The explosion was deafening. Several dozen people on the street nearby scattered—like cockroaches in sunlight, Floyd thought.
He'd brought the bomb—just a tiny one—merely to make some noise. He wasn't really there to rob the jewelry store. He probably could've made more money just doing one job for a high-paying client. Heck, robbing a jewelry store in broad daylight on a Saturday morning was just flat-out stupid. Too many cops in Metropolis—and not the type that could be bought off, like in Gotham. But this time, he wanted to be caught. But not by the cops.
"On your knees, Deadshot."
Floyd turned to see a female silhouette standing in the smoking hole he'd blown in the side of the store. It could only be her, he thought. Finally.
"Hey! Princess! Been waitin' for you. And you remembered my name! I'm touched."
Diana wasn't amused.
"I don't know how you got out of prison, but I know how you're getting back."
She stepped into the room, lifting her right bracelet in front of her face. Floyd took a second to analyze what she was doing. He figured it was a kind of dual stance, designed both to defend the user against gunfire to the upper body and to allow for quick offensive strikes with the hands. Apparently, whoever this girl was, she had an entire martial arts style that was completely unknown to the rest of the world. He'd be ready for her this time.
She moved forward, both hands in front. Floyd, already with guns in hand, fired two shots—one at her face, one at her ankles. She blocked the one at her face, and tried to dodge the one at her feet. It worked, but at a cost. Running as fast as she was, twisting like that meant nearly losing her balance. Floyd took advantage. He dodged to the right, swinging the back of his left wrist at her head. His metal gauntlet slammed into the side of her face, sending her crashing into the wall behind him.
She slumped to the floor a little. Floyd drew his guns on her at lightning-speed, firing a flurry of execution shots. She recovered in time to twist and deflect them. Before Floyd could squeeze off another round, she grabbed the nearby broken seat of a chair and whirled it at him like a frisbee. It pounded into his metal mask, sending flashes of red and white swirling through his vision. Before he could snap out of his stunned state, he felt himself being lifted off the ground and thrown through the air.
He hit the far wall with a crash. He almost made a big enough hole to actually get stuck in it. He sat on the floor, breathing heavily. If he hadn't been wearing his armor, he would have probably had a few broken bones and crushed back muscle. He sighed to himself. This girl was a powerhouse. But he'd made her bleed before. And if she could bleed, she could die.
Floyd quietly reached for his sides, still slumped against the wall. Diana was standing twenty feet away, staring him down with her usual "piercing warrior stare." Floyd heard the click of metal clips unhooking, and felt the weight of a steel grenade in each hand. He smirked under his mask, twisting his wrists ever so slightly in just the right position. His thick gauntlets rotated around his wrists a few degrees, and a single metal barrel extended from the top of each. He flicked his arms upward, tossing the grenades toward either side of Diana. Before she could react, he leveled his wrists at the grenades and clicked a button in each glove, firing a hidden bullet out of both gauntlets.
The bullets hit both grenades dead-center, transforming them into giant balls of fire and shrapnel. Floyd had seen enough gunplay to be able to slow it down in his mind—to see the intricacies of weaponry in action. From his perspective, everything seemed to be happening in slow-motion. He saw the bits of razor-sharp shrapnel fly away from the grenade casing. He saw the waves of heat crash over her. He saw the panicked look in her eyes for a split-second before she brought her bracelets together. When they touched, she shut her eyes and seemed to be concentrating on something. But it was too late. Whatever she was trying to do, she didn't have enough time.
Diana fell to her knees, and struggled to fall no further. Her ears were ringing. She had a burn on her left arm. Her gut felt like it'd been punched a thousand times over. She had cuts all over her body, and silently prayed she wasn't bleeding too badly.
Floyd slowly stood up. He took a long look at Diana, both triumphant at his victory and curious as to how she was still alive. No matter, he thought. He lifted his gauntlet gun toward her head and fired.
Diana desperately dove for a nearby overturned table. She could barely believe that her legs still worked.
Floyd almost chuckled to himself. People always think that hiding behind a car door or a wooden table will protect them. It doesn't. Real bullets go straight through stuff like that.
Floyd let loose a full-auto barrage into the table. Three dozen bullets hit the table and stopped.
"Dammit," Floyd said frustratedly. The table was an antique, and made of super-dense wood. One of the few household materials that would stop a bullet.
He stepped forward, pulling a long knife out of a sheath on his shoulder. He'd have to do this the hard way.
Diana heard the sound of the bullets stop, and didn't waste any more time. She immediately stood up and kicked the table, sending it flying through the air at her attacker. He ducked under it, again surprised by her strength. Diana winced as a jolt of pain shot through her leg; she was far too injured to be using her muscles like that.
Floyd ran toward her with the knife. Diana moved to block him, but found her movements slightly slowed. She managed to hold him back, but couldn't find a way to counter him. Suddenly, he reached his heel around the back of her knee and pulled. She fell hard onto her back, Floyd straddling her with the knife mere inches from her throat. Diana tried to push his hands away, but couldn't find the strength anymore.
She looked around the room for anything she could use as a weapon. When she looked to her right, she was shocked to see an elderly woman hiding in a tiny nook. Apparently, she'd been there the whole time.
Diana felt a surge of anger. Anyone who would threaten innocent lives this way needed to be beaten to a bloody pulp. She twisted and rolled to the side, flipping Deadshot onto his back. She staggered to her feet, pulling him up by the shoulders, then slamming him headfirst into the metal frame of a nearby glass case. She slapped the knife out of his hand, then punched him in the face. Floyd's body went slightly limp.
Diana didn't stop. She punched him again, and again, and again. Bits and pieces of the metallic covering began to fall away from his face, revealing bloodied and bruised flesh underneath. She still didn't stop. She kept beating him, over and over.
"DIANA!"
Diana turned to see Clark stepping through the hole in the wall.
"What are you doing?!" he asked her, looking back and forth angrily between her raised fist and Deadshot's unconscious body.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" she asked, with more than a little venom in her voice. "He's a criminal, Clark!"
"He's a human being! You can't just beat him to death!"
Diana was exasperated. Did Clark not see what Deadshot had done here? Did he not see what he'd done to her?
"And why not?!" she asked. "He doesn't deserve any better!!"
"IT'S NOT OUR CHOICE TO MAKE!!"
Clark's voice boomed with authority. Diana nearly staggered backwards with surprise.
She straightened up, still holding Deadshot by the collar. She tossed his limp and bloody body at Clark.
"Fine. You go clean his wounds and set him free. See what happens next."
And with that, she walked out of the store—limping on her right leg—and flew away into the sky.
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