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Pain racked Slade Wilson's body as he forced himself to stay conscious. "Knew I should've worn the armor. I'm such a dumbass." Deathstroke groaned. Whilst preparing for the climatic battle between himself and the Bat, Slade had chosen to abandon the Nth metal armored suit in favor of his lighter, more stealth-orientated costume. He had once again underestimated the vigilante's tenacity and it had cost him a vital contract. Slade's reputation likely wouldn't suffer; every mercenary has lost to the Dark Knight at least once. But his pride was slighted again. Funny thing, that. The only human being to ever give Deathstroke pause, led alone defeat him, was a nut dressed as a flying rodent. The entire fight was a blur in the mercenary's mind. The only thing he could remember in any vivid detail after being struck in the skull was the deafening explosion that had beaten him. Bats had hit Slade with a series of moves that only served to stun Wilson before finishing him off with...what? His tank? Where the hell does a guy like that get all of his gear?
Focus. The sound of sirens pierced the fog. Boots thumped against concrete; they were getting closer with each passing second. Slade could make out maybe two dozen silhouettes through the smoke left behind by his target. Twenty four men. All armed. Looks like I'm in the middle of the court yard, which means no cover...this should be easy enough.
The first police officer stepped through the shroud of smoke and dust particles, sidearm raised and at the ready. The man took a kunai through the left eye before he could so much as blink. Deathstroke shoved off the ground and leaned against a nearby light pole. Two of his ribs were fractured and his spine hurt like all hell. Not to mention the lack of feeling in his right leg, or the blood soaking his socks. "Freeze!" Slade turned toward the voice. Two more cops, each with their weapons trained on him. Slade planted his right foot on the ground and spun, kicking the light pole with enough force to send it flying right at them. The pair went flying backwards maybe ten feet before sliding to a halt in a pool of their combined blood. Deathstroke started to limp toward what appeared to be the exit. He couldn't be too sure through all the smog. "Over here! I found Barnes. He's dead, sir." Someone shouted from behind Slade. "Tt." The mercenary whipped out one of his pistols and fired in the direction of the sound; satisfied by the splat and thump that followed.
"Shots fired from the south side of the courtyard! All units, converge!" An entourage of four more assailants appeared from the rapidly thinning mist. Without warning or command, they opened fire. Slade ducked, dodged and weaved through the barrage until he was too close to one of them for the rest to safely shoot. They're not civilians, Slade. These guys are enemy combatants. Soldiers. They signed up for this. Don't hold back. Kill 'em all. The man's head left his shoulders after a single flying spin kick to the cheek. The decapitated cranium slammed right into a female officer's face with enough force to obliterate the front portion of her skull. Only one of the remaining targets had the stomach to keep shooting, despite the carnage. Hmph. Aren't you a brave one? Slade mused as he closed the distance in an instant and shoved off the ground, pushing his knee into the cop's stomach. His rib cage would be glass, but he'd survive. In one smooth motion, Deathstroke performed a fronthand spring off the guy's shoulders and wrapped his left leg around the second's throat, snapping his neck as he stuck the landing. Now you're just showing off.
The fog cleared as Slade caught sight of the entrance. The way was barred by a large metal gate and ten more members of the Gotham City PD. The small army opened fire the moment they spotted the oncoming mercenary. "Ah, fuck." Slade willed his wounded leg to move as he rolled forward to avoid the first couple of volleys. He leapt forward perhaps fifteen feet, removing one of his blades from its scabbard in the process. He swiped through one of the closer knitted firing squads before charging toward the next and slicing all their throats in a single spin. Slade somersaulted his way at yet another grouping, jumping up off the floor and kicking an officer with enough force to send him skidding across the courtyard. Just as he landed, Deathstroke sliced a second man in half and stabbed a third and a fourth who were standing just a little too close through the heart. Slade ripped the weapon out of the pair and chucked it into another's skull. The final cop actually managed to graze a very wounded Deathstroke's shoulder with his erratic fire. Slade spun and back-fisted him in the chest, ragdolling the guy into the wall with enough power to crack the concrete.
Slade slowly made his way toward the prison's gate. He wrapped a pair of bloody hands around the bars and began to tug. However, before he could make any progress, a bullet pierced his lower abdomen. "Son of a-" Another wave of rounds flew toward the injured mercenary, causing him to dive to the floor to avoid being turned to Swiss Cheese. "I don't have time for this." Slade pulled out his pistol and put a bullet between each police officers' eyes before they realized he was even moving. The Terminator stood. He placed his feet through the concrete floor and his palms on the center of the gate. He pushed with all of his might. After a moment's struggle the fruits of his labor bared themselves, and the metal structure toppled over with a crash.
The wounded Soldier for Hire stepped out into the dark and gloomy Gotham night. He turned his eye toward the parking lot, wondering if he could hot wire one of the cars and get out of there. A light beep in his ear gave Slade pause. Very few people had access to his private communications channel; and they all knew to only use it if it was of the utmost importance. The merc tapped a specific part of his helmet. "Go." He said simply. "Your son is alive." Slade's muscles locked up in an instant. His mouth was dryer than a desert. He tried to speak, but all that came out were stammers. "We've tracked down your son's last known location to somewhere in New York. We want you to help us find him, Slade."
"Who are you?"
"We are HIVE."
