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Apex blinked. The girl now seemed... almost terrified. He frowned; the more caring side of him began to surface (and this wasn't often). He sheathed his sword.

"I... didn't mean to scare you," he said, and he meant it. "Deathstroke is my master; he's the best mercenary in the world, but there's no reason to fear him... unless he comes gunning for you. And considering the fight you just gave me, you might be able to defeat him yourself."

Apex quirked an eyebrow. "You're a grade-school girl who can fight a former US Marine who was trained by the world's best mercenary to a standstill in a short little sparring contest, and you think this is insane?" he asked, and here was his sarcastic sense of humor showing through.

"You're impressive, definitely, but as I've said before: Leave the theatrics and the battles to people that know what they're doing-- really know. This world is very dangerous, especially since my universe has been mashed together with at least one other; I've seen plenty of heroes and villains and those in-between that I had never encountered before in the past few months. And I normally wouldn't care, but a child doing the kind of thing I do for a living? It scares me in a way I can't describe. I never had a real childhood, and no-one should have to..."

He trailed off. Here he was again, saying too much. So he shut up, sighed, and turned away.

"If you want the advice of someone who can tell you about how dangerous this world is, then take mine: Go home, if you have one. Get away from this-- all of it. You've got your whole life ahead of you. Don't ruin it by rejecting your childhood and getting in over your head," he said, before he proceeded to walk away.

Apex had been able to hear Mindy's words, and felt a pang of regret for testing her like he had. That was something he thought separated him from Deathstroke: Deathstroke didn't seem to have much of a conscience; or if he did, he didn't let it bother him. Apex... tried to be like that, but something kept holding him back from being almost completely devoid of a sense of right and wrong. It was likely due to his time as a Marine, or maybe also...

Apex looked ahead, and frowned. He was thinking of the things he could have said before to Hit Girl, before he realized what he was doing and shut up. He needed help... and when he thought about who could help him, he thought of Batman. Batman might be able to sympathize with him a bit... But though Apex knew Batman's identity, he could never bring himself to infiltrate Wayne Manor and find out where Batman usually headquartered himself in it; after all, he had to have some kind of secret base. But even Deathstroke, having eyes and ears everywhere, couldn't pinpoint that location. So who in the Batfamily could Apex go to?

After a few milliseconds of thought, the answer came. He knew who she was, and knew where she was, as he had observed her, a few Titans, and some metahumans he didn't recognize together outdoors briefly. If anyone could help him, she could.

Like Mindy, Apex set his jaw, and he too took off along the rooftops of New York City, heading to his new quarry's last known location.

[Exit Apex to Xavier's Institute]

After what seemed like hours, some of Frank D'Amico's boys finally pulled up in a sleek black car. Mindy watched with something like disbelief as the huge black man who had almost blown her away with a bazooka--the one whom Kick a** had ventilated with the miniguns--got out of the car and headed up the steps to the prison; apparently he had gotten pulled into this inter-dimensional weirdness before he died. This whole thing was making her head pound.

She waited for a beat or two after Bazooka boy vanished inside, then carefully grappled down into an adjoining alley. She had to be careful about this; there were entirely too many cops around, and she didn't want to get herself shot by some lucky patrolman with an itchy trigger finger.

Silently, the child made her way over to the driver's side door, keeping low. Unfortunately, the guy was a professional; the bulletproof windows were rolled up, and he was sitting alertly at the wheel. How could she get him to...

Well, there was one pretty obvious solution. Maybe she should stop over-complicating things. Standing up, the tiny terror slipped off her wig, allowing two mussed, long blonde pigtails to fall free, and removed her mask. Hopefully it would be too dark for him to notice anything else. Finally she stood up and tapped on the window. The driver looked over, startled. "Mister," she said in a plaintive tone, "C-can I... Can I borrow your cell phone? The police took my daddy in there--" Here she pointed at the police station. "And he hasn't come back out. I... I want to go home."

The man's eyes softened at once. His thoughts were so transparent that she could almost hear them as various emotions flickered across his face. 'Poor little kid; dad locked up. I wonder if he's one of our boys. Things have been tough lately. I really shouldn't be bothering with this... Aw, what the hell.' He lowered the window. "Sure, K--"

He never got further. Too fast to be really seen at all, Mindy's arm darted into the car, removed the man's fancy fountain tip pen from his breast pocket, and stabbed the pointy end into his eye. He died almost at once--just a little jerk and a choking sound before he went still.

Barely sparing the dead man a glance, Mindy got down to business. The photos and note were in her pocket; she briefly considered taping them to the corpse, then decided that was silly and just left them on the dashboard. Finally, she ducked back into the shadows and made her way back to her rooftop vantage point.

The pictures were of Chris and Angie D'Amico, both unconscious and tied up. Chris apparently had a broken nose, his two black eyes standing out in sharp contrast to his pale skin, while his mother was apparently unharmed. They were propped up on the expensive leather couch in Frank D'Amico's distinctive, beautifully decorated study.

The note was simple, and typed so that Mindy's neat but obviously childish handwriting could not be identified. "D'Amico-- I have your wife and son. New York City East Harbor, 3:00am tonight. Show up, and show up alone, or they're going swimming without you."

---

On the roof, Mindy watched through her binoculars, fighting down nervousness. She'd never written a ransom note before. Had it been too over the top?

Mindy listened via the bug she had planted just under the steering wheel, and made a face. Great. Now she'd have to find a different place to get ice cream. Well, it was probably for the best; she had to get back to the burnt out ruin of Frank's Lumber and check to make sure that everything was still in order as far as her hostages went. It would probably be good to move them; the warehouse had been good for short term, but it was too exposed.

Carefully, she got to her feet and started to head back. If she was going to be completely honest with herself, going to the bowling alley for ice cream all alone would be far too depressing, anyway.

As the blood drained from the wound he had inflicted in the zombie, Zsasz felt... Something. It had been a long time since he'd felt much of anything, so he didn't really remember what the feeling was called. But he knew that he LIKED it. He had felt better about killing this man than he had in a while. Suddenly, a plan began to form. He was going to kill criminals. He was still going to pose them, though; his compulsion wouldn't allow him to stop that. And maybe, occasionally, he might go off and kill someone else. But for now, criminals sounded like a good idea. And the nice thing is, in this alley, no one had seen him yet.

He took his time wiping the blood on the liberated zombie's clothes, saying, "Thank you, you lucky one. You most fortunate. You have shown me the way." He dragged the man until he had him sitting against the alley wall, and carefully checked his victim's pockets, finding a syringe. He took it and stuck it in the zombie's arm, then moved the dead man's opposite hand and positioned it to appear like he was injecting himself. Zsasz positioned one leg bent upward, to hold the srm in place. Once he was done, Victor took a step back and admired his work. "And now for your mark..." He exposed his chest, and found a spot sourrounded by completed tallys, but was open enough to accomodate another set. Slowly, enjoying the feeling, and with practiced ease, he made the mark, the first of another five. Then, without another word, he walked out of the other side of the alley, ready to begin his new direction of liberation.

[exit Victor Zsasz to ???]

(( victims will pop up every now and again, randomly, in random cities, for a while, then Zsasz himself will resurface to allow for possible capture. I'm trying to allow other heroes, who would be unfamiliar with Zsasz's tactics, to get a grip on how mentally f*cked-up he is before finding him. Until then, though, have fun trying to track him! ))

[Enter henchmen and Sabertooth from Home Sweet Home]

A black four door sedan with tinted windows drove up to the back entrance of a bowling alley. Several armed men in suits exited the car with Sabertooth. One of the thugs, a blond muscluar man named Phillip Rosco turned toward Victor Creed and moved with his hand, "Please, come this way, Mr. Creed."