
Savage raised one hand. The floodlights pivoted. Alarms began to wail.
"Hawks are compromised." Sara's voice crackled through comms. "All teams, hold position—"
Gunfire erupted. The northern perimeter lit up with muzzle flashes and the distinctive whine of energy weapons. I saw Kendra go airborne, wings spreading, mace swinging down at a cluster of guards.
"Firestorm, provide cover!" Rip's voice now, barely controlled panic. "Snart, Rory—flank left!"
The plan disintegrated in real-time. Everyone moved at once. Ray's suit powered up with a rising hum.
"Stay here," he said. "I'll—"
"Ray, wait—"
He shrunk. Gone. A spec of light racing toward the chaos.
I was alone on a ridge in 1975 with a borrowed pistol and a head full of useless knowledge.
Move, I told myself. Find cover. Find the team.
I moved.
The compound's eastern wall had a service entrance. Unguarded now—everyone was converging on the firefight. I slipped through while the sky burned with Firestorm's nuclear flames.
Inside: concrete corridors, emergency lighting, the echo of boots and shouting. My pistol felt inadequate. Six rounds. Shane Bennett had academic firearms training—enough to not shoot himself, not enough to matter.
"—east wing compromised—"
"—the Hawks are inside—"
"—where's the physicist?—"
That last one was Sara. Looking for me.
I keyed my comm. "Eastern service entrance. Moving to rally point."
"Negative. Structure's compromised. Fall back to the tree line—"
An explosion. Close. The corridor shook. Concrete dust rained from the ceiling.
"Sara? Sara!"
Static.
Another explosion. The lights died.
Emergency generators, Shane's memories supplied. Ten seconds to backup power.
I counted in the darkness. One. Two. Three.
Red emergency lights flickered on.
The corridor ahead was blocked. Collapsed ceiling. I turned back toward the service entrance—
Three men in tactical gear rounded the corner.
"Contact!"
My pistol came up. Training kicked in. I fired twice. The shots went wide. Return fire punched into the wall beside my head.
Move.
I ran. Dove through a side door. Storage room. Crates. No exit.
Boots in the corridor. Getting closer.
Think. Think.
The crates contained weapons—old Soviet rifles, ammunition cases. Nothing I could use fast enough.
"Clear the rooms! Find him!"
I pressed myself against the wall beside the door. Pistol raised. Four rounds left.
This is how it ends. First mission. Storage room. Couldn't even make it to the good parts.
The door opened.
I fired. Once. The guard dropped.
The second guard came in shooting.
Something punched my shoulder. No pain—not yet. Just impact. I stumbled. Fired again. Missed.
He didn't.
The third bullet hit center mass.
I went down hard. The concrete was cold. I could see the ceiling—pipes, exposed wiring, red emergency lights turning everything the color of blood.
Chest wound, I thought distantly. Sucking. Bad.
My hands wouldn't move. My pistol was somewhere. Couldn't feel it.
"Control, target down. Eastern storage, sector seven."
The comm crackled. Sara's voice, distant: "—Shane! Shane, respond!—"
I couldn't respond. Breathing was already impossible. Each attempt made a wet sound that Shane Bennett's medical knowledge identified as pneumothorax. Collapsed lung. Minutes to live.
Funny, I thought. Three pages. That's how long transmigrators get before the real story starts.
The guard stood over me. His face was just a shape against the red lights. He kicked my pistol away.
"Secure the area. We've got more incoming."
He left. I was alone.
The ceiling blurred. The cold spread faster than the pain.
This is it. This is actually—
Darkness.
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