A/N: I will be writing this absurd handful of fluff and weirdness for a while to take my mind off of the CRUSHING DEPRESSION that is Phantoms of Azarath Act III. So, if you were wondering: yes, I'm still working on it.

Disclaimer?: I do not claim to own Teen Titans, Oliver Twist, or Annie the Musical, and I make no profit off of this abomination of literature.

Summary?: Starfire of Tamaran, newly arrived on Earth, must face the tribulations of finding one's place in a strange world, with Slade's den of thieves as her only guide.

Note: When I say "Slade finds Starfire," what I mean is this fanfic is Little Orphan Annie meets Oliver Twist abominationfic, in what is possibly the first implicated Slade/Starfire weirdness fluff-fest that doesn't feature Slade as a creepy pedo rapist or Starfire as the perpetual love-sick wilting damsel-in-distress. Because Jesus MacGuffin you guys, they are neither.

At the moment, I've set this story to finish in approximately six or seven chapters. Chapters will be as long or as short as they have to be, and will likely contain a lot of oddly-placed (and somewhat subliminal) fluff. Don't worry; you'll see what I mean.

(Now ten percent more beta-read! Thanks, Cruzer.)


A Day Away
by: Griffinmon

Chapter One: Maybe

Betcha they're young,
Betcha they're smart,

Bet they collect things
Like ashtrays, and art!
Maybe they're strict,
As straight as a line...
Don't really care,
As long as they're mine!

-- Annie

--

The bustling Jump City glowed like a beacon in the night; its civic buildings were all closed, but the clubs and billboards and late-night diners were brightly lit, their dazzling neon voices painting the quiet night with promises of instant gratification. Normally, the clubs were full to bursting by this time, but tonight they stood empty and alone. A few of the larger ones had a modest show of people, mostly VIPs looking to celebrate a hard day's work.

Somewhere in the heart of the city, a cat cried, a dog howled, and a little red-haired orphan sang of hope while bitter cold settled in its bones, a good-evening reminder of the long winter that was heading this way.

Somewhere high above the city, far above the thick layer of industrial smog, the stars twinkled, the planets moved into place, the old galactic gods smiled, and, at twenty to midnight, the city fell quiet for a brief few moments.

Slade Wilson, known as Deathstroke to some and as the Terminator to others, savored the silence, crouching in the shadows on the roof of the Wayne Enterprises building, waiting. He had been here for two nights now, and he was positive that tonight opportunity would come knocking. He had taken a contract on the current head of the D'Amico mob family, and after a few hours of "gentle" questioning of a number of thugs around the area, he'd found their main hideaway. After a few days of rigorous "research" and a few called-in favors, he'd found the number to their Swiss bank accounts.

Everything had fallen into place, and all that was left was to take out the man himself, and then he could get paid, go home, and have a nice, long, well-deserved soak.

When the cars came around, Slade knew it was time. He waited until Alonzo D'Amico and his entourage of goons had all entered his complex, making their way up to the penthouse suite, where Slade would get him.

Like a shadow across the floor, Slade shifted from his spot beneath the glowing Wayne sign, and launched himself gracefully from the rooftop into the night. A well-placed rope and hook brought him to the apartment complex's face, which he then scaled by hand like a human fly. He slipped in through an open window a few floors before the penthouse, walking calmly through a dim bedroom on his way to the main hall.

There was a gasp, and Slade glanced over, just as a bedside lamp clicked on, revealing a small boy, who clutched his Superman covers to his chest with a look of fearful surprise. At his pillow sat a small and worn-looking stuffed toy dog.

Slade raised a gloved finger to his masked face, to rest against the thin slots cut there in the metal. His voice was quiet and soothing. "Quiet, now," he told the boy, "And I'll see to it that Santa gets you that puppy."

The boy's eyes went wide, and his mouth opened for a moment before he snapped it back shut and nodded furiously.

"Good boy," Slade said with an invisible smile, "Nighty-night." He took his leave from the apartment into the hall of the complex, where he then headed for the stairs. He imagined there would be guards placed there, but they would be easy to take care of.

Slade could hear two of the D'Amico bodyguards chatting loudly in the stairwell, talking in a most unchivalrous and disagreeable way about ladies, a flight above him. He made sure that the door closed quietly before hopping up onto the rails and taking a running start before springing onto a higher set of rails and taking the guards by surprise.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Slade asked genially, before smashing his steel-tipped boot into the face of one the guards. The man collapsed limply to the floor, unconscious and now missing teeth.

The other had just finished pulling his pistol when Slade took a step down from the rails and brushed the gun to the side with a swift, practiced motion. A rigid hand right in the windpipe forced the guard to double-over, gasping with difficulty; he let out a strangled gargle, pressing a hand to his throat and weakly lifting his gun. By the time he'd raised it to eye-level, Slade had him by the collar, throwing him against the wall and forcing the pistol up against the guard's own chin.

"I suggest you find a new line of work," he told the guard evenly. "I guarantee the height is bad for your health."

"Hhhghuh kkhhgh?" asked the guard (still struggling to breathe).

"Height," Slade repeated, with a sly smile that was impossible to see through his mask, "Is the fifth leading cause of accidental death for your age group." He glanced momentarily at the window on the stairwell landing.

The guard made a pleading whimper, though it sounded more like choking.

"Look at that," said Slade cheerily, tapping the window pane while the guard looked on in horror. "You can see the main street from here."

The guard tried to whimper again, this time shaking his head furiously.

Slade regarded the guard with a cool stare. "Oh, don't you worry. I'm not going to throw you out the window."

The guard paused in his weeping, instead blinking at Slade rather curiously.

"It would be much too obvious, and I'm looking for something a little more on the subtle side," he said, as he lifted the guard and hauled him over one shoulder, turning instead to the stairwell's safety rail.

They were on the eighth floor.

By the time the guard pancaked on the first, Slade was already halfway to the door of D'Amico's penthouse suite.

Naturally, there were bodyguards stationed in each hall.

None of them lasted more than a few seconds against Slade's superior experience, though one managed to fire a round (though it was easily deflected by Slade's body armor) before he found himself kicked bodily through a solid oak door.

The gunshot alerted the other guards on the floor and (no doubt) sent a number of apartment-dwellers fleeing to their phones to dial 911. With a resigned sigh, Slade rolled his shoulders and ducked behind the nearest wall. He could hear the guards – he estimated that there were five in total – barreling down the hall, drawing guns and whispering to one another in voices too loud not to hear.

"Vinny, get around the corner," said one, his heavy footsteps slowing to a stop.

Slade heard the distinct sound of a shotgun hammer being cocked.

The so-named Vinny stepped slowly down the hall, approaching the turn with paranoid caution. By the certainty of his steps, Slade figured the guard must have been ex-military. Too bad, he thought.

Slade could hear breaths being held, and he smirked knowingly as he counted down the seconds in his mind. Three, two…

On one, Vinny stepped around the corner, holding his shotgun at eye-level and already squeezing the trigger. Though even with this distinct advantage, Slade already had the upper hand. He was faster, grabbing Vinny by the arm and swinging him around the corner to meet face-first with the wall. The gun went off, though by that time, Slade was already out of target range, safely behind Vinny, twisting his arm behind his back to keep him immobilized, though the shotgun was still gripped in his hand.

"Vinny?!" yelled one of the other guards, rounding the corner with a heavy-caliber pistol poised to fire.

"Vinny is occupied," replied Slade, before forcing Vinny's hand closed around the trigger. The shotgun went off, ripping a number of unfortunate-sized holes in the guard's midsection. He dropped to the ground, looking stunned for a moment, before going limp.

Slade could hear the other three guards stammering in newfound rage. He had Vinny release his gun, kicking it out into the hall where the others gathered their courage, and laughed a cruel, dark laugh that echoed hollow and demonic through his metal mask.

"Nothing personal, Vinny," he said to his captive friend. "This is business."

Upon seeing the shotgun, the remaining three charged forward, rounding the corner with weapons drawn. Slade had already moved, holding up Vinny as a human shield. Poor Vinny took the brunt of their shots, though having him in the way did nothing to deter their assault. They ignored him and continued firing at the masked intruder.

Slade pushed forward, shoving the half-dead Vinny into the largest of the guards before throwing himself down and tucking into a roll. He straightened half-way through, springing up to stand on his hands, and twisted to kick the smaller two guards, catching one in the face and the other in the back of the head. One was rendered unconscious while the other merely collapsed, screaming about a broken nose.

Slade dropped to his feet, dusting off his gloved hands. A quick snap of the leg shut the howling guard up, and Slade turned an eye to the only remaining guard, who had just thrown poor Vinny to the ground.

The guard was huge, at least twice Slade's size; he looked like he could have been a prized pugilist. It was possible he had been one at some point, as shown by (Slade noted) the vague limp in one leg and the enormity of his shoulders and biceps. He also noted the light scars crisscrossing along his brows, under his eyes, his chin, and around his cheekbones.

The guard didn't move at first, contemplating the carnage that had taken place around him, all in under a minute. He glared at Slade, his dark brown eyes gleaming with hate. "Who are you?" he asked, though it sounded more like a statement.

"A man on a mission," Slade replied calmly, in a smooth voice that was utterly devoid of regret. "You seem like the intellectual sort. Run along and let me do my job."

The guard's eyes narrowed, as though realizing he was being mocked, but he remained still. "I can't let you do that," he growled.

"That's very noble," Slade said with a chuckle, "If futile. I'll kill you if I have to… but you already know that."

"I—"

"I'm running out of patience," Slade said, sharp and no longer amused.

The guard stiffened, raising his fists instinctively to guard his torso. "You're out'a time. I already--"

"You triggered D'Amico's personal silent alarm," Slade finished for him. "I know. The police will be here within the next six minutes, while D'Amico hides in his panic room." Slade raised his hands, his feet sliding into a neutral, balanced stance, relaxed and deadly. "Well, the police would be here in the next six minutes, if I hadn't set off two decoy alarms in separate parts of the city prior to my engagement here. So I beg to differ… I have all the time in the world."

The guard looked stunned at the sheer completeness of the assassin's foresight, but shook it off after a moment. "You'll pay for this," he gritted his teeth in a snarl and moved forward to engage his enemy.

"On the contrary," Slade quipped, "I'm going to get paid for this."

It was a patterned movement, a circling movement meant to herd, which Slade allowed to proceed for the time being. The guard shot out a fist in an experimental punch, testing the waters; Slade dodged with ease, and the movement changed.

The second punch grazed his head, making an awful cracking sound as it bounced off the side of his mask, though no harm was done. Slade was almost impressed, save for the sole fact that he had allowed it to happen, and the guard would not come so close again.

Noting that another minute had passed with their idle chit-chat, and more was being wasted in this mockery of a fair fight, Slade decided to finish the scuffle quickly. There would be fights for his amusement another day.

With a swift movement, Slade snuck a heavy fist through the other man's guard and sent him sprawling to the ground, unconscious.

Slade allowed himself a second to reflect on how pitifully easy it had been. Most boxers of this size could stand at least three hits.

Then, he was off, through the hall and up to the penthouse suite door.

With no further ado, Slade kicked the door in and headed straight to the bedroom closet. On his way there, he took careful note of the tiny winking light of the security alarm (signifying it had been secretly tripped), and of the mess (half a Chinese dinner still in its lantern-shaped boxes) that had been abandoned on the coffee table, next to a briefcase. The enormous plasma television was still on and showing a recording of last night's home basketball game.

Slade imagined that, at one point, there had also been a gun atop that briefcase, and silverware in those boxes. Bullets wouldn't be able to penetrate his costume, but he'd need to be wary of knives.

"Come out, come out, where ever you are," he called, in a slow lilt.

The bedroom was dim, the only light coming in from a sliver in the curtains. There were two windows of equal size, from which one could procure a lovely view of the street. The king-size bed was positioned between said windows, and was draped in expensive sheets.

He heard a light shuffle, coming from within the closet. From behind him, there was a hiss. Slade glanced at a grey tabby cat sitting atop the bedroom vanity, nestled among a mass of make-up jars and an obligatory wedding picture; it growled at him, the fur on its back standing on end. Slade took it as a compliment.

Ignoring the cat, he moved into the closet, flipping on the light. It was a long walk-in, three-fourths of which was filled with women's dresses and a long line of designer heels. The other fourth contained a number of men's dress suits and a few more casual pieces. Slade figured D'Amico thought of his lady as more of a trophy wife, providing eye-candy for his legion of mafia scumbags while he bought her silence with snappy shoes.

For a moment, Slade wondered who would take over once D'Amico was dead. He imagined there would be a power struggle among the higher-ups, which would in turn cripple the gang itself. Then again… No, thinking of consequences was not what he was being paid for. He was being paid to make a show. Slade moved to the back wall of the closet, tapping experimentally. It sounded hollow. Feeling along that same wall, he found a keypad hidden behind a camouflaged panel.

He'd had to do some particularly callous things to the panic room's creator in order to get the code, but got it he had. Slade picked a piece of paper from one of the pouches on his belt and punched in the recorded number. The door bleeped and began to swing open.

"Peek-a-boo," Slade's sing-song echoed eerily, "I see you."

There was indeed a man within the small, secret room, huddled in a corner, pressing himself against the wall in a futile attempt to blend in, clutching a golf club. Upon seeing the masked Slade, D'Amico swung, cracking the renowned Terminator in the face with his five-iron.

Slade stumbled back, but recovered faster than D'Amico could swing again. He caught the club before it connected, and twisted it out of the mafioso's grip. He then grabbed D'Amico by the back of his shirt and slammed him into the door frame, before dragging him out of the twenty foot closet and to one of the bedroom windows.

Slade picked up D'Amico by the collar and looked at him seriously. "Do you know who I am?"

"S-son ovva b-"

"No, that's wrong," Slade corrected him. "I am Deathstroke. I am the Terminator, and you," he forced D'Amico up against the window so hard, the glass cracked. "You are an instigator," he pulled the crime lord back, before slamming him back again, spreading the crack to the top of the window. "You are a drug dealer and a murderer," Slade pulled D'Amico back, and with a last push, forced the man through the window, glass exploding outwards and showering the street far below, alerting passers-by. "But today… today, you will be nothing more than a statistic. What do you have to say for yourself?"

D'Amico, torn, bloody and not nearly unconscious enough to bear it, grasped weakly at Slade's massive hands, his legs kicking in vain. "P-please," he moaned, the tears in his voice prominent. "Please! I- I gotta family, man-! Please, let me go-!"

Slade paused, invisible eyebrows rising. "Interesting choice of words," he said, and released the man's shirt. Nine stories up, it would be a miracle if he lived. At the very least, his body in the street would cause a traffic jam, and he'd bleed out before help could get there in time. The police, naturally, would cover it all up, and the tabloids would make the whole event a circus. All in all, a job well done (if he dared say so himself).

For now, Slade turned to go. It wouldn't do to be seen.

He took his leave out of the penthouse and out the fire escape in the stairwell, where he slipped up the nearest building ladder and onto the roof.

A few buildings along his getaway route, Slade stopped abruptly. Looking up, he saw the most incredible thing take place overhead. The light was piercing; a bright green streak that split the night sky through the grey-white clouds. It hit the Earth with ground-shaking impact, throwing up a billowing cloud of dust into the frosty night air, tinted by eerie, emerald light.

Slade could only stare, stunned by that magnificent display. His eye followed the trail, up, up, up far into the sky, into the stratosphere. Was it an exceptionally small meteor? If that was indeed what it was, then what could explain the green glow?

With excitement in his eye, Slade Wilson surged forward, vaulting over roofs, then down an awning to the ground, where he made his way to the crash site.

The crater he found was at least eight feet deep, and double that across. He took a few cautious steps forward, pulling his metal staff from his belt and holding it at ready, before he strode close enough to peer in.

He barely dodged when something his size leapt out at him, swinging its shining metal arms at his head, furiously screeching words he'd never heard before. It pivoted, gathering momentum for a second swing, and a third, each one aimed for his head. He barely saw its face, concentrating on keeping from getting caught in what would no doubt be a deadly blow.

He leapt far back from it, taking in his enemy; it looked to be a tall girl with an orange-yellow face, framed by a silver, crown-like headpiece. Long, tangled red hair fluttered out behind her as she charged forward at him, her voice cracking in a wild war-call, her eyes glowing fiercely with the green energy he'd seen before. Slade noted that she seemed to be thrown off-balance by the metal on her arms, as though they had been designed for that purpose. Was she a prisoner of some sort?

Slade held onto that thought as he dodged a vertical swing that shattered concrete, and with a quick flick of the wrist, struck her on the back of the head with his staff. She screamed, infuriated, tearing her unwieldy shackles from the ground and turning ferociously on him, growling again in words he could not identify.

During that moment she took to reorient herself, Slade made another mental note: subject possesses a hardy physiology. He took simultaneous note of her clothes. They were – or had been, at one point before today's crash-landing, clean. They fit her like traveling clothes, loose in the places that didn't matter, but tailored at the joints not to catch. They were made for fighting, as he could see by the bits of metal. No… the metal pads at her shoulders were decorative, as was the crown on her head. Those would do nothing to protect her from fight damage. Slade would certainly know: his own costume was designed in much the same way.

She charged head-first towards him, like a bull, and he made ready to dodge -- but she spun at the last moment, past him, before turning sharply and catching him in the back with the broad side of her metal shackles, knocking him to the ground. Slade rolled to his feet with a hiss of pain, a smile glimmering in his eye.

"That was quite good," he told her, rising to his feet and lightly dusting off an arm. "Believe me when I say it won't happen again."

The girl snarled at him, watching him with eyes that glowed so brightly, they cast the area around them with a gentle green glamour. Slade thought it all very beautiful. Her movement, especially: like a highly intelligent animal caught in a trap.

The girl came at him, with an upwards swing, which Slade dodged by taking his running momentum a few yards up the side of a building, which he then used to kick off a jump that would take him over the alien girl's head. He landed deftly, and then leapt to the side as the girl brought her sledgehammer swing crashing down in the place where he had once been. With another quick movement, he rapped her hard at the base of her spine with the butt of his staff.

She did not seem terribly affected by this one, either, as she let out another growl and turned to face him, as before. Slade pursed his lips in thought. "My, aren't you resilient," he murmured. It appeared as though she preferred direct attacks; there was no subtlety at all in her fighting style.

She swept around towards him like a tiger. Slade dropped to the ground and swept her feet out from under her. She hit the ground with a yelp (an angry one), and twisted, bringing her heavy metal arms around to swipe back at him, which Slade made an impressive-looking back-flip to avoid. He snapped the staff down on the crown of her head.

She bared her teeth in another snarl, almost frothing, barking a few harsh words. Slade figured she'd finally come to the realization that he was toying with her. She began to stalk towards him, and this time he didn't move. Oh, he could certainly beat her, and easily at that, but instead he decided on a different and better course of action.

"I'd like to propose a truce," he said, his voice patient and authoritative, like a dignified general. He pointed at the large cylinders of metal that sheathed her forearms. "Those seem to be hindering you. Would you like me to remove them?"

For a moment, her eyes flicked down, to regard her shackles, and then back up at his masked face. She spat, and charged forward with a yell. Using his staff, Slade vaulted over her head, landing with a roll far enough behind her to avoid her turning swing altogether.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked, in an amused voice. "I think you'd do a much better job of catching me without them."

Slade wondered if he'd struck a nerve, as she seemed to bristle, sputtering and vociferating what Slade imagined were harsh words about his mother.

"Forgive me, but I don't know what that means," Slade reminded her. He kept a wary, ready stance, one hand out for balance, eyeing her with curiosity. She did not know English, that was clear, but could she tell what he meant by the tone of his voice? "I want to help you," he told her, in the most sincere voice he could summon, as he gestured again to the shackles.

This time, the girl seemed to pause, eyes narrowed and analyzing. She snorted, after a moment of thought, and growled something harsh.

Slade relaxed his stance, spreading his hands as he carefully set down his staff, and stepped back away from it.

She stared hard at him, and issued a command.

Slade considered for a moment what she could have said, and then noted she must have meant his mask. After all, how can one trust a person whose face they cannot see? Clever girl, he thought. And well, what harm could it do? She lacked the social dexterity to use it against him, and her intentions here were pretty much transparent. She didn't care about who he was to Earth; she just wanted to know who he was going to be to her. After all, the eyes are the window to the soul, he mused.

Slade raised a hand to his face, and quietly removed the plate, pulling back the fabric with practiced, careful movements.

He looked much older than he moved, his face marred by laugh lines, his hair cut short and dignified, like a businessman, a bit matted from the costume; he had a bit of nicely-trimmed white beard around his chin that gave him a definite air of respectability. A white eye-patch covered his dead right eye, though the other was quite alive, as blue in color as the sky in spring, off-set by the snow white of his hair. She seemed a bit surprised at his appearance, perhaps caught off-guard by his apparent age. He smiled some, to put her at ease, a charming look that suited his businesslike demeanor.

"I just want to help you," he said, the smile reflecting in his blue eye.

She looked to be at a loss for words, blinking somewhat bewilderedly. She didn't move when he stepped towards her, instead pursing her lips, contemplating his truthfulness. He supposed she must have been rather desperate as, after a moment, she held up her arms with an expectant look. He thought he saw a glimmer of excitement in her eyes, though he couldn't really tell past the glow. He wasn't entirely sure if she even had pupils.

He carefully placed his hands on the shackles (he wouldn't put it past her to attempt to knock him out then and there), feeling their cold through his gloves, and peered at their surface, looking for a keyhole. After a moment of seeing nothing, he paused to remove his gloves, and then resumed, this time feeling for anything that might constitute a way to unlock it.

She watched him intently, watched how delicately he ran fingers over the contraption that trapped her, seeking her freedom; she watched his face, how firm and serious he looked, as though he sought his own freedom.

She looked up suddenly at the sound of sirens. Slade, too, turned for a moment, before re-establishing eye contact. "Follow me," he told her, pulling lightly on her shackles. She blinked, finding herself nodding.

Picking up his staff and after snapping on his mask, Slade headed for the nearest alley, from which he scaled the nearest wall onto the nearest roof. Halfway up, he remembered that the girl wouldn't be able to follow, and reluctantly began to descend again--

She passed him, flying, shooting straight into the air and landing somewhat ungracefully, her arms severely weighed down.

The surprise must have manifested in his bearing, because she smiled (not a little victoriously) down at him as he quickly finished his climb. He smiled back at her, an unseen gesture that reflected in his eye. But he smiled because the night had just gotten a lot more interesting.

He glanced back as a cop car roared onto the scene (one because, well, the rest had a lot of other things to attend to). They were rushing to block off the area surrounding the crater, and moving in to see what had made it. They wouldn't find it, of course, because Slade had it right here. They were hiding in plain sight. He turned a hidden smirk to her.

"Come with me to my home," he requested, genially, with a well-placed touch to the cold metal. "We'll get these off of you and find you someplace to rest, a bit of food… perhaps a way home. Would you like that?" he asked, in an oh-so tempting voice.

She seemed to consider his soothing voice for a moment, before she let out a growl, presenting her shackled forearms with more fervor than before.

"You want them off now, do you?" Slade asked, his blue eye laughing. "Very well, my dear. You drive a hard bargain," he told her, his voice very carefully inoffensive. He placed a hand on the cool metal, and examined it again. "I don't see any keyholes on this," he murmured. "Here, lift it," he said putting pressure on the underside of the contraption. Automatically, the girl lifted her arms (he could see her shoulders strain when she did -- she was obviously very strong) and Slade glanced beneath it. She peered at him grimly from between her arms. He noted her eyes no longer glowed; she did, in fact, have irises and pupils. Green sclera, green irises, he noted. Intriguing.

After a moment of examination, he still could find nothing. "Perhaps the lock is electrical," he theorized, mostly to himself. The alien girl watched his every move with quiet eyes, drinking in the nuances of his hands and voice. "Or perhaps this is only the first step," he proposed. After a moment, he looked directly at her. "Tell me, you witnessed this thing's assembly," he rapped the metal cylinder with a knuckle, "This is a casing. The lock is underneath?"

She stared at him, her attention undivided. He rather liked her eyes; they masked a vast, humanlike intelligence, while at the same time catlike and wild. She spoke then, in words he did not understand, but her eyes darted to the shackles' rim.

"Then we ought to remove the cover," he suggested, marking his initial theory as true for now. "I have some tools in my workshop. We'll need to go there."

Her eyes narrowed at him, and she growled in her harsh language, brandishing her shackles like a too-heavy weapon. She looked very desperate to be free of them, he noted, correcting his previous assumption. There must be someone after her.

"It won't take long," he comforted, setting a careful hand on the metal casing and easing it down. "I promise."

Her eyes betrayed mixed feelings about his offer, something which he noted immediately and filed away for later. He made the gesture for her to follow, and he turned and began heading towards the other side of the building's rooftop. Without looking back, he took a running start and pole-vaulted from this roof to the next, and continued thusly until the buildings were too high to crest.

He stopped then, and rustled a hand around in a pocket on his belt, from which he extracted a small cell-phone. He dialed a memorized number, and placed it to his mask-covered ear. He could hear steps behind him, and did not need to turn to know that the alien girl had indeed followed him. Build up enough mystery and enough hope, and anyone will follow. It was only natural, and this one… well, this one had no sense of subterfuge.

It was a problem that could be fixed, given the right circumstances…

A trim, pleasant voice answered, to which Slade immediately responded, in a cool voice with an edge of command, "Wintergreen, my friend; I'm going to need you to bring around the car. I've got a guest with a rather… intriguing… problem. Time is of the essence."

"Of course," was the reply. Slade then relayed his location, and the wheels of destiny were set in motion. He smiled as he snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into his belt, as the pieces began gathering to fall into place.

Oh, this would be an interesting night indeed.

--

Wintergreen pulled around the corner of the building in an unmarked, black luxury car. Slade made use of the shadows, slipping into the car almost unnoticed, but the girl was attracting attention, clambering around like a chained rhinoceros, grunting and complaining at the passage of time. He coaxed her into the car with him with a very straightforward gesture, hardly taking notice of her impatience. She responded with a frown and a huff and, after a sideways glance at the gaping passers-by, calmly climbed in to join him. The car creaked and tipped gently to one side, the weight of the shackles clearly more than Slade had anticipated.

She muttered something else, as she sat, staring out the window with fascination, watching the neon lights zip past as Wintergreen took them away from the city. She was quite tall, Slade noted, her head nearly brushing the felt-covered ceiling, though the tips of her metal crown threatened to poke and tear holes in it.

Slade regarded the back of her head coolly, waiting. She continued to murmur, commenting, perhaps, on the landscape and its differences to wherever it was that she was from. She kept glancing at the sky, he noticed, as though she were searching for something. He supposed she was keeping watch for whatever might come looking for her. She was tense and, Slade noted, she had not relaxed a single iota of muscle since he'd met her.

Well, he conceded rationally, she had every right in the world (and a multitude of others, he guessed) to be paranoid.

"We'll be there soon," he said soothingly. Her head jerked to focus on him, eyes wide and furious, her jaw set in a grimace. He saw the emotions clashing there, and was not at all surprised when she snarled a question at him, which he presumed to mean something along the lines of "why are you being so nice."

He flashed a charming smile at her, though he was quite aware she couldn't see it, and answered, quite warmly, "My dear, I'm only trying to help. I think if you'd give me the chance, we could be very good friends. I think you're a lovely specimen, and I'd rather like to get to know you better."

He saw a flutter of flattery cross her face, which disappeared almost as immediately as it appeared, replaced by a gruff frown. She huffed again, turning up her nose and looking away from him.

Ah, so that was how it was to be, Slade thought amusedly. The sly, one-sided, victorious smile never really left his face as they finished their car ride in silence.

When they arrived, she stepped out of the car with a moderately sober expression. She didn't seem too terribly impressed with his home, which by all accounts was a veritable mansion of a place (and indeed was a place Slade had specially designed to suit his needs -- he had several, actually, but this one was by far the most especial for one reason in particular).

She must have come from a rather spectacular place, Slade mused.

The driver didn't leave the car, for which Slade would thank him later. For now, he ushered the alien girl into his home, into a rather Gothic atrium with a very tall ceiling, through which light majestically streamed, illuminating the room with beautiful gold glow that reflected off the marble columns… or it would have, if it had been light outside. At the moment, it just seemed very, very dark, as though the ceiling stretched into the black night.

He led her past the sweeping staircase and into a long hallway that would lead to his study. There were no pictures on the walls of his home, save for some small and intricately-detailed portraits by Renaissance men with Dutch names, for which he might have shelled out quite a lot of money if the paintings had not been on five-finger discount at the Jump City Museum of Art.

The study itself was as large as a library -- which, in point of fact, it was. The walls were covered in shelves (when it was not covered by windows), which in turn were filled with countless books, some which were antique, some which were priceless; some which were useful, and some which were merely decorative. He flipped a number of switches by the door, which flooded the library with light from fancy, Baroque style wall sconces; and it was here that the alien girl actually seemed awed.

Well, thought Slade, at least she has good taste.

He directed her to an equally overly fancy chair, which she sat on rather heavily, arms dangling between her knees, the shackles dragging.

"Wait right here, my dear," he told her, before smoothly moving to an intricately carved chest sitting beneath a window. The girl gazed around at all the books, marveling at their numbers, and perhaps at the design of the room, as well.

Slade returned to take her arm (she glared at him when he did), and lead her towards a bookcase which had opened to reveal a stone and wood-paneled passageway. He felt for a switch on the newly exposed wall, which triggered another line of wall sconces to alight and guide their way.

The shelf closed behind them, once they had gone a few yards, and the secret hall led out into a large, open room. The first thing one saw when they entered this room was the enormous grandfather clock sitting at the other end of the room, watching over everything like an old ancestor (and tut-tutting at everything much like one, as well).

He indicated her to sit in a much less decorative metal chair at the end of one of the many large metal worktables, and strode over to a large steel storing cabinet, from which he extracted a cutting torch, a welder's mask, and a pair of black-tinted welder's goggles.

He offered her the goggles, holding up the mask to his own (albeit masked) face in demonstration. "You might need these, though considering you entered Earth's atmosphere without them, I may be incorrect."

She looked at him like he was stupid. He'd expected it, of course. "As you wish," he added. "I'll have you out in a little while."

He had her set her arms at an angle to the corner edge of the table, so that the end piece of her metal shackles stuck out the other side. He replaced his costume mask with the welder's mask and fired up the torch. The girl's eyes widened in fascination at the sight of blue flame (and remained uninjured throughout the duration -- quite the hardy being indeed). The casing proved to be made of a much harder material than he'd expected. He managed, after a great deal of work, to carve a shallow cut down the center. The torch would not heat up any more, and this made a full cut into this unidentified metal composite impossible.

He removed his welder's mask and stared down at his work with such intensity that the girl attempted to give him a piece of… wisdom, perhaps. Her voice was the most sympathetic he'd heard out of her all night.

She stood afterward, and calmly walked to a bare corner of the room. Slade turned his attention to her after a moment, eyebrow raised at--

He stood abruptly when she began beating the shackles against the concrete floor with a primal scream. And then she turned it on the wall, and then on a table (which would hereafter never be the same again), and then back to the floor until it cracked and the casing clanged from her still-bound arms, torn at the center where he'd tried to make the cut. What was left of her bindings was white metal that bound her forearms together. Right at the center, there was a small hole, to which a key surely went.

Her hands, however, were free. She unclenched her fists, stretching her fingers and bending her wrists as far as the shackles would allow.

"Now, that," Slade said calmly, with a sly smile, "is something of which I can surely be of assistance."

He reached for his belt, where he always kept his lock-pick set handy, extracted a pick and a tension wrench, and made short work of the remaining piece of her shackles. The white metal hit the ground with a heavy sound, and Slade's mind briefly wandered over the countless possibilities these nigh-indestructible metals presented.

The girl turned to regard Slade with victorious eyes, working her hands with growing excitement. He noted that she still wore what looked to be metal forearm armor, perhaps also decorative. Then he noticed the look in her eyes had grown sly. She lunged at him, forcing him back over a table, and he only barely managed to deflect what might have been a thank-you kiss. She glared at him over his gloved hand, which he'd set firmly between her mouth and his.

"Now, now, my dear," he said, a highly amused twinkle in his blue eye, "On our planet, a lady doesn't kiss on the first date." Her eyes narrowed at the humor in his voice, and she grabbed his wrist in one hand, threading the other around to grab the back of his head. "Or maybe I'm just old-fashioned," Slade said with a laugh, as he used his feet to throw the girl off of him, before twisting off the other side of the table and onto his feet again.

She had landed on the worktable across from his, leaving a noticeable dent in the surface. She rose slowly, however, with a strange smile spreading across her face.

Oh my, thought Slade. She had a trump card all along.

As she raised her hands, Slade moved first; he kicked over the table, diving behind it just as she let loose a barrage of glowing green bolts of energy. He crawled quickly behind the length of table as energy exploded above and behind him, cursing himself for leaving his staff back in the study. An unfortunate miscalculation he would not repeat. For now, however, he'd have to make do.

He reached for a hammer sitting at the top of a toolbox, and suddenly paused.

He realized she'd stopped shooting.

She also, he noted, had ceased breathing.

Slade sat up, looking about.

She was gone.

The horrific crunch of old wood splintering confirmed that she'd gone back to the study. Slade cursed and leapt over the table to follow.

He came to a halt in the shadows of the broken bookshelf-door, peering out into the study… he saw the girl standing at the window, one long, armored arm holding the heavy curtain to one side. His staff leaned on the old wood desk several feet behind her. It was possible to get it before she noticed him, but with the new variable of energy bolts added to the equation, Slade wasn't entirely sure of how to handle her after he'd retrieved his staff.

Yet.

At any rate, a direct assault would not be the wisest tactic: her sheer brute strength would see to it that any such action would fail miserably.

Similarly, he'd prefer the library stay in one piece. She'd already wrecked one set of shelving (and a few tables of sturdier material), so he could only imagine the amount of damage she could do to the rest of it if given sufficient motivation.

She looked distracted, though Slade knew better than to take that for granted. He slipped out from the shadows, taking careful, quiet steps which brought him quickly to the desk, where he took his staff in hand. She hadn't turned to acknowledge him. He made a bit more noise with his next few steps, bringing himself closer to her, testing her mood.

Her eyes never left the thing in the distance. Slade gazed over her shoulder; she was nearly as tall as he was, and he briefly wondered how old she was. Then, his eye settled on a massive, metallic form in the sky.

"I see we have visitors," said Slade, his voice a mix of amusement and surprise. The enormous ship had overtaken the skyline, giant and gold and glowing. His eye fell to the red-haired alien girl, who finally turned to look at him, with a strange expression that Slade might have considered fearful, if not for the snapping anger in her eyes.

She whispered something to him, in a bitter, cracking voice.

He looked into her emerald eyes, his face grim.

She repeated the words.

Slade considered them, for a moment, as his eye flicked back to the ship coming in over the bay. "We will deal with this."

Her expression turned bewildered. She did not have to understand his language; his bearing said it all. He had set his shoulders, parallel to his feet, hands clasped behind his back; a military stance if ever she had seen one. His blue eye was calculating and icy, and she could not help the tingle that ran up her spine.

The girl let out a breath, moving a hand to his shoulder, leaning into him, her head slowly, gracefully, almost closing the distance between their lips.

Well, thought Slade. If you really do insist

The sound of glass shattering on the hardwood floor made the two pause, not quite having sealed the gap. The voice that followed was nothing short of complete and utter fury. "What the Hell, Slade?!"

Slade closed his eye, letting out a small and irritated sigh. Terra, he berated mentally, you have the strangest timing.


A/N: I bet you totally expected Terra to be thrown into the mix. Well, you were right. Good job. Tune in next chapter, where our anti-heroes will fix all their problems by blowing things up!

Also, first person to imply that I had Slade quote Ledger!Joker needs to shut the hell up. I am quoting the Deathstroke comic book, and this whole fic was written before the movie was even released. D: