Post by The Wonderful Wachter on Aug 12, 2012 3:35:21 GMT -5
Hogan’s Alley was all but empty at this late an hour. A few off-duty officers still played darts as they waited for the cab Grayson had called for them. Another stumbled out the door, grumbling about having his keys taken away but at Hogan’s appearance over his shoulder, the dark murmuring subsided into silent drunken fury. And Slade… He was still there, drinking what had to be his twentieth beer, and not phased in the least. He leaned with his back to the counter, eyes focused in on the Blüdhaven Brawlers VS the Coast City Sharks highlights.
The older man had tried to engage Grayson in conversation throughout the night to which the latter had done the required listening but all in all had been too busy serving drinks. Grayson admitted, only to himself, that he was curious about Slade’s adventures with the President. He also wanted to know just how the mercenary knew of Jim Gordon and Grayson’s tenuous connection to them. If his math was right, then Slade would have known Gordon probably before he had ever been born… Which meant that Slade had looked into his past with more than just plain passing attention.
That, more than anything else, worried Grayson.
“Who’d you bet on?” Grayson inquired when he reached the man’s side of the counter.
“I don’t bet unless I know I’ll win.” Slade’s voice wasn’t slurred in the slightest. Not even slowed down. A remarkable feat considering how much he had drank this evening. “How ‘bout another?” He held up the three-fourths empty bottle without ever turning around.
“Can’t. We stopped serving a half hour ago.”
“Shame.”
Grayson started to wipe down the counter, feigning slight interest. “So, it sounded earlier that you had a story you wanted to tell me.”
“Caught on to that did you? Not that I made it all too difficult after I brought up that crippled friend of yours.”
“She’s not,” Grayson crinkled the washcloth in his clenched fist, “my friend.”
“Apologies. I thought otherwise given how often she visited you in the hospital.”
“You know more about me than I know of you…”
“What can I say? We’re both highly googlable men of dubious origins.”
Grayson tilted his head, his eyes narrowing at the unspoken threat. And it was indeed a threat. He could read that much into Slade’s tone and stance. Richard had taught him that much. “My origins aren’t dubious. Circus brat. Parents murdered. Taken in by a former prize fighter.”
Slade spun around on his stool to face the man. His one good twinkled with merriment. “I could get into the questionable means in which the Dragon became your guardian but I won’t. I’m more interested in why you retired and just who is your daughter’s mother.”
“Don’t go there, Wilson.” The white of Grayson’s knuckles began to show. The muscles in his arms bulged with growing fury. He didn’t like being talked to like that. He didn’t like threats against his family.
“Okay, okay… To show that I mean no ill-will. I’ll tell you what Wikipedia doesn’t say about me. You’ll be one of around a dozen living people who know just how I became Deathstroke the Terminator.”
“And why would you tell me that?”
“Because, son… I trust you. You saved my life. You didn’t have to. In fact, you didn’t need to. But you saved my life anyway. Shows me you have potential.” Slade downed the rest of his beer in one gulp. “Now the year was 1982 and though my hair had already started to go white, I still had both eyes…”
---
1982, Undisclosed Location
Slade Wilson settled into his chair, the second to arrive in what was sure to be a hodgepodge assembly of special candidates. Across from him sat a red headed man he recognized from training only as Harper. Ranks were never discussed. Or at least, they weren’t supposed to be discussed. The dark blue fatigues with their gold trim held no patches. No medals. Nothing to signify who a soldier was, where they had been, what Armed Service Branch they served in. When they signed on the dotted line to enter this as yet unnamed experimental program, they also signed a disclaimer to forget who they had been. He didn’t know for what reason. And he didn’t like it.
Years were spent earning the rank of Major. Years of his life spent on the sole purpose of becoming a better soldier. To become someone everyone would look up to… And with an initial here. A signature there. He signed away his past and future on the promise that he’d become more than he could ever hope to be.
Here, in the present, Slade still cared about rank. He had spent the course of their training figuring out the ranks of everyone he could. That led to a surprising discovery. . . he was the ranking Officer. The only Major there. And here he was, the ranking officer, treated just like the dozens of Privates he had weeded out. There was something wrong about that. Something disturbingly wrong.
Across from him, Harper nodded hello, his face masked behind years of military protocol – the same as Slade. Harper had been a Captain before joining the program. Made him one of the older candidates along with Slade. He was built a little bit thicker, reminded Slade of a football player. Likely went to college on one of those scholarships before enlisting.
Neither man talked.
They waited in silence.
Just as Slade was about to blink – which would have signified his loss in their unofficial staring contest – the door behind Harper opened and in came a man roughly Slade’s own age with crew cut brown hair and vibrant blue eyes. He was built like a brick-house, amassing almost twice that as the Major, and though he wore the same unusual fatigues as Harper and Slade except with one major difference. . . His had three stars.
Slade jumped to his feet in an instant, Harper a fraction of a second behind him – surprising reflexes given that he couldn’t see the new arrival.
“As you were,” the general returned the salute and Slade noticed that his patch said his name was Howe.
Both men returned to their seats as two others filed in after the general. The first was a woman… The first one Slade had seen in months… and he was positive even if she wasn’t, she’d be one of the top ten beautiful women he had ever met. Statuesque with dark brown hair and gorgeous green eyes, she easily stole his breath away. It was a few moments before he took in the fact she wore the blue fatigues like them with no insignia other than her name: Kane.
A man was behind her. Once again in the same special operations fatigues except with the patch of a First Sergeant. Smaller than Slade, his hair had far more gray and lines traveled out from his eyes in the form of wrinkles. Slade read the name Gordon.
Gordon.
The infamous Gordon.
So that’s what this was all about.
Kane took a seat beside Harper and Slade wanted to say he was too old to be jealous like a school boy, but he was. She turned her gaze on him and he realized she was impossibly young as well as beautiful. Couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Just couldn’t. Made him feel old.
The General and Gordon remained standing at the front of the table. When looking at the two side to side – somehow, someway – the former came out looking the younger. Impossible. There was no way for a General to be that young. It… Just wasn’t right. Spit in the face of everything Slade knew about the rank and file of service.
“I’m sure the three of you are asking yourselves why you are here. Just as I’m sure you have questions about what your training has been all about. Well, I’m about to provide you all your answers.” Howe crossed his hands behind his back, meeting the gaze of each of the soldiers in turn. “The simple answer is this: The three of you are the only ones who have what it takes.”
The three of them? Harper and Slade glanced about in surprise. Kane remained staring at the General in rapt attention.
“Here’s a bit of history for you,” Howe began. “In 1939, the governments of the United States with aid from the United Kingdom and Canada began what you know as the Manhattan Project and succeeded in creating the first atomic bomb. The Project had the best minds of the time. The most brilliant in their fields. What you don’t know is that another project was started simultaneously under the name the Manhattan Guardian for an entirely different purpose.
“That purpose was to create a super soldier.”
So Slade was right. That’s what they were all candidates for.
“Sadly, they failed to develop anything viable before the end of World War II. With the budget cut, half of the scientists went to work with the newly founded Air Force under the name of the Blackhawk Program while the Guardian continued to experiment, using increasingly desperate measures and inhumane methods until finally during the Vietnam War, they found their first success.”
“The Justice Society’s Guardian,” exclaimed Harper open mouthed.
The General wasn’t annoyed at the interruption. He only smiled. “Yes. The Guardian. In nearly three decades worth of testing, only one success was ever made. The Guardian exceeded their expectations. He far outshined the Blackhawk’s own less-than-stellar success… Unfortunately, despite numerous attempts to repeat the process, the US Armed Forces failed to create a legion of super soldiers. They were forced to rely on the Justice Society.”
“But they decommissioned the Society,” Harper spoke out of turn once again.
“That they did. And funding was cut once more. Eventually the Manhattan Guardian and the Blackhawks began working together again, thinking they could do together what they had failed to do apart.
“That’s where you three come in.”
Slade narrowed his eyes unbelieving.
“The three of you share similar biometrics and qualities to both the Blackhawk and the Guardian. I know you would like me to say you earned the right after all the trials we had put you through these past months but the fact is, it was only a way to kill time while you all were tested.”
Suddenly the needles made sense.
“You three happen to be genetic disposed to survive the experiments needed to become the next Guardian.”
The training had been for nothing? All his hard work… meant nothing? He was selected for this honor because he fit the right criteria? Slade’s blood pressure started to rise. This was ridiculous.
“Alright,” Slade snapped, not caring for decorum since it obviously was worthless. “We’re perfect candidates. What next? A special drink? Needles? A chamber full of gas.”
“Now the true trials begin,” Howe stated in a chilly voice. “Sergeant Gordon here will be your commanding officer. It’s his job to lead you through a series of Blackops to test your strength of character and whether or not you deserve to call yourself the next Guardian.”
Slade snorted. He just had to. “A Sergeant? A First Sergeant is going to tell me what to do? I’m a goddamn Major! Harper there is a Captain and she’s –“ he pointed at Kane who mouthed Lieutenant. “She’s a Lieutenant! For that matter… What gives a bed-wetter like you the right to tell any of us what to do? Who’s ass did your daddy kiss to get you appointed as a General? You buy those stars?”
“Son,” Howe’s tone had become even sharper. It could have cut through steel. “The Manhattan Guardian exists because I exist. Because I proved it was possible. You’d still be sipping tea and eating crumpets if not for me. Hell… You might even have been born a Red had I not been here to protect Lady Liberty.”
“What are you, Uncle Sam?”
“No,” Howe nodded to Gordon who unclipped his sidearm. “I’m someone far, far older. I’m the Veteran.”
“That’s a fairy tale.”
Gordon slid his gun across the table, straight towards Slade. The latter caught it before it could hit him. He looked up at the two standing. There was no way they could expect him to do what he assumed the gun implied. Just no way.
“Take the gun and shoot me,” ordered Howe.
“Excuse me?”
“Do it, Major!”
Fine. He wanted to play that game. Slade picked up the gun. He aimed it. First he pointed it at the General’s chest but at the last second he decided to up the ante. They wanted him to believe them. That this was something about biometrics and blood and what not. Then fine. Lets see how they react to a myth being busted.
The bullet exploded out of the barrel, straight for the General’s forehead. A sure kill shot. Howe didn’t stumble. He didn’t even react. The slug bounced of his head leaving him completely uninjured.
Slade didn’t know what to think. Harper whistled.
“Welcome to Team 7, Wilson.”
---
Present
Bounce.
Bounce.
Bounce.
Grayson jumped up and down on the trampoline he had brought into the gymnasium. The same kind that Olympic gymnasts trained on. The same kind he had used growing up. It was on a trampoline such as this that he had learned how to do his signature quadruple somersault. Of course, he had been about two feet shorter at the time. And currently, he’d have preferred to do it on the trapeze, high up in the air, but he didn’t have a catcher. He had to resort to this trampoline and a boatload of painkillers.
Hurt his leg like hell.
Nevertheless, he had to do it. No. He needed to do it. Grayson felt off and he refused to be the kind of teacher who couldn’t do. Not that he really had the money to teach in the first place.
First flip. A double somersault. Not too shabby. His leg felt fine.
Bounce.
Bounce.
Bounce.
Triple somersault. Another fine landing. Muscles in his legs contracted mildly but he ignored it. Pushed through the pain… Ignored the danger signs.
He could feel the eyes on him. He could sense the anticipation. The crowd was waiting for him. The flash of lights. He could soar. All he needed to was spread his wings and he could fly.
A Flying Grayson once more.
Bounce.
First revolution.
Second revolution.
Third.
He was almost there. Still flying. His wings caught the air. He could do it.
Fourth.
He did it. He managed to do it. First time in two years and he succeeded while injured. He finished the rotation, readied himself to stick the landing. Legs were ready.
Land.
Scream.
Grayson fell back on his behind, still bouncing up and down on the trampoline. He screwed up. Tried to push past his limits and he failed. Damn it… He knew better. Should have stopped at the fourth turn instead of pushing to stick the landing. He put too much weight on his right leg. Too much. His arms clutched at his leg as the bouncing came to a stop.
“Daddy, daddy!” Mari was at the edge of the trampoline. She knew better than to get up there until the mat had settled or he told her to. “Do you need help?”
“I’m… I’m okay, Princess.” He gave her his very best smile filled with his signature Grayson charm. He put all his energy in reassuring her. “Just tried to do too much.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Go back to that routine I showed you like a good girl.” He crawled off the trampoline and limped his way to his bag before slouching down to the ground to watch.
Mari narrowed her eyes in suspicion. She wore a plain purple leotard that made her eyes glow magically but that had to be his opinion as her father… Not like they’d actually glow. Still, she listened to him and returned to the mat he had spent the better part of the last two days scrubbing clean. The entire studio was getting a good cleaning. Better than the once a month dust sweeping he had been doing. He wanted to get the place back in tip-top shape just like he wanted to get himself.
His daughter started with a series of a flips that she performed nearly flawlessly – stumbled a bit on her second – and came out in a rolling upper cut. Left jab, right, left, kick. Mari back-flipped; unfortunately landing on her butt with a wince. Still, she was his daughter; she pushed herself off the ground and turned it into a roundhouse kick combination that left Grayson speechless. He hadn’t taught her that.
Applause echoed about the open gym. Father and daughter’s eyes locked onto the open door – Grayson hadn’t replaced them from the attack yet – where stood two men who looked remarkably similar. Almost the same color hair though one was pure white and the other platinum blond. Possessed the same chin and general jawline. Only their eyes were different. One with a vibrant green, the other with a cold blue.
Slade Wilson and… his son? thought Grayson.
Slade looked out of place without his usual perfect suit. Khakis, loafers, a bowling shirt… What was he getting ready to do, golf? Yet despite the inconspicuous dress, he still maintained an air of danger. One beyond the scope of his eye patch.
His son, if that’s who he was, was a few inches shorter than his father. A strap for a guitar bisected a Zeppelin shirt and he wore the faded jeans with holes stylishly ripped in them for an extra twenty dollars instead of tearing them himself. His eyes were kind, curious. But none of that held Grayson’s attention. Across the boy’s neck was a hideous scar. Vivid. Looked like it had gone deep.
With one glance at Slade, Grayson understood just how much of a danger that man’s lifestyle had to be to his family.
“Impressive,” Slade complimented after he finished clapping. “She obviously takes after her father.”
The boy stayed at the door, investigating the broken hinges with a bemused expression on his face.
“This is my son Joseph. Forgive his manners but unfortunately, he can’t speak.”
“It’s not his manners I should be forgiving,” Grayson grunted as he stood but his words were lost in his daughter’s loud exclamation.
“Oh!” Mari rushed forward and began weaving signs in the air.
The young man signed back with a smile.
When did Mari learn that? Once more, Grayson felt like his daughter’s life was passing him by. She seemed to grow day by day. He wondered when the days he had bounced his baby girl on his lap had last been.
“Clancy taught me,” she answered Grayson’s unasked question. “He says it is nice to meet us and he thanks you for looking out for his father.” She did another set of elaborate signs. “I’m Mari.”
“Mari,” her father growled. “You know better than to talk to strangers…”
“He’s not a stranger, daddy. Mr. Wilson visited you in the hospital a lot… Oh, he says I don’t have to sign… He can hear just fine,” the little girl added, feeling a tad distraught at not being able to practice.
“Got to know my daughter, did you?”
“Now, now, Dick. It’s not like I was alone with her. Your partner was almost always there along with Bennett,” Slade grinned yet there was no mirth behind it. “Ran into that charming redhead once. Had to leave quickly that time.”
“Not surprising if given what you told me is true.” Grayson let slide the fact he didn’t enjoy Slade calling him ‘Dick.’ “What do you want, Slade?”
“To chat, maybe finish that story of mine, and offer you a business proposition that should fix most of your problems.”
Grayson did not like the sound of that. Especially not in front of his daughter. He toyed with telling the man to go to hell but manners won out. Slade did pay for his medical bills. It was only because of his kindness, altruistic or otherwise, that the Graysons weren’t swimming in a sea of debt. And there was Mari to think of. She liked the man and seemed to be genuinely interested in his son.
“Fine.”
“Great then. Mari, could you be a dear and show Joseph that routine again while I speak with your father? He’s something of an amateur martial artist himself.”
“Sure!” Mari bounded forward, a spring in her step and grabbed Joseph’s hand. “You play the guitar…”
A growl escaped Grayson’s throat. His daughter was being too nice with someone she just met. They would have to have a chat tonight when they got home about the proper etiquette when dealing with strangers.
“Boy is brilliant with any musical instrument. Almost reminds me of you in your younger days and how you seemed to be a natural with any weapon you picked up,” Slade chatted as he sidled up to Grayson beside the wall length trampoline. “Guitar, violin, fiddle – yes, I know what you’re thinking but apparently there’s a difference – cello, piano, trumpet. Loves the drums. Unfortunately he hates me for refusing to let him put up his set. I personally can’t stand the noise… You see, he’s living with me while I stay in Bludhaven. We’ve spent so little time together over the years that his mother finally agreed to a more long term visit providing I remained in place.”
There was something surreal about chatting with the world’s deadliest mercenary about something as mundane as family. Only thing that could have been stranger would have been had they started discussing the Stock Market.
“Staying in the Haven then? For how long?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’d like to stay for the rest of the school year at least,” at this, Slade’s voice took on a genuinely sincere note to it. “I never did properly bond with my eldest. I never spent time with him like I should have. And the last time we saw each other…” he trailed off. Apparently that was too personal for Deathstroke the Terminator.
“I know what you mean,” Grayson finally admitted with a glance at his daughter flipping across the dojo’s mat.
Both men left it at that.
Slade coughed, clearing his throat. “Now where did I leave off…”
---
1982, South Rhelasia
In a pathetic hovel that had the nerve to call itself a bar, Slade sat facing the front entrance while Addison – he had learned that was Kane’s first name – had an eye on the back. A machete that had been wiped clean of blood rested between them. Neither soldier drank from the cups in front of them. Both sat in silent vigil, their guns in hand underneath the table.
Two people were missing from Team-7. Or rather, one was missing in action and the other had gone scouting to find him. Slade didn’t approve of Gordon doing recon alone. It wasn’t proper for the mission commander to do. Should have been Slade’s job. He had been very vocal about that but he was denied. Denied… Denied by a damn First Sergeant.
The humidity made the wait nearly unbearable. Slade was sweating like he hadn’t since his time in the Rangers. Sweat drenched his skin. It was caught in his scruff, gave his shirt pit stains. However… It had one perk. Addison’s tank top clung to her body ever so nicely. For a second, Slade caught himself staring. And so did Addison.
He averted his gaze, praying to god he wasn’t blushing like some schoolboy. She smirked at him. There was chemistry there. Both admitted it. Slade secretly hoped she enjoyed checking him for leeches every bit that he enjoyed checking her.
Dirt blew into the bar.
Slade readied his finger on the trigger.
In walked Gordon, covered in filth and soaked with sweat. A woman was with him. She obviously wasn’t Asian, let alone Rhelasion. Blond, skinny by choice and exercise instead of malnourishment like so many of the woman Slade had seen lately, including the bartender, she had the look of someone who had spent too much time in a foreign land and decided to go native. Slade began to check her out only to stop when he noticed Addie’s glare.
The two approached the table the other soldiers shared and took a seat. The newcomer immediately downed both of the undrunk cups with a satisfying belch. She wiped her mouth contently before turning an appraising gaze on Slade. A second later, she nodded as if she found him acceptable.
“Team, this is Blackhawk. She’ll be joining us for the rest of the mission. Blackhawk, that’s Terminator and that’s Vigil.”
“I prefer Lady, Jim,” cooed Blackhawk with a smirk. She then turned her attention to Addison, eyeing her up and down. “Vigil, eh? That mean you’re ain’t going by Watchtower no more? Back to Killswitch, hmm?”
“I’ve always been Killswitch, no matter what the Society may think.”
“Best not let Sandy hear that then… ‘course what I hear through the grapevine, he already has more than enough reason to hate you. Now how come I didn’t get that wedding invite? Is it because of that time we sp—“
“Blackhawk…” interrupted Slade to save his commanding officer some of his dignity. “Does that mean—“
“That I’m old enough to be your mother? Maybe. But I’ll never tell,” she said with a wink. “Now what’s your fancy, big boy? You prefer blondes or,” there was a pointed glance towards Addison, “brunettes?”
Gordon coughed and drew attention back to him. For once, Slade was grateful for the sergeant’s save though he couldn’t quite explain why. He carefully avoided both the eyes of Blackhawk and Addie. Instead he focused in on the other man.
Now that they were up close, Slade noticed just how bad Gordon looked. He had scrapes and bruises across his cheeks. There was one peculiar wound along his shoulder that Slade had to bet was from a bullet graze. And then there was odd hole in his hand. A clean shot… As if some kind of impaling. Couldn’t make out what exactly it was beneath the bandages other than the fact it was still bleeding.
“I found our objective just over the border line into North Rhelasia—“
“What about James!?” questioned Addison and Slade felt a twinge of jealousy. She never used his first name.
“Arrow is with them,” allowed Gordon… For once not chiding them for using something other than their callsigns while in the field. “It seems Intel was right. We’re dealing with Savage’s forces. He’s been supplying the North Rhelasians with weapons and specially trained commandos. Don’t know why yet… but he has two of his Lieutenants here personally overseeing the project.”
Blackhawk’s demeaner became serious. She placed both hands on the table before her despite its filthiness and continued from where Gordon left off. “They call themselves the Huntress and Huntsman. Sick SOBs. Huntsman uses whatever POWs they capture for practice. Lets ‘em run free near the border and then he tracks them down and puts a javelin or a crossbow bolt or a knife through their shoulder blades. Hell, I once saw him take down a prisoner with a discus. Rumor has it he might even be one of Savage’s brood.”
“And the Huntress?” an interested Slade asked. The professional part of him could not wait to take on the Huntsman. Since joining Team-7 he had developed a taste for unusual weapons too. Just thinking about it made his fingers close around the machete.
“The Huntress…” there was a shared look between Gordon and Blackhawk. “We don’t have any information on her other than she is very close to the Savage family.”
What was that look? He checked with Addie to make sure she had picked up on it as well. She nodded… So there was something they weren’t telling the grunts.
“When do we head out, sir?” Addison asked.
Gordon’s face was more expressionless than usual. “We eat then we’ll rendezvous at weapon cache theta and move out.”
Weapon cache theta. Slade didn’t need to stop there. His fingers tightened around the machete’s hilt until his knuckles began to whiten. Guns weren’t enough. Wouldn’t be enough to take down two idiots who went by names like the Huntress and Huntsman… And if they harmed Harper… Well, Slade didn’t particularly like the guy but he did respect him. He had saved Slade’s life almost as much as he had saved his… So if they had harmed him in any way.
Well, Slade wouldn’t mind giving the killing stroke.
---
Northern Rhelasia. Enemy encampment. Blood and sweat dripped off Slade’s chest in rivulets. He had been shot at with every projectile known to man. Been attacked by weapons that belonged in a museum. Had evaded grenades, mines, and mortars… And somehow he still found the strength to stand. Not that it meant much anymore.
The three of them were surrounded by Northern Rhelasian soldiers and mercenaries. Addison was down on her knees clutching her side. Blackhawk watched everything with a rather disinterested air about her. Seemed more annoyed by the fact she had to drop her twin pistols than because of all the guns pointed at them combined. On the other hand, Slade was still high off adrenalin.
To call it an encampment was being polite. It was a clearing in the middle of a jungle. Half of it was caught in a bog. The other half was protected by a pathetic wooden fence. There were numerous tents opposite of the bog and only two sniper towers. More probably had to be hidden in the trees. Slade wouldn’t put it past them.
“You, man, toss me your walkie-talkie,” demanded the Huntress.
What Slade wanted to toss her was his bloody machete but he did as ordered. They still had an ace up their sleeve. She deftly caught the device in one hand.
The Huntress was a beautiful woman with her red hair done up in a bun. She was a good head shorter than him and across her back was a quiver of arrows and a bow. A line of black facepaint was beneath her eyes. And like Slade had expected, she wore a costume though without a mask. It was a dark bodysuit with orange padding near her joints and along the side of her stomach. The padding had black stripes like a tiger’s. And beneath her neck was yet more orange except this time with a black pawprint between her collarbone.
“Jimmy,” she taunted into the walkie-talkie, “I know you’re out there.”
That took Slade’s breath away. She knew Gordon’s real name… She knew Gordon. Suddenly things began to click inside the Terminator’s head. The gears turned between the bloodlust. The tiger stripes… The bow… The shared look between Blackhawk and Gordon.
Tigress.
The defector.
“You know how much I hate that name, Paula.”
Paula grinned a grin that was all teeth.
The Huntsman was a few feet away from his female compatriot. He shared a similar bodysuit except without the orange and black pattern. He was a big man with blond hair and blue eyes. Instead of bow and arrows across his back, he carried a quiver loaded with small, barbed javelins while a rapier was hooked to his belt. Oddly enough, he had a single sleeve. He left arm laid bare… Well not quite bare… He held their target… The golden beacon of America’s Guardian.
The Guardian’s shield.
“Bet you ratted me out to the government the second you got back, didn’t you? Told them everything about me. All our trusted secrets. Everything I shared…”
Harper was on his knees, shirtless, between the Huntsman and Huntress. A Rhelasian held him with a gun pointed at his head. His face was a mess. Unrecognizable. His ribs looked bruised and his arm definitely wasn’t meant to bend that way.
“Now is that fair, Paula? I know you had to have told Savage all there is to know about the Justice Society…”
Note the repeat of her name. Gordon wanted to keep her talking. Draw out the conversation. Bad move. They were probably mobilizing on his position any second now.
“Oh, I didn’t have to tell him much. He already knew all there is—“
Fwip!
Clang!
The sound of a gong exploding rocked the encampment but in reality it was a sniper’s bullet ricocheting off the golden shield and into the head of Arrow’s guard. A one in a million shot. Impressive no matter whose side you were on. But Slade knew better than to be impressed as did the rest of the members of Team-7. They jumped into action, including the tortured Harper who quickly picked up his captors gun and opened fire on a fleeing Huntress.
Fwip, fwip, fwip… Gordon continued to rain down covering fire, taking out the sniper towers and one entrepreneuring mercenary. Slade picked up his machete, not wasting time on the gun, and charged the line of foes between him and the Huntsman. Limbs flew as he carved his way forward. His eyes were on that golden shield. The Guardian’s shield… Soon to be his shield.
Addie blew the head off a Rhelasian who managed to get a bead on Slade. Back to back with Blackhawk, she used her rifle to mow down foes while the other woman’s pistols simply sang. They worked in unison, taking down the poorly trained forces unused to fighting people who could actually fight back. Only had to worry about the mercenaries and Watchtower proved himself capable of taking them down.
A javelin flew at Slade. He rolled to the side, coming up with his blade to cut it in two. Immediately afterwards he impaled a misfortunate soldier who got in his way and kicked him clean off the weapon. The snarling face of the Huntsman surprised him. Rapier in hand, he stabbed at Slade. The Terminator dodged and struck with his blade only to bounce off the shield.
The Huntsman was quick. He scored a hit off Slade’s cheek, narrowly missing an eye. Slade retaliated with a kick to send him crashing through a tent. He reversed grip on the blade to stab it downward only to find an arrow buried in his knee before he could deliver the killing blow. He growled through the pain but it was too late. Huntsman rolled back to his feet and Slade had to evade another arrow.
The rapier was in his face again. Without thinking, his machete… his poorly constructed machete swept out, breaking the thin sword in two. Slade followed through with a headbutt sending Huntsman stumbling back. He banged the blade’s handle into his elbow then he sliced through the straps free the symbol of America from the savage’s grasp.
Huntsman looked fearful… Slade gleeful. He raised the blade over his head and brought it down despite the javelin that found its way through his stomach. He swung the machete, slicing the Huntsman’s face in two.
The Guardian’s shield was his.
Clang!
Slade turned around as quick as he could. There, standing in defense of him, golden shield in hand was Jim Harper. That Broken Arrow had just saved his life. Without even missing a single beat, Harper spun around, holding the shield one handed and released it to fly halfway across the encampment into an unsuspecting Huntress. The symbol of her former comrade hit her directly in the middle.
Blood sprouted out of her mouth but Slade knew it wasn’t a life threatening wound… Not like his javelin to the gut. Still… He had to get the shield. That was the target. That was their mission.
“C’mon. Lets go!” Harper told him, holding onto Slade as if to keep him going. In reality, both men needed the stability of the other to remain upright.
“S-s-shield.”
“If we don’t go, we’re all gonna die. They called for reinforcements.”
Slade shook his head. They couldn’t abandon the mission.
Boom!!
An explosion, a real one this time, shook the earth. The wooden fence was no more. Gone in a blaze of fire courtesy of a Gordon’s favorite rocket launcher. His way of telling them to get out of there and showing them the door.
Slade spared Paula one last look. She was on her knees staring in the direction of the rocket. Her bow was broken beside her. The shield was propping her up… They could take her.
“Do it, Gordon!” she shouted herself hoarse. “Be the Killswitch! That’s who you are! KILL ME!
Fwip…
---
Present
“Intense.” Grayson allowed as he sipped some water. “But that doesn’t explain how you got the name Deathstroke.”
Slade smiled with shiny white teeth that had to be fake in some places. No one could live the life he lived and get by with perfect dental records. “I got that courtesy of Harper. After I took down the Huntsman, he told me that it was one helluva death stroke. Terrible grammar but he was suffering from a concussion and dehydration so you have to forgive him. Sadly, I learned years later that the Huntsman survived like the pathetic roach he is.” Slade’s smile took on a sinister air. “Of course, he’ll always have that scar to remember our first dance by.”
Grayson drifted off into thought. It was a lot to consider if it was the truth. And Slade hadn’t revealed the biggest secret… Who ended up becoming the Guardian’s or Blackhawk’s successor if anyone. Such a shame that they had lost the shield like that but he did remember hearing something about it resurfacing a few weeks after he came out of his coma.
The men watched their children spar on the mat. Joseph was doing a good job of going easy on Mari. There was experience there. No doubt taught by his father. But every so often he’d wince at a blow received from the little girl. Looked like the blocks hurt as much as had he taken a hit head on.
“What happened to Vigil?”
“I married her. She divorced me. In that order,” the mercenary laughed. “She is the proud mother of my two boys.”
“Not gonna ask how that happened. You’ll probably tell me another two hour long story.”
Slade said nothing.
“What’s that business proposition you want to discuss?” Grayson finally asked after he watched Mari knock Joseph onto his back despite a block. “I’ll tell you right now… I refuse to become a mercenary.”
“Tt. I don’t need a partner in that business,” the man frowned, his one good eyes narrowing in suspicion over Mari. “Word is, you’re off the Force for good and are looking to reopen the doors to this place,” Slade paused with a nod toward the main entrance to the gym. “But first you need to replace them.”
“Maybe.”
“How would you like Joseph to become your first student? He’s good, don’t you think?”
“I need more than one student to get this place up and running again.”
“About that…” Slade lowered his voice to a whisper. “Have you ever heard of The House?”
That took Grayson back a step. The Haven P.D. had tried to bust the place more than once but they could never prove it was anything except a casino. They had even considered putting him up as an undercover operative but that fell through because, in his opinion, money had changed hands… If he could get in…
“I’m an ex-cop.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Grayson glanced at his laughing, smiling daughter. There was so much he wanted to do. So much he had to do. But he couldn’t. Not off a simple disability check and under the table bartending. He needed more income. Bills to pay. Holidays approaching… A growing daughter… And his own dream of reopening the Studio of the Dragon.
Dimly, he wondered why he wasn’t the least bit concerned about the legality of the matter. The House… It was a front for a fight club. Sometimes the host of something called the Meta-Brawl. Underground fights and if rumors were correct… to the death in some cases.
Illegal.
Amoral for him to use his skill like that. Richard tried to teach him that fact many times over the years and it had taken Grayson a good long time to learn it… but what right did Richard have to say it was wrong?
After all… It had been in clubs like that where Richard earned his name.
“Tell me more.”