Project Obsidian

CADMUS DEEP-VAULT – TERMINAL 9, UNREGISTERED REDLINE NODE – NIGHT

The chamber is buried beneath six layers of biometric security, far below the known Cadmus research floors. It isn't labeled. It's not supposed to exist.

Dr. Desmond enters through a pressurized steel door. The room is cold, circular, metallic—no windows, no vents. Only one thing inside: an old but heavily reinforced terminal mounted in a reinforced black casing, lined with lead and powered independently.

On the console is a biometric pad made of white bone polymer. It hums faintly.

Desmond steps forward.

He removes his gloves, lays his palm across the reader. A red light scans through his hand. A moment later—confirmation.

ACCESS GRANTED REDLINEE PROTOCOL NODE-9 EXECUTIVE AUTHORITY ACKNOWLEDGED

The room dims further.

The terminal flickers to life, booting through a black interface with red tracers. Unlike any Cadmus OS.

Desmond types a simple phrase:

/contact_light/initiate_secure_transmission

The screen goes dark.

A slow beep begins—four tones spaced by three seconds.

The sixth beat draws out.

Then:

VOICE LINE: ESTABLISHED[IDENTITY: MASKED]

The screen doesn't show a face. Just a pulsing symbol—a white circle intersected by a vertical line.

Then a voice comes through.

It's not synthesized. But it's masked. Elegant. Calculated. Male. But you can't tell who. Lex Luthor? Ra's al Ghul? Klarion? You only know this:

He speaks like he's never been told "no."

THE LIGHT (VOICE)"You waited longer than expected, Doctor."

Desmond straightens, but his hands subtly clench at his sides.

Desmond "I needed confirmation. The behavior isn't a temporary phase. We're past neural suppression. Past doctrine rejection. It's not a fault in the programming."

He brings up the latest footage. The terminal projects it like a ghostly ripple across the console.

Footage: Phantom sitting silently. But his shadow isn't idle. It crawls. Reaches.Forms a hand. Presses against the containment glass.

The Light says nothing.

Desmond "The subject is not resisting. It's… something else. I've never seen a metagenic expression imprint that deeply. It's not just instinct. It's—"

THE LIGHT (VOICE)"Unmapped behavior?"

Desmond hesitates.

Desmond "Yes."

There's a beat. Then the Light speaks—slow, exacting.

THE LIGHT (VOICE)"Then stop trying to map it."

Desmond freezes.

THE LIGHT (VOICE)"And start shaping it."

The silence that follows is oppressive. The hum of the console feels louder than it should.

Desmond swallows once. Then, more carefully:

Desmond: "I'm requesting authorization to activate a Category Black contract."

Another beat.

Desmond "Designation: Deathstroke."

The screen doesn't flicker. The voice doesn't rise.

But the room feels colder now.

THE LIGHT (VOICE)"You want to bring in the blade."

Desmo, nd "I need precision. He trains instability into purpose. That's what Phantom is right now. Not a threat. Not a tool. Just a loaded trigger—spasming."

THE LIGHT (VOICE)"You believe this... asset... can still be controlled?"

Desmond hesitates—but only for a second.

Desmo, nd "I believe the ghost isn't the problem. It's the thing following him."

Another pause. Long. Intimate.

Then:

THE LIGHT (VOICE)"Slade Wilson is already en route."

Desmond blinks. Just once.

THE LIGHT (VOICE)"He does not submit reports. He does not take orders. You give him space. Nothing more."

Desmond "I understand."

THE LIGHT (VOICE)"Do not fail us, Doctor Desmnd. You don't want us to start over."

The line clicks. The interface erases itself instantly—no trace.

INT. CADMUS HALL – POST-CALL – CONTINUOUS

Desmond powers off the terminal, breathing slightly elevated now. No alarms. No fallout. But the air feels thinner.

He glances at the reflection on the dead screen.

Behind him, the shadow moves. Just a flicker.Too high. Too slow.

It curves along the ceiling.

He turns quickly—nothing there.

Still… he doesn't speak. Just walks calmly to the vault door and exits.

The door hisses shut.

In the screen reflection, the shadow lingers another second… then fades like mist evaporating in light.

It begins with a soundless atmospheric pressurization cycle—no alarms, no escort droids. Just cold hydraulics humming like a heartbeat under sedation.

A hangar gate folds open in complete silence.

Out glides a shuttle the color of scorched steel, matte-black from tip to engines. It bears no registry. No lights. No flag.

The ramp descends halfway before stopping.

Bootsteps. One pair. Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.

A man emerges—Deathstroke.

No theatrics. No armor plating. No entourage.

His coat is ash-gray and close-fitted—military-grade nanoweave with high collar and half-mask hood tucked loosely behind his neck. A long, flat-edged sword rests across his back, housed in a magnetic sheath—unmarked.

He surveys the corridor with calculated indifference, like someone who's already killed everyone this room could hire and still found the day dull.

He doesn't look behind. Doesn't confirm the shuttle retracts. It simply does.

And Slade walks forward. Unhurried. Like he's been here before.

INT. CADMUS SUB-CORRIDOR – MINUTES LATER

Desmond waits. Alone. Clipboard pressed flat to his side, badge exposed, tie straightened. His posture is rigid—almost military, but it's a borrowed stiffness.

He checks the hallway security monitor.Still zero entries recorded. Even Cadmus's internal system doesn't know Slade is here.

The man appears before the system finishes blinking.

Slade steps out of the gloom like a shadow emerging from another. No words. No gestures.

Desmond steps forward, opening his mouth—

SLADE(flat, cutting)"You talk, I walk slower."

Desmond closes his mouth.

Slade passes him with a sidelong glance that's colder than silence. The clipboard in Desmond's hand trembles slightly.

No one else is with them.

No guards. No handlers. No need.

INT. OBSERVATION DECK – PSIONIC ISOLATION TIER – 30 MINUTES LATER

The walls are thicker here.The windows are triple-sealed transparisteel.The lights dim automatically when Slade steps through.

He doesn't pause.

He walks straight to the one-way observation panel.

Inside: Phantom.

Sitting cross-legged in the center of his cell.Unrestrained. Head slightly down, posture impeccable.

He's still. But his shadow is not.

It glides across the floor with slow, coiling pulses—like it's breathing independently. Not random. Not violent. Deliberate. Alive.

Slade says nothing.

He watches.

Desmond lingers in the back corner of the room, uncertain whether he's allowed to speak. He decides not to try.

10 MINUTES LATER

Slade hasn't moved.

30 MINUTES.

Desmond sips water—Slade hasn't blinked.

1 HOUR.

The observation feed auto-refreshes. Slade doesn't shift. Neither does Phantom.

But the shadow has moved.

It is now pressed just beneath the one-way glass—as if it senses a difference in the room.As if it's listening.

Slade doesn't react.

3 HOURS LATER

The lights remain dim. Desmond, barely awake in the corner, adjusts his seat.

And finally, Slade speaks.

Low. Clinical.

SLADE"This thing isn't a weapon yet."

He watches as the shadow stirs—not in anger, but like a sleeper responding to distant thunder.

SLADE (CONT'D)"It's a twitch."

Beat.

Behind the glass, Phantom doesn't move. But the shadow slowly coils back around him, tightening, as if offended.

Slade studies that reaction, not Phantom. Just the shadow.

Then:

SLADE"Let's see if it can bleed."

He turns, walking toward the black access door leading into the inner cell chamber.

Desmond finally speaks up, hesitantly.

Desmond: "Do you want a tactical brief?"

Slade doesn't look back.

SLADE"If I wanted one, you'd already be bleeding."

DOOR HISSES OPEN. SLAMS SHUT.

Desmond exhales. Wipes his palms on his coat. His reflection in the glass is pale.

On the other side, Phantom still hasn't moved.

But the shadow…

It's already reaching for the door.

The door seals behind Slade with an airtight hiss, locking the silence inside like a tomb.

The walls are sterile durasteel with psi-reflective plating, double-insulated, and unadorned—everything that could trigger mental influence has been scrubbed out. Even the light here is pale grey, ambient, casting almost no shadow.

And yet, Phantom has one.

It snakes out from beneath his spine, not angled to the light, but curled like smoke wrapped in muscle—dense, fluid, and alive.

Phantom sits at the exact center of the room. Back straight. Hands resting on knees. Eyes open. Pupilpinpointts.He doesn't track Slade. Doesn't blink. Doesn't even twitch.

Stillness is mistaken for compliance.

Slade enters like he's walking into a predator's den—not hesitant, but measured. He doesn't try to assert dominance. He doesn't need to. He radiates it.

He circles wide, counter-clockwise. Not superstition. Calculation. Watching how the shadow responds to angle and distance. Watching how the subject doesn't.

Phantom's breathing is imperceptible. Even the monitoring node embedded in his collar reports a subnormal respiratory rate.

Slade walks a slow arc around him.

First pass: The shadow shifts slightly toward Slade's boots.

Second pass: It recoils, then sways—not to his motion, but to his pauses. Like it's anticipating rhythm, not reacting to it.

Third pass: Slade stops directly behind Phantom.

Nothing. Silence.

Slade finally speaks.

SLADE(flat, clinical)"This thing isn't a weapon yet."

No movement.

Slade walks around front and kneels—slow, like one would before a bear. No fear. Just respect for what hasn't killed you yet.

He looks Phantom dead in the eyes. Phantom's pupils dilate—not to the light, but to Slade's presence.

SLADE (CONT'D)"It's a twitch."

That word hits something.

The shadow expands.

It doesn't explode—it pulses outward, five tendrils radiating like a black corona. It stretches until the edges brush the padded cell walls—and then retracts sharply, like a breath caught too deep in the lungs.

Still, Phantom says nothing.

But he blinks. Once.

It's not a flinch. Not confusion.

It's recognition.

Slade leans forward just slightly. His voice drops, not to whisper, but to add weight.

SLADE (CONT'D)"You hear me."

No nod. No reply.

But Slade sees it now: the shadow is no longer following Phantom. It's watching him.

Slade doesn't stand immediately. He lingers. Waiting.

For fear? For a flinch? For hunger?

He gets none.

Only silence.

Slade stands. The moment he does, the shadow snaps back into alignment, perfectly mimicking Phantom's posture, like a veil thrown over an altar.

He turns to leave.

At the exact second his boot crosses the activation threshold for the exit pad, the shadow pulses once.

Slade doesn't look back. He smiles—but it doesn't reach his eyes.

INT. OBSERVATION DECK – SAME TIME

Desmond watches, arms folded, unsettled.

The monitors show standard vitals. Stable. Predictable.

But the motion capture AI red flags a moment:

[ANOMALY DETECTED]Subject: Shadow latency -0.4s (PRE-ACTIVE MOTION)

Desmond murmurs:

Desmond "It moved... before he did."

He leans closer to the one-way glass. Phantom hasn't moved in minutes. But the shadow twitches again, twice, gently, like fingers tapping on glass.

Desmond steps back.

Desmon:d "It's watching us now."

The room is a box of silence.

Walls are matte-black durasteel, with vibration-absorbent plating and zero surveillance. The only sound is breath—and in this room, only one person is breathing.

Phantom stands near the center. Barefoot. Back straight. Face blank.

Across from him: Slade Wilson.

No armor. No theatrics. Just a practice staff in one hand and a storm behind his eye.

Slade studies him like one might study a new species, with the kind of detached interest that often precedes a vivisection.

Without ceremony, he tosses a second staff. It clatters once against the floor and skids to rest in front of Phantom.

SLADE(without emotion)"Don't die."

The phrase hangs in the air like a blade not yet swung.

Phantom doesn't move.

He doesn't blink.

The lights dim slightly, as if the room itself senses what's coming.

Slade moves first.

Fast. No build-up. No warning. Just two strides and an overhead strike.

Phantom reacts.

Instinct—not training. He pivots sideways, the strike grazing his shoulder.

His hand shoots down, grabbing the staff.

CLACK. Wood meets wood. Phantom blocks. Barely.

Slade is already spinning, already bringing the staff around in a low arc toward Phantom's ribs.

THWACK.

A solid hit. Phantom stumbles. His feet don't recover properly—he drops to one knee but uses the fall to pivot into a counter-swing.

Slade blocks it with a flick of his wrist, locks Phantom's staff, and uses leverage to wrench it free. The staff slides from Phantom's hands and crashes to the floor.

A second strike lands across Phantom's side.

SLADE(flat)"You fight like something that's never bled."

Phantom stares. No reply.

Then lunges.

Round Two.

This time, Phantom attacks. Faster. Sharper.

Three quick strikes—head, side, leg.

Slade parries all of them like swatting flies. His counter is subtle: a pressure step on Phantom's foot and a reverse-grip jab that sends Phantom stumbling backward.

Phantom catches himself. Tries to use momentum to spin—gets clipped in the ribs again.

Slade steps in close and traps him in a lock.

SLADE (CONT'D)"You're reactive. Not responsive."

He lets go. Phantom drops. Rolls to his feet.

Third pass.

Phantom breathes now. Mouth slightly open. Focus narrowed. Shadow sliding behind him in sync, twitching like a predator itching to move.

He goes for the legs this time—low sweeps.

Slade jumps them.

Then drops from the air like a blade falling through meat.

Phantom tries to roll—Slade lands a clean shoulder-palm strike to his sternum, knocking all breath from his lungs.

Phantom collapses.

INT. TRAINING CHAMBER – SECONDS LATER

Slade stands over him. Not gloating. Just evaluating.

Phantom's chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. His hands twitch—not from fear, but from raw overload.

He pushes himself up—but only just.

Slade watches a beat longer, then says:

SLADE"You move like a ghost."

Phantom lifts his head, sweat lining his brow. His expression is still blank, but his eyes are not empty anymore.

SLADE (CONT'D)"But ghosts don't kill unless they're real."

He walks away.

Not looking back. The door hisses open and seals shut behind him like a final judgment.

INT. CHAMBER – STILLNESS RETURNS

Phantom doesn't move for a long moment.

Then—slowly—he sits upright. Cross-legged. Same position as before.

But this time, his fingers flex with memory.

The fight is etched into his body now. Not coded. Not instructed.Earned.

His shadow shifts behind him, mirroring the staff movements he just failed to master. Quietly. Repetitively. As if training for him.

One last flick of movement:

The shadow lunges forward—just a twitch—and slams down right where Slade had landed the final blow.

Phantom closes his eyes.

Not in defeat.

In absorption.