Slade Wilson was complicated at best. She just hadn't really realised it until she was staring down the barrel of a gun. His gun. The pistol was poised at her forehead, foot rammed into her throat for just long enough to prove that this was a business call and that he was calling the shots. The Latin woman had heard stories of course, those that ranged from one extreme to the other. Mercy drenched in blood. It made her feel sick, helpless beneath the boot of an assassin. A mercenary that who, in actuality, was giving her a look that vaguely resembled understanding on some vague level.
So how had she gotten in this mess, you might ask? The same way ever two-bit heroine gets caught up in the web of trouble. She'd been doing her job the good ol' fashioned way. Grayson had taught her to stay quiet, to stalk the shadows and subdue without loss of life. It was a nice sentiment, but a delusion in this day and age. It was kill or be killed. She'd opted for the former. Orange and black garb had been pulled on with no hesitation, guns holstered at both her hip and thigh. She wasn't a fed, not anymore. But lord, it was a hard mindset to shake.
She'd tracked down her target. A drug dealer. The pusher that was kitting children out with heroin. Tarantula had no problems with a little pick me up, but children were an entirely different matter. You don't kill in front of them, you don't drug them up, and you certainly don't start encouraging them to take to the streets and become the very thing you're fighting. So understandably, this little threat, needed wiping out. A bullet to the brain would suffice. No mess, no fuss. Just a clean shot.
Catalina hadn't been the only one on that wave length. There were people much higher up in the social hierarchy to initiate such a brutal distraction. People that could afford to have Deathstroke on their payroll. In her defence, he was the best of the best. But she still should've heard him coming. She'd let her guard down, and that's how it had all started on that slippery slope. A few more feet and she would've had a clear shot. A few more feet and she would've been out of hitting distance too. The thrill of the hunt was clouding her judgement, much like the same way innocent blood hindered her moral standing.
The strike took her by surprise, a kick executed with such precision giving her little time to react other than falling sideways to the floor with a mild stream of cursing escaping those darkened lips. She saw the flicker of white, but it was the eye patch that had her heart skipping a beat. She was ready to gun down a marked target, and lord, she was hitting herself inside for it. Rolling onto her back, muscles tensed as the boot pressed down on her trachea. Air was reduced, but not stopped completely. This was simply a warning.
"My target. My rules." He knew perfectly well about the feeling of cleaning these streets. Of ridding the world of it's greatest flaws and shedding that precious crimson that nobody would dare condone. He'd led that life for long enough, and perhaps that was why he felt a sense of camaraderie with the female arachnid under his boot. She was in the way however, a fact he wasn't sure if he should acknowledge or not. Flores had been so easily subdued, so naïve to let her guard down, but she wasn't completely devoid of merit. She was still glaring at him even now. So he had to do it.
There was no other option.
The gun poised at her temple slowly withdrew, the boot finally relenting it's position on her throat. Mercy was a rarity, at least where he was concerned. So this was no merciful act, not in the slightest. This was education. He was already moving by the time she sat up, arm extending to line up his shot for the cowering target just feet away. Catalina subconsciously held her breath as he let the shot fire, the bloodied target sliding down the wall with a soft cry of pain.
Slade turned his head. Locked that single eye onto the now standing Tarantula, who in turn just responded with a look of her own. They didn't need to say anything to each other, that look would suffice on both accounts. So with no hesitation he left, boots carrying him from the room just as swiftly and silently as he had arrived.
The dark hued woman lowered herself to the ground once more, a long breath being expelled from her mouth as she raked a hand through her hair. She definitely knew what the Canary saw in him. But this? This was simply professional understanding.