Deadshot didn't bother with a word. With his usual cold, unreadable expression, he plucked a dart off the table and faced the board. His stance was steady, his movents asured—none of the exaggerated theatrics that Captain Boorang had just shown off.
Then, without warning, he flicked his left hand and launched the dart… in the wrong direction.
"What the hell?" Boorang shouted angrily, "You blind? The target's in front of you!"
Adam, watching from his seat, remained relaxed. Not a flicker of concern crossed his face.
The dart arced away from the target, struck a raised edge on a sculpture, ricocheted up into the chandelier, bounced again, spun through the air… and ca slicing back around in a perfect, improbable curve.
It slamd into the dart Boorang had thrown earlier—splitting it cleanly in two from behind.
The room went silent. Officers, prisoners—everyone—stared at Deadshot like they'd just seen a ghost. The man who usually stood in Adam's shadow had just stolen the spotlight without breaking a sweat.
Adam clapped slowly, letting the sound carry.
"Beautiful," he said loudly. "That's the kind of skill the GCPD could use."
Up until now, Deadshot had barely registered as more than Adam's quiet, ard shadow. Now, everyone in the room was reassessing him.
Boorang's expression had gone from smug to ashen. His pride was stung, but his ego wouldn't allow him to yield—not in his own so-called specialty.
"I can do that too," he growled through gritted teeth. "Didn't wanna embarrass you lot earlier."
He mimicked Deadshot's throw, sending his dart in a ricocheted path. For a mont, it looked like it might actually land the trick.
Instead, the dart zipped off course—straight at Deadshot's face.
Deadshot didn't flinch. He lifted his hand at the last possible instant and plucked the dart clean out of the air with two fingers.
"Uh… heh. My bad," Boorang offered with a forced smile. "Little miscalculation."
Deadshot's fist answered for him. One sharp punch later, Boorang hit the floor unconscious.
Adam grinned and said, "Maybe that'll teach him not to run his mouth about Gotham being soft. Get him out of here. Put him in the cell with Mr. Sleep."
In Gotham's villain hierarchy, Central City rogues were playing on beginner mode. The difference was night and day.
If you weren't careful here, even a "helpless" woman in an alley might turn out to be the third-generation Ventriloquist, using herself as bait before wiping out a gang. And that's not a tall tale—it had actually happened.
Even Gotham's own Riddler had once taken a trip to Central City, nearly got the Flash to blow himself up, and lived to brag about it. Central City's so-called "Scoundrel Gang" never managed anything close.
While Boorang was carried out, Deadshot drifted over to Adam and whispered, "He's a clown. You really need him for anything?"
Adam replied, "Not for anything important. But soone's gotta handle the little chores. You, a world-class marksman, shouldn't be stuck babysitting the bar and hauling liquor crates. That's what guys like him are for."
You had to wonder—if the rest of the Central City rogues heard that their teammate was doing grunt work for a Gotham cop, would they storm the city or just laugh?
When Boorang finally ca to, he found himself sharing a cell with a giant of a man slouched against the wall, snoring like an idling freight train.
Instinctively, Boorang checked his pants. Still intact.
The big man didn't even stir. He just kept dozing, oblivious.
Booy's gaze shifted to the other cells. Every one of them was overcrowded—except his. The other inmates watched him with a mix of envy and disdain.
"Huh… guess I get the VIP treatnt," he muttered. Then, under his breath, "If I get out of here, I'm leaving this freak city behind. Too many nutcases in Gotham… and I've already t two."
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