CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: MARKED FOR DEATH

Taylor had always been good at observation. Reading patterns, mapping territories, learning how people moved and why. It was how she survived Brockton Bay, how she adapted to Gotham. But even with her growing understanding of the city’s criminal underbelly, there were still players she hadn’t accounted for.

Tonight, that changed.

She crouched beside Spoiler on the rooftop, overlooking an abandoned warehouse on Gotham’s east side. The structure had long since been gutted, its windows shattered, walls covered in layers of graffiti, rust eating through the metal supports. But tonight, it was alive with movement. Armed men patrolled the perimeter, their tech weapons gleaming under dim floodlights. 

The real threat, however, was inside.

Mark Richards. The Tattooed Man.

Ex-military. Metahuman. His tattoos weren’t just ink—they were weapons, shifting across his skin to form blades, shields, even creatures that acted on his command. He was dangerous, and Black Mask had him overseeing this weapons shipment.

That wouldn’t stand.

Spoiler adjusted the grip on her grapple gun. “You sure about this?”

Taylor kept her eyes on the warehouse floor. “We agreed he’s a problem.”

“Yeah, but your idea of solving problems tends to be a little… intense.”

Taylor didn’t react.

Spoiler sighed. “Look, I’m just saying—this guy isn’t a two-bit thug. You don’t get to be one of Black Mask’s top enforcers without serious bite.”

Taylor already knew that. Richards was a veteran, disciplined, brutal, and worst of all, experienced, and his powers made him even worse. But he had one weakness—he wasn’t untouchable. Almost, yes. But not. He could be overwhelmed, outmanoeuvred.

That was the plan.

Taylor watched as Richards stood near the center of the warehouse floor, his arms crossed while Black Mask’s men offloaded crates from a truck. 

“We take out Richards first,” Taylor said. “Cut off the head of the operation.”

Spoiler blew out a breath. “I really hope you have a plan that’s more than just ‘hit him really hard.’”

Taylor did.

. . . . .

They moved swiftly, using the rusted beams of the warehouse to descend unseen. The shadows swallowed them whole, the sounds of machinery masking their approach. Below, Richards stood near the shipment, inspecting the weapons while his men continued unloading crates. 

Taylor signaled Spoiler with a sharp nod. Now.

Spoiler made the first move, flinging a flashbang into the center of the group. The warehouse erupted in blinding white light, the deafening crack sending Black Mask’s thugs into disarray. Men shouted, stumbling blindly, their weapons clattering to the ground, and others were sent fleeing in panic.

Taylor was already moving.

She dropped from the beams, boots hitting the concrete with a muffled thud. Her elbow drove into the nearest thug’s temple before he could react, and he crumpled without a sound. Another turned toward her, raising his rifle—she swept his legs out from under him and struck his jaw in one brutal motion.

Spoiler joined the fray, her movements a blur of purple and black. She fought with a wild, almost reckless energy, her fists and legs cracking against torsos and heads as she danced through the warehouse.

But the real fight was just beginning.

Richards recovered fast. His tattoos writhed, shifting into jagged blades that gleamed along his forearms. He didn’t hesitate—he charged.

Taylor barely dodged the first strike, twisting away as a black-inked sword slashed through the air where her head had been. She retaliated with a low kick, aiming to destabilize him, but the tattoos shifted again—this time forming a layer of armor that absorbed the blow.

He was fast. Faster than she’d anticipated.

“Yeah, so this is worse than I thought,” Spoiler called out, flipping over a goon and landing beside Taylor, her tone light despite the strain that edged it.

Richards flexed his fingers, and the tattoos shifted once more. A massive spiked chain uncoiled from his arm, snapping toward them like a whip.

Taylor and Spoiler split. The chain cracked against the floor, leaving deep gouges in the concrete.

Taylor’s mind raced. Richards’ powers had a limit—they needed time to morph between shapes. She had to exploit that window.

She feinted left, drawing his attention, then lunged right, aiming a strike at his ribs. The armor reshaped itself just in time, absorbing the impact.

Richards smirked. “Gotta be quicker than that.”

Spoiler moved in from behind, flicking her wrist. With a sharp click, her staff extended to its full length. She spun it once, adjusting her grip, then stepped in fast, aiming for his head.

Richards barely ducked in time—the weapon skimmed past his ear, forcing him to stumble.

That was their opening.

Taylor struck low, aiming for his knee, while Spoiler followed up high. The combination forced him off balance.

But before they could capitalize, his tattoos exploded outward, forming a jagged mass of spikes that forced them to back off.

Richards exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Alright. You two really wanna do this?”

Taylor’s stance remained steady. “Yes.”

He grinned. “Good. Me too.”

The tattoos moved.

A hound surged from his chest, an inked beast with burning red eyes, sprinting toward Taylor.

She reacted on instinct, sidestepping as its jaws snapped shut inches from her face. The ink twisted midair, reforming into a jagged spear that shot toward her.

She ducked. The spear embedded itself into a crate behind her, splintering wood.

Spoiler flung a handful of flashbangs, forcing Richards to shield his eyes. Her staff came up again as she reversed its swing and jabbed toward his knee instead. He staggered, and she pressed the advantage, using the staff’s reach to keep him off balance.

Taylor moved in from the opposite angle, fists striking at every exposed region, forcing him to split his attention.

When Mark lashed out with an inky tendril, Spoiler adjusted smoothly, collapsing her staff just enough to pivot under the strike before snapping it back open to crack him across the jaw.

And Taylor took the opportunity—she moved fast, closing the distance and driving a hard strike into his sternum.

Richards was sent reeling.

Spoiler followed up with a swift kick to his ribs. The inked armor absorbed most of it, but he still stumbled.

“Little pests,” Richards growled. His tattoos twisted, forming thick chains that lashed out in all directions.

Taylor rolled under the attack, coming up behind him. Spoiler flipped backward, avoiding the strike.

Taylor had seen enough. Richards’ powers were strong—but they weren’t perfect. He had to think about his shapes. He had to see his target.

And he wasn’t fast enough.

She darted forward, striking at his elbow this time—a joint, a weak point. He grunted as the limb buckled slightly.

Spoiler caught on immediately. “Joint strikes. Got it.”

They pressed the advantage, hitting weak points, forcing him onto the defensive.

His tattoos lashed wildly, but the more he defended, the less he could attack.

Finally, Taylor swept his leg out from under him, and Spoiler cracked her staff against the back of his head.

Richards collapsed.

His tattoos flickered—unstable, seemingly disoriented.

Taylor wasted no time. She pulled a pair of high-tensile zip ties from her belt, snapping them around his wrists before he could recover.

Richards groaned, his body tensing. The tattoos twitched—but the restraints held.

Spoiler huffed, out of breath. “Okay. That was not fun.”

Taylor stood, staring down at Richards. He was strong. Really strong. But, in the end, still beatable.

Spoiler nudged her. “C’mon. Cops are inbound. Let’s quickly search this place.”

Taylor nodded.

As they vanished further into the warehouse, she spared one last glance at Richards.

One enforcer down.

Now, they had to find out where those weapons were coming from.