CHAPTER III:

KILLING IS MY BUSINESS

(AND BUSINESS IS GOOD)

The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world.

-John 1:9

One compromises by conquering.

-Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

There's someone in my head, but it's not me.

-Pink Floyd

WARNING: No Light or Mikami in Arkham in this chapter! Sorry, but hopefully they'll make the next chapter. If it's any consolation, get ready for the sky to rain lead!

MONTHS AGO

CHINATOWN, GOTHAM

A man with two souls dragged himself up the street of Zhang Avenue in Gotham's China Town district, bleeding, sweating, and panting like a wounded animal. And he was indeed wounded: a bullet had struck him on his right arm. Thank God it went clean throughhe thought. One less thing for us to deal with. Still, we need to hide. Call a doctor. Plan a-

He passed by a car and nearly flinched when the windows burst into an explosion of shattered glass. Whirling around, he pulled out his ebony and ivory pistols. Still got the killer's instincthe thought, tempted to let the left side of his face smirk. Instead, he lifted up his ebony pistol and shot at his attacker. He was not surprised to see that the bullets struck a rather large footsoldier of the Ghost Shadow gang. The streets were covered with them. The streets were also covered by hordes of gangsters from the Guan Yu Family. It was utter gang warfare, and it was demolishing Chinatown with him stuck in the middle.

He wasn't stuck in the middle of the conflict itself: he was about to become an ally with the Guan Yu family, a powerful Chinese mob with organizations located in Hong Kong, Shanghai, Tokyo, New York, Los Angeles, and Gotham. Still, this was a Chinese gangster thing, and he had his own problems to take care without meddling in someone else's business. Unfortunately, the Ghost Shadows, an inferior and weaker syndicate filled with small time gangbangers, didn't see it that way. It rained lead on the just and the unjust alike in this battle. True, most people had fled the town by the time the bullets started flying on the main street, but so far he had seen at least six civvies get caught in the crossfire.

How sad that innocents have to suffer for our sordid affairshalf of him thought.

Deserved it, most likelythe other half thought. If people weren't so damned cowardly and took matters into their own hands, we wouldn't have Killer Croc or Clayface or-

Or the Joker.

JOKER!He thought, fury clouding his mind, adrenaline shot into his lobes. Everything was fine UNTILJOKER SHOWED UP! I'M GONNA KILL HIM!

Joker was indeed the cause behind all of these misfortunes: Joker had appeared at his meeting with the Guan Yu's, along with the Ghost Shadows before all hell broke loose. What Joker had been after, he didn't know. Probably just wanted to blow up the entire city. He was capricious that way. Still, it was the worst moment for someone as deranged as the Joker to show up: he was just about to finalize his partnership with the Guan Yu family, intending to cooperate in their assault weapon trade. Had the deal gone through, he could have extended his territory and reputation significantly. Had the business been completely worked out, he could have become an even richer man. Had the agreement been finished and the last nail hammered into the coffin, he might have finally been able to put all this gangster business behind him.

But no. No, the Joker and the Ghost Shadows had to interrupt them from their dealings at the warehouse on the Wise Dragon Ferry. And the Joker hadto dress up like some Chinese monkey mutant, brandishing a sharpened wooden pole and proclaiming himself to be "Sun Wukong the Monkey King". It made about as much sense as anything else the Joker did (which was, really, nothing). Moreover, they had to start firing at him and his potential associates with pistols, shotguns, uzi's, and even AK's. Of course, there was never any chance that an organization like the Guan Yu's would catch themselves off guard, so their soldiers were more than ready to start blasting back with weapons of their own. He remembered how he could feel his heart turn to heavy lead right when Joker started leaping around the Guan Yu's and stabbing who he could, sliding in and around the bullets with a kind of chaotic grace. If you added the thirty Guan Yu's, the forty Ghost Shadows, and the twenty two soldiers that he had brought, that made for about ninety two strapped gangsters blasting at one another.

All in all, it was turning into a genuine John Woo wet dream. At this point, he wouldn't be surprised if he saw Chow Yun Fat leap over one of these cars, giving any and all poor saps a hot lead sandwich. And if he didn't fix this soon, the Bat would probably arrive. With or without his sycophantic entourage, the Bat would bring him down. This couldn't be allowed.

Not after all we've done he thought. Not after all the crapwehad to go through.

Up ahead, at the intersection, there were about six Guan Yu's and five of his boys facing off against ten Ghost Shadows, all of them hiding behind whatever cover they could find. He walked towards the Ghost Shadows, shooting both ebony and ivory, ready to dive behind a number of cars appropriate for cover. The pain his wounded arm had received from the force of the guns hurt excruciatingly, but he bit down hard on his teeth and endured the pain the best he could. He had withstood worse before. Agony was what created him, after all.

He shot three Ghost Shadows down quickly, one in the heart, one in the head, and one in the stomach. Several more began to fire at him, but he leaped sideways behind a semi truck with a picture of a pig on the sides and the words "PORK-CHOP EXPRESS" written in big, bold letters. Bullets stormed against the front of the semi while he reloaded his pistols. So long as he played this smart and didn't let his anger get the best of him, he could just stay where he was and cherry pick the opposition off as smoothly as he pleased. He was one of the best shooters around, and as he saw it the best strategy for him would be to thin out the Ghost Shadows at a distance before taking on a smaller number for close quarters combat.

But the clown dies todayhe thought. He's gone too far this time. When we get our hands on him, we'll-

Lost in his thoughts, he realized that several grenades had been tossed under the semi about three seconds too late. Really, it wasn't a lack of awareness on his part: he had been paying as much attention as anyone else could. Thing was, most people didn't need to concentrate in the midst of a large scale warzone. Not even Clint Eastwood could be aware of everything happening around him in this kind of environment.

He moved quickly, nonetheless. Just as he thought he was about to escape unscathed, he felt a force of extremely hot air lift him up into the air. It carried him about ten feet in the air, heat radiating at his back, and for a brief moment he deliriously entertained the idea that he was able to fly.

Then he could feel his forehead crash into the street, and he knew that he wasn't quite Superman yet. He got up as quick as he could, his forehead gashed and bleeding, his lungs filled with magma. That last fall had really taken it out of him: he had been in this shootout for over forty minutes now, and it was a miracle that neither the Bat nor any of his pet sidekicks had shown up yet. It must've been a busy day in all of Gotham, not that the city wasn't already busy enough to make people inject energy drinks directly into their veins.

Controlling his breath, he got to one knee and to one foot. No good like this he thought. Need to get home. Recuperate. Re-plan. If we get back to the docks, we might be able to-

The sensation of an explosion of razor sharp pain incepting in his stomach interrupted his train of thought. Amidst the affliction surging through his entire being, he still retained enough sense to wonder who could kick him in the stomach like that. The Bat?He thought, not without some delirium as he corkscrewed through the air. Lawton? Maybe-

His train of thought was derailed the moment he crashed through one of the front display windows of a Rasputin Music Store. The life works of Elvis Presley, Bob Marley, and Tupac Shakur rained on him while he tried to regain his bearings. Emergencyhe thought, lying on his back, head facing the street, face looking up to the sky. His bruised and battered body refused to raise itself up despite his exhortations. Run. Run as fast as you can. Get out, get out now-

Strong, rough hands grabbed him by the back of his collar and lifted him high into the air. He flew higher and higher, stomach first, into a placid, cloudless sky seemingly unconcerned with his welfare and the welfare of every other poor schmuck involved. White doves flew overhead, undisturbed by the destruction.

Then his stomach slammed into the engine hood of a red 1967 Pontiac GTO muscle car. He probably would have rued the fact that his stomach had created a large crater in so beautiful and classic a vehicle, but the red, hot, and sharp sensation in his gut preoccupied him. This time there were no thoughts. This time there was only instinct.

Despite his nearly intolerable injuries, he rolled off the engine hood just in time to avoid a thick steel pipe, six feet tall and three feet wide, smash into the car. He landed on his rear, legs sprawled over the curb and onto the sidewalk. His breath racked and hot, he nonetheless grabbed his ebony and ivory pistols swiftly from their holsters, pointing them at his attacker.

The first thing he saw was an unnervingly huge sword pointed only inches away from his heart. His vision sharpened, and he saw that the sword was being wielded by a large, muscular man. The man was dressed in an orange, blue, and dark blue armor, and he wore an orange and blue mask with only one eyehole. The one eye of this new foe studied him calmly but not without hunger, like a tiger who knew the antelope had no chance in hell of escaping him. The armor was equipped with two pistols at the hips, two rows of belted bullets lined across the chest, several knives buckled to the legs and arms, and some kind of high tech staff attached to his back. The costume itself was jarring only to those who didn't know who was behind the mask, and once they knew they never forgot. Sometimes because they got away. Mostly because they were decapitated.

"Long time , no see, Harvey," Wilson Slade aka Deathstroke the Terminator said. "Or am I talking to Two Face right now?"

"You're talking to both," Two Face and Harvey Dent said. "And when you get both Face and Dent behind the steering wheel, we tend to react very severely. What the hell do you think you're pulling, Slade?"

"Just collecting that nice contract on your head is all," Deathstroke said, sounding faintly pleased like he was almost finished with a mildly challenging household chore. His voice sounded like a chainsaw draped in velvet, smooth and menacing, like maybe Tom Waits had decided to eat Vincent Price. "A pity we had to meet again under such conditions. But such is life, isn't it?"

"Whatever you're being paid, we'll double it," Two Face said, not moving his guns. "You know we're good for it. We've got automatics running in and out of Honk Kong now, and we've paid off enough politicos to insure they don't legalize pot and ruin our trade."

"Sorry, Harvey, but no can do," Slade said. "You may be the one of the richest gangsters in the state, but your wealth is just a piss in the bucket compared to what I'm being paid. No hard feelings, yeah?"

"Who's paying you?" Two Face demanded. His left eye narrowed in concentration; his right eye throbbed with fury. "Sionis? Joker? Cobblepot? All we need is to make a few phone calls, and we can outbid them all!"

"Harvey, you sell yourself short," Deathstroke said. "The rest of the freaks might control this state, but my employers are far more powerful. Far richer too. I don't know what it is you've done to attract the interest of these suits and ties, but they're paying me quite the pretty penny to deliver your head on a platter. If anything, you should feel honored. Not everyone gets to be killed on the word of several billionaires, you know."

"Slade, call this off, or I will kill you," Two Face hissed. "You don't want to fight me now. I've got the Guan Yu's backing me, and the Ivan's still owe me favors. Turn around, go home, and this'll all end here."

"Oh, Harvey, Harvey, Harvey," Slade tittered mockingly. The mask shifted ever so slightly, and Two Face could tell that underneath the hood, Deathstroke was smirking slyly. Harvey became disconcerted by Slade apparently knowing that he had the upper hand, and Two Face became infuriated that Slade had the goddamn nerve to both assassinate him and be smug about it. "I'll give even the Devil his due, and you are most certainly a ravenous pitbull. But at the end of the day, I'm Cerberus. Give up and accept the inevitable. Who knows? I might just be generous enough to simply slice off your head."

"You're bluffing, jackass!" Two Face snapped. "We've got you at a standstill, and the moment you move is the moment we-"

Slade moved so fast that Two Face barely had time to process the event: it was as if the assassin had moved so quickly that he had entered a higher dimension or superior plane of existence, one that Face could only perceive imperfectly. The blue and orange whirl moved as if blurring the air around him , and Two Face felt his vision go red with sharp, unbearable pain as the blade danced underneath his wrists, moving with intrinsic and graceful steps. Harvey and Two Face would have been impressed in spite of themselves had not the intense stimuli precluded them and drops of their own blood had not landed on their own face.

"GAH!" Two Face snapped, more like the snap of a doberman sneaked up on and less like anything coherent or articulate. He dropped his ebony and ivory guns to the street, and his hands, scarred and unscarred alike, clutched instinctively at one another.

However, the sharp realization that Two Face wasn't dealing with any ordinary assassin, but Deathstroke The Terminator, snapped him back to attention. He looked up: Slade was staring down at him, upside down to Face's vision, preparing to thrust his sword down right into his target's right eye.

"No-" Two Face began, eyes widening.

"Later, Harv," Slade said, plunging the sword downwards.

Had the move been completed as Deathstroke had intended, it would have gone straight through Two Face's right eye and probably out the back of the skull. Instead, Slade's one remaining eye widened ever so slightly when Face managed to stop the sword by grabbing the blade with both hands. The edge of the sword hovered only inches away from Two Face's eye, and buckets of sweat began to form on his face. The sensation of the sharp steel digging slowly into his flesh was agonizing, but still he gritted his teeth and held on as best as he could.

"My, my, my, Harvey, it seems like you have a bit more grit than I gave you credit for," Slade said. The sword came a bit closer towards the eye. "And here I thought the highlight of my day would be beer and netflix. Thank you for giving me such a pleasant surprise."

The tip of the sword came a bit closer. "But I wonder, exactly how long can you hold your position?" Deathstroke asked. "Three minutes? Four? Maybe even five? I'd give you at least twelve if not for the fact that you're utterly drained while I'm as fresh as a daisy."

"Screw... you..." Two Face snarled despite being short of breath. The sword came another inch closer.

"Oh, c'mon, Harv, don't disappoint me now," the Terminator said. "I don't think you know quite what it's like to hunt down the average target. So easy. So predictable. So underwhelming. But you, Harvey, you're a diamond in the rough, aren't you? A wolf among the dogs. So, please, for my sake if not yours, last for at least seven minutes. What else will get me out of bed in the morning if not this?"

The sword was now less than an inch from the eye.

"Oh, don't tell me that you've lost your edge, Harvey," Slade continued. "What , are the years beginning to get to you? Don't you remember how it was when you were younger? How angry you were? How you killed anyone and everyone in your way? Nothing quite so sad as an old dog who-"

Slade stopped speaking abruptly and yanked the sword out of Two Face's hands with one free hand. While Face screamed again in response to the sharp and sudden pain, Deathstroke pulled out what seemed to look like a high-tech detonator. Slade pressed the main button on the device, then ran, leaped onto a car, and then leaped onto the roof of "Goldfield's Magic Health Food" store.

It didn't take long to see why Slade had abandoned his assassination target. At least seven planted bombs exploded on the streets, shattering many a window and rupturing several cars to boot. Fortunately for Two Face, he wasn't close enough to get caught up in the blast. Instead, with a kind of morbid fascination that seemed to surpass his reason, he looked to the direction of the bombs to see why Slade had planted them and why he had triggered them.

The explosions had sent several Guan Yu's and Ghost Shadows flying in various directions, but they were joined by several new (and far more significant) visitors. A black and blue figure with a ponytail had crashed through the window of Moebius' Delicatessen; a small boy in black and red with spiky hair smashed into a light pole back first, bending it in the process; a young woman in some kind of red and yellow samurai get-up was thrown into a building's catwalk and landed on a closed dumpster below; a masked woman in a revealing black and purple costume landed against the windshield of a 1973 Ford Gran Torino; a young woman in a skimpy magician outfit with a top hat hit the doors of a 1963 Aston Martin DB5 before roughly landing on her hands and knees; and, lastly, a bizarre looking anthropic figure with orange, purple, silver, and brown skin divided into quarters went through a granite pillar and then a department store's glass doors.

Nightwing, Robin, Katana, Huntress, Zatanna, and Metamorpho?Two Face thought, pulling himself up and placing his back against the car's grill. With no Bat? I hate the bastards as much as the next guy, but this simply isn't fair. With the Bat, they would have at least been even.

Two Face was well aware that now was not the ideal time to watch the lambs be led into the slaughter, but the pain from his injuries precluded his escape. Just need a minute to catch my breath he thought. As soon as Slade takes out the two metahumans, I'll take off. The rest of the schmucks will be too busy with Slade to bother with me.

There was another reason that Two Face stayed where he was that he would not consciously admit. That reason was that even though Deathstroke was one of the few people that Face feared, he was also something enthralling to behold. There were simply not too many people who could tear their gaze away from the sight of Slade front flipping off his roof, somersaulting onto the street, and then racing towards Zatanna with breathtaking speed. When it came to assassinations, the Terminator was theRenaissance Man. Two-Face supposed that watching Slade go to town on his targets was a bit like watching Poe write one of his gothic short stories or observing Goya while he painted one of his chilling monstrosities: it didn't exactly give you the greatest hope in mankind, but it was thrilling nonetheless.

Zatanna had gotten to her feet by the time that Slade was only inches away from her, and Two Face could see the sorceress move her hands down to her stomach as if to repel an attack she thought Slade would make. If one wanted to be an affluent gangster in Gotham, one needed to keep his ear to the ground on a regular basis. Two Face did just this, and among other things, he had learned that Slade had once thrown down with Zatanna and a few other JLA masks. Moreover, he had learned that they had lost. Badly. That past experience must have been why Zatanna was taking no chances.

"POTS EDA-" Zatanna began to say while Slade's fist rocketed towards her gut. Two Face's eyes, both normal and monstrous, widened in astonishment when he saw Slade snap around the magician at the very last second and then clamp two fingers onto her neck. Whatever technique Slade used was apparently effective: Zatanna stopped casting her spell abruptly and began coughing incessantly.

The bastard was playing her the entire timeTwo Face thought, amazed. It's like watching the Bat's evil twin: everything he does is calculated. Not even the witch can stop him when he gets to work. Strength wise, she might be in the league of Mr. Red, White, and Blue and the Norse pretty boy, but all that amounts to jack crap if she can't talk.

What Two Face didn't know and couldn't have known was that, by roughly pressing down his fingers on a specific spot, Slade had realigned Zatanna's chakra and disabled her voice box, rendering her magic useless. What Two Face was able to know via his ocular regions was that Slade followed this attack by with a quick snap kick to the small of the alchemist's spine, sending her colliding into a city mailbox with enough force to knock it off its bolts.

"SLADE! GIVE IT UP!" Someone shouted from across the street. Two Face turned his head and saw that it was Rex Mason who was doing the shouting. Normally, the Element Man was quite the comedian, but now he looked as if not even a farting chimpanzee could turn that frown upside down. "We've already got the JLA and the Fantastic Four on their way! You've got-"

Quick as a flash, Slade fell to his knees, took the power staff from his back, and shot it directly at Metamorpho. The guy's skin might have been durable enough to stop anything short of Godzilla's breath from penetrating his skin, but it was not quite strong enough to completely repel the energy beam. It hit him directly in the chest, sending him flying about thirty feet in the air. Thankfully, Mason's flight was cushioned by his crash into a water tower marked with an "SB" inside a badge shaped logo over the "Shaw Brother's Electronics" store. Gallons of water crashed onto the roof and Mason's prone body, landing onto the street below. The one advantage to a gang war gone wrong was that no civilians were around to get wet.

Nightwing, Katana, and Huntress had become erect by this point, and were standing, albeit on wobbly knees. When Deathstroke hit you, he hit you hard, hard enough to stagger even people trained by the Bat. Still, Slade was not one to ignore loose ends: less than a second after he hit Mason with the power staff, he was already running towards the rest of his prey. "GRAYSON!" Two Face thought he heard Deathstroke roar before he leaped upon the unfortunate three.

Gray... son?Two Face wondered. Neither black nor white, but... both? No. Preposterous. Only one or the other. Right?Two Face shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his head. This was no time for philosophy. The loss of blood was making him delirious, and he decided to move as soon as Deathstroke was sufficiently distracted by his task at hand.

What transpired then and there was a sword fight of epic proportions, Slade wielding his sword against Nightwing's eskrima sticks, Huntress' staff, and Katana's Soultaker sword. It was pitiful and incredible all at once, not unlike the slaughters of the old samurai chambaraflicks Harvey Dent used to watch, sneaking into Gotham's old grindhouse as a boy. (The one advantage to having an insane, abusive father is that he doesn't care how you spend your time, so long as you don't interrupt his drinkingTwo Face thought, half with regret, half with indignation.).

Slade again moved with an inhuman, spooky kind of speed, more a blur than a solid shape: it was all that the three masks could do to simply repel Slade's sword strikes. Two Face could have watched the Yuen Wo Ping theatrics just about all day if he wanted to, but his reason prevailed in the end. Lifting himself up, he gritted his teeth, determined to endure the pain until he could make it back to his safe house and call a doctor. He walked in the opposite direction, every step a chore, every movement a fresh sensation of burning discomfort.

He walked about one block and a half before a cold, restrained, yet unmistakably furious voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Going somewhere, Dent?" A young but malicious voice growled from on high.

Two Face looked up. There, on top of "Wing's Antiques", about fourteen feet high in the air, stood Robin, or at least the latest incarnation of the sidekick. Two Face had met his fair share of Robin's before: the very first time had been inside the Bat's cave when he and several other (FreaksTwo Face thought, grimacing) had attempted to ambush the Bat only to be unexpectedly restrained by some acrobat kid in a homemade red and yellow suit. That kid (probably the first, judging from Batman's equally stunned reaction) was a foil to the Bat, laughing and cracking jokes and acting as if he actually enjoyed living. The second Robin Two Face had met was far different: the kid was somehow even angrier than his boss, and came very close to giving him a dirt nap. There had probably been other Robin's that Two Face didn't know about, but the one standing on the roof seemed most like the second one. The boy was barely a teenager, yet his face exhibited all the fury of a hardened inmate on death row. The fact that the costume and costume was torn, that the face was gashed, and that the skin was drenched with sweat made him look like he had been put through the wringer yet was more than ready to dish it all back out.

Two Face had, for several years, killed more men and women than he could remember, using guns, knives, and even his bare hands. He had lived among some of the most deranged animals on the planet and been regarded as one of their most dangerous members. He had even stared down his old man even after all the beatings the crazy drunk had given him with his lead pipe. Rarely did anyone scare Two Face. But looking up at that boy, at that kid who was so young yet so reminded him of the Bat, he could feel his heart drop somewhere down in the center of his stomach. The brat might have been trained by Batman, but he was not sure that he would get out of this one alive.

"GRAAAR!" Robin screamed, more animal than man, leaping off the roof. If Two Face wasn't injured, he could have easily blasted the boy full of holes with his ebony and ivory. However, even while slowly pulling out his guns, he knew that the battle was lost.

Arkham, here we comeTwo Face and Harvey Dent thought.

Robin's foot collided into Two Face's right cheek in a vicious muay thai kick, and both Face and Dent knew no more.

Slade Wilson sighed as he delivered a leg sweep to Katana, then palm thrusted her stomach before she hit the ground, sending her hurtling into two parking meters and breaking them in the process. If only the Bat were herehe thought wistfully. This is barely a warm-up. With Tall, Dark, and Gruesome, Imight have actually broken a sweat. How disappointing.

The high pitched sound of an arrow coming his way caught his attention. Shot by Huntress and her crossbow, no doubt. Turning around, he ran towards the arrow and it's shooter. Only inches away from the speeding arrow, he fell onto his knees and slid forward on them, leaning his spine backwards and dodging the weapon as a result. Judging from her wide eyes, Huntress was too stunned by the counter move to formulate a counter strike. That gave Deathstroke just enough time to leap up in the air and deliver a leaping karate kick that he intended to land on her forehead. It gave him some amusement to see Huntress duck the kick, though he knew the cute diversion to be only temporary. He countered her defense by sweeping his legs under her. She would have simply landed on her back without any further action on his part: instead, he decided to place a final nail in the coffin, punching her directly in the stomach, adding even more force to her fall and creating a sizable crater in the process. Huntress immediately lost consciousness.

Now, where could Grayson be?Slade wondered, standing back up, ignoring Huntress' groans. I wonder if I should kill him now and get it over with, or prolong the suffering. Either way, so long as Dent doesn't get too far away, I-

"Holy Diver, you've been down too long in the midnight sea," came a melodic, tenor voice from his pocket. "Oh, what's becoming of me?"

Slade arched an eyebrow but pulled out his cell phone anyway. Who could be calling him at this time? He assumed that most of his acquaintances were aware of his "Don't call me while I'm working or I'll stab you in your spine" rule. Unless he had done that to everyone who had broken the rule and failed to inform others. Then again, who could really, amidst the eternal sands of times, remembered who stabbed who or who shot who or who murdered who? It was unfair to expect so much out of a man as old as he.

If it's that idiot Wade Wilson again...he thought, placing the phone against his ear. His thoughts dissipated right before he began to speak. "Hello?" he asked.

"Wilson! This is codename Diamondhead!" Came an urgent, panicked voice on the other end. "We need you to withdraw immediately! We have reason to believe that-"

"Excuse me for just one moment," Deathstroke said, spotting Nightwing trying to sneak up on him out of the corner of his eye. When Nightwing got close enough, he began to throw a barrage of kung fu kicks and punches at Slade, but the Terminator easily blocked them all with one hand while holding the phone with the other.

"Oh, Grayson," Slade sighed as if disappointed with his younger foe. "Didn't the Bat ever teach you that IT'S IMPOLITE TO INTERRUPT PEOPLE ON THE PHONE?"

Deathstroke halted Dick's attacks with an elbow to the stomach, a strike to the forehead with the front of his fist, and then a "hadoken" palm strike right in the ribs: Slade grinned as he felt the bones bruise under his grip. The move sent Nightwing flying backwards several feet. The hadoken forced Slade to drop the phone momentarily, but his fingers nimbly caught it before it hit the ground. Noticing that Nightwing had landed near a "Shaun" gas station, Slade whipped out a pistol for good measure and shot three of the eight gas pumps. Just as the Terminator had predicted, the ensuing explosion catapulted Grayson up and through the adjacent glass window of "Miyazaki's Sushi INC" restaurant.

The hadoken was probably a bit muchSlade conceded, pressing the phone against his ear again But at least Deadpool can't brag about knowing the shoryuken anymore.

"You were saying?" he asked, sounding as if he had just needed a moment to discipline a particularly unruly child.

"Slade, get out of there now!" Diamondhead snapped. "We have reason to believe that both Batman and Kira have uncovered our operation! Your destroying Chinatown is sure to blow our cover! We need you to disappear before we lose control of the situation!"

"You understand that there's no refunds, don't you?" Slade asked, as casually and carefree as you please. "This isn't Wal-Mart, you know. I've gone to a lot of trouble to set this all up, and-"

"I can assure you that you will get every cent you have coming to you!" Diamondhead exclaimed frantically and breathlessly. "We will even double your fee! Triple it, if that's what you want! You know that we can afford it, that we could afford to hire ten of you if that's what we wanted! BUT NOW WE NEED YOU TO GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? NOW!"

"I love it when you talk dirty," Slade smirked. "I'll be at the usual place in three hours. Make sure your envoy makes it, or the Bat and Kira will be the least of your-"

"SLADE!" A small and irate voice roared. "YOU ARE SO DEAD!"

"… I'll call you later," Slade said, turning off the phone and sliding it back into his pocket, not even waiting for a potential response. He turned ninety degrees to his right and wasn't surprised to see the Bat's boy and the latest Robin, Damian Wayne, charging full speed at him with an furious look on his face.

This should prove interestingSlade thought as Robin fell upon him.

The boy was good. Damn good. Damian came at him with all the speed and force of a raging bull, and threw everything at Slade from savate to jiujitsu to moves that he made up on the spot. Still needs some work thoughDeathstroke thought, easily dodging and blocking all the kicks and punches. The lack of a stealth move was a big misstep on his part. I would've heard him, but he couldn't have known that for sure. Looks like the Bat hasn't taught Junior here the value of self-control. Probably still angry about how I took control of his body and forced him to fight Grayson. Some people just won't let things go, will they?

Before he had taken on the assassination contract under Talia al Ghul, Deathstroke had insisted on learning everything about the sidekick whom he was to vicariously use to eliminate Grayson. Well aware that she was dealing with the world's greatest assassin, she consented ad told him everything: how Damian was created in a laboratory using the Bat's seed and her egg, how he had been trained by the League of Assassins as soon as he could walk, how the boy's biggest weakness was his inability to completely control the fire in him.

It's nice to know that going to all the effort of tying up loose ends really does pay offThe Terminator thought, ducking in time to miss a sambo kick aimed at his head. A little water will help put out this fire.

Deathstroke waited for his chance until he saw an opening. He shot his hand in, quick and precise as a snake, grabbing Robin by the cape. Yanking Damian closer, he kneed the boy in his stomach, smirking as he heard the boy gasp in surprised agony. Slade then grabbed Damian by the back of his head and smashed him head first into the street.

Even with the kid's face smashed into pure concrete, he was still bucking around like a cornered bull. For a moment, even with his knee on Robin's back, Deathstroke was afraid that the brat might toss him off. But then Slade's hands found Damian's arm, and the fear dissipated as quickly as it had appeared.

"Boy," Slade said, "I can assure you that this will hurt you far more than it will me."

Slade snapped the arm back, dislocating it in the process. "GRAAAR!" Robin snapped (not so much screamed) in agony. Just as tears of pain were involuntarily forming in Damian's eyes, Deathstroke leaped back to his legs, quick as a flash, and kicked him in the side.

Like Batman, everything Deathstroke did was calculated, methodical, and precise. Just like Slade had predicted, the kick sent Robin sailing through the air about twenty feet before he hit the marquee of the "Red Cliff Theater". The collision was strong enough to snap the marquee in two, and several letters from the title "ENTER THE DRAGON" fell along with Damian as he landed on several cafe tables and chairs below.

Deathstroke whipped out two pistols, intending to end this little problem of his once and for all. If the boy was allowed to live, he might actually surpass his own father. True, the Terminator had defeated the Bat in single combat before, but what he had never told anyone (and rarely admitted to himself) was that Wayne was one of the few able to keep him on the ropes. Damian was already in a league that took other men decades to achieve: best to pull out the root while the weed was still young.

Deathstroke paused, then put his pistols back in their holsters. No, that would be too mercifulSlade thought. Another death in the family would hit Wayne and Grayson hard, but there's another way to inflict more damage without needlessly making al Ghul my enemy. Slade grinned as he imagined all the wonderful possibilities. The Bat failed the second Robin, Jason Todd, didn't he? And Grayson is clearly one of the boy's mentors. Turn the boy against them, Wilson, and you'll be able to devastate them in ways they've even yet to imagine. Two birds with one stone. Or, should I say, one bird and one bat with one stone.

It was a refreshing idea, something that might keep him busy on a lazy sunday. To pull it off, he would need to be even more devious and underhanded than before. Still, he had been treading on thin ice enough recently. It was a miracle that Kira hadn't offed him by now.

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. InterestingDeathstroke thought. I'm a killing machine, born and bred, and yet Kira hasn't snuffed me yet. You would think that Kira would have eliminated me the first chance he got. That little stunt L pulled on that Japanese station has already proved that Kira has limitations, but a genius like Kira wouldn't have had too many problems finding out all he needed to know about me. Is there anything about me that precludes him from killing me?A new thought came to him, and his sly fox grin returned. Unless maybe this God of Death is interested in acquiring a Terminator.

Slade paused. Both Batman and Kira after my employers?He wondered. If that's the case, then they'reboth bound to bump into one another. And the Bat already thinks that he's a god, so a conflict is inevitable. Love to see that one on DVD.

Unless maybe the Bat and the Devil are working togetherHe thought. The thought came out of nowhere but struck him like a lap dance. The idea was unlikely, even absurd. But the potential... even someone as apathetic regarding human suffering found the concept exciting. Well, stranger things have happened.

Two oncoming, high pitched whistling noises interrupted his reverie. He quickly unfastened a buck knife from his arm and tossed it at the source of the noise; without missing a beat, he pulled out his sword and slashed at the other interruption. He was not surprised at all to see the buck knife strike and knock a eskrima stick off its course nor was he stunned to see his sword repel another eskrima stick. Slade didn't need to turn around to see who was responsible for the attack: it was Nightwing, holding his bruised ribs with one hand, clenching his fist with the other, snarling with a face that only his mother could love if she wasn't already rotting six feet under.

"You're not getting away, Slade!" Nightwing snapped. "Not this time! Not after what you've done to me! Not after what you've done to Bludhaven!"

"Oh, Grayson, take responsibility for your actions, why don't you?" Deathstroke taunted him. The proverbial potato was almost done, and all Slade needed to do now was provoke him a little before he could stick the fork in. "Like how you turned my own daughter against me. Like how you let Bludhaven become a veritable Gaza Strip. Like how you allowed your own dear old mom and dad to kick the bucket."

Slade had successfully stuck the fork in the potato, judging from how Dick charged at him, screaming in fury. The former Robin was fast, but Slade was faster. Deathstroke tensed himself, waiting for Dick to get close enough. When Nightwing was about three inches away from goring into Deathstroke, the assassin sprung his attack. He dashed behind Grayson, and, without even looking backwards, kicked his foot at Nightwing's heel.

The tactic worked. Deathstroke grinned as he heard the bone snap: just as he had anticipated, he had broken Dick's ankle.

"AUUUGH!" Nightwing screamed. He hobbled on one foot, trying to turn around and face Slade. "Damn you, Slade! Damn you to-"

Slade cut off Dick with a 360 spinning kick, his combat boot colliding into Grayson's cheek like a sledgehammer. The velocity and force of the kick sent Dick sprawling to the ground, and the younger mask rolled a bit on the street before coming to a stop.

"I'd love to stay and chat, Dick," Slade said, watching with amusement as his opponent tried to roll over to his stomach. Apparently, the Daredevil rip-off was too wounded to simply flip to his feet. "Unfortunately, I have business to attend to. Email me later, OK?"

"Going to kill you," Nightwing panted. Slade arched an eyebrow as he watched Dick get to one foot and one knee. Nightwing's ponytail had come undone, and now his long jet black hair stuck to his sweaty skin like a wig gone wrong. "Do you understand me, Slade? I'M GONNA KILL YOU!'

"My greatest victory over the Bat," Deathstroke smirked. The smirk became even bigger when he saw Dick flinch. That's what happened whenever your master refused to man up and enjoy the natural right of slaughter. "Another Robin gone wrong? The idea gives me goosebumps, Dick, it truly does. Sadly, we'll have to defer that for later. But do me a favor and stay alive at least for a little longer, won't you, Dick? I think something might be coming to Gotham, something terrible and wonderful. And if it is coming, I want you to see it. I want you to see this wretched city burn."

"What? What's coming?" Dick exclaimed. In his fervor, he had forgotten the possibility that Slade might be lying to him. "Tell me what you know!"

"And spoil the surprise?" The Terminator scoffed. He grabbed several pellets from a pocket and threw them to the ground. Immediately, steam began to hiss from them and quickly covered Slade. "I think not. I'm looking forward to this one, Grayson. Let's pray you don't become worm meat before all that you know and love crashes and burns."

"SLADE!" Dick bellowed. Ignoring the screams of agony from his body, he lifted himself up and hobbled at the man he hated most in this world as fast as he could. As if in reply, Deathstroke tilted his head back and began to laugh, a deep, rolling laugh, the same laugh that haunted Dick ever since he had been a child. The steam completely enveloped Slade by this time, yet this failed to prevent Dick from leaping into the fog.

What it didn't preclude, however, was Dick flying right through the mist, his head crashing into a steel trashcan bolted to the sidewalk. Tears of pain unwillingly formed in his eyes while he cradled his injured head with one hand. He had failed to stop Slade, and he knew it. Failed to stop him just lust like he had failed to save Bludhaven. And as much as his head hurt, the now fading yet still hellish laughter of the Terminator afflicted him even more.

When the smoke had cleared, it was obvious that Deathstroke was gone. A reasonable part of himself knew that the loss wasn't that great: Two Face had been captured, the destruction of Chinatown had been at least limited, and no sane man could ever expect Dick and his paltry team (at least, compared to their foe) to bring Slade down. However, an unreasonable, proud part of himself knew that he had failed once again: failed Gotham, failed Bludhaven, failed his master and mentor. Bruce would never say it, but Dick knew that he would be disappointed.

Once again, I've failed to live up to my fatherDick thought. God, what a joke.

Nightwing and Robin were both too injured to drive their motorcycles back to Wayne Manor, so they arranged for Katana and Huntress to drive them back to their respective hide-outs. One click of a remote later, and the Batmobile quickly drove itself to their location. Their drive home was a quite one: normally, Damian would irritate with his entitled and self-important bravado, but tonight his younger student seemed to be more contemplative (this despite the intense pain they must have both been suffering; tonight Alfred would be insisting on painkillers).

If there was anything good about this day, it's that Damian was probably humbledDick thought. Damian needs to know that he's not invincible. Still, what a way to find out.

Bruce was largely silent on that day's events, from what little Dick got to see of him. Dick and Damian entered the mansion through the cave's secret back entrance, neither very surprised to see their mentor still at work on the Kira case. By this point, Robin and Nightwing knew well enough that it was useless to ask Batman why he was so obsessed with the world's mass murderer: the fact that Kira was a threat to global peaced was enough to involve Bruce professionally, but their master was going about it as if he was personally involved in the conquest himself. When asked, all Bruce would ever say was that it was the right thing to do. Other than that, he would simply keep quiet as a clam. However, despite Bruce's increasingly hermetic attitude, Dick was grateful that his teacher didn't do much more than grunt and nod in acknowledgement of their presence. Usually, Bruce would chew them out for every

and any mistake that they made, but considering that not even General Patton could scold his soldiers for failing to contain a tornado, Bruce evidently thought it best not to rub salt in with the wounds.

Thank God for thatDick thought while walking up the stairs to his room. The last thing I need is Bruce haranguing me. And if it was anyone else other than Bruce, I would have told him to shove his ridiculously high standards up his ass a long time ago.

So why don't you?Dick asked himself. Bruce is a great person, but he's also a very flawed person. At his worst, he's hostile, callous, and frigid.

Because unlike all the al Ghul's, Loki's, or Kira's, Bruce actually judges himself by his own demanding standards.Dick answered himself. Love him or hate him, the man works his ass off.

The thought that his teacher wasn't as big a sociopathic prick as his worst detractors made him out to be put a little spring in Dick's leg (At least, not the one numbed from the painkillers. It was either this, or Alfred would have probably cooked pot in my foodDick thought. And he would have done it too. Hey, Bruce, you're such a great detective, why don't you tell me how it only took one bowl of strange tasting chili to get you to spend Christmas Day with all of us at the house?).At the top of the stairs, Ace, Bruce's pet dog, had curled himself down to sleep. It didn't hurt Dick too much to lean his knee down and scratch behind Ace's ear, the way he knew he liked it. Ace muttered pleasantly, then began to kick his legs. Good. The dog was happy. And if Ace was kept happy, then maybe Bruce would come around. Bruce found it easy to distance himself from people; Bruce missed Ace about half an hour after not seeing him. Keep the dog happy, keep the bat happy.

That little optimistic bit might have been why Dick did something that night that he had not done in a long time: pray. That horrid laughter kept replaying itself in his mind, though the encounter with Ace was uplifting. Dick prayed solemnly to a god he wasn't sure existed, but who he could use now in times like these. Times when Gotham was giving birth to even more freaks and scum. Times when a megalomaniacal jack-ass like Kira practically clutched the world in his hand? Times when everyone just assumed that they were all utterly doomed, and nothing they could ever do would ever really make things better.

Dick asked for only one thing: not to dream that night. All he wanted was some peace, some time away from the maelstrom. Surely, that was not too much to ask.

So Nightwing shut his eyes, and whether or not God had made it so, Dick slept a dreamless slumber. No more gunshots. No more screams. No more Slade. Just peace.

Though Dick would spend much of the next day healing his wounded ankle, he felt a little more upbeat. Things would get better, so long as they made it so. There was still some kind of justice left in the cosmos. God maybe wasn't such an an asshole.

What Dick nor anyone else could have known was that God was coming to town.

NOTES: The secret to getting through life is to keep your standards low. That being said, I hope you won't be too disappointed then when I say that as long as it took me to do this, it will probably take me even longer to do the next chapter. I'm out of college, and looking for a job, so I don't have as much time as I used to. I feel like I need to get all this stuff out of my head, so I'll probably end up writing it all out, but it could take a while. Just letting you know. But shit will get awesome. I can guarantee that. You waited this long for Dark Knight Rises, right? See? You can wait. Give yourselves a round of applause!

I pulled a Tarantino in this chapter and alluded to several cars, buildings, and names, many of them from movies. Because this chapter used a lot of Hong Kong cinema action (at least, until the superhero fighting began), a lot of the allusions are to Chinese films, wuwei, action, or otherwise. And then some are just references to movies I dig quite a bit, largely because I needed I needed a car or a name here and there. Quite a bit of fun too. Suddenly, Simon Pegg constantly alluding to Point Break, Lucio Fulci, and Night of the Living Dead seems so much clearer.

Just in case you're interested (Or bored enough to read further. Either one works for me.), I've listed all the allusions below.

Zhang Avenue: A reference to Yimou Zhang, a fantastic Chinese director responsible for movies like Hero, House of the Flying Daggers, and Curse of the Golden Flower. Coincidentally, he just worked on a movie with our latest Batman, Christian Bale, called the Flowers of War.

Guan Yu Family and Ghost Shadows: Guan Yu is a legendary general who fought during China's Three Kingdoms period. He's considered a God of War (no, not like Kratos) and an exemplar of honor, virtue, and comradeship. I first learned of him watching John Woo's superb epic Red Cliff, and later learned that both cops and gangsters venerate him as a sort of saint. Hence the Guan Yu family, which, to the best of my knowledge, doesn't actually exist. The Ghost Shadows are an actual Chinese gang, but I did no research into them other than googling "Chinese gangs".

Son Wukong the Monkey King: Wukong is another Chinese legend, whose modern day adaptation might best be Son Goku of Dragonball Z fame. Why Joker decided to dress like him, I have no clue. Was probably funny though. In a "Oh, God why?" kind of way.

John Woo/Chow Yun Fat: This director and actor have worked on movies like A Better Tomorrow, The Killer, and Hard Boiled. Watch them now, and find out why Robert Rodriguez has such a boner for them.

Pork-Chop Express: This was the semi Kurt Russel drove in the cult classic "Big Trouble In Little China". They need to name a holiday after this one.

Goldfield's Magic Health Food: This is the name of Goldfield Hwang's medicine store in the reality show Kenny vs. Spenny. Normally, I hate reality TV, but the crude, raunchy, and oftentimes shocking humor of this show had me scouring through YouTube for each and every single episode. Not the smartest show, but one of the most fearlessly irreverent.

Moebius' Delicatessen: Moebius was the pseudonym of the late French artist Jean Henri Gaston Giraud, probably best known for his work on the Heavy Metal comics.

1973 Ford Gran Torino: This was the car that the Dude rode in The Big Lebowski. Years after having his car dismantled by German nihilists, the Dude's car is wrecked by masked superheroes. How can anyone possibly abide this?

1963 Aston Martin DB5: James Bond drove this in films including Goldfinger, GoldenEye, and Casino Royale.

Shaw Brothers' Electronics: Shaw Brothers Studio is a famous film company founded by Run Run Shaw and Runme Shaw in China. My favorite movie from them is the 36th Chamber of Shaolin.

Wing's Antiques: Wing was the name of the old man who refused to sell the dad Gizmo in Gremlins. For a creature that could unwillingly spawn savage monstrosities from its body, it sure was cute.

Holy Diver: A classic song from the band Dio, sung by the late Ronnie James Dio. My guess is that Slade is old yet energetic enough to have the likes of Iron Maiden, Boston, and Blue Oyster Cult on his iPod.

Enter The Dragon: C'mon. You know.

Yuen Wo Ping: An incredible action choreographer whose work has appeared in movies like Fist of Legend and The Matrix. If I could afford him, I'd hire him to work on an animated adaptation of this story. Sadly, I don't think he would be much interested in my back issues of Silent Hill comics or my shoebox filled with acorns as payment. And here I thought it was about the love, about the music.