65 hours from now…The situation was this; Jason Woodrue, a private detective, was employed by Sunderland Corporations to discover the perpetrator behind a series of kidnappings of Sunderland’s top scientists. His expertise and cunning skills left Sunderland Corps CEO Avery Carlton Sunderland impressed enough to give him a rewarding yet odd task; creating a fictional monster. The kidnappers were common criminals, thugs, people working under the mantle of larger criminal organizations, so all it took for Woodrue to end his contract was to spread word around about Plant-Master, a beast that escaped from SunderCo’s non-existing secret lab and who currently guards their perimeters. The story is far more elaborate than that, but the details don’t really matter. What does matter is that a certain prominent crime lord paid Deathstroke a large sum of cash to assassinate Plant Master. Upon discovering that Plant Master is nothing but a myth, he set out to kill his creator, Jason Woodrue himself.
Slade was pursuing a yellow cab on foot, leaping rooftops with such great agility that he made them seem like LEGO bricks. His quest led him to a barely populated area in Bludhaven, situated in the Avalon district to be more precise. Although he had access to a plethora of vehicles, he chose to remain on foot so as to avert suspicion. For a greedy bastard, Woodrue was pretty clever and would back away the moment he sensed his life was in danger. The car stopped in front of a motel, the kind of motel where you’d be lucky to get a room with a working shower. Jason, a lanky, scruffy middle-aged man, got out of the car and had a brief chat with the chauffeur before he drove off. The man was obviously paranoid, as he looked both ways before finally entering the motel.
Slade stood by for approximately five minutes, the time it would take for Woodrue to get a room, before deciding to act. He chose to abandon all his stealth prowess and expertise by simply accessing the motel through the front door. Undoubtedly, the receptionist was alerted by a man in an iron exosuit and a mask, evident when he tried to pull out a mobile phone out of his pocket. His attempts at taking measure were cut short when the One-Eyed Merc landed a swift punch on his gut, instantly rendering him unconscious. The receptionist’s excitement definitely did warn Woodrue, which meant Slade had to push his timetable and act quicker. A rapid ascension over a flight of stairs led the merc to a wide hall, with rooms to both sides. The occupants, consisting of hookers and pimps, were spread around the hall, curious as to what caused the noise downstairs. He didn’t know which room Woodrue resided in, but he assumed it was the one with the closed door. He approached the door with precaution, doing his utmost to filter the hall’s noise in favor of hearing what’s happening inside. Five seconds later, three gunshots were heard, three holes took shape on the door. Slade came to the definite conclusion Woodrue was using a Desert Eagle, so depending on the cartridge he was carrying he either had six, five or at the very least four rounds spared.
Turns out he was using .44 Magnum cartridge, as there was a relative pause after the detective added five more holes to the door. That's when Deathstroke decided to act, quickly breaking through the door and landing a horizontal attack on Woodrue's right shoulder. In reaction to Slade's attack, Jason dropped the gun down and scampered near the planked window, a horrified look on his face. He seemingly had trouble moving his right arm. "What have you done to me?!", he exclaimed in a high-pitched voice.
"Paresthesia. I temporarily severed your circulatory system, causing your arm to go numb. It won't last long, and from where I stand, neither will you.", Slade responded in a matter-of-fact manner, typical of him, while moving with confident steps to his petrified target. Suspiciously, instead of pissing his pants like all his usual victims do, Jason let out a raucous stream of laughter which admittedly took the legendary merc aback. "So it is true what they say; nobody suspects the cab driver.", Woodrue paused to wipe the saliva out of his mouth before moving further "Care to remove these wood planks out of the window? My arm's too messed up for me to do it." Slade was muddled by the scenario. There were a lot of concerns being processed in his mind; could this all be an ambush? What was it that Jason was so smug about? He violently punched the planks, pulling them in, carelessly scattering them around the room. His fears were confirmed. Four black APCs (Armored Personnel Carriers) were parked in front, with a number of soldiers coming out. Going by the blacker-than-black uniforms and the fact that the vehicles were equipped with noise suppressors, it wasn't too far-fetched to assume they weren't SWAT but rather a clandestine unit, C.I.A or whatever crooked agency was running Gotham and it's neighboring cities.
His contemplation was interrupted when a stock-still Jason pulled out a weird, black, round device (with his left arm, mind you) which emitted a blue light in the middle. He pressed a button on the top of the device before greeting the merc goodbye. Slade winced, before jumping through the window and down into the streets. The device, which was thought to be a grenade, didn't explode but instead released a blue shock wave, partially enveloping Slade while on his way down. The exosuit helped the one-eyed merc to somewhat subvert the ankle pain falling from a two-story building caused, but nothing could help him deal with the mobilized units on the ground. Deathstroke made a last ditch effort to escape alive, but after twenty minutes of cat and mouse, he finally succumbed to his injuries. That's when it hit him. The black device was a modified EMP grenade, altered to only target specific parts of a running mechanism; in Slade's case, the suit's ability to deflect the malignant cells. There were rumors about Cobblepot using his Russian connections to smuggle a shipment of those in Gotham, but nobody expected them to be true.
With only eight to ten minutes left to live, The One-Eyed Merc. crawled down the street as three soldiers approached him, clapping their boots down on the rough asphalt. One of them pointed his gun at him and pressed the trigger. From then on, it was total blackout for poor Wilson.
Present TimeThe violent sound of whirling, accompanied by a load of swearing in a thick Australian accent woke Slade up. He looked both ways to see Reverse Flash and Cap. Boomer having an argument, a broken boomerang lying a few feet away from where Boomer was standing. The sedative they had Slade injected with was a pretty strong one, considering it took a bloody while for him to realize that he was in an exercise yard of what seemed to be a prison. Certainly not what he expected. He was assuming he'd be thrown into a tight 2x2 hole with a little breathing apparatus nearby. He was also shocked to find out he was still wearing his suit. If Slade didn't know any better, he'd think they couldn't remove it from his body, since the suit was calibrated to only recognize the specific genes of the Wintergreen lineage, but these guys had enough firepower and enough knowledge to easily strip that away from him. Plus, why let him keep his weapons? Why let him keep his mask? And most importantly, why was he given a collar? Something fishy was going on, and Slade was positive that he would be enlightened soon.
After further inspection, the Legendary Merc. darted his gaze towards Reverse Flash, who was trying to intimidate a weaponless Boomer. "We got your message yellow guy. You can stop your little tornado now and explain us why we're here.", Slade spoke, eagerly awaiting a response from the anti-Flash.
