DC : Architect of Vengeance

The clone that had once been Tony Marcelli crouched on the fire escape outside Theo Walton's third-floor apartment, watching through the window as the corrupt guard stumbled drunkenly toward his bedroom.

Theo was alone – his ex-wife had taken the kids and half his pension in the divorce, leaving him with nothing but his Blackgate salary and the steady stream of bribe money from inmates who needed favors.

Perfect, the clone thought, accessing Tony's memories of Theo's routine. Drinks himself stupid after every night shift, passes out by 10 AM, sleeps through anything until his alarm at 6 PM.

The clone's fingers elongated into needle-thin tendrils that worked the window lock from the inside, the metal groaning as it bent like clay. The lock gave way without sound—just the wet whisper of flesh flowing through the cracks.

Theo was face-up on his unmade bed, still wearing his civilian clothes and snoring loudly deep in sleep. Empty whiskey bottles lined the nightstand.

The clone approached silently, studying its target. Theo Walton – six-foot-two, buzzcut brown hair going gray, scar on his left temple from a knife fight in '09. A man who'd sold his integrity so many times he'd forgotten what honesty felt like.

Pathetic.

Theo stirred slightly as a shadow fell across him. His pupils fought to focus through the haze, landing on Tony Marcelli's face hovering above him. "Wha—"

The clone's hand clamped over his mouth before he could fully wake. Theo's eyes widened in terror as he tried to focus on the face above him – Tony Marcelli, a small-time criminal he'd dealt with before.

"Shh," the clone whispered. "This won't take long."

Before Theo could draw breath to scream, the clone's hand melted across his face like hot tar. What had been fingers became writhing veins of darkness that punched through his skin and skull.

The guard's body convulsed as the biomass invaded every cell, every synapse, consuming his very essence. His memories flooded into the clone's consciousness – thirty-seven years of life compressed into seconds of agony.

Theo's childhood in Gotham's East End. His time in the army. His marriage to Sarah, the birth of his children. The slow descent into corruption that had started with looking the other way and escalated to active participation in prison smuggling operations.

The clone absorbed it all – Theo's voice patterns, his mannerisms, his relationships with other guards. The knowledge of which inmates had paid him, which cells could be accessed without triggering alarms, which supervisors could be trusted to ask no questions.

Theo's body began to collapse inward, bones softening like overcooked meat. His skull cracked as the clone's face started its own transformation—Tony's sharp features melting away while broader bone structure pushed through the dissolving flesh beneath.

The dying man tried to speak, to beg, but his vocal cords were already half consumed. The clone felt no pity as he grew taller, muscle mass redistributing across his new frame.

Theo's body dissolved into gray biomass, his consciousness screaming silently as it was consumed and processed.

The clone's form rippled and changed, bone structure cracking and reforming with slurpy sounds, its borrowed flesh flowing like red wax before hardening into Theo Walton's weathered features.

When the transformation completed, Theo Walton stood before his own mirror, straightening a guard uniform that now fit perfectly. The reflection smiled with perfect authenticity, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners just as they had for thirty-seven years.

Theo's shift starts in thirty minutes, the clone thought, accessing the absorbed memories. Third watch, Cell Block D and Solitary Wing. Perfect timing.

The clone gathered Theo's badge, keys, and service weapon, then headed for the door. Behind it, the apartment stood empty except for the lingering stench of alcohol—the only evidence that Theo Walton had ever been in this room.

---

Blackgate Maximum Security loomed against the midnight sky like a concrete cancer, its searchlights sweeping endlessly across the perimeter walls. The clone approached the staff entrance with Theo's characteristic lazy stride, his consumed memory guiding every step.

"Theo, right on time," called out Sergeant Reynolds from the security checkpoint. "Thompson called in sick, so you're covering his rounds too."

"No problem," the clone replied, Theo's mannerism perfectly reproduced. "Could use the overtime anyway. Sarah's lawyers are bleeding me dry."

Reynolds chuckled sympathetically and waved him through. Every guard knew about Theo's bitter divorce, his drinking problem and his willingness to bend rules for the right price.

The clone badged through three more checkpoints, Theo's absorbed knowledge providing the perfect responses to casual questions from other guards. He knew which supervisors were sleeping, which cameras had blind spots and even which inmates were most likely to cause trouble during night shifts.

"Theo!" Officer Stevens called out from the central monitoring station. "Heads up – Falcone's been asking for you all day. Whatever he's planning, he's getting antsy about it."

The clone nodded, feeling Theo's memories align with established corruption networks. Falcone had been paying Theo two thousand a month over a long time to smuggle messages and small contraband items. The crime boss trusted Theo because the guard had proven reliable over three years of steady bribery.

"Cell Block D first, then Solitary?" the clone asked, already knowing Theo's preferred patrol route.

"Yeah, but be careful. Word is the Architect's still active. Half the inmates are jumping at shadows."

If only they knew, the clone thought with dark amusement, heading toward the maximum security wing. Theo's keycard provided access to areas that would have taken hours to infiltrate by force. Every door, every checkpoint, every security protocol – all of it laid bare through absorbed memories.

The hunt could finally begin.

**Cell Block D**

Carmine Falcone paced his eight-by-ten cell like a caged hunter, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled from days of paranoid insomnia.

The seventy-year-old crime patriarch had ruled Gotham's underworld for decades, but now he looks like just another inmate counting down to his death.

The Architect is coming, he thought, gripping the cell bars until his knuckles went white. Almost all the people in his meeting were slaughtered, and now he's trapped in here like a rat in a cage.

The other inmates in Cell Block D whispered about him when they thought he couldn't hear. The Roman, reduced to paranoia and walking on eggshells.

"He got to us inside our own secret meeting," Falcone muttered to himself. "Steel doors, armed guards, security cameras, bioscanners – none of them were useful. How do you fight something like that?"

"Mr. Falcone?" The voice came from the cell block's main corridor.

Carmine spun around to see Theo Walton approaching, the guard's familiar voice cutting through the prison noise. Theo had been one of his reliable contacts for years – not particularly bright, but trustworthy when it came to small favors and message delivery.

"Theo," Falcone approached the bars cautiously, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please tell me you have some good news. Anything from the outside."

The clone studied Falcone through Theo's eyes, noting how the legendary crime boss kept glancing over his shoulder. His shoulders were hunched and his movements jerky with nervous energy. This wasn't the calculating patriarch who had built a criminal empire – this was just a man living in constant fear.

"Your lawyer came through," the clone replied in Theo's voice. "There's a way out, but it's risky. And it involves taking Maroni with you."

Falcone's face twisted with distaste. "That Sicilian pig? Why would I—"

"Because his people are providing the escape route," the clone interrupted. "And because you need all the allies you can get right now."

From the neighboring cells came the sound of hushed conversation. Other inmates pressed against their bars, straining to hear what was being discussed.

The clone noticed how they were looking at Falcone – not with the respect he'd once commanded, but with a mixture of pity and forbidden curiosity. The mighty Roman, brought low by fear.

"Listen to him," someone whispered from three cells down. "Whining to the guard like that'll change a damn thing. Hehehe"

"Shut your mouth," Falcone hissed, but his voice cracked slightly.

"Oh no, the Roman's getting upset," came another voice, followed by quiet laughter.

The clone watched as Falcone's face flushed red, his hands trembling on the bars. This was perfect – the man was already on edge, his pride warring with his terror.

"You think this is funny?" Falcone's voice rose, drawing more attention from the surrounding cells. "You insignificant pieces of shit think you can mock me? Me? Carmine 'Roman' Falcone? "

The laughter died away, but the clone could sense the inmates' amusement hadn't disappeared – it had just gone underground. They were enjoying seeing the great Carmine Falcone reduced to shouting at them through prison bars.

"Mr. Falcone," the clone said quietly, "maybe we should keep this down."

But Falcone was past listening. Days of fear and humiliation had finally reached a breaking point. He gripped the bars and leaned forward, his voice carrying the authority that had once made grown men kneel.

"Let me remind you worthless scum exactly who you're dealing with," he snarled, his eyes blazing with the old fury. "I am Carmine Falcone. Before any of you were even born, I owned this city. Judges, commissioners, mayors – they all came crawling to me, hat in hand, begging for scraps from my table."

The cell block fell silent. Even hardened killers recognized the change in Falcone's demeanor – the way his voice dropped to a dangerous low, with coldness now replacing his earlier panic.

"You see me in here and think I'm finished?" Falcone continued, his words driving away through the silence. "I've survived gang wars, federal investigations, and assassination attempts by men who could buy and sell your entire bloodlines. That freak Architect thinks he can intimidate me? Just because he has some weird abilities? I was breaking men like him when this city still had class."

One inmate started to speak up, but Falcone's gaze locked onto him with such intensity that the words died in his throat.

"The only reason I'm in this cage is because I chose to be," Falcone lied smoothly, his old political instincts reasserting themselves. "You think I am here because I am scared of Architect? I am here because it serves my purposes. And when those purposes are complete..."

He let the sentence hang in the air, allowing their imaginations to fill in the blanks. The clone watched with fascination as Falcone transformed himself back into the man who had ruled Gotham's underworld for three decades. It was like watching a master actor slip into his most familiar role.

"So yes," Falcone said, his voice now carrying its old authority, "laugh while you can, you pathetic insects. Because very soon I'll be back where I belong, and some of you are going to learn what happens when you forget to show proper respect to the Roman. And trust me - my memory is very, very long."

The cell block remained silent. Even the most hardened inmates seemed to remember why Carmine Falcone's name had once been whispered in fear throughout Gotham's streets.

The clone waited until the tension reached its peak before speaking. "The plan is set for tomorrow night at 11:15. I'll be your personal escort through the route."

Falcone turned back to Theo, and the clone could see how the outburst had steadied him. Asserting his dominance, even in this small way, had reminded him of who he used to be. The change wasn't instant or complete – there was still fear in his eyes – but it was tempered now by calculation and renewed purpose.

"You'll come with us?" Falcone asked, his voice more controlled now.

"Through every corridor, past every checkpoint," the clone confirmed. "I know this place better than my own apartment. Every blind spot, every camera angle, every guard rotation. I'll get you to the side entrance where Maroni's people are waiting with the car."

"The route?" Falcone pressed, his strategic mind already working through possibilities.

"Service corridor B-7, down through the old administrative wing, past the laundry facility to the east side entrance. It's the only exit that doesn't connect to the main security grid."

The clone leaned closer to the bars. "Once we're in the corridors, I'll guide you every step. Stay close, follow my lead exactly. The whole route takes twelve minutes if we move fast and quiet."

Falcone gripped the bars, "Theo, listen to me. When this is over, there's two hundred grand waiting for you. Plus my personal guarantee – anyone who helped the Roman escape gets my family's protection forever."

"What about the escape vehicle?" Falcone asked, his voice steady now.

"Black sedan, engine running, full fuel, parked in the old loading dock behind the maintenance building. Maroni's people know to stay out of sight until I personally deliver him & you to the vehicle."

The clone studied Falcone through Theo's experienced eyes. The crime boss was still afraid – that kind of terror doesn't just disappear – but now it was mixed with anticipation and renewed cunning. He was remembering what it felt like to plan, to scheme, to be the man pulling the strings instead of the victim waiting for death.

"Just be ready at 11:15 tomorrow night," the clone said. "I'll unlock your cells, then we move together. No splitting up, no deviating from my route. I'm your shadow until you're in that car."

"The Architect will never catch us after I escape," Falcone said, and this time it sounded less like desperate hope and more like a statement of fact.

"No," the clone agreed softly. "He won't have to."

As the clone walked away, Falcone turned to the small mirror bolted to his cell wall. The man looking back at him still showed signs of weeks of stress and sleepless nights, but there was something else there now – a glint of the old him, the clever & cunning mind that had built a criminal empire from nothing.

He began to pace again, but this time it wasn't the frantic movement of a trapped animal. This was the measured stride of a man making plans.

In his mind, he was already beyond these walls, already thinking about recruiting new lieutenants, which rivals needed to be eliminated, how to send a message that the Roman's forced absence had only made him stronger.

So the Architect had caught him off guard—so what? Carmine Falcone hadn't clawed his way to the top of Gotham's underworld by folding at the first sign of trouble. Thirty years of bullets, bombs, and even Batman hadn't put him in the ground yet. This shape-shifting freak was just another problem to solve.

In a city full of freaks with their so-called superpowers, Falcone knew the truth—wealth was the only power that really mattered. And his voice carried more weight in Gotham than any cape ever could.

Give him twenty-four hours and the right phone calls. The Architect would learn what happened to those foolish enough to threaten the Roman.

Suggestion:- Shadow Slave : Error

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DC : Architect of Vengeance

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