Gotham Under Boogeyman: Chapter 6 Boogeyman vs Terminator.

Chapter 6: Boogeyman vs Terminator.

-0-

The amusement park held its breath. A circle of assassins stood silent in the moonlight, shadows flickering from the distant neon glow of a broken "Funhouse" sign.

In the center—John Wick and Deathstroke. Blades drawn.

Robin leaned toward Batgirl, voice low. "He's gonna get slaughtered."

Batgirl's jaw tightened. She agreed. Deathstroke was bigger. Stronger. Faster. And unlike John, he had trained in every martial art known to man.

There wasn't a single person in the circle who believed the 16 year old, killing Savant, John Wick stood a chance against one of the World's greatest fighters.

Fabric rustled as Helena's loosened her gag.

"Fuck him up John! Beat his as-mmmhhmk" Helena yelled, struggling against the Shadow replacing her gag.

John smiled a little. While he didn't care, it was nice to hear support.

His gaze sharpened. He tightened his grip on the Nodachi and adjusted his form for a guarded stance, One Nodachi held out tip pointed at Deathstroke, while it's twin hang above John's head.

"Ready or not, here I come." Deathstroke moved.

A blur of steel. John barely spun out of the way before Deathstroke's sword sliced past his ribs, cutting through the hem of his school blazer.

He countered—fast, precise, lethal. His first blade struck for the throat.

Clang!

Blocked.

The second Nodachi stabbed for the gut. Parried.

John was already moving—footwork tight, aggressive, hunting for an opening. But Deathstroke was a wall.

He countered everything. With pure, brutal efficiency.

Every slash, every thrust, every feint—shut down. John was fast. Deathstroke was faster. John was accurate. Deathstroke was specific.

Then—BAM.

Deathstroke's knee slammed into John's ribs with the force of a sledgehammer.

John staggered—only for a boot to crash into his chest. He hit the ground hard, losing a breath.

With no time to catch another, John rolled, just as Deathstroke's blade punched into the dirt where his skull had been.

This wasn't like any fight John had faced before. For the first time since his rebirth—he was on the backfoot.

And Deathstroke? He was toying with him.

John closed his eyes before the dust sent by his opponent's blade could get in.

The Nodachi spun in his hands, deflecting the blade headed for his head.

But Deathstroke recovered and caught both blades in a brutal hand lock, his sheer strength overpowering John's leverage.

"You move well, kid." A smirk under the mask. "But I see it. You've never fought someone like me before."

John said nothing. Because Deathstroke was right. John had fought killers. Assassins. Mercenaries. But Deathstroke wasn't just a fighter—he was undoubtedly superhuman. Stronger. Faster. Smarter. And he wasn't even trying yet.

Deathstroke ripped one of his hands free, pivoted, and slammed an elbow into John's jaw.

John's vision blurred.

The next thing he knew—his back hit the ground. His Nodachi skittered away. Deathstroke's blade was swinging down. Straight for his neck.

John's body moved on instinct.

Instead of rolling away—he stepped forward. And let the blade stab into his left shoulder.

"JOHN!" Batgirl shouted. Blood splattered across the pavement. Deathstroke's sword buried deep.

But John didn't scream. Instead—he grabbed the blade with his right palm. Tight. Locking it in place.

Blood dripped from his fingers.

Deathstroke tried to yank it free. Nothing. John had anchored himself. And that's when Deathstroke made his mistake.

He reached for his backup dagger. Blade flashed. Aimed for John's ribs. Then—SPARKS.

John's lost Nodachi materialized in his free hand- all the weapons in his armory were anchored to his being and could be summoned from anywhere.

The blade caught Deathstroke's dagger mid-strike. Steel shrieked as it ground against the blade. And then—SHHHK.

John's sword sliced clean through Deathstroke's forearm. A thumb hit the ground, followed by a spray of hot blood.

Deathstroke froze. John's other Nodachi was already at his throat.

Blood dripped. Deathstroke's chest rose and fell.

Then, after a long silence—He chuckled. "Heh. Looks like they were right."

John narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

Deathstroke's smirk widened. "The underworld. They've got a nickname for you." A pause. Then—"The Boogeyman of Gotham. I yield."

Almost no one believed it. Deathstroke had lost.

Talia clapped once.

John turned toward her, blades still dripping. She smiled. Tight. Controlled.

"A deal is a deal," she said. "You may leave. But remember this, John Wick—" Her gaze hardened. "The League of Shadows does not forget."

John let the words hang. Then—without another glance at her or Deathstroke—he turned away. And walked toward Helena. "Let's go."

She stared at him. At his bleeding shoulder. His calm face. His unreadable eyes. Then she silently followed.

Robin and Batgirl fell in behind them.

John didn't look back. Didn't look at the assassins. Didn't look at Deathstroke, who was cradling his ruined hand.

Didn't look at Talia, who was watching him with something new in her eyes. He just walked. Straight through the circle. And out into the night.

-0-

John's apartment was quiet.

A dim glow from the single bedside candle cast long shadows on the walls. John sat on the couch, shirtless, bloodied, and still.

Helena knelt beside him, focused on stitching his shoulder wound.

The needle pierced flesh. John didn't flinch. Helena didn't speak. The only sound in the room was the slow, rhythmic pull of thread.

Then, finally—John broke the silence. "You hate me." A flat statement.

Helena's hand paused mid-stitch.

John's eyes met hers. "So why are you helping me?"

Helena looked at him, expression unreadable. Then she simply said—"Because you saved me."

John exhaled softly. "The guy I work for killed your Father."

Helena's hand tightened on the needle. She resumed stitching. "I know."

John's voice remained level. "You should leave Gotham."

Helena snorted. "Run? That's your advice?"

"Carmine wants you for the Court of Owls," John told her, his tone grim. "You turn eighteen, you inherit a seat at their table. That's what this is about."

Helena finished the last stitch, cutting the thread with a small flick of scissors.

She leaned back, tossing the needle onto the table. "Let me guess. He told you to make me accept it."

John nodded.

Helena folded her arms. "Well, tell him to go to hell."

John sighed, rubbing his face. "Gotham isn't safe for you."

"It's my home," she shot back. "The last memory I have of my parents. I won't abandon it."

John looked at her, a strange sort of respect flickering in his tired eyes. Then he said the words he hadn't spoken in over a decade. "I'm sorry."

Helena stiffened.

She stared at him, lips parting slightly as if about to say something—but then she clenched her jaw. A tense silence stretched between them. Then, softly—"I'll never forgive you."

John nodded. He expected that.

Helena's fingers dug into her arms. "If I had the strength, I'd get revenge."

John leaned forward, his voice calm. "You've had more than enough chances to kill me."

Helena suddenly laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. "Why should I kill someone who's already dead inside?"

John had no answer for that. Because she was right.

Then—RING. The phone he had forgotten to return to Barbara buzzed on the table. John picked it up and answered.

"Where are you?" The voice on the other end was urgent. Robin.

John's brows furrowed. "Why?"

Robin's next words sent a chill down his spine. "Under no circumstances go back to Falcone's mansion."

Silence. John's grip tightened around the phone. "...Why?"

Robin took a breath. Then he said something that made John's stomach drop. "Because Falcone just put a hit out on you."

John Wick was never one to take advice. Especially not from someone who had no idea what it meant to live in his world.

Robin's warning was clear—don't go back to Falcone's mansion. Which, of course, meant that John immediately went back to Falcone's mansion.

Helena followed without argument. She knew he wouldn't listen.

The moment they stepped onto the property, John knew something was wrong. Even more than the bounty.

The iron gates were open and the scent of blood hung thick in the air.

Also the silence—It was too quiet.

John pulled a suppressed pistol from his Spatial Armory and motioned for Helena to stay behind him. They stepped inside.

What was once the heart of Gotham's underworld was now a graveyard. Bodies littered the courtyard. Falcone's best men—slaughtered. Throats cut. Heads decapitated. Limbs severed.

The unmistakable efficiency of a highly trained team.

"Who could have done this?"

Helena inhaled sharply beside him, but John's face remained unreadable.

He had seen this before. He had done this before.

But what stopped him in his tracks—What made something deep and primal crack in his chest—Was the sight of Carmine Falcone's terror filled-head impaled on a pike.

Blood trickled from his lifeless mouth. And behind him, a message was smeared across the grand mansion doors. "THE SHADOWS DO NOT FORGET."

"The League of Shadows." Helena muttered in realization.

John stared. This was a message from Talia Al Ghul. Punishment for his victory and non-compliance.

Something inside him twisted.

Something sharp, ugly, and uncontrollable. A single, slow inhale—then his body locked up. His vision blurred with red. For the first time in a very, very long time—John Wick lost control.

Kill. He'd kill them all.

A hand touched his arm. Helena. Her voice was soft but firm. "John... it's over."

He didn't respond.

She stepped closer. "Carmine Falcone is dead. You're free now."

John's fingers curled into fists. His breathing was steady, but his jaw was tight enough to break teeth.

Then he exhaled slowly—deliberately.

"No." His voice was quiet, but absolute.

Helena's brows furrowed. "No?" John turned to face her. His eyes were darker than she had ever seen them. "Blood demands blood."

Helena's stomach sank. She saw it now. That thing inside John Wick—the one that made even the worst of Gotham afraid of him—It was awake. This was the real Boogeyman.

She clenched her fists. "John, this isn't freedom. This is just another leash."

"No." He shook his head, voice edged with steel. "Freedom comes after they're all dead."

Helena's breath hitched. "...And if they never stop coming?"

John's expression didn't change. "Then I won't stop either."

Helena's throat tightened. This was a war he couldn't win. And yet—John had already accepted that. She exhaled, shaking her head. "You're insane! Carmine was only using you! Why risk your life for his revenge?!"

John didn't argue. Instead, he turned away, plucked Carmine's head off the pike and placed it next to the body,"Go back to my apartment. You'll be safe there."

Helena hesitated, not eager to part ways. "What about you?"

John used his school blazer to cover the corpse, even whispering a few things to the Roman.

Then he stood, eyes filled with conviction. His voice was low as he finally answered. "I need a tailor."





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Gotham Under Boogeyman part B will Return.