A/N: What up? So I had an idea on my birthday recently that I want to try writing something different from the usual KFP story stuff. For those of you following me because of Unbound, I hope you all enjoy this little One-Shot I thought of in anticipation for the new Arkham Origins video game. For all of those reading because they love DC fanfiction... Hi, I'm Wra1thRid3r! Pleasure to write for you. This is my first DC fic so I hope I do some justice (pun not intended). Finally, for those of you who love Deathstroke/Slade, I hope I do this right. I love his character, so much. Okay! Here we go.

Disclaimer: Deathstroke the Terminator is owned by DC comics

Enter the Terminator

Gotham... what a Hell hole.

Out of all the dank, disturbed urban hubs he took jobs in, this one held the most filth. Even with the innocent blanket of snow covering the streets and skylines of the dense metropolis, he could still smell the stink of corruption and decay which emanated like noxious fumes from a neglected exhaust pipe. He felt like vomiting whenever he had to come back here, it was so nauseating. But a job was a job... and he couldn't turn this one down.

The Batman.

A few weeks ago he had been contacted by an agent of a local crime lord: The Black Mask. It seemed that, as of late, the masked vigilante had been encroaching on the self proclaimed crime king's elated ego. This of course, in a cesspool such as Gotham, was a blemish on the record of any decent criminal or cut throat who made themselves a reputation in the city. This "hero" had become something of an icon; a beacon of hope to the more helpless pathetic denizens who dwelled within the filth of this city. In a little over a year the Bat had made himself the most wanted man in the Gotham City Police Department, as well as a stand alone soldier of the people. He was a regular pariah who did things his own way; Slade understood such desires.

Though, in the end, none of this mattered to the steely assassin; to any paid killer for that matter. You can admire and praise a man for his deeds, honor, and prowess in combat; that is to be expected. However, prey is still prey. And this prey was promised to be the most challenging of the Terminator's entire career.

Feeling a sudden twinge of anticipation, Slade stood from his vantage point several stories above the city streets. Removing his collapsible staff from his back he sprinted towards the edge of the snow covered roof. As he rapidly closed the gap between himself and the last lip of the concrete available to him his muscles tensed. He sprung forward with super human agility, easily clearing the dark gap between buildings as he stuck the landing on the other side.

From there he continued his locomotive movement from roof top to roof top, executing dangerous and difficult feats of agility as he effortlessly soared over each building. Through the hole in his mask Slade could feel the sting of the bitter winter wind; the occasional flake of snow making landfall on the barely exposed flesh of his face. He reveled in the bite of the cold air as the mixture of pain and adrenaline pumping through his system made him feel so very alive.

I wonder if you can bring me this glorious sensation... Batman, he mused as he continuously charged forward through the cold night.

It was true that the last couple of contracts the famed hit-man had taken had been... less than satisfying. Fattened warlords, petty thugs, and the occasional terrorist faction were lucrative pay; and they certainly helped to broaden his arsenal of death. But the warrior within him, the soldier of honor that he professed himself to be was never truly satisfied. He desired more than mediocrity; he had even before the experiment which changed his lot in life. Slade T. Wilson was a man who always pushed himself to the very edges of his abilities. His skill as a tactician and fighter were unrivaled, and that was the most bitter realization of all. He was a lone warrior on the peak of physical and mental perfection, but he grew weary of the solitude. Neither money nor fame could replace what Deathstroke the Terminator desired most in the world: An equal.

Then suddenly out nowhere this cowled man, this dark knight, rides out into the ruined streets of Gotham with a vengeance matched only by heroes of myth and legend. Within the span of a few months he had the filth of Gotham squirming in fear and cowering in the shadows, desperately trying to evade his wrath. But he always found them; he was a hunter, after all. And within the short time that he made himself known to the world, the Bat had managed to shift the very balance of power in Gotham. Crime no longer ruled this decadent metropolis: He did.

In many ways, Batman's sudden appearance was Slade's long awaited answer to a desperate prayer. A chance to finally face off with a worthy opponent in unbridled combat. It was the chance of a life time, and he would be damned if he ever passed up this amazing opportunity.

After sprinting across what seemed to be an endless string of low roofs he found himself approaching a towering structure. Without breaking pace he quickly scanned for the fastest available route. The constant hail of snow pelting his eye obscured his vision as he grew closer and closer to the end of his time window. But in between the buildings sat the brightly lit Gotham streets below, and the gap that separated the structures was too broad for even Slade's top speed. His eye narrowed as he approached his target and he leapt full force into the sea of lights below.

From the roof top he had only recently abandoned, his orange and black clad figure disappeared from view. The last trace of his presence were the deep footprints he left in the snow behind him, and within moments of snow fall they had already begun to fill. Then from the soft whisper of the night wind came a loud roar as a GCPD dirigible rose up from the streets below, carrying with it atop its frame an unexpected passenger.

Slade had heard the air ship's engines miles away and had anticipated its projected flight path through the city to this very point. He had been waiting for this ride to come along for quite some time. Without it he was worried he would be late.

The tattered ends of Deathstroke's token balaclava twisted like furious serpents as he stood up into the ripping winds which tore by. Thousands of lights of varying brightness and hues glowed dimly in the dull luster of his helmet. Yet within the hard gaze of the proud warrior's solitary eye he held the city in its entirety. Bracing himself against the raging gusts of air, Slade crossed his arms over his chest. More thoughts spilled over his mind.

As the air craft slowly hovered over the streets below his thoughts turned once again to the task at hand. The job was simple: One night, Fifty million dollars, Kill Batman. It was the last thought which made the hardened mercenary crack a foreign smile. He was a killer; a gun for hire willing to take on absolutely any job offered to him. He had faced down scores of highly trained men and come out on top. And all of them seemed worthless in sight of this new target. A man who single handedly brought the criminal world of Gotham to it's knees in terror and apprehension. A man whose skill in hunting and openly combating his prey was unmatched. A man who now had a fifty million dollar bounty on his head and eight of the world's deadliest assassin's on his heels.

Slade shivered with sheer anticipation of their eventual confrontation. If all went according to plan it would be he and no one else who would face the Bat that night. His inner romantic took over as he saw it all play out in his mind's eye. It would be him and the masked vigilante face to face in an empty shipping yard, their hushed breathing barely carrying over the sound of the quiet moans of the wind and snow. Then they would clash; two warriors of unparalleled skill and prestige locked in a life or death struggle beneath the brilliant pale moon above. Fists would break ribs, blades would pierce flesh, will would be pit against will; he could think of nothing more exquisite than that.

He was so excited that he wanted to just burst out laughing like a fool. But then a disturbing thought crossed his mind. If he did best the Batman; if in their deadly struggle he was able to prove himself the better of the two combatants, how would it end? His brow creased underneath his helmet as the thought broke his concentration and muddied his mind with doubt. He closed his eye and imagined all the ways their fight could end that night; the losses, the stalemates, the interruptions. But whenever he focused on winning, he could never see the ending blow. It wasn't as though he lacked the imagination. Rather, he couldn't force himself to see the finishing move.

Frustrated and more than a little confused he made his way to the edge of the dirigible. When barely passing by a tall building, ornamented with gothic architectural features, the assassin nonchalantly hopped off of his makeshift transportation and onto a wide ledge decorated with fierce gargoyle statues. He paced along the edge of the over hang, putting himself mere inches away from an over four hundred foot drop. The dirigible began to make a slow ascent towards the top of the building in preparations for it's journey over the Gotham Canal. Making his way over to one of the disturbing busts the troubled mercenary placed a heavy metal boot down on its stone surface. From there he leaned forward and casually rest an arm on his knee in silent contemplation.

The Terminator had always relied on his sense of honor to guide his judgement in any situation. As a warrior it had always steered him in the right direction. It was what always drove him to get the job done, no questions asked. He knew he would follow it even though it had cost him his home, his sight, and almost even his own son. It was what made him the man he was, and he was damned proud of that fact.

But as he stood there atop that gargoyle he felt a cold, long forgotten sensation of dread creep up his spine. It wasn't fear of fighting the Bat. It was uncertainty of completing the job. When all was said and done, could he do it?

Can I kill the Batman?

He balled his hands into fists at the thought of his own hesitation. He disliked this feeling of unease; frankly it pissed him off. A metallic growl echoed from underneath his helmet and in a movement that was as lightning he turned around and hammered his fist into the concrete wall behind him, burying it within its fractured surface.

Then, without further hesitation, he flew into the air and began ascending towards the top of the tower. Using his bo-staff he executed numerous flips and wall kicks as he flew up the side of the building with intense ferocity. Within a span of seconds he had overcome the air craft in altitude and in a few more he landed on the roof with a heavy thud.

A flurry of snow jumped up around him from the harsh impact, shrouding his body in white as he rose to his feet. There he stood, the snow slowly falling from the heavens only to collect on the chilled surface of his deathly helm. He was a grim sight to behold, and the silent stillness he maintained after rising to full height was petrifying.

Slade rummaged through the contents of his mind for the answer to his befuddlement. It took several moments, but eventually he found it. It was a simple, ludicrous answer: I don't want to kill him.

The biggest contract of his career, the biggest payoff of his life, the greatest prey of he ever hunted and he didn't want to finish the job?! The idea seemed overwhelmingly preposterous, at first. However, as he let his professional views on the job take a seat on the sidelines he finally understood.

He was expected to kill a man that night. Not just any ordinary man, however, but the only man who could ever rival him in combat. The only man that could ever challenge him at all. He remembered that lonely peak he had stood upon all those years. Now that he had a companion, a kindred soul, to stand atop the frozen heath with him, he was not sure he wanted to be alone again. He was afraid of eternal solitude.

Finally, after what seemed like ages of stillness the mercenary made his way over to edge of the roof where he looked out over the expanse of the dark waters below. Very soon it would all begin. Soon they would meet. Soon they would fight.

Then, as if a cloud rising into the atmosphere, the familiar bloated form of the aircraft hovered in front of the two-tone hit-man. As it rose higher, the numerous ropes that draped over her sides like a ragged dress blew eerily with each gust of wind. Slade started to reach out for one of these and paused before taking hold. The question needed an answer.

Can you finish this job?

The end of the rope was climbing higher and higher into the air. Soon he would miss his chance.

Can you kill the Batman?

He closed his eye. The rope near his hand moving more violently as the end drew closer to his palm.

"I don't know," With a snag his fist clenched around the last foot of rope with an iron grip, hoisting his body high into the air and over the frozen waters below. When he opened his deep blue eye again a spark of defiance burned within it and the edge of a smile could be seen creasing his face. "But I'm going to make damn sure no else has that chance."

A/N: Well there it is. Hope you all enjoyed. This was kinda something I wanted to write in order to get back into the swing of writing as well as I wanted to do justice for a really awesome anti-hero. Alrighty then, Review, PM, Subscribe if you wish. Otherwise keep on rockin'!

-WR