Member
Gotham City, United States
The vigilante of Gotham City had been called many names: The Dark Knight, The Caped Crusader, World's Greatest Detective. Many still believed Batman to be a monster. A literal fusion of man and bat; a hulking creature straight from a criminal's worst nightmare. But tonight he was none of those things. Tonight, Batman was just a target.
A torrent of water fell form the overcast sky, mixing with the pool of blood at Deathstroke's feet. Bright red and blue lights illuminated the streets below. Slade quietly slid the Daito katana back into its sheathe on his hip. He stepped away from the edge of the rooftop, wanting to avoid being spotted by by the police. He looked at the dead SWAT sniper, a twinge of guilt eating away at what was left of his conscious. The officer appeared to be a former Marine, judging by the tattoo on his left bicep. Bryan Jennings was also a family man. He had two daughters and another on the way; he and his wife had been happily married for six years. The guy didn't even live in Gotham; his driver's license had him pegged as a Manhattan native. He must be here on transfer. Slade wondered what the last thing he said to his wife was. Had it been a loving goodbye after a tender embrace before he left for the most dangerous city in America? Or perhaps they had fought. One last shrill, screaming argument about Bryan's obsession with work. Maybe Mrs. Jennings had told him that, one day, his job would get him killed. There was so much you could learn from sifting through a man's wallet.
It was times like these that Deathstroke returned to a simple mantra he'd started using after his first mission with Team 7. "It's just business." He whispered to the corpse, before tossing the man's wallet next to his slit throat. When people say the killing gets easier, they're lying through their teeth. It doesn't. Not with the innocent, at least. When you take the life from a man who deserves it, his crimes overshadow the guilt. But this man? He was doing what he did best: fighting for the next paycheck so that he could feed his family. He and Slade were alike in that respect. Wilson took this job for his family. A hundred million dollars was more than enough to give Rose the life she deserved. It was also all Deathstroke needed for the search for his son. Grant was still out there. Slade could feel it in his very bones. But Ravager would have to wait.
Slade had a rodent to catch.
The Terminator leaped from the roof and landed with a quiet thud on the sidewalk below. His specialized Promethium-weave boots contained microscopic traces of Vibranium, which helped absorb sound and lessen the impact of long falls. Slade dashed across the rain-covered streets and into a nearby alleyway. He caught a glimpse of the bright neon side on the front of the building before he vanished around the corner. The Firefly Club was just another seedy nightclub in the Bowery; nothing special about it. His arrival during a police raid hadn't been happenstance, however. Slade was looking for muscle and helping the gangsters that ran the join escape Blackgate was the quickest way to any thug's heart in Gotham.
Getting inside wasn't any trouble. Deathstroke kicked the backdoor open, snapping the lock in half with relative ease. A place like this wouldn't have an alarm, so he didn't have to worry about that. Slade bent his knees in a half crouch and moved cautiously inside. The hallway he was in, as well as the neighboring rooms, were all empty. Gunshots rang out from the front of the club and the mercenary chose to pick up the pace. He instantly recognized the smell of alcohol and piss as he peeked his head around yet another corner. At the end of the hall was a man dressed in what could only be described as rags. In one hand he held two empty syringes, and in the other a half-finished bottle of whiskey. The mercenary made his way past the poor sod and finally arrived at the entrance to the main dance floor and bar. The sounds of violence hadn't stopped, but they had died down some what.
The door burst open and a pair of kunai shot forth from Slade's fingers and into the tracheae of two SWAT officers. Another four were scattered around the main room. From Deathstroke's count, over two dozen people were sat in the middle of the club. Most of them were in handcuffs but a few still had their hands free; the cops probably hadn't gotten to them yet. Slade moved with such speed and ferocity that it appeared, for a moment, that two more of the armored cops had simply exploded into a shower of blood. The Terminator was already on top of a third officer, his Katana in one hand and Wakizashi in the other as he sliced off the man's limbs and stabbed him through the heart. The final SWAT trooper began firing his weapon at random in the general direction of Slade. He risked hitting the civilians with ricocheting bullets; there was no time to be fancy about this. In one smooth move, Wilson removed one of his pistols and shot the panicked cop square in the eye. He'd practiced that move a thousand times. It was all muscle memory at this point.
The final SWAT member dropped to the floor, his body convulsing as his muscles went limp. Six. Six more innocent men made to die. You'd better be worth it, Batman.
There were another five police officers and a detective on the second floor. He could hear them moving back downstairs now. Deathstroke bent at his knees and jumped, grabbing hold of the railing of the balcony above. He swung backwards and landed on his feet, directly behind the unaware squad of do-gooders. If you could call Gotham cops do-gooders. Slade shot forward like a bullet and struck the first SWAT member with a knife hand strike to the throat. He didn't wait long enough for the man to drop before ramming a powerful knee into one of his companions. In one fluid motion, Deathstroke unleashed a perfect back kick into a third officer's chest. The two men were sent flying off their feet. By now, the detective and the other two SWAT team members had gotten turned around and were flipping their safeties off. Slade darted forward once more. He started with a quick right jab to the first officer's shoulder, shattering the bone. He followed up by stepping back and slamming the same elbow into the second's collarbone, breaking it apart like it was made of glass. The Terminator turned with the grace of a dancer and headbutted the detective right in the nose.
Some time later, Deathstroke stood before the crowd of scum and miscreants. He had allowed all truly neutral parties to leave and kept the surviving police as hostages. "How many of you want fifty million dollars?" Slade asked. The following shouts told him that most of them were fond of money. "That's what I thought. For one night, if you follow me, I can guarantee you all the payoff of a lifetime. We're going to capture the Batman. Alive. We'll split the reward fifty/fifty. Considering that I'll be doing all the work, that seems pretty generous. Now, here's how we'll do it..."
